"We are quite aware of your intentions," came the telepathic communication. "Otherwise, you would no longer be."
Saxon swallowed dryly, realized his palms were sweating. He glanced at Ileth. The moonlight had crept into the doorway, illuminating her oval face clearly. He noted the perplexed slant to her fine black brows, the sober, half frightened expression clouding her patrician features.
"Why don't we go?" she asked. "What are you waiting for?"
"In a minute."
He sent his thought probing out toward the alien minds. And brought up sharp before an absolute mental barrier.
No neophytes here. Whatever the creatures were, they were masters of thought-transference. Excitement sent the blood surging through Saxon's veins, blotted out momentarily his alarm.
Until this moment, he had believed himself unique, the single telepath on Earth.
He had been thirty-one when he first became aware of his telepathic potential. It had developed overnight, a seventh extra-human sense, that isolated him forever from the rest of mankind.
There had been something indecent, prying about seeing into the minds of his fellows—like a peeping Tom. It had been intolerable at first, the naked baring of souls before him, intolerable and shocking, until he had learned to block out their thoughts.
He felt the girl shiver against him.