Final Weapon

: Final Weapon

Man has developed many a deadly

weapon. Today, the weapon most

effective in destroying a man's

hopes and security is the file

folder ... and that was the weapon

Morely knew and loved. But there

was something more potent to come.







District Leader Howard Morely leaned back in his seat, to glance down at

the bay. Idly, he allowed his gaze to wander ver the expanse of water

between the two blunt points of land, then he looked back at the

skeletonlike spire which jutted upward from the green hills he had just

passed over. He could remember when that ruin had been a support for one

of the world's great bridges.



Now, a crumbling symbol of the past, it stubbornly resisted the attacks

of the weather, as it had once resisted the far more powerful blasts of

explosives. Obstinately, it pointed its rusty length skyward, to remind

the observer of bygone conflict--and more.



Together with the tangled cables, dimly seen in the shoal water, the

line of wreckage in the channel, and the weed-covered strip of torn

concrete which led through the hills, it testified to the arrival of the

air age. Bridges, highways, and harbors alike had passed their day of

usefulness.



Not far from the ruined bridge support, Morely could see the huge, well

maintained intake of one of the chemical extraction plants. He shook his

head at the contrast.



"That eyesore should be pulled down," he muttered. "Should have been

pulled down long ago. Suggested it in a report, but I suppose it never

got to the Old Man. He depends on his staff too much. If I had the

region, I'd--"



He shook his head. He was not the regional director--yet. Some day, the

old director would retire. Then, Central Coordination would be examining

the records of various district leaders, looking for a successor. Then--



He shrugged and turned his attention to his piloting of the borrowed

helicopter. It was a clumsy machine, and he had to get in to Regional

Headquarters in time for the morning conference. There would be no sense

it getting involved in employee traffic--not if he could avoid it.



The conference, his informant had told him, would be a little out of the

ordinary. It seemed that the Old Man had become somewhat irritated by

the excess privileges allowed in a few of the eastern districts. And he

was going to jack everyone up about it. After that would come the usual

period of reports, and possibly a few special instructions. Some of the

leaders would have pet projects to put forward, he knew. They always

did. Morely smiled to himself. He'd have something to come up with, too.



And this conference might put a crimp in Harwood's style. Morely had

carefully worded his progress report to make contrast with the type of

report that he knew would come from District One. George Harwood had

been allowing quite a few extra privileges to his people, stating that

it was good for morale. And, during the past couple of months, he'd

seemed to be proving his point. Certainly, the production of the

employees from the peninsula had been climbing. Harwood, Morely decided

would be the most logical person--after himself--for the region when the

Old Man retired. In fact, for a time, it had looked as though the

director of District One was going to be a dangerous rival.



But this conference would change things. Morely smiled slowly as he

thought of possible ways of shading the odds.



He looked ahead. Commuters were streaming in from the peninsula now, to

make for the factory parking lots. His face tightened a little. Why, he

wondered, had the Old Man decided to call the conference at this hour?

He could have delayed a little, until commuter traffic was less heavy.

He'd been a district leader once. And before that, under the old

government, a field leader. He should know how annoying the employee

classes could be. And to force his leaders to mingle with commuting

employees in heavy traffic!



* * * * *



For that matter, everyone seemed to be conspiring to make things

uncomfortable today. Those heavy-handed mechanics in the district motor

pool, for example. They'd failed him today. His own sleek machine, with

its distinctive markings was still being repaired. And he'd been forced

to use this unmarked security patrol heli. The machine wasn't really too

bad, of course. It had a superb motor, and it carried identification

lights and siren, which could be used if necessary. But it resembled

some lower-class citizen's family carryall. And, despite its

modifications, it still handled like one. Morely grimaced and eased the

wheel left a little. The helicopter swung in a slow arc.



Helis were rising from the factory lots, to interlace with incoming

ships before joining with the great stream headed south. The night

workers were heading for home. Morely hovered his machine for a moment,

to watch the ships jockey for position, sometimes barely avoiding

collisions in the stream of traffic. He watched one ship, which edged

forward, stopped barely in time to avoid being hit, edged forward again,

and finally managed to block traffic for a time while its inept driver

fooled with the controls and finally got on course.



"Quarrelsome, brawling fools," he muttered. "Even among themselves, they

can't get along."



He looked around, noting that the air over the Administrative Group was

comparatively free of traffic. To be sure, he would have to cross the

traffic lines, but he could take the upper lanes, avoiding all but

official traffic. A guard might challenge, but he could use his

identifying lights. He wouldn't be halted. He corrected his course a

little, glanced at the altimeter, and put his ship into a climb.



At length, he eased his ship over the parklike area over Administrative

Square and hovered over the parking entry. A light blinked on his dash,

to tell him that all the official spaces were occupied. He grunted.



"Wonder they couldn't leave a clear space in Official. They know I'm

coming in for conference."



He moved the control wheel, allowing his ship to slide over to a

shopping center parking slot, and hovered over the entry, debating. He

could park here and take the sub-surface to Administrative, or he could

use the surface lot just outside of the headquarters group. Of course,

the director frowned on use of the surface lot, except in emergency. The

underground lots were designated for all normal parking. Morely thought

over the problem, ignoring the helis which hovered, waiting for him to

clear the center of the landing area. Finally, his hand started for the

throttle. He would settle in the landing slot, let the guards shove his

heli to a space, and avoid any conflict with the director's orders

regarding the surface lot.



* * * * *



Suddenly, there was a sputtering roar. Someone had become impatient at

the delay. A small sports heli swept by, impellers reversed, and dropped

rapidly toward the entry to the underground parking space. Morely's ship

rocked a little in the air blast.



For an instant, Morely felt a sharp pain which gnawed at the pit of his

stomach. His head was abruptly light, and his hand, apparently of its

own volition, closed over the throttle knob.



This joy boy was overdue for a lesson.



Morely measured the distance quickly, judging the instant when the other

pilot would have to repitch his impellers and halt his downward rush. He

allowed his own heavy ship to wallow earthward.



Scant feet from ground surface, the sportster pilot flicked his pitch

control and pulled his throttle out for the brief burst of power which

would allow him to drop gently to the landing platform.



Morely grinned savagely as he saw the impellers below him change pitch

and start to move faster. He twisted his own impellers to full pitch and

pulled out the throttle for a sudden, roaring surge of power, then swung

the control column, jerking his ship up and away. As he steadied his

heli and cut power, he looked down.



The powerful downblast had completely upset the sportster pilot's

calculations. The small ship, struck by the gale from above, had listed

to the right and gone out of control, grazing one of the heavy splinter

shutters at the side of the landing slot. The ship lay on its side,

amidst the wreckage of its impellers.



