n the way to Room 1212, he flipped on the shield, the mask, the binder field. Now let the superman try something, he thought wildly. Now let him try his tricks! He attached the blindfold as he got off the elevator. He could see Room 1212, three doors down the corridor, twenty steps—and then the blindfold was on. From now on he worked in the dark.
He felt the skeleton key in his palm and flipped the shield off for a second; then the key was in the lock, the shield back on, protecting him. The door opened slowly.
He heard it shut behind him. Then there was silence. He drew his gun.
"Go ahead," a muffled voice said from his right. "Go ahead and try something, Fredericks."
He whirled and almost fired—but voices could be thrown. He listened again. There was silence ... not quite silence ... a movement ... a rustle—
Breathing was faint but unmistakable. It gave him a new direction. Breathing couldn't be faked.
He pictured the Psi Operative, in one flash of imagination, trying to get through the shield, sweating as he strained helplessly against the force shield, the binder field, the mask, the blindfold—oh, there was no way out for the poor superman, no way at all.
And Psi Operatives didn't carry weapons or anything else. They depended on their powers, and that was all.