And then it was Saturday morning. Baxter stayed abed, yielding the bathroom to his three teen-age daughters. Annie was still asleep, too, so Rolanda was stretching leisurely beside him like a long, pink cat. Noticing the time, she raised to an elbow and viewed him with some concern. "No golf this morning? Aren't you well, Bert?"
Had he plunged out of bed to forage for his golf shoes as usual, she would have grumbled about how it must be Saturday, and she wished that she had a whole morning off each week to herself.
He replied slowly, "Later, maybe. Want to rest a little bit. Don't stare! I feel fine. Just thinking a little."
She shrugged, put on her robe and entered the bathroom competition.
Baxter lay waiting, eyes closed, concentrating. Then it came. The sensation of gentle awakening. Light—at first just a diffused pink light, then outlines forming: the ceiling fixture, the yellow-billed ducks on the pale pink wallpaper, the round bars of the crib. The sensation of movement, stretching, a glorious feeling of well-being.
Annie was awake.
Then in rapid succession, the sensation of wet diaper, cramped toe, hunger pang, hunger pang!
Annie yelled.
The sound came through firmly and demandingly, interrupting Baxter's concentration and breaking the remarkable rapport, but he had proved to himself beyond all doubt what he had been dubiously challenging: He had established a clear, telepathic entry into his daughter's mind.