Morely flicked on his warning siren and lights, then feathered his own

impellers, dropping his ship in free fall. He dropped to the grassy area

by the landing slot, ignoring the other ships which scattered like

frightened chickens, to give him room. At the last instant, he twisted

the impellers to full pitch again, pulled out the throttle for a moment,

then slammed the lever to the closed position. His ship touched down on

springy turf, its landing gear settling gently to accept the weight. A

klaxon was sounding, and warning lights flashed from the landing slot,

to warn ships away from an attempted landing.



It would be a long time before the shiny, new sportster would be in

condition to sweep into another parking area. And, after paying his fine

and taking care of his extra duties, it would be an even longer time

before the employee-pilot would have much business in the luxury

shopping center, anyway.



Morely smiled bitterly as he closed the door of his ship. It didn't pay

to cross Howard Morely--ever.



He walked slowly toward the landing slot, motioning imperiously to an

approaching guard.



"Have someone place that ship for me," he ordered, jerking a thumb back

toward his heli. "Then come over to that wreck. I shall want words with

the pilot." He held out his small identification folder.



The guard's glance went to the folder. For an instant, he studied the

card exposed before him, then he straightened and saluted, his face

expressionless.



"Yes, sir." He signaled another guard, then pointed toward Morely's

ship, and to the landing slot. "I can go with you now."



The two went down in the elevator and walked over to the wrecked

sportster. A slender man was crawling from a door. When the man was

clear of his ship, Morely beckoned.



"Over here, Fellow," he commanded.



The sportster pilot approached, the indignation on his face changing to

bewilderment, then dismay as he noted Morely's insignia and the attitude

of the two men who faced him.



Morely turned to the guard.



"Get me his name, identification number, and the name of his leader."



"Yes, sir."



The guard turned to the man, who grimaced a little with pain as he

slowly put a hand in his pocket. Wordlessly, he extracted a bulky

folder, from which he took a small booklet. He held out the booklet to

the guard.



Morely held out a hand. "Never mind," he said. "Simply put him in

custody. I'll turn this over to his leader myself."



He had noted the cover design on the booklet. It was from District

One--Harwood's district. He flipped the cover open, ascertaining that

there was no transfer notice. He'd give this to Harwood all right--at

the right time. He looked at his watch.



"I shall want my heli in about three hours," he announced. "See to it

that it's ready. And have a man check the fuel and see if the ship's

damaged in any way." He turned away.



* * * * *



The district leaders sat before the large conference table. Among them,

close to the director's place, was Morely, his face fixed in an

expression of alert interest. His informant had been right. The man must

have gotten a look at the Old Man's notes. The regional director was

criticizing the laxity in inspection and control of employee activities.

He objected to the excessive luxury activity allowed to some members of

the employee classes, as well as to the overabundance of leisure allowed

in several cases, some of which he described in detail.



He especially pointed up the fact that a recent heli meet had been

almost dominated by employee class entries. And he pointed out the fact

that there was considerable rehabilitation work to be done in bombed

areas. It could be done by employees, during their time away from their

subsistence jobs. That was all community time, he reminded.



It was all very well, he said, to allow the second- and even third-class

citizens a certain amount of leisure recreation. That kept morale up.

But they were certainly not to be allowed any position of dominance,

either individually, or as a class. That, he said, was something else

again. It was precisely the sort of thing that had led to the collapse

and downfall of many previous civilizations.



"Keep 'em busy," he ordered. "So busy they don't have time to think up

mischief to get into. Remember, gentlemen, second- and third-class

citizens have no rights--only privileges. And privileges may be

withdrawn at any time."



He rapped sharply on the table and sat down, looking at the leader of

District One.



One by one, the district leaders made their verbal reports of activity.

Occasionally, questions of production or work quotas were brought up and

decided. Morely waited.



At last, he made his own report, emphasizing the fact that his district

had exceeded its quotas--subsistence, luxury, and rehabilitation--for

the fourth consecutive quarter. He cited a couple of community

construction projects he had ordered and which were well on the way to

completion, and brought out the fact that his people, at least, were

being inspected constantly and thoroughly.



Also, he suggested, if any time remained to be used, or if leisure

activity threatened to become excessive, it might be well to turn some

attention outside of the old urban areas. There was considerable bomb

damage in the suburban and former farming areas, and the scrap from some

of the ruined structures could be stockpiled for disposal to factories

and community reclamation plants.



Further, a beautification program for the entire region might keep some

of the employee class busy for some time. And some of the ex-farmers

among the lower classes might find it pleasant to work once again with

the soil, instead of their normal work in the synthetic food labs or

machine shops. With the director's permission, he could start the

program by removing the useless tower and wreckage at the bay channel,

and by salvaging the metal from it. Of course, he admitted, it was a

trifle beyond his own authority, since most of the channel was in

District One. The regional director cast him a sharp glance, then

considered the suggestion. At last, he nodded.



"It might be well," he decided. "Go ahead, Morely. Take care of that

detail." He looked over at his executive. "Have Planning draw up

something on salvage and beautification in the former rural areas," he

ordered. He looked about the room.



"And the rest of you might try looking over your own districts. You

don't have to wait for a directive, and every one of you can find some

improvement that could be made. If it's a district line matter, submit

some plan for mutual agreement to my office." He rose and went to the

door.



Morely waited, watching George Harwood. The leader of District One

gathered his papers, looked down the table for an instant, then went

out. Morely followed him at a discreet distance.



As Harwood neared the door to the regional director's office, Morely

caught up with him.



"Oh, Harwood," he said loudly. "Caught one of your people in a flagrant

case of reckless flying this morning. Why don't you bear down a little

on those fellows of yours? This one seemed to think he was winning a

heli meet."



He held out the folder he had confiscated. "Here's his identification. I

had the guards hold him for you. Second-class citizen. Must've had a lot

of spare time, to get the luxury credits and purchase authorization for

that ship of his."



Harwood looked at him, a faint expression of annoyance crossing his

face. Then, he glanced at the open door nearby, and comprehension grew

on his face. He took the folder, nodded wordlessly, and walked rapidly

past Morely, who turned to watch him.



As Harwood swung through the door to an elevator, Morely smiled

appreciatively. That had been a smart trick, he thought. Have to

remember that one. No argument to disturb the Old Man. Not even positive

proof that Morely hadn't been talking to empty space. But there was an

answer to that, too, if one was alert. He walked through the doorway

into the director's office.



The regional director looked up.



"Oh, Morely. You wanted to see me?"



