"A telenosis technician at one of the hospitals could do it quicker," I suggested.
"Without the sanction of C.I.D.? I doubt that."
"That's right," I agreed. "Okay. I'll run down to Technology and see what we can work out. It may take two or three days—"
"I'll see that it gets top priority. I want you to get back to Palm Beach as soon as you can."
As I was getting up to leave, Newell said, "Say, by the way, how's that health cult in Palm Beach—Suns-Rays Incorporated? Anything on that?"
Suns-Rays Incorporated was one of the chief reasons I was taking my vacation in Palm Beach, Fla., instead of in Sacramento, Calif., my home town. Carson Newell had heard about this crackpot religious group that was having a convention in Palm Beach, and he couldn't see why one of his reporters shouldn't combine business and pleasure.
And maybe that tells you a little more of the sort of person he is.
"It's a complete fraud," I told him. "They worship a glorified sunlamp and take regular treatments. Same time, they follow a strict diet and system of exercises—have their own little spot on one of the beaches. Guaranteed to cure what ails you."
"Who's the head?" Newell asked. "How many are there?"
"About twenty-five or thirty members, I'd say. That's not counting the few curiosity-seekers, like me. And nobody in particular seems to be in charge right now. I guess the big boss died, and they're holding this confab to elect a new one. Supposed to have the elections today, come to think of it. There's a great big scoop I missed."