LITMIR.BIZ

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it, it was simple. On the face of it, the answer was right in front of him, printed in black and white on the front page of the evening Times.

      Houston lifted the paper off the bed and looked at it. The banner line said: Controller Captured in Lambeth!

      Beneath that, in smaller type, the headline added: Robert Harris Accused of Taking Control of Barrister Sir Lewis Huntley.

      The column itself told the whole story. Mr. Robert Harris, of No. 37 Upper Berkeley Mews, had, by means of mental control, taken over the mind of Sir Lewis and compelled him to draw one thousand pounds out of his bank. While Sir Lewis was returning to Harris with the money, the United Nations Psychodeviant Police had laid a trap. Sir Lewis, upon recovering his senses when Harris was rendered unconscious by a stun gun, had given evidence to the PD Police and to officials at New Scotland Yard.

      Houston looked at the full-color photo of Harris that was printed alongside the column. Nice-looking chap; late twenties or early thirties, Houston guessed. Blond-red hair, blue eyes. All-in-all, a very pleasant, but ordinary sort of man.

      There had been evidence that a Controller had been at work in London for some weeks now. Twelve days before, several men, following an impulse, had mailed twenty pounds to a “Richard Hempstead,” General Delivery, Waterloo Station. By the time the matter had come to the authorities’ attention, the envelopes had been called for and the Controller had escaped.

      Robert Harris was not the first Controller to be captured, nor, Houston knew, would he be the last. The first one had shown up more than sixteen years before, in Dallas, Texas, USA.

      Houston grinned as he thought of it. Projective telepathy had only been a crackpot’s idea back then. In spite of the work of many intelligent, sane men, who had shown that mental powers above and beyond the ordinary did exist, the average man simply laughed off such nonsense. It was mysticism; it was magic; it was foolish superstition. It was anything but true.

      But ever since “Blackjack” Donnely had practically taken control of the whole city of Dallas, the average man had changed his mind. It was still mysterious; it was still magic; but now the weird machinations of the supernormal mind were something to be feared.

      In the sixteen years that had ensued since the discovery of the abnormal mental powers of “Blackjack” Donnely, rumors had spread all over the world. There were supposed to be men who could levitate—fly through the air at will. Others could walk through walls, and still others could make themselves invisible. The horrible monsters that were supposed to be walking the Earth were legion.

      Actually, only one type of supernormal psychodeviant had been found—the telepath, the mindreader who could probe into the mental processes of others. Worse than that, the telepath could project his own thoughts into the mind of another, so that the victim supposed that the thoughts were his own. Actually, it was a high-powered form of hypnotism; the victim could be made to do anything the projective telepath wanted him to.

      “Blackjack” Donnely had made that clear in his trial in Texas.

      Donnely had been a big man—big physically, and important in city politics. He had also been as arrogant as the Devil himself.

      It was the arrogance that had finally tripped up Donnely. He had thought himself impregnable. Hauled into court on charges of misappropriation of public funds, he had just sat and smirked while several witnesses for the State admitted that they had aided Donnely, but they claimed he had “hypnotized” them. Donnely didn’t try to interfere with the evidence—that’s where he made his mistake. And that’s where his arrogance tripped him up.

      If he’d used telepathic projection to influence the State Attorney or the witnesses or the judge or the Grand Jury before the trial, he might never have been discovered as the first of the Controllers. But that wasn’t Donnely’s style.

      “None of this namby-pamby stuff,” he had once been quoted as saying; “if you got enemies, don’t tease ’em—show ’em who’s running things. Blackjack ’em, if you have to.”

      And that’s exactly what “Blackjack” Donnely had done. The trial was a farce from beginning to end; each witness gave his evidence from the stand, and then Donnely took control of their minds and made them refute every bit of it, publicly and tearfully apologizing to the “wonderful Mr. Donnely” for saying such unkind things about him.

      The judge and the jury knew something funny was going on, but they had no evidence, one way or another. The case, even at that point, might have ended with an acquittal or a hung jury, but Donnely wasn’t through using his blackjack.

      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 labeled 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

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