But something, of course, had to be done.
And while something was being debated, at top level, in top secrecy, in eyes-only, Q-clearance sanctums, Lucifer Brill took matters into his own hands.
He felt a compelling personal responsibility to the missing people. Their names had been compiled together in his files; he had made no effort to protect the lists. Anyone who wanted to make the attempt could have found a way to copy the cards.
Lucifer also felt a sense of responsibility to science. And by science, he meant his own branch of parapsychology. All other science existed for him in a vague limbo into which no serious psychological student would venture. "Nuts and bolts," was the way Lucifer customarily dismissed the shadow-world of science outside his own laboratory.
But what use was it to go on confirming and re-confirming the existence of positives and positive positives if they just up and disappeared?
The answer was discouraging.
So Lucifer Brill took stock of himself.
He was forty-four years old. He had no dependents, and was dependent on no one. Except for chronic nearsightedness, and hay fever in the months of July and August, he was sound of limb and body.
Lucifer withdrew from the bank the balance of his inheritance and life savings. He placed the money in a trust fund to be given to Western University for continuance of psi research, five years after his death or disappearance. He drew up a holographic will bequeathing and bequesting his library and papers to the University. He prepared a sealed envelope containing three hundred dollars in cash and instructions for the care of his two parrots for the balance of their natural lives.
And then Lucifer Brill released to the profession the news that after testing thousands of people for the psi talent, he had finally tested himself—and had scored an average of 19 out of 25 in 4,000 PT tests, all conducted under strict laboratory conditions.