"Yes, sir." Morely stood at rigid attention. "I just thought of all

those useless highways around the countryside. Of course, a few of them

have been camouflaged and converted to temporary and emergency heli

parking lots, but there's still a lot of waste concrete about that could

be removed. It would improve the camouflage of the groups. It could be

divided into community projects for spare time work, sir."



"Very good idea. If this stalemate we're in should develop into another

war, it would be well to have as few landmarks as possible. And some of

these people do have too much time on their hands. They sit around,

thinking of their so-called rights. Next thing we know, some of the

second-class citizens'll be screaming for the privilege of a vote. Set

it up in your district, Morely. We'll see how it works out, and the rest

of the district leaders can follow your example."



He looked sharply at Morely. "Heard a little disturbance in the hall

just before you came in."



"Oh, that." Morely contrived a look of confusion. "I'm sorry, sir. I

didn't mean anyone to hear that. It was just that I had a minor bit of

business with Leader Harwood. One of his people nearly knocked me out of

the air this morning, over a parking area, and I confiscated his

identification. I tried to give it to Harwood after the conference, but

he must have been in a hurry. I caught up with him and gave him the

folder."



"So I heard." The director smiled wryly. "Anything more?"



"No, sir." Morely saluted and left.



"That," he told himself, "should drop Harwood a few points."



He went to the parking area to reclaim his helicopter. Better get back

to his district and start setting up those community projects. Too, he

would have to run a check inspection or so this evening. See to it his

sector men weren't getting lax. He'd check on Bond tonight.



* * * * *



He flew back to District Twelve, dropped his helicopter into the landing

area, and made his way to his office.



Inside, he went to a file, from which he took his spot-inspection

folder. Carrying it to his desk, he checked it. Yes, Bond's sector was

due for a spot inspection. Might be well to make a detailed check of one

of the employees in that sector, too. Morely touched a button on his

desk.



Almost immediately, a clerk stood in the doorway.



"Get me the master quarters file for Sector Fourteen," Morely ordered.



The clerk went out, to return with two long file drawers. Quickly, he

set them side by side on a small table, which he pushed over to his

superior's desk.



Idly, Morely fingered through the cards, noting the indexing and

condition of the file. He nodded in approval, then gave the clerk a nod

of dismissal. At least, his people were keeping their files in order.



He reached into a pocket, to withdraw a notebook. Turning its pages, he

found a few of the entries he had made on population changes, then

cross-checked them against the files. All were posted and properly

cross-indexed. Again, he nodded in satisfaction.



Evidently, that last dressing down he had given the files section had

done some good. For a moment, he considered calling in the chief clerk

and complimenting him. Then, he changed his mind.



"No use giving him a swelled head," he told himself.



He drew a file drawer to him, running his finger down its length. At

last, he pulled a card at random. It was colored light blue.



He put it back. Didn't want to check a group leader. He'd be a

first-class citizen, and entitled to privacy. He pulled another card

from a different section of the file. This one was salmon pink--an

assistant group leader. He examined it. The man was a junior equipment

designer in one of the communications plants. For a moment, Morely

tapped the card against his desk. Actually, he had wanted a basic

employee, but it might be well to check one of the leadmen. He could

have the man accompany him while he made a further check on one of the

apartments in his sub-group. Again, he looked at the card.



Paul Graham, he noted, was forty-two years of age. He had three

children--was an electronics designer, junior grade. His professional

profile showed considerable ability and training, but the security

profile showed a couple of threes. Nothing really serious, but he would

be naturally expected to be a second-class citizen--or below. It was not

an unusual card.



Morely looked at the quarters code. Graham lived in Apartment 7A, Group

723, which was in Block 1022, Sector Fourteen. It would be well to check

his quarters first, then check, say, 7E. Morely went through the

numerical file, found the card under 7E, and flipped the pages of his

notebook to a blank sheet, upon which he copied the data he needed from

the two cards.



He put the notebook in his pocket and returned the cards to their places

in the file, then riffled the entire file once more, to be sure there

would be no clue as to which cards he had consulted. Finally, he touched

the button on his desk again.



Once more, the clerk stood in the doorway.



"This file seems to be satisfactory," he was told. "You may bring in the

correspondence now."



The correspondence was no heavier than usual. Morely flipped through the

routine matter, occasionally selecting a report or letter and

abstracting data. Tomorrow, he could check performance by referring to

these. At last, he turned to the separate pile of directives, production

and man-hour reports, and other papers which demanded more attention

than the routine paper.



He worked through the stack of paper, occasionally calling upon his

clerk for file data, sometimes making a communicator call. At last, he

pushed away the last remaining report and leaned back. He spun his chair

about, activated the large entertainment screen, and spent some time

watching a playlet. At the end of the play, he glanced at his watch,

then turned back to his desk. He leaned forward to touch a button on his

communicator.



As the viewsphere lit, he flicked on the two-way video, then spoke.



"Get me Sector Leader Bond." He snapped the communicator off almost

before the operator could acknowledge, then spun about, switching his

entertainment screen to ground surface scan. A scene built up, showing a

view from his estate in the hills.



* * * * *



There were some buildings on the surface--mostly homes of upper grade

citizens, who preferred the open air, and could afford to have a surface

estate in addition to their quarters in the groups. These homes, for the

most part, were located in wooded areas, where their owners could find

suitable fishing and hunting.



Most of the traces of damage done by the bombings of the Nineties were

gone from about the estate areas by now, and the few which remained were

being eliminated. Morely increased the magnification, to watch a few

animals at a waterhole. He could do a little hunting in a few weeks.

Take a nice leave. He drew a deep breath.



Those years after the end of the last war had been hectic, what with new

organizational directives, the few sporadic revolts, the integration of

homecoming fighters, and the final, tight set-up. But it had all been

worth it. Everything was running smoothly now.



The second- and third-class citizens had learned to accept their status,

and some few of them had even found they liked it. At least, now they

had far more security. There was subsistence in plenty for all

producers, thanks to the war-born advances in technology, and to the

highly organized social framework. To be sure, a few still felt uneasy

in the underground quarters, but the necessity for protection from

bombing in another war had been made clear, and they'd just have to get

used to conditions. And, there were a very few who, unable to get or

hold employment, existed somehow in the spartan discomfort of the

subsistence quarters.



For most, however, there was minor luxury, and a plenitude of

necessities. And there was considerable freedom of action and choice as

well as full living comfort for the full citizens, who had proved

themselves to be completely trustworthy, and who were deemed fit to hold

key positions.



