"Now you know why I think you're in the same jam, Judge," I said. "You'll look great running for office, with your opposition telling the public how a Psi foozled your vision. They'll stomp on the loud pedal about how you let her get away with it and wangle a 'Not Guilty' verdict when she was guilty as sin."
"Yes," he agreed. "It's a hot potato, all right."
"There's just one out," I insisted. "That girl would have made restitution long ago if the Bank would have permitted it. And I've been asking myself how come—why should the Bank get sniffy and not want its money back?" That was the right question. He went back to the easy-chair and sat down. His eyes came up to meet mine, and then he held out his glass. I splashed some more Pinch in it.
"Politics, politics," he mourned. "The social workers are after me on this thing. They want that girl to be in a jam. They've asked me to work on the Bank, asked that I make sure restitution can't be made. They want the threat of a Federal indictment to hang over her head."
"Why?"
"So she'll agree to my committing her to their care. You know what they try to do—it's the doctrine of sterilization. Remove young Psis from the Psi society—cut them loose from their natural contacts, force them to quit using their powers. It's the same technique they use on narcotic violators, if they aren't too deeply committed to drugs."
"And you are really resisting that?"
"Wouldn't you? Of course I had to tell the Bank to refuse restitution. But do you think Psi is a sickness, like narcotic addiction? Nonsense. Telepathy is no more sickness than the ability to discriminate colors, or hear the tones of a scale. This is equivalent to the color-blind and tone-deaf asking that the rest of us stop perceiving color or hearing the pitch of sound. Ridiculous."
"What is the cure?"
"We could argue all night," he said wearily. Then my buzzer sounded. "Expecting anybody else?" he said, alarmed in an instant.