"Hello, Sandra. Phil Snow calling. Is Ham there?"
"He's in the shower singing his head off. Shall I get him?"
"No, it isn't important. I just wanted to ask him again if he feels all right after the test. It was rather a long one, and I wondered if he might feel tired, or...."
"Tired? He seems even more full of pep than usual. Was the test so very long, then?"
"Yes, it was. That's why I called and—just to tell him it was a success. I haven't checked all the reports yet, but it looks good. And you say he's as usual?"
"Yes. Why? There wasn't anything...?"
"No, no, nothing at all. Just as I said. I'll be seeing you."
He rang off, hoping that nothing he had said was now making Sandra Richardson suspicious, and resumed his pacing up and down the floor. Now another question came into his mind. The same test would be run several times again before final conclusions could be made. Should he wait for them to see if this thing happened again before starting anything with Richardson and his colleagues? But even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. If this never again happened in any future test, the fact would remain that it had happened once and could not be forgotten or brushed aside. It must be cleared up. Something had happened to Richardson's mind.
He decided to take Abe Franstein, his head psychologist, into his confidence. As he dialed Franstein's bungalow, he recalled with a sense of comfort that the brilliant little man was not only a world authority in his particular subject, but that he was said to be able to read, write, and converse in a staggering number of languages, some of them obscure Oriental dialects.
When Franstein answered the call, Snow asked him to drop in for coffee after dinner.