The communicator beeped softly, and he glanced at the sphere. It showed

the face of Harold Bond, leader of the fourteenth sector. The district

leader snapped on his scanner.



"Report to me here in my office at eighteen hours, Bond."



"Yes, sir."



"And you might be sure your people are all in quarters this evening."



Bond nodded. "They will be, sir."



"That's all." Morely flicked the disconnect switch.



He got up, strode around the office, then consulted his watch. There

would be time for a cup of coffee before Bond arrived. Time for a cup of

coffee, and time for the employees in Sector Fourteen to scurry about,

getting their quarters in shape for an inspection. They would have no

way of knowing which quarters were to be checked, and all would be put

in order.



He smiled. It was a good way, he thought, to insure that there would be

no sloppiness in the homes of his people. And it certainly saved a lot

of inspection time and a lot of direct contact.



He went out of the office, and walked slowly down to the snack bar,

where he took his time over coffee, looking critically at the neat

counter and about the room as he drank.



The counter girls busied themselves cleaning up imaginary spots on the

plastic counter and on their equipment, casting occasional, apprehensive

glances at him. Finally, he set his cup down, looked at the clock over

the counter, and walked out.



Bond was waiting in the office. Morely examined the younger man,

carefully appraising his appearance. The sector leader, he saw, was

properly attired. The neat uniform looked as if freshly taken from the

tailor shop. The man stepped forward alertly, to halt at the correct

distance before his superior.



"Good evening, sir. My heli is on the roof."



"Very good." Morely nodded shortly and took his notebook from his

pocket. "We'll go to Building Seven Twenty-three."



He turned and walked toward the self-service elevator. Bond hurried a

little to open the door for him.



* * * * *



Bond eased the helicopter neatly through the entry slot and on down into

one of the empty visitor spaces in the landing area at Block 1022. The

two men walked across the areaway to an entrance.



As they went up the short flight of stairs into the hall, Morely took

careful notice of the building. The mosaic tile of the stairs and floor

gleamed from a recent scrubbing. The plastic and metal handrails were

spotless. He looked briefly at his subordinate, then motioned toward the

door at their right.



"This one," he ordered.



Bond touched the call button and they waited.



From inside the apartment, there was a slight rustle of motion, then the

door opened and a man stood before them. For an instant, he looked

startled, then he straightened.



"Paul Graham, sir," he announced. "Apartment 7A is ready for

inspection." He stepped back.



Morely looked him over critically, saw nothing that warranted criticism,

and went inside, followed by Bond.



Cursorily, the district leader let his gaze wander about the apartment.

The kitchen at his left, he saw, was in perfect order, everything being

in place and obviously clean. He went to the range and motioned with his

head.



"Pull the drip pan," he ordered.



Graham came forward and pulled a flat sheet from the range, then opened

an access door at the front of the stove.



Morely peered inside, then thrust a hand in. For a moment, he groped

around, then he pulled his hand out and looked at it. It was clean. He

sniffed at his fingers, then turned away.



"You may replace the pan, Fellow." He went into the living room, noting

that the woman and three children were neat and in the proper attitudes

of attention. One of the children was looking at him, wide-eyed. He saw

that the child was clean and apparently healthy.



In addition to the usual chairs, table, and divan, there were some

bookcases which formed a small alcove around a combination desk and

drawing table. Morely circled the bookcases, to stand before the desk.



"What's this?" he demanded. He turned to a bookcase, to examine the

titles.



Most of the books were engineering texts and reference works. There

were some standard works of philosophy and a few on psychology. None of

the titles seemed to be actually objectionable.



"I--" Graham started to speak, but Morely silenced him with an upraised

hand.



"Later," he said coldly. "Bond, has this been reported to you, and have

you investigated?"



Bond nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. "Graham is a design engineer, sir, and

has been granted permission to do some research in his quarters.



"He's commercially employed, sir, and it was a routine matter. His

employer says he has been keeping his production quotas, no alteration

to the apartment has been made, and no community property has been

defaced. I'm told that several of Graham's designs have been of value in

his plant. I didn't think--"



"I see you didn't. What is this man working on now?"



"A new type of communicator, sir. I don't know all the details."






"Get them, Bond. Get them all, and give me a full report on his project

and its progress tomorrow. Since this work is being done during time

when the man is not working for his employer, he's using community time

and the community becomes vitally interested in his results." Morely

paused, looking at the bookcase again.



"And, while we are on the subject," he added, "get me details on those

previous designs you spoke of. It's quite possible the community has not

been getting royalty payments to which it's entitled." He picked out a

book, flipping over its pages for a moment, then replaced it and looked

searchingly at Bond.



"And get me a full inventory of this man's books and any equipment he

may have." He turned on Graham.



"Do you have purchase authorization and receipts for all of this?"



"Yes, sir." Graham motioned toward the desk.



"Very well. I shan't bother with that now. An investigating team can

check that."



Morely took a final glance at the half-finished schematic on the drawing

board, then circled the bookcases again, to come out into the main room.



"We'll inspect the rest of your quarters."



* * * * *



At last, Morely left the quarters area, followed by Bond. As they

reached the helicopter, Morely turned, one hand on the door.



"Laxity, Bond, is something I don't tolerate. You should know that.

Possibly this man, Graham, is doing nothing illegal, or even irregular.

Possibly, he is not wasting community time, but I have very serious

doubts. I'll venture to say the community has a financial interest in

several of his recent designs, and I mean to find out which ones and how

much. And it's certainly an unusual situation. The man's a leadman, you

know, and could spend his time more profitably in checking on the people

he's responsible for." He slid into the seat.



"I'll concede," he continued, "that employees are to be allowed a

certain amount of recreation of their own choosing. They may have light

reading in their quarters, and they may even work on small

projects--with permission, of course. But this man seems to have gone

much farther than that. He has a small electronics factory of his own,

as well as a rather extensive library. He's obviously spending a lot of

time at his activities, and that time must come out of his community

performance. This certainly is not routine, and I can't condone your

failure to make a report on it."



"But, I--"



Morely held up a hand sternly. "Let's not have a string of excuses," he

said. "Give me a full report on the man's possessions, his history, and

the progress of whatever work he's doing in that private factory of his.

Get the details on his previous designs, too. And bring your report in

to me in the morning, personally. I shall want to determine whether to

make this new device a community project, or whether to allow it to be

offered to his employer on a community royalty agreement. And I shall

require details on his older designs for Fiscal to examine into.

Research, you should know, is a community function, not something to be

done in any set of quarters. I shall want to talk to you further when

I've gone over this matter.



"Now, get me back to the district offices. I want to get home, and

you've work to do tonight."



