that had sprung up to instruct young telepaths hadn't worked very well, just as he had predicted they wouldn't. Over the years, he had watched the Psionic Monitoring Commission gradually reimplement almost all of the old Corps institutions, though in darling new baby-doll clothes. Once again Teeptown was a campus, a center of telepath life and activity. Many older teeps never left their quarters there-life among normals had proved too hard, too uncertain.
And so Teeptown remained a ghetto. Again, as he had predicted. It gave him some small comfort, to be right. It gave him little, though, to know that this maximum security facility was his own creation. He had built it to hold telepaths- and so it did. War criminals.
He heard footsteps in the corridor. "Good morning, James," he said.
"Morning Mr. Bester," James said, in his faintly mocking tone. "How're the memoirs coming?"
Bester glanced over at the simple AI on his bed.
"Pretty well," he said.
"I have some news for you."
"Olean passed last night."
Bester absorbed that silently for a moment. "How did he manage to kill himself?" he said at last.
"It was pretty clever, but I can't tell you, of course. You might imitate him."
"I'm not going to kill myself. I won't give you the satisfaction."
James, the jailer, shook his head. "I get no satisfaction from it. I think you know that."
"The world, then. They'd love it. It's what they want. Life sentence-absurd. I was sentenced to death, death by suicide. I just refuse to carry out the sentence."
James hesitated. "You may be right, there. But you condemned thousands of teeps to the same fate-you made them take sleepers."
"I never did that and you know it. I enforced the law, I didn't write it."
"You understand me, then, why I