"No," Burris said absently. "St. Elizabeths."
Malone sighed. "Another nut?"
"Strait-jacket case," Burris said. "Delusions of persecution, they tell me, and paranoia, and a whole lot of other things that sound nasty as hell. I can't pronounce any of them, and that's always a bad sign."
"Can he talk?" Malone said.
"Who knows?" Burris told him, and shrugged. "I'm sending him on out to
Yucca Flats anyhow, under guard. You might find a use for him."
"Oh, sure," Malone said. "We can use him as a horrible example.
Suppose he can't talk, or do anything? Suppose he turns violent?
Suppose—"
"We can't afford to overlook a thing," Burris said, looking stern.
Once again, Malone sighed deeply. "I know," he said. "But all the same—"
"Don't worry about a thing, Malone," Burris said with a palpably false air of confidence. "Everything is going to be perfectly all right." He looked like a man trying very hard to sell the Brooklyn Bridge to a born New Yorker. "You get this Queen Elizabeth of yours out of there and take her to Yucca Flats, too," he added.
Malone considered the possibilities that were opening up. Maybe, after all, they were going to find more telepaths. And maybe all the telepaths would be nuts. When he thought about it, that didn't seem at all unlikely. He imagined himself with a talent nobody would believe he had.