* * * * *



The report was a long one. Morely smiled to himself as he thought of the

time it must have taken Bond to assemble the data and to make up his

final draft. Possibly in the future, that young man would be a little

less inclined to assume too much authority, or to be too soft in his

dealings with the employee classes. The spring in his swivel chair

twanged musically as the district leader leaned back to read.



First, there was an inventory of Graham's effects. It was a lengthy

list, followed by a certification by a security inspector that all of

the equipment inventoried was covered by authorizations and receipts

held by Graham, and that none of the books and equipment were of

improper nature for possession by a member of the employee classes.

Morely grunted and tossed that section aside.



There was a detailed history of Graham's activities, so far as known to

Security. Morely scanned through it hurriedly. There was nothing here of

an unusual nature.



Graham had been graduated from one of the large technical colleges

during the early nineties. Morely noted that it was one of those schools

which had been later closed as a result of one of the post-war

investigations.



The subject had been employed by Consolidated Electronics as a junior

engineer, and had designed several improvements for Consolidated's

products. There was a record of promotions and a few awards. He had held

a few patents, which had been taken over by the Central Coordination

Products Division during the post-war reorganization. He had also

belonged to the now proscribed Society of Electronic Engineers, had

contributed articles to that organization's journal, and had taken an

active part in some of its chapter meetings.



During the war, he had worked on radio-controlled servos, doing

acceptable work. When the professional and trade societies and other

organizations were outlawed, he had promptly resigned from his society,

and made the required declarations. But he had been reported as

privately remarking that it was "a sad thing to see the last vestiges of

personal freedom removed."



Morely pursed his lips. Not an unusual history, he decided. Of course,

the man was completely ineligible for full citizenship--bad risk. He was

barely qualified for second-class citizenship, his obvious ability being

the only qualifying factor. Unlike many, he had no record of any effort

to shirk duty, or do economic damage during the critical period. The

district leader tossed the dossier aside and picked up the report on

Graham's present activities.



There were a series of complex schematics, and several machine drawings

which he shuffled to the back of his report. Those could be interpreted

later, if necessary. He was interested in the description of function.



The device Graham was working on was described as a communicator which

operated by direct mind-to-mind transfer. Morely sat up straighter,

reading the paragraph over again. Either this man was a true genius, who

had discovered a new principle, or he was completely a crackpot.



"Telepathy!"



Morely snorted and went over to the descriptions of the device, reading

carefully. Finally, he read the comments of a senior engineer, who

cautiously admitted that the circuits involved, though highly

unconventional, were not of a type to cause spurious radiation, or to

interfere with normal communication in any way.



The engineer also noted that it was possible that the device might be

capable of radiation effects outside of the electromagnetic spectrum,

and that the power device was capable of integration into standard

equipment--in fact, might be well worth adoption. He carefully declined,

however, to give any definite opinion without an actual model to run

tests on. And he added the comment that the first model was as yet

incomplete.



Morely tossed the last sheet to his desk and leaned forward, tapping

idly on the dull-finished plastic. Finally, he touched his call button

and waited till the clerk came in.



"You may send Mr. Bond in now," he directed.



He picked up the section of the report dealing with Graham's past

designs, and started scanning it. He would have the Fiscal chief go over

this and set up the necessary royalty agreements with Consolidated. Some

of them might generate worth-while amounts of funds.



* * * * *



He made no sign of recognition or awareness when Bond entered the

office, but continued with his reading. At last, he pulled a notepad to

him, wrote a brief indorsement to the Fiscal chief, and clipped it to

the part of the report dealing with Graham's older designs. He replaced

his pen in its stand and leaned back, to stare at his junior, who stood

at rigid attention.



"Yes?"



"Sector Leader Bond, sir, reporting as ordered." Bond saluted.



Negligently, Merely returned the salute, then picked up Bond's report.



"I have gone through this, Bond," he announced. "Very interesting. And

you thought it too unimportant to report on before?"



"I didn't want to bother you with some idle fantasy, sir. Until the

man's experiments showed definite results of some sort, I--"



"And then, you hoped to spring a completed device on me? Take credit for

it yourself, eh?"



"Not at all, sir. I--"



Morely raised a hand. "Never mind. I don't need any kind of aid to read

your intentions. They're quite plain, I see. It would have been quite a

credit to you, wouldn't it?



"'Look what I worked out, with a little, minor help from one of the

employees in my sector.'



"But I've seen that line worked before, Bond, and worked smoothly. You

don't catch the Old Man napping so easily as that." He paused.



"Of course we don't know whether or not this device is going to be of

any real use. But we do know that this man, Graham, has developed one

thing which can be profitably incorporated into conventional equipment.

That power source of his appears to be quite practical, and we'll adopt

it. Offer it to the man's employer, subject to community royalty. And

see if you can get Graham a little time off work in compensation. Then,

keep a close watch on his work on the rest of his device. He'll probably

use his time off to work on it--at least, he'll be a lot better off if

he does.



"I want frequent reports on his progress--daily reports, if any

significant developments occur. And I want a model of that device as

soon as it's developed and has had preliminary tests. If it works, it

might be valuable for community defense." He waved a hand.



"That's all."



Bond turned to go, and almost got to the door before Morely called him

back.



"Oh, one more thing, Bond. Keep a closer watch on the rest of your

people. If any more of them decide to do extra work of any unusual

nature, I shall expect an immediate report in full. Don't fail me again.

Is that clear?"



"Yes, sir." Bond saluted again and made his escape.



Morely watched him disappear, then turned to his communicator. "Get me

Field Leader Denton," he ordered.



The pause was slight, then the face of a middle-aged man appeared in the

viewsphere.



"Denton," said the district leader, "I want you to keep closer watch on

your sector men. Last night I spot-checked Bond, in Fourteen, and I

found an irregularity. I'll expect you to endorse the report back, and

I'll expect you to tighten down. Keep an especially close eye on this

man, Bond."



The field leader's eyebrows raised a little. "Bond, sir? He's one of--"



"Bond. Yes." His superior interrupted forcefully. "And tighten down on

all your men. You know how I feel about laxity."



He snapped the communicator off and gathered Bond's report together. For

a few seconds, he looked at the neat stack of paper, then he slipped a

paper clamp on it and punched his call button.



* * * * *



"There!" Paul Graham straightened from his hunched-over position at the

desk. He laid his soldering iron down and massaged the small of his

back, grimacing slightly.



"Oh, me! I'll swear my back'll never be the same again. But that ought

to do it, at last." He looked at the equipment before him and grinned

ruefully.



