I TRIED A GENTLE POKE in the general direction of Barcelona and found that the mental noise was too much to stand. I withdrew just a bit and closed down the opening until the racket was no more than a mental rumor, and I waited. I hunched that Barcelona would be curious to know how his contact-girl was making out, and might be holding a cease-fire early in this phase of the operation. I was right.
The noise diminished with the suddenness of turning off a mental switch, and as it stopped I went in and practically popped Barcelona on the noodle with:
“How-de-do, Joseph.”
He recoiled at the unexpected thrust, but came back with: “Wally Wilson! Got a minute?”
I looked at the calendar, counted off the days to Derby Day in my mind and told him that I had that long—at the very least and proba
