Strange, he thought, how thinking this could give me the feeling that at last I understand them. But I do. In symbolic form, maybe. But the comprehension is there and it will never go away.

"I got a note," Joe said. "I'll show it to you." He handed them the note which he had found bobbing about in its plastic bottle in the water closet of his facility.

"Who wrote this?" one of the QCA men asked.

"God knows," Joe said.

"Is that a joke?"

Joe said, "You mean is the note a joke, or what I said in answer to your question in saying, ‘God knows—‘ "He broke off, because one of the QCA men was bringing out a teep rod, a receptor which would pick up and record his thoughts for police inspection. "You," Joe said, "will see. That it's true."

The rod, wandlike, hovered over his head for several minutes. No one spoke. Then the QCA man returned the rod to his pocket and stuffed a little speaker into his ear; he played back the tape of Joe's thoughts, listening intently.

"It's so," the QCA man said, and stopped the tape transport, which was located, of course, in his briefcase. "He doesn't know anything about this note, who put it there or why. Sorry, Mr. Fernwright. You know, naturally, that we monitor all phone calls. This one interested us because—as you can probably appreciate—the sum involved is so large."

His companion cop said, "Report to us once a day about this matter." He handed Joe a card. "The number you're to call is on the card. You don't have to ask for anyone in particular; tell whoever answers the call what's developed."

The first QCA man said, "There isn't anything legal that you could do to get paid thirty-five thousand Plabkian crumbles, Mr. Fernwright. It has to be illegal. That's how we see it."