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it. You want all, or just the bangs?”
    “The bangs. Repeated if possible.”
    “Can do.”
    He got up unsteadily from his chair and went to the music player that nestled compactly in a corner of the room. Vanessa could not see what he was dialling; but in a few seconds the thunderous sequences of the 1812 crashed through the room. He turned down the volume slightly.
    “Now, acid head, the answers.”
    She had had a little time to think. “My name is Elizabeth Winter. I have run away from an orphanage. I was trying to steal food when I fainted, I suppose…” She looked at him appealingly. “Must you bring the police? I’ll go away and promise not to give you any more trouble.”
    He gave a dreadful laugh and thrust the side of his face close to hers. She saw the scar tissue, the patches of pink flesh, the unnatural wrinkles, angry, livid.
    “My name is Genghis Khan, and I eat girls who tell lies. Now, the truth, girl. You are in no position to play clever.”
    The 1812 rose to crescendos of cannon, trumpets and tympani. Vanessa gazed at the man’s face, terrified. His eyes were wild. He might be a maniac. She wondered if she could try telergetic hypnosis. No, not like this. Not in this condition, and not with a subject filled with anger and whisky. But, also, she dared not tell him the truth.
    “Well, girl?” His voice cut through the noisy music like a knife.
    Weakly, with the tears coursing down her face, Vanessa tried again, knowing that it wouldn’t work.
    “I have told you the truth. I ran away.”
    “So you ran away. From what did you run away?”
    “From an orphanage.”
    He hit her. He hit her face. The pain did not matter. The shock did.
    “You are a telepath,” he said. “You picked the wrong man, girlie. I know about telepaths. You wanted music as a block, so you couldn’t send and couldn’t be probed. Well, clever one, how am I doing?”
    It was the end. Vanessa knew it was the end. She was too tired, too hungry, too weak to care. Vaguely, she wondered what the punishment would be when she was sent back. That did not seem to matter, either.
    “You are doing fine,” she managed to say. “My name is Vanessa Smith and I ran away from Random Hill, a school for paranormals. You may even get a reward for turning me in… Have you anything to eat, please?”
    He went back to his chair. There was a look of triumph on his face. He poured himself some more whisky.
    “Well, child, we begin to understand each other. So you are one of the nation’s gifted children. How interesting. But let us play fair. Parity of opportunity. I am Roland Badel, doctor of psychology. No, erase. Ex-doctor of psychology. I was made ex by a cunning and rather delightful girl just about your age. At the time, I was quite cut up about it, as I recollect.”
    Vanessa didn’t know what he was talking about or, indeed, if the words he uttered made any sense. But she managed to say: “I’m sorry. Have you anything to eat?”
    “Have I anything to eat?” The superior smile on his face faded as he remembered how he had found her, unconscious with two smashed eggs in her hand. “Forgive me. Wretched hospitality. I have been alone too much. What would you like?”
    “Milk?” asked Vanessa hopefully. “Bread?”
    “Milk and bread,” he said contritely. “Also bacon, eggs, fish—what would you like most of all?”
    The room was wavering. He was wavering. The 1812 was wavering.
    “Most of all,” said Vanessa, “I would like to die.”
    Then the blessed darkness came, and she had nothing to worry about any more.

7
    J ENNY P ARGETTER SAT at a tablein the American Bar at the old Dorchester, sipping a gin and tonic moodily. Simon had promised to meet her at six o’clock. It was now ten minutes past. At half past they were supposed to take a French oil executive and his wife to early dinner before going on to the theatre.
    When he had called on the V-phone, Simon said he had some news about Vanessa. He didn’t have time