In nineteen-fourteen, it was enemy aliens. In nineteen-thirty, it was Wobblies. In nineteen-fifty-seven, it was fellow-travelers.And, in nineteen seventy-one, Kenneth J. Malone rolled wearily out of bed wondering what the hell it was going to be now. One thing, he told himself, was absolutely certain: it was going to be terrible. It always was. (1962 Hugo Award Nominee.)
Brain Twister
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ed him in a remote sort of way. Not that the idea of telepathy itself was alien to him–after all, he was even more aware than the average citizen that research had been going on in that field for something over a quarter of a century, and that the research was even speeding up.
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