Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction November 1960, December 1960, January 1961, February 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. OCCASION . . . For DISASTER By MARK PHILLIPS Illustrated by van Dongen _A very small slip, at just the wrong place, can devastate any enterprise. One tiny transistor can go wrong . . . And ruin a multi-million dollar missile. Which would be one way to stop the missiles. . . . _ "_We must remember not to judge any public servant by any one act, and especially should we beware of attacking the men who are merely the occasions and not the causes of disaster. _" Theodore Roosevelt * * * * * In 1914, it was enemy aliens. In 1930, it was Wobblies. In 1957, it was fellow-travelers. In 1971, it was insane telepaths. And, in 1973: "We don't know _what_ it is, " said Andrew J. Burris, Director of theFBI. He threw his hands in the air and looked baffled and confused. Kenneth J. Malone tried to appear sympathetic. "What what is?" Burris frowned and drummed his fingers on his big desk. "Malone, " hesaid, "make sense. And don't stutter. " "Stutter?" Malone said. "You said you didn't know what it was. And Iwanted to know what it was. " "That's just it, " Burris said. "I don't know. " Malone sighed and repressed an impulse to scream. "Now, wait a minute, Chief--" he started. Burris frowned again. "Don't call me Chief, " he said. Malone nodded, "O. K. , " he said. "But--if you don't know what it is, you must have some idea of what you don't know. I mean, is it largerthan a breadbox? Does it perform helpful tasks? Is it self-employed?" "Malone, " Burris sighed, "you ought to be on television. " "But--" "Let me explain, " Burris said. His voice was calmer now, and he spokeas if he were enunciating nothing but the most obvious and eternaltruths. "The country, " he said, "is going to Hell in a handbasket. " Malone nodded again. "Well, after all, Chief--" he started. "Don't call me Chief, " Burris said wearily. "Anything you say, " Malone agreed peacefully. He eyed the Director ofthe FBI warily. "After all, it isn't anything new, " he went on. "Thecountry's always been going to Hell in a handbasket, one way oranother. Look at Rome. " "Rome?" Burris said. "Sure, " Malone said. "Rome was always going to Hell in a handbasket, and finally it--" He paused. "Finally it did, I guess, " he said. "Exactly, " Burris said. "And so are we. Finally. " He passed a handover his forehead and stared past Malone at a spot on the wall. Maloneturned and looked at the spot, but saw nothing of interest. "Malone, "Burris said, and the FBI Agent whirled around again. "Yes, Ch--Yes?" he said. "This time, " Burris said, "it isn't the same old story at all. Thistime it's different. " "Different?" Malone said. Burris nodded. "Look at it this way, " he said. His eyes returned tothe FBI Agent. "Suppose you're a congressman, " he went on, "and youfind evidence of inefficiency in the government. " "All right, " Malone said agreeably. He had the feeling that if hewaited around a little while everything would make sense, and he waswilling to wait. After all, he wasn't on assignment at the moment, andthere was nothing pressing waiting for him. He was even betweenromances. If he waited long enough, he told himself, Andrew J. Burris might saysomething worth hearing. He looked attentive and eager. He consideredleaning over the desk a little, to look even more eager, but decidedagainst it; Burris might think he looked threatening. There was notelling. "You're a congressman, " Burris said, "and the government isinefficient. You find evidence of it. What do you do?" * * * * * Malone blinked and thought for a second. It didn't take any longerthan that to come up with the old, old answer. "I start aninvestigation, " he said. "I get a committee and I talk to a lot ofnewspaper editors and magazine editors and maybe I go on televisionand talk some more, and my committee has a lot of meetings--" "Exactly, " Burris said. "And we talk a lot at the meetings, " Malone went on, carried away, "and get a lot of publicity, and we subpoena famous people, just asfamous as we can get, except governors or presidents, because youcan't--they tried that back in the '50s, and it didn't work verywell--and that gives us some more publicity, and then when we have allthe publicity we can possibly get--" "You stop, " Burris said hurriedly. "That's right, " Malone said. "We stop. And that's what I'd do. " "Of course, the problem of inefficiency is left exactly where italways was, " Burris said. "Nothing's been done about it. " "Naturally, " Malone said. "But think of all the lovely publicity. Andall the nice talk. And the subpoenas and committees and everything. " "Sure, " Burris said wearily. "It's happened a thousand times. But, Malone, that's the difference. It isn't happening this time. " There was a short pause. "What do you mean?" Malone said at last. "This time, " Burris said, in a tone that sounded almost awed, "theywant to keep it a secret. " "A secret?" Malone said, blinking. "But that's . . . That's not theAmerican way. " Burris shrugged. "It's un-congressman-like, anyhow, " he said. "Butthat's what they've done. Tiptoed over to me and whispered softly thatthe thing has to be investigated quietly. Naturally, they didn't giveme any orders--but only because they know they can't make one stick. They suggested it pretty strongly. " "Any reasons?" Malone said. The whole idea interested him strangely. It was odd--and he found himself almost liking odd cases, lately. Thatis, he amended hurriedly, if they didn't get _too_ odd. "Oh, they had reasons, all right, " Burris said. "It took a littlecoaxing, but I managed to pry some loose. You see, every one of themfound inefficiency in his own department. And every one knows thatother men are investigating inefficiency. " "Oh, " Malone said. "That's right, " Burris said. "Every one of them came to me to get meto prove that the goof-ups in his particular department weren't hisfault. That covers them in case one of the others happens to lightinto the department. " "Well, it must be _somebody's_ fault, " Malone said. "It isn't theirs, " Burris said wearily. "I ought to know. They toldme. At great length, Malone. " Malone felt a stab of honest pity. "How many so far?" he said. "Six, " Burris said. "Four representatives, and two senators. " "Only two?" Malone said. "Well, " Burris said, "the Senate is so much smaller. And, besides, wemay get more. As a matter of fact, Senator Lefferts is worth any sixrepresentatives all by himself. " "He is?" Malone said, puzzled. Senator Lefferts was not one of hisfavorite people. Nor, as far as he knew, did the somewhat excitablesenator hold any place of honor in the heart of Andrew J. Burris. "I mean his story, " Burris said. "I've never heard anything likeit--at least, not since the Bilbo days. And I've only heard aboutthose, " he added hurriedly. "What story?" Malone said. "He talked about inefficiency--" "Not exactly, " Burris said carefully. "He said that somebody was outto get him--him, personally. He said somebody was trying to discredithim by sabotaging all his legislative plans. " "Well, " Malone said, feeling that some comment was called for, "threecheers. " "That isn't the point, " Burris snapped. "No matter how we felt aboutSenator Lefferts or his legislative plans, we're sworn to protect him. And he says 'they' are out to get him. " "They?" Malone said. "You know, " Burris said, shrugging. "The great 'they. ' The invisibleenemies all around, working against him. " "Oh, " Malone said. "Paranoid?" He had always thought Senator Leffertswas slightly on the batty side, and the idea of real paranoia didn'tcome as too much of a surprise. After all, when a man was batty tostart out with . . . And he even _looked_ like a vampire, Malone thoughtconfusedly. "As far as paranoia is concerned, " Burris said, "I checked with one ofour own psych men, and he'll back it up. Lefferts has definiteparanoid tendencies, he says. " Malone said, "That's that. " Burris shook his head. "It isn't that simple, " he said. "You see, Malone, there's some evidence that somebody _is_ working against him. " "The American public, with any luck at all, " Malone said. "No, " Burris said. "An enemy. Somebody sabotaging his plans. Really. " Malone shook his head. "You're crazy, " he said. Burris looked shocked. "Malone, I'm the Director of the FBI, " he said. "And if you insist on being disrespectful--" "Sorry, " Malone murmured. "But--" "I am perfectly sane, " Burris said slowly. "It's Senator Leffertswho's crazy. The only trouble is, he has evidence to show he's not. " Malone thought about odd cases, and suddenly wished he were somewhereelse. Anywhere else. This one showed sudden signs of developing intosomething positively bizarre. "I see, " he said, wondering if he did. "After all, " Burris said, in a voice that attempted to soundreasonable, "a paranoid has just as much right to be persecuted asanybody else, doesn't he?" "Sure, " Malone said. "Everybody has rights. But what do you want me todo about that?" "About their rights?" Burris said. "Nothing, Malone. Nothing. " "I mean, " Malone said patiently, "about whatever it is that's goingon. " Burris took a deep breath. His hands clasped behind his head, and helooked up at the ceiling. He seemed perfectly relaxed. That, Maloneknew, was a bad sign. It meant that there was a dirty job coming, ajob nobody wanted to do, and one Burris was determined to pass off onhim. He sighed and tried to feel resigned. * * * * * "Well, " the FBI Director said, "the only actual trouble we canpinpoint is that there seem to be a great many errors occurring in thepaperwork--more than usual. " "People get tired, " Malone said tentatively. "But computer-secretary calculating machines don't, " Burris said. "Andthat's where the errors are--in the computer-secretaries down in theSenate Office Building. I think you'd better start out there. " "Sure, " Malone said sadly. "See if there's any mechanical or electrical defect in any of thosecomputers, " Burris said. "Talk to the computer technicians. Find outwhat's causing all these errors. " "Yes, sir, " Malone said. He was still trying to feel resigned, but hewasn't succeeding very well. "And if you don't find anything--" Burris began. "I'll come right back, " Malone said instantly. "No, " Burris said. "You keep on looking. " "I do?" "You do, " Burris said. "After all, there has to be _something_ wrong. " "Sure, " Malone said, "if you say so. But--" "There are the interview tapes, " Burris said, "and the reports thecongressmen brought in. You can go through those. " Malone sighed. "I guess so, " he said. "And there must be thousands of other things to do, " Burris said. "Well--" Malone began cautiously. "You'll be able to think of them, " Burris said heartily. "I know youwill. I have confidence in you, Malone. Confidence. " "Thanks, " Malone said sadly. "You just keep me posted from time to time on what you're doing, andwhat ideas you get, " Burris said. "I'm leaving the whole thing in yourhands, Malone, and I'm sure you won't disappoint me. " "I'll try, " Malone said. "I know you will, " Burris said warmly. "And no matter how long ittakes--I know you'll succeed. " "No matter how long it takes?" Malone said hesitantly. "That's right!" Burris said. "You can do it, Malone! You can do it. " Malone nodded slowly. "I hope so, " he said. "Well, I . . . Well, I'llstart out right away, then. " He turned. Before he could make another move Burris said: "Wait!" Malone turned again, hope in his eyes. "Yes, sir?" he said. "When you leave--" Burris began, and the hope disappeared "please doone little favor for me. Just one little favor, because I'm an old, tired man and I'm not used to things any more. " "Sure, " Malone said. "Anything, Chief. " "Don't call me--" "Sorry, " Malone said. Burris breathed heavily. "When you leave, " he said, "please, pleaseuse the door. " "But--" "Malone, " Burris said, "I've tried. I've really tried. Believe me. I've tried to get used to the fact that you can teleport. But--" "It's useful, " Malone said, "in my work. " "I can see that, " Burris said. "And I don't want you to . . . Well, tostop doing it. By no means. It's just that it sort of unnerves me, ifyou see what I mean. No matter how useful