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He took over the mind of the foreman of the jury. The foreman claimed later that the jury had decided that they could reach no decision. Other jurors claimed that they had decided Donnely was guilty, but that was probably an ex post facto switch. It didn’t matter, anyway; when the foreman came out, he pronounced Donnely innocent. That should have ended it.

The other jurors began to protest, but by that time, Donnely had gained control of the judge’s mind. Rapidly, the judge silenced the jurors, declared Donnely to be free, and then publicly apologized for ever daring to doubt Mr. Donnely.

The State’s Attorney was equally verbose in his apology; he was almost in tears because of his “deep contrition at having cast aspersions on the spotless character of so great a man.”

Donnely was released.

The next evening, “Blackjack” Donnely was shot down at the front door of his own home. There were fifteen bullets in his body; three from a .32, five from a .38, and seven from a .45.

The police investigation was far from thorough; any evidence that may have turned up somehow got lost. It was labelled as “homicide committed by person or persons unknown,” and it stayed that way.

* * * * *

Donnely was only the first. In the next two years, four more showed up. Everyone of them, in one way or another, had attempted to gain power or money by mental projection. Everyone of them was a twisted megalomaniac.

Houston looked again at Harris’s picture on the front page of the Times. Here was one Controller who neither looked nor acted like a megalomaniac. That wouldn’t make much difference to the PD Police; as far as the officials were concerned, the ability to project telepathically and the taint of delusions of grandeur went hand in hand. Controllers were power-mad and criminal by definition.

Fear still ruled the emotional reactions against Controllers, in spite of the protection of the Psychodeviant Police.

But David Houston knew damned good and well that all telepaths were not necessarily insane.

He should know. He was a Controller, himself.

* * * * *

Brrrring!

David Houston tossed the paper on the bed and walked over to the phone. He cut in the circuit, and waited for the phone’s TV screen to show the face of his caller. But the screen remained blank.

“Who is it?” Houston asked.

“Is this CHAring Cross 7-8161?” It was a woman’s voice, soft and well-modulated.

“No, this is CHElsea 7-8161,” Houston said. “You must have dialed C-H-E instead of C-H-A.”

“Oh. I’m very sorry. Excuse me.” There was a click, and she hung up.

Houston walked back over to the bed and picked up his paper. He looked at it, but he didn’t read it. It no longer interested him.

So Dorrine was finally in London, eh? He’d recognized her voice instantly; even years of training couldn’t smother the midwestern American of Chicago completely beneath the precise British of the well-educated English girl.

The signal had been agreed upon, just in case his phone was tapped. Even the Psychodeviant Police could be suspected of harboring a Controller–although Houston didn’t think it too likely. Nevertheless, he wasn’t one to take too many chances.

He glanced at his watch. He had an hour yet. He’d wait five minutes before he phoned headquarters.

* * * * *

He sat down in his chair again and forced himself to relax, smoke a cigarette, and read the paper–the sports section. Perusing the records of the season’s cricket matches kept his mind off that picture on the front page. At least, he hoped they would. Let’s see, now–Benton was being rated as the finest googly bowler on the Staffordshire Club …