“And this is why I was sent to Cuba?”

“I am a member of the Central Committee of the Cuban Communist Party,” Mr. Lee said. “And the sole telepath on that committee. We have voted to work in cooperation with the United States Department of State during this current Mercer crisis. Our plane, Miss Hiashi, leaves for Washington, D.C. in half an hour; let us get down to the airport at once.”

Joan Hiashi looked helplessly about the restaurant. Other people eating, the waiters… nobody paid attention. She rose to her feet as a waiter passed with a heavily-loaded tray. “This man,” she said, pointing to Mr. Lee, “is kidnapping me. Help me, please.”

The waiter glanced at Mr. Lee, saw who it was, smiled at Joan and shrugged. “Mr. Lee, he is an important man,” the waiter said, and went on with his tray.

“What he says is true,” Mr. Lee said to her.

Joan ran from the booth and across the restaurant. “Help me,” she said to the elderly Cuban Mercerite who sat with his empathy box before him. “I’m a Mercerite. They’re arresting me.”

The lined old face lifted; the man scrutinized her.

“Help me,” she said.

“Praise Mercer,” the old man said.

You can’t help me, she realized. She turned back to Mr. Lee, who had followed after her, still holding the pistol pointed at her. “This old man is not going to do a thing,” Mr. Lee said. “Not even get to his feet.”

She sagged. “All right. I know.”

The television set in the corner suddenly ceased its yammering of daytime trash; the image of a woman’s face and bottle of cleanser abruptly disappeared and there was only blackness. Then, in Spanish, a news announcer began to speak.

“Hurt,” Mr. Lee said, listening. “But Mercer is not dead. How do you feel, Miss Hiashi, as a Mercerite? Does this affect you? Oh, but that’s right. One must take hold of the handles first, for it to reach you. It must be a voluntary act.”