it is for the FBI to have anagent who can go instantaneously from one place to another, itunnerves me. " He sighed. "I can't get used to seeing you disappearlike an over-dried soap bubble, Malone. It does something tome--here. " He placed a hand directly over his sternum and sighedagain. "I can understand that, " Malone said. "It unnerved me, too, the firsttime I saw it. I thought I was going crazy, when that kid--MikeFueyo--winked out like a light. But then we got him, and some FBIagents besides me have learned the trick. " He stopped there, wonderingif he'd been tactful. After all, it took a latent ability to learnteleportation, and some people had it, while others didn't. Malone, along with a few other agents, did. Burris evidently didn't--so hecouldn't teleport, no matter how hard he tried or how many lessons hetook. "Well, " Burris said, "I'm still unnerved. So . . . Please, Malone . . . When you come in here, or go out, use the door. All right?" "Yes, sir, " Malone said. He turned and went out. As he opened thedoor, he could almost hear Burris' sigh of relief. Then he banged itshut behind him and, feeling that he might as well continue with hisspacebound existence, walked all the way to the elevator, and rode itdownstairs to the FBI laboratories. The labs, highly efficient and divided into dozens of departments, covered several floors. Malone passed through the Fingerprint section, filled with technicians doing strange things to great charts andslides, and frowning over tiny pieces of material and photographs. Then came Forgery Detection, involving many more technicians, manymore slides and charts and tiny pieces of things and photographs, andeven a witness or two sitting on the white bench at one side andlooking lost and somehow civilian. Identification Classified was next, a great barn of a room filled with index files. The real indexes werein the sub-basement; here, on microfilm, were only the basic division. A man was standing in front of one of the files, frowning at it. Malone went on by without stopping. Cosmetic Surgery Classification came next. Here there were more indexes, and there were also charts and slides. There was an FBI agent sitting on abench looking bored while two female technicians--classified as O&U forOld and Ugly in Malone's mind--fluttered around him, deciding whatdisguises were possible, and which of those was indicated for theparticular job on hand. Malone waved to the agent, whom he knew veryslightly, and went on. He felt vaguely regretful that the FBI couldn'thire prettier girls for the Cosmetic Surgery Division, but the trouble wasthat pretty girls fell for the agents--and vice versa--and this led to anunfortunate tendency toward only handsome and virile-looking disguises. The O&U Division was unfortunate, he decided, but a necessity. Chemical Analysis (III) was next. The Chemical Analysis section wasscattered over several floors, with the first stages up above. Division III, Malone remembered, was devoted to non-poisonoussubstances--like clay or sand found in boots or trouser cuffs, cigarashes and such. They were placed on the same floor as Fingerprints toallow free and frequent passage between the sections on the problemsof plastic prints--made in putty or like substances--and visibleprints, made when the hand is covered with a visible substance likeblood, ketchup or glue. Malone found what he was looking for at the very end of the floor. Itwas the Computer Section, a large room filled with humming, clackingand buzzing machines of an ancient vintage, muttering to themselves asthey worked, and newer machines which were smaller and more silent. Lights were lighting and bells were ringing softly, relays wererelaying and the whole room was a gigantic maze of calculating andcontrol machines. What space wasn't filled by the machines themselveswas filled by workbenches, all littered with an assortment of gears, tubes, spare relays, transistors, wires, rods, bolts, resistors andall the other paraphernalia used in building the machines andrepairing them. Beyond the basic room were other, smaller rooms, eachassigned to a particular kind of computer work. The narrow aisles were choked here and there with men who looked up asMalone passed by, but most of them gave him one quick glance and wentback to work. A few didn't even do that, but went right onconcentrating on their jobs. Malone headed for a man working all alonein front of a workbench, frowning down at a complicated-lookingmechanism that seemed to have neither head nor tail, and prodding atit with a long, thin screwdriver. The man was thin, too, but not verylong; he was a little under average height, and he had straight blackhair, thick-lensed glasses and a studious expression, even when he wasfrowning. He looked as if the mechanism were a student who had cut toomany classes, and he was being kindly but firm with it. * * * * * Malone managed to get to the man's side, and coughed discreetly. Therewas no response. "Fred?" he said. The screwdriver waggled a little. Malone wasn't quite sure that theman was breathing. "Fred Mitchell, " he said. Mitchell didn't look up. Another second passed. "Hey, " Malone said. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Fred, " he said in a loud, reasonable-sounding voice, "the StateDepartment's translator has started to talk pig-Latin. " Mitchell straightened up as if somebody had jabbed him with a pin. Thescrewdriver waved wildly in the air for a second, and then pointed atMalone. "That's impossible, " Mitchell said in a flat, precise voice. "Simply impossible. It doesn't have a pig-Latin circuit. It can'tpossibly--" He blinked and seemed to see Malone for the first time. "Oh, " he said. "Hello, Malone. What can I do for you?" Malone smiled, feeling a little victorious at having got through theMitchell armor, which was almost impregnable when there was a job inhand. "I've been standing here talking to you for some time. " "Oh, have you?" Mitchell said. "I was busy. " That, obviously, explained that. Malone shrugged. "I want you to help me check over some calculators, Fred, " he said. "We've had some reports that some of the government machines are outof kilter, and I'd like you to go over them for me. " "Out of kilter?" Fred Mitchell said. "No, you can forget about it. It's absolutely unnecessary to make a check--believe me. Absolutely. Forget it. " He smiled suddenly. "I suppose it's some kind of a joke, isn't it?" he said, just a trifle uncertainly. Fred Mitchell's world, while pleasant, did not include much humor, Malone knew. "It'ssupposed to be funny, " he said in the same flat, precise voice. "It isn't funny, " Malone said. Fred sighed. "Then they're obviously lying, " he said, "and that's allthere is to it. Why bother me with it?" "Certainly, " Fred said. He looked at the machinery with longing. Malone took a breath. "How do you know?" he said. Fred sighed. "It's perfectly obvious, " he said in a patient tone. "Since the State Department translator has no pig-Latin circuit, itcan't possibly be talking pig-Latin. I will admit that such a circuitwould be relatively easy to build, though it would have no utility asfar as I can see. Except, of course, for a joke. " He paused. "Joke?"he said, in a slightly uneasy tone. "Sure, " Malone said. "Joke. " Mitchell looked relieved. "Very well, then, " he began. "Since--" "Wait a minute, " Malone said. "The pig-Latin is a joke. That's right. But I'm not talking about the pig-Latin. " "You're not?" Mitchell asked, surprised. "No, " Malone said. Mitchell frowned. "But you said--" he began. "A joke, " Malone said. "You were perfectly right. The pig-Latin is ajoke. " He waited for Fred's expression to clear, and then added: "Butwhat I want to talk to you about isn't. " "It sounds very confused, " Fred said after a pause. "Not at all thesort of thing that . . . That usually goes on. " "You have no idea, " Malone said. "It's about the political machines, all right, but it isn't anything as simple as pig-Latin. " Heexplained, taking his time over it. When he had finished, Fred was nodding his head slowly. "I see, " hesaid. "I understand just what you want me to do. " "Good, " Malone said. "I'll take a team over to the Senate Office Building, " Fred said, "andcheck the computer-secretaries there. That way, you see, I'll be ableto do a full running check on them without taking any one machine outof operation for too long. " "Sure, " Malone said. "And it shouldn't take long, " Fred went on, "to find out just what thetrouble is. " He looked very confident. "How long?" Malone asked. Fred shrugged. "Oh, " he said, "five or six days. " Malone repressed an impulse to scream. "Days?" he said. "I mean . . . Well, look, Fred, it's important. Very important. Can't you do the jobany faster?" Fred gave a little sigh. "Checking and repairing all those machines, "he said, "is an extremely complex job. Sometimes, Malone, I don'tthink you realize quite how complex, and how delicate a job it is todeal with such a high-order machine. Why--" "Wait a minute, " Malone said. "Check and repair them?" "Of course, " Fred said. "But I don't want them repaired, " Malone said. Seeing the look ofhorror on Fred's face, he added hastily: "I only want a report fromyou on what's wrong, whether they are actually making errors or not. And if they are making errors, just what's making them do it. And justwhat kind of errors. See?" Fred nodded very slowly. "But I can't just . . . Just leave them there, "he said piteously. "In . . . Pieces and everything. It isn't right, Malone. It just isn't right. " "Well, then, " Malone said with energy, "you go right ahead and repairthem, if you want to. Fix 'em all up. But you can do that _after_ youmake the report to me, can't you?" "I--" Fred hesitated. "I had planned to check and repair each machineon an individual basis--" "The Congress can allow for a short suspension, " Malone said. "Anyhow, they can now--or as soon as I get the word to them. Suppose you checkall the machines first, and then get around to the repair work. " "It's not the best way, " Fred demurred. Malone discovered that it was his turn to sigh. "Is it the fastest?"he said. Fred nodded. "Then it's the best, " Malone said. "How long?" Fred rolled his eyes to the ceiling and calculated silently for asecond. "Tomorrow morning, " he announced, returning his gaze toMalone. "Fine, " Malone said. "Fine. " "But--" "Never mind the buts, " Malone said hurriedly. "I'll count on hearingfrom you tomorrow morning. " "Oh--" Fred said. "All right. " "And if it looks like sabotage, " Malone added, "if the errors aren'tcaused by normal wear and tear on the machines--you let me know rightaway. Phone me. Don't waste an instant. " [Illustration] "I'll . . . I'll start right away, " Fred said heavily. He looked sadlyat the mechanism he had been working on, and put his screwdriver downnext to it. It looked to Malone as if he were putting flowers on thegrave of a dear departed. "I'll get a team together, " Fred added. Hegave the mechanism and screwdriver one last fond parting look. Malone looked after him for a second, thinking of nothing inparticular, and then turned in the opposite direction and headed backtoward the elevator. As he walked, he began to feel more and morepleased with himself. After all, he'd gotten the investigationstarted, hadn't he? And now all he had to do was go back to his office and read somereports and listen to some interview tapes, and then he could go home. The reports and the interview tapes didn't exactly sound like fun, Malone thought, but at the same time they seemed fairly innocent. Hewould work his way through them grimly, and maybe he would evenindulge his most secret vice and smoke a cigar or two to make the workpass more pleasantly. Soon enough, he told himself, they would befinished with. Sometimes, though, he regretted the reputation he'd gotten. It hadbeen bad enough in the old days--the pre-1971 days when Malone hadthought he was just lucky. Burris had called him a Boy Wonder then, when he'd cracked three difficult cases in a row. Being just lucky hadmade it a little tough to live with the Boy Wonder label--after all, Malone thought, it wasn't actually as if he'd done anything. But since 1971 and the case of the Telepathic Spy, things had gottenworse. Much worse. Now