An oak-panelled conference room. Lawrence's first vice-president reading the proposal. The board of directors. The major stockholders. Smaller ones. Attorneys-in-fact for both Lawrence and Black.
And Bob Standskill!
What was Standskill doing here?
But the first vice-president had finished reading the proposal and was asking for a vote.
Lawrence—forty-five thousand shares— yes!
Maryk—twenty thousand shares— no!
Carrese—nine thousand shares— no!
Tonemont—seven thousand shares— no!
Black—four thousand shares— yes!
Turitz—five thousand shares— no!
And the smaller stockholders, one by one— no, no, no!
Forty-nine thousand shares— no! Forty-nine thousand shares— yes!
Black felt ill. His hovering consciousness almost fled from its invisible vantage point above the conference table back to the mansion on Riverside Drive, back where the memories of Martha Black remained.... But it wavered, stabilized....
Standskill rising, so implacable, so sure and saying, "Two thousand shares—yes!"
Black probed Standskill's mind almost involuntarily then, realizing instantly that he should have disregarded Ethics and probed before. Standskill was a psi, a non-service psi! And Black knew then that when his consciousness had flitted through association to Le Cheval Fatigué in Montmarte, Paris, and had fixed there for a brief unstable moment it had yielded to Standskill all knowledge of the Lawrence deal, persuading Standskill to order his brokers to buy the corporation's stock for the trust....
Black's consciousness sped to join Joyce's in a law office in Oklahoma. It watched the landowners signing the deeds even as it signed psionically the checks which represented the good and valuable considerations.
The deal was closed.