"You haven't accounted for the psychometric index," he said.
"I thought you'd see it. That's diminished, too."
Logical enough, though not a pretty picture. A genius could always be made into an average man or lowered to the level of an idiot. There was no operation, however, that could raise an idiot to the level of a genius.
The scramble for the precious identification tabs went on, from the higher to the lower, a game of musical chairs with grim over-tones.
She smiled gravely. "You haven't answered my implied question."
The company that employed him wasn't anxious to let the secret of Dimanche get out. They didn't sell the instrument; they made it for their own use. It was an advantage over their competitors they intended to keep. Even on his recommendation, they wouldn't sell to the agency.
Moreover, it wouldn't help Travelers Aid Bureau if they did. Since she was first counselor, it was probable that she'd be the one to use it. She couldn't make identification for anyone except herself, and then only if she developed exceptional skill.
The alternative was to surgery it in and out of whoever needed it. When that happened, secrecy was gone. Travelers couldn't be trusted.
He shook his head. "It's an appealing idea, but I'm afraid I can't help you."