Malone wasn't just lucky any more. Instead, hecould teleport and he could even foretell the future a little, in adim sort of way. He'd caught the Telepathic Spy that way, and when thecase of the Teleporting Juvenile Delinquents had come up he'd beenassigned to that one too, and he'd cracked it. Now Burris seemed tothink of him as a kind of god, and gave him all the tough dirty jobs. And if he wasn't just lucky any more, Malone couldn't think of himselfas a Fearless, Heroic FBI Agent, either. He just wasn't the type. Hewas--well, talented. That was the word, he told himself: talented. Hehad all these talents and they made him look like somethingspectacular to Burris and the other FBI men. But he wasn't, really. Hehadn't done anything really tough to get his talents; they'd justhappened to him. Nobody, though, seemed to believe that. He heaved a little sigh andstepped into the waiting elevator. There were, after all, he thought, compensations. He'd had some goodtimes, and the talents did come in handy. And he did have his pick ofthe vacation schedule lately. And he'd met some lovely girls-- And besides, he told himself savagely as the elevator shot upward, hewasn't going to do anything except return to his office and read somereports and listen to some tapes. And then he was going to go home andsleep all night, peacefully. And in the morning Mitchell was going tocall him up and tell him that the computer-secretaries needed nothingmore than a little repair. He'd say they were getting old, and he'd bea little pathetic about it; but it wouldn't be anything serious. Malone would send out orders to get the machines repaired, and thatwould be that. And then the next case would be something both normaland exciting, like a bank robbery or a kidnapping involving a gorgeousblonde who would be so grateful to Malone that-- He had stepped out of the elevator and gone down the corridor withoutnoticing it. He pushed at his own office door and walked into theouter room. The train of thought he had been following was very nice, and sounded very attractive indeed, he told himself. Unfortunately, he didn't believe it. His prescient ability, functioning with its usual efficient aplomb, told Malone that thingswould not be better, or simpler, in the morning. They would be worse, and more complicated. They would be quite a lot worse. And, as usual, that prescience was perfectly accurate. II The telephone, Malone realized belatedly, had had a particularlynasty-sounding ring. He might have known it would be bad news. As a matter of fact, he told himself sadly, he had known. "Nothing at all wrong?" he said into the mouthpiece. "Not with any ofthe computers?" He blinked. "Not even one of them?" "Not a thing, " Mitchell said. "I'll be sending a report up to you in alittle while. You read it; we put them through every test, and it'sall detailed there. " "I'm sure you were very thorough, " Malone said helplessly. "Of course we were, " Mitchell said. "Of course. And the machinespassed every single test. Every one. Malone, it was beautiful. " "Goody, " Malone said at random. "But there's got to be something--" "There is, Malone, " Fred said. "There is. I think there's definitelysomething odd going on. Something funny. I mean peculiar, nothumorous. " "I thought so, " Malone put in. "Right, " Fred said. "Malone, try and relax. This is a hard thing tosay, and it must be even harder to hear. But--" "Tell me, " Malone said. "Who's dead? Who's been killed?" "I know it's tough, Malone, " Fred went on. "Is everybody dead?" Malone said. "It can't be just one person, notfrom that tone in your voice. Has somebody assassinated the entireSenate? Or the President and his Cabinet? Or--" "It's nothing like that, Malone, " Fred said, in a tone that impliedthat such occurrences were really rather minor. "It's the machines. " "The machines?" "That's right, " Fred said grimly. "After we checked them over andfound they were in good shape, I asked for samples of both the inputand the output of each machine. I wanted to do a thorough job. " "Congratulations, " Malone said. "What happened?" Fred took a deep breath. "They don't agree, " he said. "They don't?" Malone said. The phrase sounded as if it meant somethingmomentous, but he couldn't quite figure out what. In a minute, hethought confusedly, it would come to him. But did he want it to? "They definitely do not agree, " Fred was saying. "The correlation iserratic; it makes no statistical sense. Malone, there are twopossibilities. " "Tell me about them, " Malone said. He was beginning to feel relieved. To Fred, the malfunction of a machine was more serious than the murderof the entire Congress. But Malone couldn't quite bring himself tofeel that way about things. "First, " Fred said in a tense tone, "it's possible that thetechnicians feeding information to the machines are making all kindsof mistakes. " Malone nodded at the phone. "That sounds possible, " he said. "Whichones?" "All of them, " Fred said. "They're all making errors--and they're allmaking about the same number of errors. There don't seem to be anyreal peaks or valleys, Malone; everybody's doing it. " Malone thought of the Varsity Drag and repressed the thought. "A bunchof fumblebums, " he said. "All fumbling alike. It does sound unlikely, but I guess it's possible. We'll get after them right away, and--" "Wait, " Fred said. "There is a second possibility. " "Oh, " Malone said. "Maybe they aren't mistakes, " Fred said. "Maybe the technicians aredeliberately feeding the machine with wrong answers. " Malone hated to admit, even to himself, but that answer sounded a lotmore probable. Machine technicians weren't exactly picked off thestreets at random; they were highly trained for their work, and theidea of a whole crew of them starting to fumble at once, in a big way, was a little hard to swallow. The idea of all of them sabotaging the machines they worked on, Malonethought, was a tough one to take, too. But it had the advantage ofmaking some sense. People, he told himself dully, will do nutty thingsdeliberately. It's harder to think of them doing the same nutty thingswithout knowing it. "Well, " he said at last, "however it turns out, we'll get to thebottom of it. Frankly, I think it's being done on purpose. " "So do I, " Fred said. "And when you find out just who's making thetechnicians do such things--when you find out who gives them theirorders--you let me know. " "Let you know?" Malone said. "But--" "Any man who would give false data to a perfectly innocent computer, "Fred said savagely, "would . . . Would--" For a second he was apparentlylost for comparisons. Then he finished: "Would kill his own mother. "He paused a second and added, in an even more savage voice: "And thenlie about it!" * * * * * The image on the screen snapped off, and Malone sat back in his chairand sighed. He spent a few minutes regretting that he hadn't chosen, early in life, to be a missionary to the Fiji Islanders, or possiblysimply a drunken bum without any trouble, and then the report Mitchellhad mentioned arrived. Malone picked it up without much eagerness, andbegan going through it carefully. It was beautifully typed and arranged; somebody on Mitchell's team hadobviously been up all night at the job. Malone admired the work, without being able to get enthusiastic about the contents. Like alltechnical reports, it tended to be boring and just a trifle obscure tosomeone who wasn't completely familiar with the field involved. Maloneand cybernetics were not exactly bosom buddies, and by the time hefinished reading through the report he was suffering from an extremecase of _ennui_. There were no new clues in the report, either; Mitchell's phoneconversation had covered all of the main points. Malone put the sheafof papers down on his desk and looked at them for a minute as if heexpected an answer to leap out from the pile and greet him with a gladcry, but nothing happened. Unfortunately, he had to do some more work. The obvious next step was to start checking on the technicians whowere working on the machines. Malone determined privately that hewould give none of his reports to Fred Mitchell; he didn't like theidea of being responsible for murder, and that was the least Fredwould do to someone who confused his precious calculators. He picked up the phone, punched for the Records Division, and waiteduntil a bald, middle-aged face appeared. He asked the face to send upthe dossiers of the technicians concerned to his office. The facenodded. "You want them right away?" it said in a mild, slightly scratchyvoice. "Sooner than right away, " Malone said. "They're coming up by messenger, " the voice said. Malone nodded and broke the connection. The technicians had, ofcourse, been investigated by the FBI before they'd been hired, but itwouldn't do any harm to check them out again. He felt grateful that hewouldn't have to do all that work himself; he would just go throughthe dossiers and assign field agents to the actual checking when hehad a picture of what might need to be checked. He sighed again and leaned back in his chair. He put his feet up onthe desk, remembered that he was entirely alone, and swung them downagain. He fished in a private compartment in his top desk drawer, drewout a cigar and unwrapped it. Putting his feet back on the desk, helit the cigar, drew in a cloud of smoke, and lapsed into deep thought. Cigar smoke billowed around him, making strange, fantastic shapes inthe air of the office. Malone puffed away, frowning slightly andtrying to force the puzzle he was working on to make some sense. It certainly looked as though something were going on, he thought. But, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out just what it was. After all, what could be anybody's purpose in goofing up a bunch ofcalculators the way they had? Of course, the whole thing could be aseries of accidents, but the series was a pretty long one, and madeMalone suspicious to start with. It was easier to assume that thegoof-ups were being done deliberately. Unfortunately, they didn't make much sense as sabotage, either. Senator Deeds, for instance, had sent out a ten-thousand-copy formletter to his constituents, blasting an Administration power bill inextremely strong language, and asking for some comments on theDeeds-Hartshorn Air Ownership Bill, a pending piece of legislationthat provided for private, personal ownership, based on land title, tothe upper stratosphere--with a strong hint that rights of passage nolonger applied without some recompense to the owner of the air. Naturally, Deeds had filed the original with a computer-secretary toturn out ten thousand duplicate copies, and the machine had done so, folding the copies, slipping them into addressed envelopes and sendingthem out under the senator's franking stamp. The addresses on the envelopes, however, had not been those of thesenator's supporters. The letter had been sent to ten thousandstockholders in major airline companies, and the senator's head wasstill ringing from the force of the denunciatory letters, telegramsand telephone calls he'd been getting. * * * * * And then there was Representative Follansbee of South Dakota. A set ofnews releases on the proposed Follansbee Waterworks Bill contained thestatement that the artificial lake which Follansbee proposed in theBlack Hills country "be formed by controlled atomic power blasts, andfilled with water obtained from collecting the tears of widows andorphans. " Newsmen who saw this release immediately checked the bill. The wordingwas exactly the same. Follansbee claimed that the "widows and orphans"phrase had appeared in his speech on the bill, and not in the proposedbill itself. "It's completely absurd, " he said, with commendable calm, "to consider this method of filling an artificial lake. "Unfortunately, the absurdity was now contained in the bill, whichwould have to go back to committee for redefinition, and probablywouldn't come up again in the present session of Congress. Judgingfrom the amount of laughter that had greeted the error when it hadcome to light, Malone privately doubted whether any amount ofredefinition was going to save it from a landslide defeat. Representative Keller of Idaho had made a speech which contained somany errors in fact that newspaper editorials, and