"Of all the haywire messes. It started out so nice. And it ended up so

awful."



The device had started out as a fairly neat assembly, using a headband

as a chassis. But the circuitry seemed to have gone out of control.

Miniature sub-assemblies hung at all angles from their wires and tiny

components were interlaced through the unit, till the entire assembly

looked like a wig from a horror play. Graham shook his head, picked up

the band; and carefully fitted it, being careful that the contacts

touched his forehead and temples properly.



For an instant, he looked a little dazed. Then, he reached up and

fumbled for a moment with the controls at the front of the headband.

Suddenly, he stopped, an expression of pleasure on his face. He stood

for a time, looking at the wall, then looked up at the ceiling. He

frowned and looked at his wife, who was anxiously watching him. A smile

grew on his face, and she was clearly conscious of the projected

thought.



"I told you, Elaine, it can't possibly hurt anyone. Stop worrying about

me."



Elaine Graham looked startled. "I didn't, say anything, darling."



Her husband looked at her with an impish grin. She frowned a little,

then her eyes widened and her mouth opened a little. She ran at him

indignantly.



"It simply isn't decent! You take that thing off, Paul Graham, right

now. I won't have you reading my mind!"



Graham laughingly fended her off with one hand as he carefully removed

the headband with the other. He set the device gently on the desk, then

seized his wife about the waist.



"It works, honey," he said jubilantly. "It really works." He waltzed her

away from the desk, to the middle of the living room.



"Of course, I couldn't get anything from anyone but you. It seems to

work just as I thought it might--only if you can see the person you want

to contact. But I'll bet two people who were acquainted could use two of

these things to communicate with each other at any distance. And it may

be possible to work out the problem of single-device communication at

distance and through obstacles. But that'll have to come later. Right

now, this thing works."



"But Paul. I'm afraid. What will they do with something like this? We

have so little freedom left now. Why, they won't even let us think

privately." She paused, her head turning from side to side as she looked

about the apartment.



"You know, Paul, I hardly ever dare go out of this apartment now, they

upset me so. And if they're able to read my thoughts, I shan't be safe,

even here."



Graham frowned. "True," he admitted. "But somehow, when I had the thing

on, I got some funny ideas. I wonder if anyone could really oppress

someone he fully understood. I wonder if two people who could fully

comprehend each other's point of view could have a really serious

disagreement." He picked up the headband, looking at it searchingly.



* * * * *



"And there's another thing," he added. "Unless both parties are wearing

the things, vision seems to be essential to any reaction, at least in

this model. I tried to get thoughts from the kids and from the Moreno's,

upstairs. But there wasn't a thing. And yet, I could get you clearly.

Apparently this thing won't work out as a spy device."



"But, are you sure?"



Graham shrugged wryly. "Well ... no," he admitted. "I'll have to finish

wiring the other set and try 'em both out before I'll be sure of

anything. And it'll take a lot of tests before I'm sure of very much.

Now, I've just got some ideas." He frowned thoughtfully.



"Anyway, I can't stop now. They know about the thing, and I've got to

finish it--or furnish definite proof it's impractical." He turned back

to the desk. "Should be through with the other band in a few minutes.

Just have to put in a couple of filters."



He picked up the completed device and turned around again. "Here,

Elaine, put this on, will you? See what you get. Try to catch a thought

from outside the room."



* * * * *



Dutifully, Elaine Graham accepted the headband. She eyed it doubtfully

for a moment, then adjusted it over her hair, setting the contacts on

her skin as she had seen her husband do. For a few seconds, she stared

at her husband, wide-eyed. Then, she looked away, her eyes focused on

infinity.



Graham busied himself with the soldering iron and another headband.



At last, Elaine took the headband off. "It's weird, Paul," she said.

"When I was looking at you, I knew everything you were thinking. But

when I looked away, there was nothing. It was almost as though I didn't

have it on. Only, I seemed to be able to think so much more clearly."



Graham looked up from his work, squinting thoughtfully. "Yeah," he

muttered. "Yeah, I noticed that, too, come to think of it. Feedback

effect of some sort, I suppose. Have to experiment with that, too, I

expect." He turned back to his work.



* * * * *



Elaine put the headband back on and watched him. She felt a complete

familiarity with everything he was working on. For the first time, she

felt she fully understood this man with whom she had lived for so many

years. And the understanding was pleasant. She could comprehend the

mysteries of the circuits he was working on. She had always felt

slightly neglected when he worked with his equipment, especially since

the bureaucracy, who took his results without recompense. Now, she could

feel his interest in his work for its own sake. She could sympathize

with it. And, with a little study, she felt she could join with him.



Graham straightened again. "It's done," he said. He picked the second

headband from the desk and put it on. Abruptly, both he and his wife

were aware of a fuzziness in their thoughts and senses. The walls, the

floor, and the furniture seemed to blur and waver, like the fantasy

world of delirium. He put his hand up and adjusted the controls. The

room returned to normal, and their senses were abruptly sharp and clear

again. He dropped his hand.



"Outside. See if it'll work when we can't see each other."



"Almost curfew time."



"Only a couple of minutes. Then lights out and sleep."



Elaine walked to the door. She stepped out into the corridor and walked

down the steps.



"All right?"



"Perfect! Try the parking lot. Close the door."



She went out of the quarters, crossed the areaway, and stood under the

landing slot. Far overhead, a segment of sky appeared between the open

bomb shutters. Stars shone coldly. She was conscious of a movement and

looked down, toward a shadow which moved among the parked helicopters.



"What's that?"



She looked more closely at the shadow, then shuddered a little.



"Never mind." The thought was urgent. "Come inside. I got him, too."



* * * * *



Quickly, Elaine walked back into the apartment. She closed the door and

walked to the desk, removing the headband as she approached. Her husband

put his headband beside it.



"We'd better get to bed," he said quietly. "I'll notify them tomorrow."



"No, Paul. It would be harder then. And there would be so many

questions. Call the sector leader tonight. We'll have to get it over."

Elaine shivered.



"But what will they do with it?" She asked the question almost

despairingly.



Graham shook his head. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I started with the

idea of simply building a really effective communicator. But this is

more than that. To you and I, it meant full understanding. But to that

person out there ... I don't know."



"His thoughts were flat--almost lifeless. And he made my skin crawl.

Paul, do you remember how you used to feel when you came close to a

snake? There's something wrong with that man."



"I know. I felt it, too. And it made the blood rush into my ears."

Graham moved toward the communicator, placing his hand on the switch.

