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to face him. He was smiling his vaguest smile. "Write it up," he said. His ultimate dismissal. "Of course we've got to do something about Schmidt right away. As for Borisova—well, we'll send the information on to Operations and see what they think."
    Sullivan knew what the people in the Directorate of Operations would think. Osipov was real; Borisova on the other hand was—what? A phantom, a delusion. If only the issue could get up to Roderick Williams, Houghton's boss. Williams went for this sort of thing. But Houghton would not appreciate Sullivan going outside the chain of command, and Sullivan was on thin enough ice around here as it was.
    He stood up and retrieved the cable from Houghton's desk. "I'll write it up," he said.
    "Good man, Bill. And thanks for bringing this to my attention."
    "Don't mention it." Sullivan had no idea if Houghton was sincere. He walked quickly out of the office.
    * * *
    Write it up. He did little at work but write things up. Read an article, and write it up. Get some cables from the field, and write them up. Then wait for his proposals to get shot down by Houghton or Operations. It all seemed so futile, but what else could he do?
    Sullivan hadn't really expected much when the job was offered to him, but Houghton had a way of whipping up your enthusiasm when he wanted you to do something. He had obviously studied the subject a little before making his pitch. "For all we know, this could be the most important job in the intelligence community," he had said, leaning forward in his leather chair. "But that's the key—we just don't know. We estimate that the Soviets are spending between fifty and a hundred million dollars, all sources, on psychic research. And what are they getting for their money? Some people would say—nothing, and they can't possibly get anything because ESP and all that stuff simply doesn't exist. But other people, like Roderick Williams, would say the Soviets have gotten themselves a head start in the race to control the powers of the mind. And that may be the most important race in human history. You see, Bill, if you can control the powers of the mind, all the nuclear weapons in the world aren't going to defeat you."
    Houghton had paused then, hands pressed together in front of his face, studying him, and Sullivan knew the guy was laying it on thick, but he couldn't help but be intrigued.
    "Your job, Bill," Houghton went on, "—the job I want you to take—is to become our expert on what the Soviets are up to in this mind race. If they've made a breakthrough, we have to know about it. If they've given up, we want to know about that too. Will you do it for us?"
    Well, he hadn't had much choice, no matter how he felt about the job. Oh, he could've resigned from the Company, but he wasn't willing to do that. Not yet. So he had smiled and shaken Houghton's hand, and he vowed to become as good an expert as he could be.
    It only took one conversation with his predecessor, however, to realize that his initial expectations were correct. His predecessor was a prissy little man named Popper who wore bow ties and short-sleeve shirts and chewed his fingernails. What did he have to be nervous about? Mr. Popper was transferring to Economic Research, and was more than happy to give Sullivan the lowdown over a tuna sandwich in the cafeteria.
    "Houghton is full of shit, pardon my French," Popper said. "He doesn't have the slightest interest in psychic research. He just puts someone on it to keep Roderick Williams happy, but Williams doesn't have enough people sharing his enthusiasm to make things really happen. "
    "What do you think about it all?" Sullivan asked. "Is there anything to it?"
    Popper gnawed at a knuckle, as if he were worried about giving the wrong answer. "See, you look at it one way and you say, 'My God, this is amazing,'" he replied. "Then you look at it another way, and it's all a crock of you-know-what. I mean, for us it's just words on a piece of paper, right?