his enemies on thefloor of Congress, cut him to pieces with ease and pleasure. Kellercomplained of his innocence and said he'd gotten his facts from acomputer-secretary, but this didn't save him. His re-election was amatter for grave concern in his own party, and the opposition was, naturally, tickled. They would not, Malone thought, dare to be tickledpink. And these were not the only casualties. They were the most blatantfoul-ups, but there were others, such as the mistake in numbering of aHouse Bill that resulted in a two-month delay during which theopposition to the bill raised enough votes to defeat it on the floor. Communications were diverted or lost or scrambled in small ways thatmade for confusion--including, Malone recalled the perfectly horriblemixup that resulted when a freshman senator, thinking he was talkingto his girlfriend on a blanked-vision circuit, discovered he wastalking to his wife. The flow of information was being blocked by bottlenecks that suddenlyexisted where there had never been bottlenecks before. And it wasn't only the computers, Malone knew. He remembered thereports the senators and representatives had made. Someone forgot tosend an important message here, or sent one too soon over there. Bothcourses were equally disturbing, and both resulted in more snarl-ups. Reports that should have been sent in weeks before arrived too late;reports meant for the eyes of only one man were turned out intriplicate and passed all over the offices of Congress. Each snarl-up was a little one. But, together, they added up toinefficiency of a kind and extent that hadn't been seen, Malone toldhimself with some wonder, since the Harding administration fifty yearsbefore. And there didn't seem to be anyone to blame anything on. Malone thought hopefully of sabotage, infiltration and mass treason, but it didn't make him feel much better. He puffed out some more smokeand frowned at nothing. There was a knock at the door of his office. Speedily and guiltily, he swung his feet off the desk and snatched thecigar out of his mouth. He jammed it into a deep ashtray and put theashtray back into his desk drawer. He locked the drawer, wavedineffectively at the clouds of smoke that surrounded him, and said ina resigned voice: "Come in. " The door opened. A tall, solidly built man stood there, wearing afringe of beard and a cheerful expression. The man had an enormousamount of muscle distributed more or less evenly over his chunky body, and a potbelly that looked as if he had swallowed a globe of theworld. In addition, he was smoking a cigarette and letting out littlepuffs of smoke, rather like a toy locomotive. "Well, well, " Malone said, brushing feebly at the smoke that stillwreathed him faintly. "If it isn't Thomas Boyd, the FBI's answer toNero Wolfe. " "And if the physique holds true, you're Sherlock Holmes, I suppose, "Boyd said. Malone shook his head, thinking sadly of his father and the cigar. "Not exactly, " he said. "Not ex--" And then it came to him. It wasn'tthat he was ashamed of smoking cigars like his father, exactly--butcigars just weren't right for a fearless, dedicated FBI agent. And hehad just thought of a way to keep Boyd from knowing what he'd beendoing. "That's a hell of a cigarette you're smoking, by the way, " hesaid. Boyd looked at it. "It is?" he said. "Sure is, " Malone said, hoping he sounded sufficiently innocent. "Smells like a cigar or something. " Boyd sniffed the air for a second, his face wrinkled. Then he lookeddown at his cigarette again. "You're right, Ken. It _does_ smell likea cigar. " He came over to Malone's desk, looked around for an ashtrayand didn't find one, and finally went to the window and tossed thecigarette out into the Washington breeze. "How are things, anyhow, Ken?" he said. "Things are confused, " Malone said. "Aren't they always?" Boyd came back to the desk and sat down in a chair at one side of it. He put his elbow on the desk. "Sure they are, " he said. "I'm confusedmyself, as a matter of fact. Only I think I know where I can get somehelp. " "Really?" Malone said. Boyd nodded. "Burris told me I might be able to get some informationfrom a certain famous and highly respected person, " he said. "Well, well, " Malone said. "Who?" "You, " Boyd said. "Oh, " Malone said, trying to look disappointed, flattered and modestall at the same time. "Well, " he went on after a second, "anything Ican do--" "Burris thought you might have some answers, " Boyd said. "Burris is getting optimistic in his old age, " Malone said. "I don'teven have many questions. " Boyd nodded. "Well, " he said, "you know this California thing?" "Sure I do, " Malone said. "You're looking into the resignation outthere, aren't you?" "Senator Burley, " Boyd said. "That's right. But Senator Burley'sresignation isn't all of it, by any means. " "It isn't?" Malone said, trying to sound interested. "Not at all, " Boyd said. "It goes a lot deeper than it looks on thesurface. In the past year, Ken, five senators have announced theirresignations from the Senate of the United States. It isn't exactly arecord--" "It sounds like a record, " Malone said. "Well, " Boyd said, "there was 1860 and the Civil War, when a whole lotof senators and representatives resigned all at once. " "Oh, " Malone said. "But there isn't any Civil War going on now. Atleast, " he added, "I haven't heard of any. " "That's what makes it so funny, " Boyd said. "Of course, Senator Burleysaid it was ill health, and so did two others, while Senator Davidsonsaid it was old age. " "Well, " Malone said, "people do get old. And sick. " "Sure, " Boyd said. "The only trouble is--" He paused. "Ken, " he said, "do you mind if I smoke? I mean, do you mind the smell of cigars?" "Mind?" Malone said. "Not at all. Not at all. " He blinked. "Besides, "he added, "maybe this one won't smell like a cigar. " "Well, the last one did, " Boyd said. He took a cigarette out of a packin his pocket, and lit it. He sniffed. "You know, " he said, "You'reright. This one doesn't. " "I told you, " Malone said. "Must have been a bad cigarette. Spoiled orsomething. " "I guess so, " Boyd said vaguely. "But about these retirements--the FBIwanted me to look into it because of Burley's being mixed up with thespace program scandal last year. Remember? "Vaguely, " Malone said. "I was busy last year. " "Sure you were, " Boyd said. "We were both busy getting famous andwell-known. " Malone grinned. "Go on with the story, " he said. Boyd puffed at his cigarette. "Anyhow, we couldn't find anythingreally wrong, " he said. "Three senators retiring because of illhealth, one because of old age. And Farnsworth, the youngest. He had anervous breakdown. " "I didn't hear about it, " Malone said. Boyd shrugged. "We hushed it up, " he said. "But Farnsworth's gotdelusions of persecution. He apparently thinks somebody's out to gethim. As a matter of fact, he thinks _everybody's_ out to get him. " "Now that, " Malone said, "sounds familiar. " Boyd leaned back a little more in his chair. "Here's the funny thing, though, " he said. "The others all act as if they're suspicious ofeverybody who talks to them. Not anything obvious, you understand. Just--worried. Apprehensive. Always looking at you out of the cornersof their eyes. That kind of thing. " Malone thought of Senator Lefferts, who was also suffering fromdelusions of persecution--delusions that had real evidence to backthem up. "It does sound funny, " he said cautiously. "Well, I reported everything to Burris, " Boyd went on. "And he saidyou were working on something similar, and we might as well pool ourresources. " "Here we go again, " Malone said. He took a deep breath, filling hisnostrils with what remained of the cigar odor in the room, and feltmore peaceful. Quickly, he told Boyd about what had been happening inCongress. "It seems pretty obvious, " he finished, "that there is somekind of a tie-up between the two cases. " "Maybe it's obvious, " Boyd said, "But it is just a little bit odd. Funand games. You know, Ken, Burris was right. " "How?" Malone said. "He said everything was all mixed up, " Boyd went on. "He told me thecountry was going to Rome in a handbasket, or something like that. " Wondering vaguely if Burris had really been predicting mass religiousconversions, Malone nodded silently. "And he's right, " Boyd said. "Look at the newspapers. Everything'sscrewy lately. " "Everything always is screwy, " Malone said. "Not like now, " Boyd said. "So many big-shot gangsters have beenkilled lately we might as well bring back Prohibition. And the laborunions are so busy with internal battles that they haven't had time togo on strike for over a year. " "Is that bad?" Malone said. Boyd shrugged. "God knows, " he said. "But it's sure confusing as allhell. " "And now, " Malone said, "with all that going on--" "The Congress of the United States decides to go off its collectiverocker, " Boyd finished. "Exactly. " He stared down at his cigarette fora minute with a morose and pensive expression on his face. He looked, Malone thought, like Henry VIII trying to decide what to do about allthese here wives. [Illustration] Then he looked up at Malone. "Ken, " he said in a strained voice, "there seem to be a lot of nutty cases lately. " Malone considered. "No, " he said at last. "It's just that when a nuttyone comes along, we get it. " "That's what I mean, " Boyd said. "I wonder why that is. " Malone shrugged. "It takes a thief to catch a thief, " he said. "But these aren't thieves, " Boyd said. "I mean--they're just nutty. "He paused. "Oh, " he said. "And, two thieves are better than one, " Malone said. "Anyhow, " Boyd said with a small, gusty sigh, "it's company. " "Sure, " Malone said. Boyd looked for an ashtray, failed again to find one, and walked overto flip a second cigarette out onto Washington. He came back to hischair, sat down, and said: "What's our next step, Ken?" Malone considered carefully. "First, " he said finally, "we'll startassuming something. We'll start assuming that there is some kind oforganization behind all this--behind all the senators' resignationsand everything like that. " "It sounds like a big assumption, " Boyd said. Malone shook his head. "It isn't really, " he said. "After all, wecan't figure it's the work of one person: it's too widespread forthat. And it's silly to assume that everything's accidental. " "All right, " Boyd said equably. "It's an organization. " "Trying to subvert the United States, " Malone went on. "Reducingeverything to chaos. And that brings in everything else, Tom. Thatbrings in the unions and the gang wars and everything. " Boyd blinked. "How?" he said. "Obvious, " Malone said. "Strife brought on by internalconfusion--that's what's going on all over. It's the same pattern. Andif we assume an organization trying to jam up the United States, iteven makes sense. " He leaned back and beamed. "Sure it makes sense, " Boyd said. "But who's the organization?" Malone shrugged. "If I were doing the picking, " Boyd said, "I'd pick the Russians. Orthe Chinese. Or both. Probably both. " "It's a possibility, " Malone said. "Anyhow, if it's sabotage, who elsewould be interested in sabotaging the United States? There's someRussian or Chinese organization fouling up Congress, and the unions, and the gangs. Come to think of it, why the gangs? It seems to me thatif you left the professional gangsters strong, it would do even moreto foul things up. " "Who knows?" Boyd said. "Maybe they're trying to get rid of Americangangsters so they can import some of their own. " "That doesn't make any sense, " Malone said, "but I'll think about it. In the meantime, we have one more interesting question. " "We do?" Boyd said. "Sure we do, " Malone said. "The question is: How?" Boyd said: "Hm-m-m. " Then there was silence for a little while. "How are the saboteurs doing all this?" Malone said. "It just doesn'tseem very probable that _all_ the technicians in the Senate OfficeBuilding, for instance, are spies. It makes even less sense that thelabor unions are composed mostly of spies. Or, for that matter, theMafia and the organizations like it. What would spies be doing in theMafia?" "Learning Italian, " Boyd said instantly. "Don't be silly, " Malone said. "If there were that many spies in thiscountry, the Russians wouldn't have