 How does the narrator feel about his special ability?
Mine was no satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and now it had me fighting for my life in ... [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960. So I returned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffed gray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seats before me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde. A crossword-puzzle worker, a togetherness-type-magazine reader. An apple senses about the same as a potato, except for the core and the stem. Still, I wonder how many other people are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine. I can't even be sure what some of the things I sense in probing really are. This being earlier than I usually get up, it seems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapement and balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. I went through slips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and a ukulele. One went to a battery and the other to hard round cylinders taped together. No, none of them would know it was there. We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angeles soon, if we hadn't left it already.
 He doesn't find it that useful most of the time but he does consistently use it in specific situations
 He doesn't find it that useful most of the time but he does consistently use it in specific situations  He finds it to be his greatest source of amusement, and enjoys keeping secrets of what others carry  He is glad he has this ability instead of a different more dangerous one  He is disappointed he cannot tell anyone about it because he wants to show it off