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The headwaiter, clad in the long waistcoat and full trunk-hose of the late Seventeenth Century, bowed punctiliously.

“You’re alone, sir?”

“Alone, yes,” Houston said. “I’ll just be wanting a light supper and a drink or two.”

“This way, sir.”

Houston followed the man to a small table in the rear of the huge dining room. It was set for two, but the other place was quickly cleared away. Houston ordered an Irish-and-soda from a waiter who was only slightly less elaborately dressed than the headwaiter, and then settled himself down to wait. If he knew Dorrine, she would be on time to the minute.

She came while the waiter was setting the drink on Houston’s table. She stepped in through the door, her unmistakable hair glowing a rich red in the illumination of the pseudo-candlelight.

She didn’t bother to look around; she knew he would be there.

After a single glance, Houston averted his eyes from her and looked back at his drink.

And in that same instant, their minds touched.

Dave, darling! I knew you’d be early!

Dorrine!

And then their minds meshed for an instant.

I—(we)—you–LOVE–you–(each other)–me!–us!

* * * * *

Houston looked complacently at his drink while the headwaiter led Dorrine to a table on the far side of the room. She sat down gracefully, smiled at the waiter, and ordered a cocktail. Then she took a magazine from her handbag and began–presumably–to read.

Her thought came: Who is this Richard Harris? He’s not one of our Group.

Houston sipped at his drink. No. An unknown, like the others. I wonder if he’s even a telepath.

What? Her thought carried astonishment. Why, Dave–he’d have to be! How else could he have controlled this Sir Lewis–whatsisname–Huntley?

Well–I’ve got a funny idea, Houston replied. Look at it this way: So far as we know, there are two Groups of telepaths. There’s our own Group. All we want is to be left alone. We don’t read a Normal’s mind unless we have to, and we don’t try to control one unless our lives are threatened. We stay under cover, out of everyone’s way.

Then there are the megalomaniacs. They try, presumably, to gain wealth and power by controlling Normals. And they get caught with monotonous regularity. Right?

The girl caught an odd note in that thought. What do you mean, “monotonous regularity”? she asked.

I mean, Houston thought savagely, why is it they’re all so bloody stupid? Look at this Harris guy; he is supposed to have taken over Sir Lewis’s mind in order to get a thousand pounds. So what did he have Sir Lewis do? Parade all around the city to pick up a PD Police net, and then give his address to a cabman in a loud voice and lead the whole net right to Harris! How stupid can a man get?

It does look pretty silly, Dorrine agreed. Have you got an explanation?

Several, Houston told her. And I don’t know which one is correct.

Let’s have them, the girl thought.

* * * * *

Houston gave them to her. None of them, he knew, was completely satisfactory, but they all made more sense that the theory that Harris had done what the PD Police claimed he’d done.

Theory Number One: The real megalomaniac Controller had taken over Sir Lewis’s mind and made him draw out the thousand pounds and head west on Leadenhall Street. Somehow, the Controller had found out that Sir Lewis was being followed, and had steered him away from the original destination, heading him toward the innocent Robert Harris. That implied that the Controller had been within a few dozen yards of the net men that afternoon. A Controller can’t control a mind directly from a distance, although orders can be implanted which will cause a man to carry out a plan of action, even though he may be miles from the Controller. But in order to change those plans, the Controller would have to be within projection range.