to fight at all. They could _vote_the Communists into power--and by a nice big landslide, too. " "Wait a minute, " Boyd said. "If there aren't so many spies, then howis all this getting done?" Malone beamed. "That's the question, " he said. "And I think I have theanswer. " "You do?" Boyd said. After a second he said: "Oh, no. " "Suppose you tell me, " Malone said. Boyd opened his mouth. Nothing emerged. He shut it. A second passedand he opened it again. "Magic?" he said weakly. "Not exactly, " Malone said cheerfully. "But you're getting warm. " Boyd shut his eyes. "I'm not going to stand for it, " he announced. "I'm not going to take any more. " "Any more what?" Malone said. "Tell me what you have in mind. " "I won't even consider it, " Boyd said. "It haunts me. It gets into mydreams. Now, look, Ken: I can't even see a pitchfork any more withoutthinking of Greek letters. " Malone took a breath. "Which Greek letter?" he said. "You know very well, " Boyd said. "What a pitchfork looks like. _Psi_. And I'm not even going to think about it. " "Well, " Malone said equably, "you won't have to. If you'd rather startwith the Russian spy end of things, you can do that. " "What I'd rather do, " Boyd said, "is resign. " "Next year, " Malone said instantly. "For now, you can wait arounduntil the dossiers come up--they're for the Senate Office Buildingtechnicians, and they're on the way. You can go over them, and startchecking on any known Russian agents in the country for contacts. Youcan also start checking on the dossiers, and in general for anyhanky-panky. " Boyd blinked. "Hanky-panky?" he said. "It's a perfectly good word, " Malone said, offended. "Or two words. Anyhow, you can start on that end, and not worry about anything else. " "It's going to haunt me, " Boyd said. "Well, " Malone said, "eat lots of ectoplasm and get enough sleep, andeverything will be fine. After all, I'm going to have to do the realend of the work--the psionics end. I may be wrong, but--" He was interrupted by the phone. He flicked the switch and Andrew J. Burris' face appeared on the screen. "Malone, " Burris said instantly, "I just got a complaint from theState Department that ties in with your work. Their translator hasbeen acting up. " Malone couldn't say anything for a minute. "Malone, " Burris went on. "I said--" "I heard you, " Malone said. "And it doesn't have one. " "It doesn't have one what?" Burris said. "A pig-Latin circuit, " Malone said. "What else?" Burris' voice was very calm. "Malone, " he said, "what does pig-Latinhave to do with anything?" "You said--" "I said one of the State Department translators was acting up, " Burrissaid. "If you want details--" "I don't think I can stand them, " Malone said. "Some of the Russian and Chinese releases have come through with themeaning slightly altered, " Burris went on doggedly. "And I want you tocheck on it right away. I--" "Thank God, " Malone said. Burris blinked. "What?" "Never mind, " Malone said. "Never mind. I'm glad you told me, Chief. I'll get to work on it right away, and--" "You do that, Malone, " Burris said. "And stop calling me Chief! Do Ilook like an Indian? Do I have feathers in my hair?" "Anything, " Malone said grandly, "is possible. " He broke theconnection in a hurry. III The summer sun beat down on the white city of Washington, D. C. As ifit had mistaken its instructions slightly, and was convinced that thecity had been put down somewhere in the Sahara. The sun seemedconfused, Malone thought. If this were the Sahara, obviously there wasno reason whatever for the Potomac to be running through it. The sunwas doing its best to correct this small error, however, by exertingeven more heat in a valiant attempt to dry up the river. Its attempt was succeeding, at least partially. The Potomac was stillthere, but quite a lot of it was not in the river bed any more. Instead, it had gone into the air, which was so humid by now thatMalone was willing to swear that it was splashing into his lungs atevery inhalation. Resisting an impulse to try the breast-stroke, hestood in the full glare of the straining sun, just outside the SenateOffice Building. He looked across at the Capitol, squinting his eyesmanfully against the glare of its dome in the brightness. The Capitol was, at any rate, some relief from the sight of ThomasBoyd and a group of agents busily grilling two technicians. That wasgoing on in the Senate Office Building, and Malone had come over towatch the proceedings. Everything had been set up in what Maloneconsidered the most complicated fashion possible. A big room had beenturned into a projection chamber, and films were being run off overand over. The films, taken by hidden cameras watching thecomputer-secretaries, had caught two technicians red-handed punchingerrors into the machines. Boyd had leaped on this evidence, and he andhis crew were showing the movies to the technicians and questioningthem under bright lights in an effort to break down their resistance. But it didn't look as though they were going to have any more successthan the sun was having, turning Washington into the Sahara. Afterall, Malone told himself, wiping his streaming brow, there were noPyramids in Washington. He tried to discover whether that made anysense, but it was too much work. He went back to thinking about Boyd. The technicians were sticking to their original stories, that themistakes had been honest ones. It sounded like a sensible idea toMalone; after all, people did make mistakes. And the FBI didn't have asingle shred of evidence to prove that the technicians were engaged indeliberate sabotage. But Boyd wasn't giving up. Over and over he gotthe technicians to repeat their stories, looking for discrepancies orslips. Over and over he ran off the films of their mistakes, lookingfor some clue, some shred of evidence. Even the sight of the Capitol, Malone told himself sadly, was betterthan any more of Boyd's massive investigation techniques. He had come out to do some thinking. He believed, in spite of a gooddeal of evidence to the contrary, that his best ideas came to himwhile walking. At any rate, it was a way of getting away from fourwalls and from the prying eyes and anxious looks of superiors. Hesighed gently, crammed his hat onto his head and started out. Only a maniac, he reflected, would wear a hat on a day like the one hewas swimming through. But the people who passed him as he trudgedonward to no particular destination didn't seem to notice; they gavehim a fairly wide berth, and seemed very polite, but that wasn'tbecause they thought he was nuts, Malone knew. It was because theyknew he was an FBI man. That was the result of an FBI regulation. All agents had to wear hats. Malone wasn't sure why, and his thinking on the matter had onlydredged up the idea that you had to have a hat in case somebody askedyou to keep something under it. But the FBI was firm about itsrulings. No matter what the weather, an agent wore a hat. Malonethought bitterly that he might just as well wear a red, white and blueluminous sign that said _FBI_ in great winking letters, and maybe ahooting siren, too. Still, the Federal Bureau of Investigation was notsupposed to be a secret organization--no matter what occasionalcritics might say. And the hats, at least as long as the weatherremained broiling, were enough proof of that for anybody. Malone could feel water collecting under his hat and soaking his head. He removed the hat quickly, wiped his head with a handkerchief andreplaced the hat, feeling as if he had become incognito for a fewseconds. The hat was back on now, feeling official but terrible, andabout the same was true of the fully-loaded Smith & Wesson . 44 Magnumrevolver which hung in his shoulder holster. The harness chafed at hisshoulder and chest and the weight of the gun itself was an added andunwelcome burden. But even without the gun and the hat, Malone did not feel exactlychipper. His shirt and undershirt were no longer two garments, butone, welded together by seamless sweat and plastered heavily and nottoo skillfully to his skin. His trouser legs clung damply to calvesand thighs, rubbing as he walked, and at the knees each trouser legattached and detached itself with the unpleasant regularity of a wetbastinado. Inside Malone's shoes, his socks were completely awash, andhe seemed to squish as he walked. It was hard to tell, but thereseemed to be a small fish in his left shoe. It might, he told himself, be no more than a pebble or a wrinkle in his sock. But he was willingto swear that it was swimming upstream. And the forecast, he told himself bitterly, was for continued warm. He forced himself to take his mind off his own troubles and get backto the troubles of the FBI in general, such as the problem at hand. Itwas an effort, but he frowned and kept walking, and within a block hewas concentrating again on the _psi_ powers. * * * * * _Psi_, he told himself, was behind the whole mess. In spite of Boyd'shorrified refusal to believe such a thing, Malone was sure of it. Three years ago, of course, he wouldn't have considered the notioneither. But since then a great many things had happened, and hishorizons had widened. After all, capturing a double handful of totallyinsane, if perfectly genuine telepaths, from asylums all over thecountry, was enough by itself to widen quite a few stunned horizons. And then, later, there had been the gang of juvenile delinquents. Theyhad been perfectly normal juvenile delinquents, stealing cars andbopping a stray policeman or two. It just happened, though, that theyhad solved the secret of instantaneous teleportation, too. This madethem just a trifle unusual. In capturing them, Malone, too, had learned the teleportation secret. Unlike Boyd, he thought, or Burris, the idea of psionic power didn'tbother him much. After all, the psionic spectrum--if it was a spectrumat all--was just as much a natural phenomenon as gravity, ormagnetism. It was just a little hard for some people to get used to. And, of course, he didn't fully understand _how_ it worked, or _why_. This put him in the position, he told himself, of an Australianaborigine. He tried to imagine an Australian aborigine in a hat on ahot day, decided the aborigine would have too much sense, and got backoff the subject again. However, he thought grimly, there was this Australian aborigine. Andhe had a magnifying glass, which he'd picked up from the wreck of someship. Using that--assuming that experience, or a friendly missionary, taught him how--he could manage to light a fire, using the sun'sthermonuclear processes to do the job. Malone doubted that theaborigine knew anything about thermonuclear processes, but he couldstart a fire with them. As a matter of fact, he told himself, the aborigine didn't understandoxidation, either. But he could use that fire, when he got it going. In spite of his lack of knowledge, the aborigine could use that nice, hot, burning fire . . . Hurriedly, Malone pried his thoughts away from aborigines and heat, and tried to focus his mind elsewhere. He didn't understand psionicprocesses, he thought; but then, nobody did, really, as far as heknew. But he could use them. And, obviously, somebody else could use them, too. Only what kind of force was being used? What kind of psionic forcewould it take to make so many people in the United States goof up theway they were doing? That, Malone told himself, was a good question, a basic and animportant question. He was proud of himself for thinking of it. Unfortunately, he didn't have the answer. But he thought he knew a way of getting one. It was perfectly true that nobody knew much about how psionics worked. For that matter, nobody knew very much about how gravity worked. Butthere was still some information--and, in the case of psionics, Maloneknew where it was to be found. It was to be found in Yucca Flats, Nevada. It was, of course, true that Nevada would probably be even hotter thanWashington, D. C. But there was no help for that, Malone told himselfsadly; and, besides, the cold chill of the expert himself wouldprobably cool things off quite rapidly. Malone thought of Dr. ThomasO'Connor, the Westinghouse psionics expert and frowned. O'Connor wasnot exactly what might be called a friendly man. But he did know more about psionics than anyone else