The utter impossibility of the situation was striking home. The evidences of a superior culture were unmistakable. These people were his.⁠ ⁠…

“Aliens, Mr. Dalgreen⁠—I suppose you could call us that. Yes. I can read your mind quite clearly. That is why you are here today. A thought receiver in Arthur Di Costa’s study informed us of your suspicions when you first walked in. We have been following you ever since, arranging your visit here.

“I’ll tell you what I can, Mr. Dalgreen. We are not of Earth, in fact, we come from beyond your solar system. This office is, to be very frank, the outpatient ward of a sanitarium!”

“Sanitarium!” Brent shouted. “This is the office only⁠ ⁠… then where is the sanitarium?”

The girl twirled her pencil slowly, her piercing stare seeming to penetrate his eyes⁠—into his brain.

“The entire Earth is our sanitarium. Mixed in with your population are a great number of our mentally ill.”

The floor seemed to tilt under Brent’s feet. He clutched the edge of the desk. “Then Di Costa must be one of your outpatients. Is he insane?”

The girl spoke quietly. “Not insane in the strictest sense of the word. He is congenitally feebleminded; his case is incurable.”

Brent thought of the brilliant Di Costa as a moron, and the inference shook his mind. “That means that the average I.Q. of your race must be⁠ ⁠…”

“Beyond your powers of comprehension,” she said. “To your people Di Costa is normal, really far above average.