"And you're right. I'll have to report immediately. They don't really

need telepathy. And certainly, they never required real evidence. A

suspicion is sufficient, and they'd be very suspicious if I didn't

notify the sector leader tonight."



He depressed the switch deliberately, like a man firing a weapon. Then,

he dialed a number, and waited.



The sphere lit, to show the face of Harold Bond.



"Oh, Graham." Bond frowned a little. "It's late. Do you have something

to report?"



"Yes, sir." Graham's face was expressionless. "The mental communicator

is finished. Do you wish to test it, sir?"



Bond opened his eyes a little more and nodded. "It's really done,

then?"



"Yes, sir."



"I'll be there in a few minutes." The sphere darkened.



Graham looked at it. De-energized, the communicator seemed to be merely

a large ball of clear material. It stood on its low pedestal, against

its black background, reflecting a distorted picture of the chiaroscuro

of the room. He leaned toward it, and saw a faint, deformed reflection

of his own head and shoulders.



He spread his hands a little, and turned around. Elaine had crossed to

the divan, where she sat, looking apathetically at the door, her hands

folded in her lap. He smiled apprehensively, coughed, and held up a

hand, two fingers crossed.



Elaine glanced at him, nodded, and resumed her watch of the door. Graham

shrugged and walked over to his desk, where he stood, aimlessly looking

down at the two headbands.



* * * * *



They both jumped convulsively when the buzzer sounded. Graham strode

rapidly to the door, opened it, and stood back as the sector leader came

in. Elaine had come to her feet, and stood rigidly, facing the door.



Sector Leader Bond closed the door, then looked from one of them to the

other. He shook his head a little sadly, and waved a hand gently back

and forth.



"Relax, you two," he said. "I'm alone this time." He turned to Graham.

"Let's see what we've got."



Graham walked to his desk and picked up the two headbands.



"They're a little rough-looking, sir," he apologized. "But they work."



Bond tossed his head back with a little laugh. "They do look a little

rugged, don't they?" he chuckled. "Well, we'll worry about appearance

later. Right now, I'm curious. I want to see what these things do."



Graham handed over one of the bands and slowly adjusted the other to his

head. For a moment, he looked searchingly at the sector leader, then his

face relaxed into a relieved expression.



"Hear me?"



Bond had been examining the device in his hands. He looked up, puzzled.



"Of course I hear you," he said. "I'm not deaf."



Graham smiled a little, then placed a hand tightly over his mouth.



"Still get me?"



Bond cocked his head to one side, looked down at the device in his

hands, then looked up again. "Well," he commented. "So that's the way

they work. I thought you spoke."



Graham shook his head. "Didn't have to. Try it on."



Bond shrugged. "Well, here we go." He pulled off his cap, tossed it to a

chair, and replaced it with the headband. For a moment, he looked around

the apartment, then he glanced at Mrs. Graham. He blinked, ducked his

head, and looked more closely at her.



"Ow! Nobody could be as bad as that!" He looked at Graham. "What do

you think?"



"There's one outside." Graham inclined his head a little.



Elaine Graham sprang to her feet. "I'm terribly sorry," she apologized

contritely. "It's just that I--"



Bond took off the headband abruptly. "I'm sorry, too," he said. "I was

prying." He looked down at the device. "I'm not too sure about this

thing," he added. "It works. I can see that much. But I'm almost afraid

it works too well. What's it going to cause?"



Graham pulled off his own headband and extended his hand for the other.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I'm not sure of anything at all." He

frowned. "Wish I hadn't--" He looked at the sector leader quickly.



"I'm sorry, sir," he apologized. "Forgot my training, I guess."



Bond waved a hand. "Look," he said, "there are times, and there are

places. Right now, I'm in your home, and I'm just as worried about this

as you are. I'm just another person." He looked down at his neat

uniform.



"Once," he mused, "we were all just people. Now--" He shrugged. "And

then, these things come along." He looked at the two headbands, then at

the man holding them.



"Wonder how many people feel like that?"



Graham held out the headbands. "I know one way to find out."



Bond nodded. "I see what you mean," he admitted. "But it could be pretty

bad." He walked over to the chair and picked up his cap.






"Well," he added with a sigh, "I suppose I'd better grab these things

and take them over to Research. Have to find out all we can about them.

I've still got to report on them." Again, he looked at Graham. "You'd

better come along, too. Research people might have a lot of questions,

and I could never answer them."



* * * * *



Graham nodded and went to the hall closet. He took his coat from the

hanger, put it on, and reached for his hat, then hesitated.



"You know," he said, "we might try one experiment, right here."



"Oh?" Bond raised his eyebrows.



"There's a man out in the parking lot. I believe he's detailed to keep

watch on me. You might try him with one of the headbands. Then, see what

he'll do with one on."



"Any special reason?"



Graham twisted his face uneasily. "I can't describe it," he said almost

inaudibly. "You'd have to see for yourself."



Bond looked at him speculatively for a moment, then held out his cap and

one of the headbands.



"Here, hold these."



He put the other headband on, accepted the first, and walked out of the

apartment, followed by Graham, who still carried the cap.



As they came out and started across the parking lot, a man approached

them.



Bond looked at him, frowned, then cast a sidelong look at Graham.



"That what you meant?" His thought carried an undercurrent of

incredulity.



Graham nodded wordlessly, and Bond looked toward the approaching man

again. Once more, his face wrinkled distastefully, then he spoke aloud.



"Oh, Ross. Want you to try some thing." He held out the headband he was

carrying in his left hand.



Ross came up, accepted the device, and looked at it curiously. "You mean

this is the thing he's been working on?" He jerked a thumb at Graham.

"Saw his wife come out a while ago. Guess she had one of 'em on. She

went right back in again."



Bond nodded. "This is it," he said. "Let's see how it works for you."



Ross shrugged. "Try anything once, I guess." He adjusted the band to his

head, then stood, looking at the two men.



"Notice anything?" Bond looked at him sharply.



Again, Ross shrugged. "Nothing special," he said with a slight grunt.

"Seems as though this guy's pretty nervous."



"You don't have to say anything, just think it. And see if you can

communicate with Graham."



"Huh?" Ross had been looking directly at Bond. He frowned.



"You mean, this thing--" He paused, looking for a moment at Graham,

then took the headband off. "Thing doesn't feel good," he complained. He

held the device out to Bond, who accepted it.



"But it works? You could communicate both ways with it?"



"Oh, sure." Ross nodded grudgingly. "I got you, all right. But I

couldn't get a thing out of this guy." He wagged his head toward Graham.

"Except he was jittery about something."