Malone couldthink of. And his help had been invaluable in solving the two previouspsionic cases Malone had worked on. For a second he thought of calling O'Connor, but he brushed thatthought aside bravely. In spite of the heat of Yucca Flats, he wouldhave to talk to the man personally. He thought again of O'Connor'scongealed personality, and wondered if it would really be effective incombating the heat. If it were, he told himself, he would take the manright back to Washington with him, and plug him into theair-conditioning lines. He sighed deeply, thought about a cigar and decided regretfullyagainst it, here on the public street where he would be visible toanyone. Instead, he looked around him, discovered that he was only ablock from a large, neon-lit drugstore and headed for it. Less than aminute later he was in a phone booth. * * * * * The operators throughout the country seemed to suffer from heatprostration, and Malone was hardly inclined to blame them. But, allthe same, it took several minutes for him to get through to Dr. O'Connor's office, and a minute or so more before he could convince asecurity-addled secretary that, after all, he would hardly blowO'Connor to bits over the long-distance phone. Finally the secretary, with a sigh of reluctance, said she would seeif Dr. O'Connor were available. Malone waited in the phone booth, opening the door every few seconds to breathe. The booth wasair-conditioned, but remained for some mystical reason an even tendegrees above the boiling point of Malone's temper. Finally Dr. O'Connor's lean, pallid face appeared on the screen. Hehad not changed since Malone had last seen him. He still looked, andacted, like one of Malone's more disliked law professors. "Ah, " the scientist said in a cold, precise voice. "Mr. Malone. I amsorry for our precautions, but you understand that security must beserved. " "Sure, " Malone said. "Being an FBI man, of course you would, " Dr. O'Connor went on, hisface changing slightly and his voice warming almost to the boilingpoint of nitrogen. It was obvious that the phrase was Dr. O'Connor'sidea of a little joke, and Malone smiled politely and nodded. Thescientist seemed to feel some friendliness toward Malone, though itwas hard to tell for sure. But Malone had brought him some finespecimens to work with--telepaths and teleports, though human, beingno more than specimens to such a very precise scientific mind--and heseemed grateful for Malone's diligence and effort in finding suchfascinating objects of study. That Malone certainly hadn't started out to find them made, itappeared, very little difference. "Well, then, " O'Connor said, returning to his normal, serious tone, "what can I do for you, Mr. Malone?" "If you have the time, doctor, " Malone said respectfully, "I'd like totalk to you for a few minutes. " He had the absurd feeling thatO'Connor was going to tell him to stop by after class, but thescientist only nodded. "Your call is timed very well, " he said. "As it happens, Mr. Malone, Ido have a few seconds to spare just now. " "Fine, " Malone said. "I should be glad to talk with you, " O'Connor said, without lookingany more glad than ever. "I'll be right there, " Malone said. O'Connor nodded again, and blankedout. Malone switched off and took a deep, superheated breath of phonebooth air. For a second he considered starting his trip from outsidethe phone booth, but that was dangerous--if not to Malone, then toinnocent spectators. Psionics was by no means a household word, andthe sight of Malone leaving for Nevada might send several citizensstraight to the wagon. Which was not a place, he thought judiciously, for anybody to be on such a hot day. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. In that time hereconstructed from memory a detailed, three-dimensional, full-colorimage of Dr. O'Connor's office in his mind. It was perfect in detail;he checked it over mentally and then, by a special effort of will, hegave himself the psychic push that made the transition possible. When he opened his eyes, he was in O'Connor's office, standing infront of the scientist's wide desk. He hoped nobody had been lookinginto the phone booth at the instant he had disappeared; but he wasreasonably sure he'd been unobserved. People didn't go around peeringinto phone booths, after all, and he had seen no one. O'Connor looked up without surprise. "Ah, " he said. "Sit down, Mr. Malone. " Malone looked around for the chair, which was anuncomfortably straight-backed affair, and sat down in it gingerly. Remembering past visits to O'Connor, he was grateful for even thesmall amount of relaxation the hard wood afforded him. O'Connor hadonly recently unbent to the point of supplying a spare chair in hisoffice for visitors, and, apparently, especially for Malone. Perhaps, Malone thought, it was more gratitude for the lovely specimens. Malone still felt uncomfortable, but tried bravely not to show it. Hefelt slightly guilty, too, as he always did when he popped intoO'Connor's office without bothering to stay spacebound. By law, afterall, he knew he should check in and out at the main gate of the huge, ultra-top-secret government reservation whenever he visited YuccaFlats. But that meant wasting a lot of time and going through a lot oftrouble. Malone had rationalized it out for himself that way, and hadgot just far enough to do things the quick and easy way, and not quitefar enough to feel undisturbed about it. After all, he told himselfgrimly, anything that saved time and trouble increased the efficiencyof the FBI, so it was all to the good. He swallowed hard. "Dr. O'Connor--" he began. O'Connor looked up again. "Yes?" he said. He'd had plenty of practicein watching people appear and disappear, between Malone and thespecimens Malone had brought him; he was beyond surprise or shock bynow. "I came here to talk to you, " Malone began again. O'Connor nodded, a trifle impatiently. "Yes, " he said. "I know that. " "Well--" Malone thought fast. Presenting the case to O'Connor wasimpossible; it was too complicated, and it might violate governmentalsecrecy somewhere along the line. He decided to wrap it up in ahypothetical situation. "Doctor, " he said, "I know that all thevarious manifestations of the _psi_ powers were investigated and namedlong before responsible scientists became interested in the subject. " "That, " O'Connor said with some reluctance, "is true. " He looked sad, as if he wished they'd waited on naming some of the psionicmanifestations until he'd been born and started investigating them. Malone tried to imagine a person doing something called O'Connorizing, and decided he was grateful for history. "Well, then--" he said. "At least, " O'Connor cut in, "it is true in a rather vague and generalway. You see, Mr. Malone, any precise description of a psionicmanifestation must wait until a metalanguage has grown up to encompassit; that is, until understanding and knowledge have reached the pointwhere careful and accurate description can take place. " "Oh, " Malone said helplessly. "Sure. " He wondered if what O'Connor hadsaid meant anything, and decided that it probably did, but he didn'twant to know about it. "While we have not yet reached that point, " O'Connor said, "we areapproaching it in our experiments. I am hopeful that, in the nearfuture--" "Well, " Malone cut in desperately, "sure. Of course. Naturally. " * * * * * Dr. O'Connor looked miffed. The temperature of the room seemed todrop several degrees, and Malone swallowed hard and tried to lookingratiating and helpful, like a student with nothing but A's on hisrecord. Before O'Connor could pick up the thread of his sentence, Malone wenton: "What I mean is something like this. Picking up the mentalactivity of another person is called telepathy. Floating in the air iscalled levitation. Moving objects around is psychokinesis. Going fromone place to another instantaneously is teleportation. And so on. " "The language you use, " O'Connor said, still miffed, "is extremelyloose. I might go so far as to say that the statements you have madeare, essentially, meaningless as a result of their lack of rigor. " Malone took a deep breath. "Dr. O'Connor, " he said, "you know what Imean, don't you?" "I believe so, " O'Connor said, with the air of a king granting apardon to a particularly repulsive-looking subject in the lowestincome brackets. "Well, then, " Malone said. "Yes or no?" O'Connor frowned. "Yes or no what?" he said. "I" Malone blinked. "I meant, the things have names, " he said at last. "All the various psionic manifestations have names. " "Ah, " O'Connor said. "Well. I should say. " He put his fingertipstogether and stared at a point on the white ceiling for a second. "Yes, " he said at last. Malone breathed a sigh of relief. "Good, " he said. "That's what Iwanted to know. " He leaned forward. "And if they all do have names, "he went on, "what is it called, when a large group of people areforced to act in a certain manner?" O'Connor shrugged. "Forced?" he said. "Forced by mental power, " Malone said. There was a second of silence. "At first, " O'Connor said, "I might think of various examples: theactions of a mob, for example, or the demonstrations of the IndianRope Trick, or perhaps the sale of a useless product throughtelevision or through other advertising. " Again his face moved, everso slightly, in what he obviously believed to be a smile. "The usualname for such a phenomenon is 'mass hypnotism, ' Mr. Malone, " he said. "But that is not, strictly speaking, a _psi_ phenomenon at all. Studies in that area belong to the field of mob psychology; they arenot properly in my scope. " He looked vastly superior to anything andeverything that was outside his scope. Malone concentrated on lookingreceptive and understanding. "Yes?" he said. O'Connor gave him a look that made Malone feel he'd been caughtcribbing during an exam, but the scientist said nothing to back up thelook. Instead, he went on: "I will grant that there may be anamplification of the telepathic faculty in the normal individual insuch cases. " "Good, " Malone said doubtfully. "Such an amplification, " O'Connor went on, as if he hadn't heard, "would account for the apparent . . . Ah . . . Mental linkage that makes amob appear to act as a single organism during certain periods of . . . Ah . . . Stress. " He looked judicious for a second, and then nodded. "However, " he said, "other than that, I would doubt that there is anypsionic force involved. " Malone spent a second or two digesting O'Connor's reply. "Well, " hesaid at last, "I'm not sure that's what I meant. I mean, I'm not sureI meant to ask that question. " He took a breath and decided to startall over. "It's not like a mob, " he said, "with everybody all doingthe same thing at the same time. It's more like a group of men, allseparated, without any apparent connections between any of the men. And they're all working toward a common goal. All doing differentthings, but all with the same objective. See?" "Of course I do, " O'Connor said flatly. "But what you're suggesting--"He looked straight at Malone. "Have you had any experience of this . . . Phenomenon?" "Experience?" Malone said. "I believe you have had, " O'Connor said. "Such a concept could nothave come to you in a theoretical manner. You must be involved with anactual situation very much like the one you describe. " Malone swallowed. "Me?" he said. "Mr. Malone, " O'Connor said. "May I remind you that this is YuccaFlats? That the security checks here are as careful as anywhere in theworld? That I, myself, have top-security clearance for my specialprojects? You do not need to watch your words here. " "It's not security, " Malone said. "Anyhow, it's not only security. Butthings are pretty complicated. " "I assure you, " O'Connor said, "that I will be able to understand evenevents which you feel are complex. " Malone swallowed again, hard. "I didn't mean--" he started. "Please, Mr. Malone, " O'Connor said. His voice was colder than usual. Malone had the feeling that he was about to take the extra chair away. "Go on, " O'Connor said. "Explain yourself. " Malone took a deep breath. He started with the facts he'd been told byBurris, and went straight through to the interviews of the twocomputer-secretary technicians by Boyd and Company. It took