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‘telepathic box.’ Amazing, those non-T individuals; they can build what we can only evolve.”
    “Since you can read my mind,” Crofts said to him, “you know what I’m planning to do. I have no doubt you’ll tell Secretary Herrick.”
    Grinning blandly, Mr. Lee said, “The Secretary and I are cooperating in the interest of world peace. We both have our instructions.” To Herrick he said, “This man is so upset that he now actually considers switching over. Joining the Mercerites before all the boxes are destroyed. He liked being an involuntary telepath.”
    “If you switch,” Herrick said, “you’ll be arrested. I promise it.” Crofts said nothing.
    “He has not changed his mind,” Mr. Lee said urbanely, nodding to both men, apparently amused by the situation.
    But underneath, Mr. Lee was thinking, A brilliant bold type of stroke by the thing that calls itself Wilbur Mercer, this hooking up of Crofts with Meritan direct. It undoubtedly foresaw that Crofts would receive the strong emanations from the movement’s core. The next step is that Crofts will again consult an empathy box—if he can find one—and this time Mercer itself will address him personally. Address its new disciple.
    They have gained a man, Mr. Lee realized. They are ahead. But ultimately we will win. Because ultimately we will manage to destroy all the empathy boxes, and without them Wilbur Mercer can do nothing. This is the only way he has—or it has—of reaching and controlling people, as it has done here with unfortunate Mr. Crofts. Without the empathy boxes the movement is helpless.

VI
    At the UWA desk, at Rocky Field in New York City, Joan Hiashi said to the uniformed clerk, “I want to buy a one-way ticket to Los Angeles on the next flight. Jet or rocket; it doesn’t matter. I just want to get there.”
    “First class or tourist?” the clerk asked.
    “Aw, hell,” Joan said wearily, “just sell me a ticket. Any kind of a ticket.” She opened her purse.
    As she started to pay for the ticket a hand stopped hers. She turned—and there stood Ray Meritan, his face twisting with relief.
    “What a place to try to pick up your thoughts,” he said. “Come on, let’s go where it’s quiet. You have ten minutes before your flight.”
    They hurried together through the building until they came to a deserted ramp. There they stopped, and Joan said, “Listen, Ray, I know it’s a trap for you. That’s why they let me out. But where else can I go except to you?”
    Ray said, “Don’t worry about it. They were bound to pick me up sooner or later. I’m sure they know I left California and came here.” He glanced around. “No FBI agents near us yet. At least I don’t pick up anything suggesting it.” He lit a cigarette.
    “I don’t have any reason to go back to L.A.,” Joan said, “now that you’re here. I might as well cancel my flight.”
    “You know they’re picking up and destroying all the empathy boxes they can,” Ray said.
    “No,” she said. “I didn’t know; I was just released half an hour ago. That’s dreadful. They really mean business.”
    Ray laughed. “Let’s say they’re really frightened.” He put his arm around her and kissed her. “I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll try to sneak out of this place, go to the lower East Side and rent a little cold-water walk-up. We’ll hide out and find an empathy box they missed.” But, he thought, it’s unlikely; they probably have them all by now. There weren’t that many to start with.
    “Anything you say,” Joan said drably.
    “Do you love me?” he asked her. “I can read your mind; you do.” And then he said quietly, “I can also read the mind of a Mr. Lewis Scanlan, an FBI man who’s now at the UWA desk. What name did you give?”
    “Mrs. George McIsaacs,” Joan said. “I think.” She examined her ticket and envelope. “Yes, that’s right.”
    “But Scanlan is asking if a japanese woman has been at the desk in the last fifteen