"And you have to use telepaths to transmit and receive?" She was almost incredulous but her mind informed her he was telling the truth without reserve.
"Whatever we can't heliograph or send over wire cables," he said unhappily. "And the climate of Mars is rough on cables. Above the ground the winds snap 'em. Underground they rot or the czanworms eat through them. Now do you begin to understand?"
"A—little," she replied hesitantly, unable to maintain her entirely justified anger against his sincere appeal. "But what about this threat—this madness? What is it?"
"We don't know." His face was shadowed. "There may still be life-forms on Mars of which we know nothing—or perhaps manifestations of those we thought safe that are dangerous. But something apart from atmosphere or weather or diet or drink is creating insanity. And it seems to be affecting our telepaths rather than others. Maybe our telepathic minds are more open to whatever the influence is. I don't know." His expression turned grim. "I've never allowed them—it—to affect me."
All at once she remembered the nightmare, the being alone in the crystal tower, the crowding in upon her of unseen things that whispered dreadful alluring suggestions, the sense of panic. She began to understand it with growing certainty.
Lynne said, "My brother—Revere—he's one of those who's been affected, isn't he?"
He hesitated, evidently felt the probe of her questing brain, nodded reluctantly. He said, "Your brother is one of them. The purt of it is we don't dare send him back to Earth."
"I understand." She shuddered, felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder, added, "He's mad, isn't he." It was statement, not query.
"I'm afraid so—at least part of the time," he replied. "But don't worry. We have marvelous clinics on Mars. Once we get him to one of them there's a good chance of a cure."
"You mean he isn't getting care now?" she asked, shocked.