Burris' eyes closed again. Malone waited in silence. At last Burris said: "All right. Get him out."
"Right," Malone said.
"Tell me," Burris said. "Why did Miss Thompson insist that you go to
Las Vegas? Somebody else could have done the job. You could have sent
Boyd, couldn't you?"
"Chief," Malone said slowly, "what sort of mental condition are those other telepaths in?"
"Pretty bad," Burris said. "As a matter of fact, very bad. Miss Thompson may be off her trolley, but the others haven't even got any tracks." He paused. "What's that got to do with it?" he said.
"Well," Malone said, "I figured we'd better handle Miss Thompson with kid gloves—at least until we find a better telepath to work with." He didn't mention Barbara Wilson. The chief, he told himself, didn't want to be bothered with details.
"Doggone right you'd better," Burris said. "You treat that old lady as if she were the Queen herself, understand?"
"Don't worry," Malone said unhappily. "We are." He hesitated. "She says she'll help us find our spy, all right, but we've got to do it her way—or else she won't cooperate."
"Do it her way, then," Burris said. "That spy—"
"Chief, are you sure?"