Crayley didn't understand. Had the shrewd, calculating eyes of Fenwick Greene read meaning into that meaningless movement?
Again the hand lifted into the air, extended a finger, and moved it. Then it dropped.
Crayley started to move his own hand, and stopped it in mid-air. He knew in that instant what the gesture was.
The rest were talking, buzzing among themselves; no one was looking at him yet. Only Fenwick Greene gave him a short, sharp glance.
Greene ran the tape back through for a third replay, and watched the hand lift again.
Crayley stared at it as if hypnotized. His mind was a mass of self-hatred. Fool! Fool! Clumsy fool! This was it; this was the end of everything. It wouldn't take them long now—they'd at least have enough evidence to use a lie probe on him. Someone would see it. Someone would see how Lewis Crayley's subconscious mind had betrayed him when he'd made the recording.
Fenwick Greene saw it. His eyes moved from the screen to Crayley's face.
"You," he said very softly. "You're the only one who has one."
And Crayley knew he was right. If there had been a head on the waldo, they'd have understood instantly.
The finger was stroking an invisible mustache.