"You know," Malone told himself in a surprised tone, "that isn't such a bad idea." It would, at any rate, let him know whether the hospital had any patients who thought they could read minds. From them on, it would probably be simple to apply a test, and separate the telepathic sheep from the psychotic goats.
The image that created in his mind was so odd that Malone, in self- defense, stopped thinking altogether until he'd reached the first hospital, a small place situated in the shrinking countryside West of Washington.
It was called, he knew, the Rice Pavilion.
* * * * *
The place was small, and white. It bore a faint resemblance to Monticello, but then that was true, Malone reflected, of eight out of ten public buildings of all sorts. The front door was large and opaque, and Malone went up the winding driveway, climbed a short flight of marble steps, and rapped sharply.
The door opened instantly. "Yes?" said the man inside, a tall, balding fellow wearing doctor's whites and a sad, bloodhound-like expression.
"Yes," Malone said automatically. "I mean—my name is Kenneth J.
Malone."
"Mine," said the bloodhound, "is Blake. Doctor Andrew Blake." There was a brief pause. "Is there anything we can do for you?" the doctor went on.
"Well," Malone said, "I'm looking for people who can read minds."
Blake didn't seem at all surprised. He nodded quietly. "Of course," he said. "I understand perfectly."