He removed all blocks. The thundering plunging depths of his mind cascaded over her in a warm, frightening torrent… terrifying, yet magnetic and desirable; but… “Snow. Mint. Tulips. Taffeta,” she said wearily. “Go meet your guests, Mr. Powell. I’ll make your canapes. It’s all I’m good for.”

He kissed her once, then turned toward the living room and opened the front door. Instantly, a fountain of brilliance sparkled into the house, followed by the guests. The Esper party began.

“@kins! Chervil! Tate! Have a heart! Will you people take a look at the pattern (?) we’ve been weaving…”

The TP chatter stopped. The guests considered for a moment, then burst into laughter.

“This reminds me of my days in the kindergarten. A little mercy for your host, please. I’ll jump my tracks, if we keep on weaving this mish-mash. Lets have some order. I don’t even ask for beauty.”

“Just name the pattern, Linc.”

“What’ll you have?”

“Basket-weave? Math curves? Music? Architectural design?”

“Anything. Anything. Just so long as you don’t make my brains itch.”

There was another burst of laughter when Mary Noyes was left hanging with that unreticulated “yet.” The door-bell chimed again, and a Solar Equity Advocate 2 entered with his girl. She was a demure little thing, surprisingly attractive outwardly, and new to the company. Her TP pattern was naive and not deeply responsive. Obviously a 3^rd.

“Greetings. Greetings. Abject apologies for the delay. Orange blossoms & wedding rings are the excuse. I proposed on the way over.”

“And I’m afraid I accepted,” the girl said, smiling.

“Don’t talk,” the lawyer shot at her. “This isn’t a 3^rd Class brawl, I told you not to use words.”

“I forgot,” she blurted again, and then heated the room with her fright and shame. Powell stepped forward and took the girl’s trembling hand.

“Ignore him, he’s a 2^nd-come-lately snob. I’m Lincoln Powell, your host. I Sherlock for the cops. If your fiancè beats you, I’ll help him regret it. Come and meet your fellow freaks…” He conducted her around the room. “This is Gus Tate, a quack-one. Next to him, Sam & Sally @kins. Sam’s another of the same. She’s a baby-sitter-two. They’re just in from Venus. Here on a visit…”

“H-How — I mean, how do you do?”

“That fat man sitting on the floor is Wally Chervil, architect-two. The blonde sitting in his (lap)² is June, his wife. June’s an editor-two. That’s their son, Galen, talking to Ellery West. Gally’s a tech-undergrad-three…”

Young Galen Chervil indignantly started to point out that he’d just been classed 2^nd and hadn’t needed to use words in over a year. Powell cut him off and below the girl’s perceptive threshold explained the reason for the deliberate mistake.

“Oh,” said Galen. “Yep, brother and sister 3^rds, that’s us. And am I glad you’re here. These deep peepers were beginning to scare me.”