quite a while. By the time he had finished, O'Connor wasn'tlooking frozen any more; he'd apparently forgotten to keep the freezercoils running. Instead, his face showed frank bewilderment, and greatinterest. "I never heard of such a thing, " he said. "Never. Not at anytime. " "But--" O'Connor shook his head. "I have never heard of a psionicmanifestation on that order, " he said. It seemed to be a painfuladmission. "Something that would make a random group of men co-operatein that manner--why, it's completely new. " "It is?" Malone said, wondering if, when it was all investigated anddescribed, it might be called O'Connorizing. Then he wondered howanybody was going to go about investigating it and describing it, andsank even deeper into gloom. [Illustration] "Completely new, " O'Connor said. "You may take my word. " Then, slowly, he began to brighten again, with all the glitter of newly-formed ice. "As a matter of fact, " he said, in a tone more like his usual one, "Mr. Malone, I don't think it's possible. " "But it happened, " Malone said. "It's still happening. All over. " O'Connor's lips tightened. "I have given my opinion, " he said. "I donot believe that such a thing is possible. There must be some otherexplanation. " "All right, " Malone said agreeably. "I'll bite. What is it?" O'Connor frowned. "Your levity, " he said, "is uncalled-for. " Malone shrugged. "I didn't mean to be--" he paused. "Anyhow, I didn'tmean to be funny, " he went on. "But I would like to have another ideaof what's causing all this. " "Scientific theories, " O'Connor said sternly, "are not invented on thespur of the moment. Only after long, careful thought--" "You mean you can't think of anything, " Malone said. "There must be some other explanation, " O'Connor said. "Naturally, since the facts have only now been presented to me, it is impossiblefor me to display at once a fully constructed theory. " Malone nodded slowly. "O. K. , " he said. "Have you got any hints, then?Any ideas at all?" O'Connor shook his head. "I have not, " he said. "But I stronglysuggest, Mr. Malone, that you recheck your data. The fault may verywell lie in your own interpretations of the actual facts. " "I don't think so, " Malone said. O'Connor grimaced. "I do, " he said firmly. Malone sighed, very faintly. He shifted in the chair and began torealize, for the first time, just how uncomfortable it really was. Healso felt a little chilly, and the chill was growing. That, he toldhimself, was the effect of Dr. O'Connor. He no longer regrettedwearing his hat. As a matter of fact, he thought wistfully for asecond of a small, light overcoat. O'Connor, he told himself, was definitely not the warm, friendly type. "Well, then, " he said, conquering the chilly feeling for a second, "maybe there's somebody else. Somebody who knows something more aboutpsionics, and who might have some other ideas about--" "Please, Mr. Malone, " O'Connor said. "The United States Governmentwould hardly have chosen me had I not been uniquely qualified in myfield. " Malone sighed again. "I mean . . . Maybe there are some books on thesubject, " he said quietly, hoping he sounded tactful. "Maybe there'ssomething I could look up. " "Mr. Malone. " The temperature of the office, Malone realized, wasdefinitely lowering. O'Connor's built-in freezer coils were workingovertime, he told himself. "The field of psionics is so young that Ican say, without qualification, that I am acquainted with everythingwritten on the subject. By that, of course, I mean scientific works. Ido not doubt that the American Society for Psychical Research, forinstance, has hundreds of crackpot books which I have never read, oreven heard of. But in the strictly scientific field, I must saythat--" He broke off, looking narrowly at Malone with what might have beenconcern, but looked more like discouragement and boredom. "Mr. Malone, " he said, "are you ill?" Malone thought about it. He wasn't quite sure, he discovered. Thechill in the office was bothering him more and more, and as it grew hebegan to doubt that it was all due to the O'Connor influence. Suddenlya distinct shudder started somewhere in the vicinity of his shouldersand rippled its way down his body. Another one followed it, and then a third. "Me?" Malone said. "I'm . . . I'm all right. " "You seem to have contracted a chill, " O'Connor said. A fourth shudder followed the other three. "I . . . Guess so, " Malone said. "I d-d . . . I do s-seem to be r-r-ratherchilly. " O'Connor nodded. "Ah, " he said. "I thought so. Although a chill iscertainly odd at seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. " He looked at thethermometer just outside the window of his office, then turned back toMalone. "Pardon me, " he said. "Seventy-one point six. " "Is . . . Is that all it is?" Malone said. Seventy-one point sixdegrees, or even seventy-two, hardly sounded like the broiling Nevadadesert he'd expected. "Of course, " O'Connor said. "At nine o'clock in the morning, one wouldhardly expect great temperatures. The desert becomes quite hot duringthe day, but cools off rapidly; I assume you are familiar with thelaws covering the system. " "Sure, " Malone said. "S-sure. " The chills were not getting any better. They continued to travel upand down his body with the dignified regularity of PennsylvaniaRailroad commuter trains. O'Connor frowned for a second. It was obvious that his keen scientificeye was sizing up the phenomenon, and reporting events to his keenscientific brain. In a second or less, the keen scientific brain hadcome up with an answer, and Dr. O'Connor spoke in his very keenestscientific voice. "I should have warned you, " he said, without an audible trace ofregret. "The answer is childishly simple, Mr. Malone. You leftWashington at noon. " "Just a little before noon, " Malone said. Remembering the burning sun, he added: "High noon. Very high. " "Just so, " O'Connor said. "And not only the heat was intense; thehumidity, I assume, was also high. " "Very, " Malone said, thinking back. He shivered again. "In Washington, " O'Connor said, "it was noon. Here it is nine o'clock, and hardly as warm. The atmosphere is quite arid, and about twentydegrees below that obtaining in Washington. " Malone thought about it, trying to ignore the chills. "Oh, " he said atlast. "And all the time I thought it was you. " "What?" O'Connor leaned forward. "Nothing, " Malone said hastily. "My suggestion, " O'Connor said, putting his fingertips together again, "is that you take off your clothes, which are undoubtedly damp, and--" Naturally, Malone had not brought any clothes to Yucca Flats to changeinto. And when he tried to picture himself in a spare suit of Dr. O'Connor's, the picture just wouldn't come. Besides, the idea of doinga modified strip-tease in, or near, the O'Connor office was thoroughlyunattractive. "Well, " he said slowly, "thanks a lot, doctor, but no thanks. I reallyhave a better idea. " "Better?" O'Connor said. "Well, I--" Malone took a deep breath and shut his eyes. He heard Dr. O'Connor say: "Well, Mr. Malone--good-by. And good luck. " Then the office in Yucca Flats was gone, and Malone was standing inthe bedroom of his own apartment, on the fringes of Washington, D. C. IV He walked over to the wall control and shut off the air-conditioningin a hurry. He threw open a window and breathed great gulps of thehot, humid air from the streets. In a small corner at the back of hismind, he wondered why he was grateful for the air he had sufferedunder only a few minutes before. But that, he reflected, was life. Anda very silly kind of life, too, he told himself without rancor. In a few minutes he left the window, somewhat restored, and headed forthe shower. When it was running nicely and he was under it, he startedto sing. But his voice didn't sound as much like the voice of LauritzMelchior as it usually did, not even when he made a brave, iffoolhardy stab at the Melchior accent. Slowly, he began to realizethat he was bothered. He climbed out of the shower and started drying himself. Up to now, hethought, he had depended on Dr. Thomas O'Connor for edifying, trustworthy and reasonably complete information about psionics and_psi_ phenomena in general. He had looked on O'Connor as a sort ofliving version of an extremely good edition of the _Britannica_, always available for reference. And now O'Connor had failed him. That, Malone thought, was hardlyfair. O'Connor had no business failing him--particularly when therewas no place else to go. The scientist had been right, of course, Malone knew. There was noother scientist who knew as much about psionics as O'Connor, and ifO'Connor said there were no books, then that was that: there were nobooks. He reached for a drawer in his dresser, opened it and pulled out someunderclothes, humming tunelessly under his breath as he dressed. Ifthere was no one to ask, he thought, and if there were no books-- He stopped with a sock in his hand, and stared at it in wonder. O'Connor hadn't said there were no books. As a matter of fact, Malonerealized, he'd said exactly the opposite. There were books. But they were "crackpot" books. O'Connor had neverread them. He had, he said, probably never even heard of many of them. "Crackpot" was a fighting word to O'Connor. But to Malone it had allthe sweetness of flattery. After all, he'd found telepaths in insaneasylums, and teleports among the juvenile delinquents of New York. "Crackpot" was a word that was rapidly ceasing to have any meaning atall in Malone's mind. He realized that he was still staring at the sock, which was blackwith a gold clock. Hurriedly, he put it on, and finished dressing. Hereached for the phone and made a few fast calls, and then teleportedhimself to his locked office in FBI Headquarters, on East Sixty-ninthStreet in New York. He let himself out, and strolled down thecorridor. The agent-in-charge looked up from his desk as Malonepassed, blinked, and said: "Hello, Malone. What's up now?" "I'm going prowling, " Malone said. "But there won't be any work foryou, as far as I can see. " "Oh?" "Just relax, " Malone said. "Breathe easy. " "I'll try to, " the agent-in-charge said, a little sadly. "But everytime you show up, I think about that wave of red Cadillacs youstarted. I'll never feel really secure again. " "Relax, " Malone said. "Next time it won't be Cadillacs. But it mightbe spirits, blowing on ear-trumpets. Or whatever it is they do. " "Spirits, Malone?" the agent-in-charge said. "No, thanks, " Malone said sternly. "I never drink on duty. " He gavethe agent a cheery wave of his hand and went out to the street. * * * * * The Psychical Research Society had offices in the Ravell Building, alarge structure composed mostly of plate glass and anodized aluminumthat looked just a little like a bright blue, partially transparentcrackerbox that had been stood on end for purposes unknown. Havingwalked all the way down to this box on Fifty-sixth Street, Malone hadrecovered his former sensitivity range to temperature and feltpathetically grateful for the coolish sea breeze that made New Yorksomewhat less of an unbearable Summer Festival than was normal. The lobby of the building was glittering and polished, as if humanbeings could not possibly exist in it. Malone took an elevator to thesixth floor, stepped out into a small, equally polished hall, andhurriedly looked off to his right. A small door stood there, with alegend engraved in elegantly small letters. It said: _The Psychical Research Society_ _Push_ Malone obeyed instructions. The door swung noiselessly open, and thenclosed behind him. He was in a large square-looking room which had a couch and chair setat one corner, and a desk at the far end. Behind the desk was a brassplate, on which was engraved: _The Psychical Research Society_ _Main Offices_ To Malone's left was a hall that angled off into invisibility, and tothe left of the desk was another one, going straight back past doorsand two radiators until it ran into a right-angled turn and alsodisappeared. Malone took in the details of his surroundings almost automatically, filing them in his memory just in case he ever needed to use them. One detail, however, required more than automatic attention. Sittingbehind the desk, her head just below the brass plaque, was a redhead. She was, Malone