"I see. Thanks." Bond accepted the headband. "We're going to take these

to Research," he added. "Let the technicians there find out how good

they are." He turned away and led Graham to his helicopter.



As Graham settled in the seat, he turned to the sector leader. "He just

couldn't use it properly," he remarked. "Maybe only certain people can

use them."



Bond nodded as he started the motor. "Or maybe only certain people

can't." He busied himself in getting the machine up through the landing

slot, then turned as they climbed into the night sky.



"Maybe you've got to be able to understand and like people before you

can establish full contact with them. Maybe ... Maybe a lot of things."

He was silent for a moment. "You know, this thing might become far more

valuable than you thought, Graham."



* * * * *



Howard Morely looked up from a memo as the clerk tapped on the door.



"Come in."



The man opened the door and stepped inside.



"Sector Leader Bond is here, sir. He has some gentlemen with him."



"And what does he want?"



"He said it was about that new communicator, sir."



"Oh." Morely turned his attention back to the memo. "Have them wait." He

waved a hand in dismissal and went on with his reading.



The beautification program was progressing well. Twenty miles of the old

main highway through the valley had been completely cleared and planted.

Crews were working on another stretch. The foreman of the wrecking crew

down at the point, in Sector Nine, reported that the last bit of scrap

had been removed from the old bridge support. Underwater crews had

salvaged the cables and almost all of the metal from the fallen bridge

itself, and the scrap was on the beach, ready for delivery to the

reclamation mills in District One.



Morely smiled sourly. Harwood would have a storage problem on his hands

in a day or so. The delay in delivery could be explained and justified.

Morely had seen to that. Now, all the material was ready and could be

delivered in one lot.



Harwood would have to raise his production quota in his community mills

to use up the excess material, and that would slow down the clean-up in

District One. The Old Man couldn't help but notice, and he'd see who was

efficient in his region. The district leader pushed the memo sheets

aside and placed his hands behind his head.



Slowly, he pivoted his chair, to look at the entertainment screen. He

started to energize it, then drew his hand back.



So that crackpot, Graham, had finally come up with something definite.

Morely smiled again. It had almost seemed as though the man had been

stalling for a while. But the pressure and the veiled threats had been

productive--again.



To be sure, the agents covering that project had reported that the

device seemed to be merely another fairly good means of

communication--nothing of any tremendous importance. But results had

been obtained, and a communicator which was reasonably free from

interception and which required relatively low power might be of some

value to the community. He might be able to get a commendation out of

it, at least.



And even if it were unsuitable for defense, there'd be a new product for

one of the luxury products plants in the district, and the district

would get royalties from the manufacturer. Too, it would keep people

busy and make 'em spend more of their credits.



He grimaced at his vague reflection in the screen before him, and spoke

aloud.



"That's the way to get things done. Make 'em know who's in charge. And

let 'em know that no nonsense will be tolerated. Breathe down their

necks a little. They'll produce." He cleared his throat and spun around,

to punch the button on his desk.



* * * * *



The door opened and the clerk stood, respectfully awaiting orders.



"Send in Bond and the people with him."



The clerk stepped back, turning his head.



"You may go in now, sir." He disappeared around the door.



Harold Bond stepped through the doorway, followed by two men. Morely

looked at them closely. Engineers, he thought.



"What have you got?" he demanded.



One of the men opened a briefcase and removed a large, dully gleaming

band. Apparently, it was made of plastic, or some light alloy, for he

handled it as though it weighed very little.



As the man laid it on the desk, Morely examined the object closely. It

was large enough to go on a man's head, he saw. It had adjustable

straps, which could be used to hold it in place, and there were a few

spring-loaded contacts, which apparently were meant to rest against a

wearer's forehead and temples.



A few tiny knobs protruded from one side of the band, and a short wire,

terminated by a miniature plug, depended from the other.



The engineer dipped into his brief case again, to produce a small, flat

case with a long wire leading from it. He put this by the headband, and

connected the plugs.



"The band, sir," he explained, "is to be worn on the head." He pointed

to the flat case. "To save weight in the band, we built a separate power

unit. It can be carried in a pocket. We've tested the unit, sir, and it

does provide a means of private communication with anyone within sight,

or with a group of people. Two people, wearing the headbands, can

communicate for considerable distances, regardless of obstacles."



"I see." Morely picked up the headband. "Do you have more than one of

these?"



"Yes, sir. We made four of the prototypes and tested them thoroughly."

Bond stepped forward. "I sent a report in on them yesterday."



"Yes, yes. I know." Morely waved impatiently. He examined the headband

again. "And you say it provides communication?"



"Yes, sir."



"No chance of interception?"



Bond shook his head. "Well," he admitted, "if two people are in contact,

and a third equipped person wishes to contact either one, he can join

the conversation."



"So, it's easier to tap than a cable circuit, or even a security type

radio circuit." Morely frowned. "Far from a secure means of

communication."



"Well, sir, if anyone cuts in on a communication, both parties know it

immediately."



Morely grunted and shook his head. "Still not secure," he growled. He

looked at the papers on his desk. "Oh, put one on. We'll see how they

work." He leaned back in his chair.



* * * * *



Bond turned to the man with the brief case, who held out another

headband. The sector leader fitted it to his head, plugged in the power

supply and looked around the room. Finally, he glanced at his superior.

A shadow of uncertainty crossed his face, followed by a quickly

suppressed expression of distaste.



Morely watched him. "Well?" he demanded impatiently, "I don't feel or

see anything unusual."



"Of course not, sir," explained Bond smoothly. "You haven't put on the

other headband yet."



"Oh? I thought you could establish communication with only one headset,

so long as you were in the same room."



Bond smiled ingratiatingly. "Only sometimes, sir. Some people are more

susceptible than others."



"I see." Morely looked again at the headband, then set it on his head.

One of the engineers hurried forward to help him with the power pack,

and he looked around the room, becoming conscious of slight sensations

of outside thought. As he glanced at the engineers, he received faint

impressions of anxious interest.



"Can you receive me, sir?"



Morely looked at Bond. The younger man was staring at him with an

intense expression on his face. The district leader started to speak,

then remembered and simply thought the words.



"Of course I can. Didn't you expect results?"



"Oh, certainly, sir. Do you want me to go outside for a further test?"



The headband was bothering Morely a little. Unwanted impressions seemed

to be hovering about, uncomfortably outside the range of recognition. He

took the device off and looked at it again.



"No," he said aloud. "It won't be necessary. It's obvious to me that

this thing will never be any good for practical application in any

community communications problem. It's too vague. But it'll make an

interesting toy, I suppose. Some people might like it as a novelty, and

it'll give them s