By the instant it was growing stronger, and closer. He knew that, some way. He directed his attention toward what he believed was its source, but idly, half angry at it for interrupting his more important thoughts. It was in front of him ... and suddenly, like a bright, white beam of light, his mind reached out and touched directly the mind holding that thought.
Touched it ... it was instantly, unbelievably, inside that mind!
He was able, actually, to read the surface thoughts!
Clearly, distinctly, as though it were his own mind, Hanlon knew he was one with a deck steward, who had noticed him sitting there all day and the day before, with closed eyes and strained face. (His efforts at concentration must have been too apparent—he'd have to learn to guard that; to keep his face more impassive.)
Now the steward was coming to see if he was ill. And at that instant a soft, apologetic voice spoke from in front of him—spoke words he had already read in that mind.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Hanlon, sir, but is anything wrong?"
He opened his eyes lazily, and let a smile break out as he saw the solicitous face of the white-coated attendant.
"Me? Not really. Just a little queazy, but I'm feeling better all the time."
"I'm glad. But be sure and call if I can be of any service."
"Thank you, I will." Hanlon reached in his pocket and slipped a credit note into the man's hand.