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Tony and himself—they had formulated the methods which still governed the cultivation of telekinesis. Grant had discovered—the principles, but it was the successful results of the Anthony boy’s training which paved the way for others to learn. Yet Bee was different. No amount of tutoring could help her influence an object with her mind. Different, but not inferior, for Bee was a telepath. With intimates her conversation was most strange—much of it understood, yet left unspoken.

Grant was one of the intimates. Her silent sorrow would have found him at any distance, but now he tried to evade it, because Tony was gone and Woods had come over to face the reporters—and Slag.

“Mister Woods,” began one of the men, but the Commissioner raised a hand and turned to the giant player.

“You have had my personal warning, Slag. Do you think I will allow you to carry on your ugly career? Why, man, you’re lucky the courts have not ruled you a murderer!”

“It’s not my fault,” Slag said. “I didn’t try to smash him, honest. I don’t know my own strength, I guess.”