thought, positively beautiful. Of course, he could notsee the lower two-thirds of her body, but if they were half asinteresting as the upper third and the face and head, he was willingto spend days, weeks or even months on their investigation. Some jobs, he told himself, feeling a strong sense of duty, were definitely worthtaking time over. She was turned slightly away from Malone, and had obviously not heardhim come in. Malone wondered how best to announce himself, andregretfully gave up the idea of tiptoeing up to the girl, placing hishands over her eyes, kissing the back of her neck and crying:"Surprise!" It was elegant, he felt, but it just wasn't right. He compromised at last on the old established method ofthroat-clearing to attract her attention. He was sure he could take itfrom there, to an eminently satisfying conclusion. He tiptoed on the deep-pile rug right up to her desk. And the expected happened. He sneezed. The sneeze was loud and long, and it echoed through the room andthroughout the corridors. It sounded to Malone like the blast of asmall bomb, or possibly a grenade. Startled himself by the volume ofsound he had managed to generate, he jumped back. The girl had jumped, too--but her leap had been straight upward, aboutan inch and a half. She came down on her chair and reached up a hand. The hand wiped the back of her neck with a slow, lingering motion ofcomplete loathing. Then, equally slowly, she turned. "That, " she said in a low, sweet voice, "was a dirty trick. " "It was an accident, " Malone said. She regarded Malone darkly. "Do you always do that to strangers? Is itsome new sort of perversion?" "I have never done such a thing before, " Malone said sternly. "Oh, " the girl said. "An experimenter. Avid for new sensations. Probably a jaded scion of a rich New York family. " She paused. "Tellme, " she said. "Is it fun?" Malone opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He shut it, thought fora second and then tried again. He got as far as: "I--" before Nemesisovertook him. The second sneeze was even louder and more powerful thanthe first had been. "It must be fun, " the girl said acidly, producing a handkerchief fromsomewhere and going to work on her face. "You just can't seem to waitto do it again. Would it do any good to tell you that the fascinationwith this form of greeting is not universal? Or don't you care?" Malone said, goaded, "I've got a cold. " "And you feel you should share it with the world, " the girl said. "Iquite understand. Tell me, is there anything I can do for you? Or hasyour mission been accomplished?" "My mission?" Malone said. "Having sneezed twice at me, " the girl said, "do you now feelsatisfied? Will you vanish softly and silently away? Or do you want tosneeze at somebody else?" "I want the President of the Society, " Malone said. "According to myinformation, his name is Sir Lewis Carter. " "And if you sneeze at him, " the girl said, "yours is going to be mud. He isn't much on novelty. " "I--" "Besides which, " she said, "he's extremely busy. And I don't thinkhe'll see you at all. Why don't you go and sneeze at somebody else?There must be lots of people who would consider themselves honored tobe noticed, especially in such a startling way. Why don't you try andfind one somewhere? Somewhere very far away?" Malone was beyond speech. He fumbled for his wallet, flipped it openand showed the girl his identification. "My, my, " she said. "And hasn't the FBI anything better to do? I mean, can't you go and sneeze at counterfeiters in their lairs, or whereverthey might be?" "I want to see Sir Lewis Carter, " Malone said doggedly. The girl shrugged and picked up the phone on her desk. It was ablank-vision device, of course; many office intercoms were. Shedialed, waited and then said: "Sir Lewis, please. " Another second wentby. Then she spoke again. "Sir Lewis, " she said, "this is Lou, at thefront desk. There's a man here named Malone, who wants to see you. " She waited a second. "I don't know what he wants, " she told the phone. "But he's from the FBI. " A second's pause. "That's right, the FBI, "she said. "All right, Sir Lewis. Right away. " She hung up the phoneand turned to watch Malone warily. "Sir Lewis, " she said, "will see you. I couldn't say why. But take theside corridor to the rear of the suite. His office has his name on it, and I won't tell you you can't miss it because I have every faith thatyou will. Good luck. " Malone blinked. "Look, " he said. "I know I startled you, but I didn'tmean to. I--" He started to sneeze, but this time he got his ownhandkerchief out in time and muffled the explosion slightly. "Good work, " the girl said approvingly. * * * * * There was nothing at all to say to that remark, Malone reflected as hewended his way down the side corridor. It seemed endless, and keptbranching off unexpectedly. Once he blundered into a large open roomfilled with people at desks. A woman who seemed to have a great manyteeth and rather bulbous eyes looked up at him. "Can I help you?" shesaid in a fervent whine. "I sincerely hope not, " Malone said, backing away and managing to findthe corridor once more. After what seemed like a long time, and twomore sneezes, he found a small door which was labeled in capitalletters: THE PSYCHICAL RESEARCH SOCIETY SIR LEWIS CARTER PRESIDENT Malone sighed. "Well, " he muttered, "they certainly aren't hidinganything. " He pushed at the door, and it swung open. Sir Lewis was a tall, solidly-built man with a kindly expression. Hewore gray flannel trousers and a brown tweed jacket, which made aninteresting color contrast with his iron-gray hair. His teeth wereclenched so firmly on the bit of a calabash pipe with a meerschaumbowl that Malone wondered if he could ever get loose. Malone shut thedoor behind him, and Sir Lewis rose and extended a hand. Malone went to the desk and reached across to take the hand. It wasfirm and dry. "I'm Kenneth Malone, " Malone said. "Ah, yes, " Sir Lewis said. "Pleased to meet you; always happy, ofcourse, to do whatever I can for your FBI. Not only a duty, so tospeak, but a pleasure. Sit down. Please do sit down. " Malone found a chair at the side of the desk, and sank into it. It wassoft and comfortable. It provided such a contrast to O'Connor'sfurnishings that Malone began to wish it was Sir Lewis who wasemployed at Yucca Flats. Then he could tell Sir Lewis everything aboutthe case. Now, of course, he could only hedge and try to make do without statingvery many facts. "Sir Lewis, " he said, "I trust you'll keep thisconversation confidential. " "Naturally, " Sir Lewis said. He removed the pipe, stared at it, andreplaced it. "I can't give you the full details, " Malone went on, "but the FBI ispresently engaged in an investigation which requires the specializedknowledge your organization seems to have. " "FBI?" Sir Lewis said. "Specialized investigation?" He seemed pleased, but a trifle puzzled. "Dear boy, anything we have is at your disposal, of course. But I quite fail to see how you can consider us--" "It's rather an unusual problem, " Malone said, feeling that that wasthe understatement of the year. "But I understand that your records goback nearly a century. " "Quite true, " Sir Lewis murmured. "During that time, " Malone said, "the Society investigated a greatmany supposedly supernatural or supernormal incidents. " "Many of them, " Sir Lewis said, "were discovered to be fraudulent, I'mafraid. The great majority, in fact. " "That's what I'd assume, " Malone said. He fished in his pockets, founda cigarette and lit it. Sir Lewis went on chewing at his unlit pipe. "What we're interested in, " Malone said, "is some description of thevarious methods by which these frauds were perpetrated. " "Ah, " Sir Lewis said. "The tricks of the trade, so to speak?" "Exactly, " Malone said. "Well, then, " Sir Lewis said. "The luminous gauze, for instance, thatpasses for ectoplasm; the various methods of table-lifting; control ofthe ouija board--things like that?" "Not quite that elementary, " Malone said. He puffed on the cigarette, wishing it was a cigar. "We're pretty much up to that kind of thing. But had it ever occurred to you that many of the methods used by phonymind-reading acts, for instance, might be used as communicationmethods by spies?" "Why, I believe some have been, " Sir Lewis said. "Though I don't knowmuch about that, of course; there was a case during the First WorldWar--" "Exactly, " Malone said. He took a deep breath. "It's things like thatwe're interested in, " he said, and spent the next twenty minutesslowly approaching his subject. Sir Lewis, apparently fascinated, wasperfectly willing to unbend in any direction, and jotted down notes onsome of Malone's more interesting cases, murmuring: "Most unusual, most unusual, " as he wrote. The various types of phenomena that the Society had investigated cameinto the discussion, and Malone heard quite a lot about the Beyond, the Great Summerland, Spirit Mediums and the hypothetical existence offairies, goblins and elves. "But, Sir Lewis--" he said. "I make no claims personally, " Sir Lewis said. "But I understand thatthere is a large and somewhat vocal group which does make rathersolid-sounding claims in that direction. They say that they have seenfairies, talked with goblins, danced with the elves. " "They must be very unusual people, " Malone said, understating heavily. "Oh, " Sir Lewis said, "without a that it goes throughAccounting. " Talk like this passed away nearly a half hour, until Malone finallyfelt that it was the right time to introduce some of his realquestions. "Tell me, Sir Lewis, " he said, "have you had many instancesof a single man, or a small group of men, controlling the actions of amuch larger group? And doing it in such a way that the larger groupdoesn't even know it is being manipulated?" "Of course I have, " Sir Lewis said. "And so have you. They call itadvertising. " Malone flicked his cigarette into an ashtray. "I didn't mean exactlythat, " he said. "Suppose they're doing it in such a way that thelarger group doesn't even suspect that manipulation is going on?" Sir Lewis removed his pipe and frowned at it. "I may be able to giveyou a little information, " he said slowly, "but not much. " "Ah?" Malone said, trying to sound only mildly interested. "Outside of mob psychology, " Sir Lewis said, "and all that sort ofthing, I really haven't seen any record of a case of such a thinghappening. And I can't quite imagine anyone faking it. " "But you have got some information?" Malone said. "Certainly, " Sir Lewis said. "There is always spirit control. " "Spirit control?" Malone blinked. "Demonic intervention, " Sir Lewis said. "'My name is Legion, ' youknow. " Sir Lewis Legion, Malone thought confusedly, was a rather unusualname. He took a breath and caught hold of his revolving mind. "Howwould you go about that?" he said, a little hopelessly. "I haven't the foggiest, " Sir Lewis admitted cheerfully. "But I willhave it looked up for you. " He made a note. "Anything else?" Malone tried to think. "Yes, " he said at last. "Can you give me acondensed report on what is known--and I mean _known_--on telepathyand teleportation?" "What you want, " Sir Lewis said, "are those cases proven genuine, notthe ones in which we have established fraud, or those still in doubt. " "Exactly, " Malone said. If he got no other use out of the data, itwould provide a measuring-stick for the Society. The general publicdidn't know that the government was actually using psionic powers, andthe Society's theories, checked against actual fact, would provide arough index of reliability to use on the Society's other data. But spirits, somehow, didn't seem very likely. Malone sighed and stoodup. "I'll have copies made of all the relevant material, " Sir Lewis said, "from our library and research files. Where do you want the materialsent? I do want to warn you of its bulk; there may be quite a lot ofit. " "FBI Headquarters, on Sixty-ninth Street, " Malone said. "And send astatement of expenses along with it. As long as the bill's withinreason, don't worry about itemizing; I'll see that it goes throughAccounting. " Sir Lewis nodded. "Fine, " he said. "And, if you should have anydifficulties with the material, please let me know. I'll always beglad to help. " "Thanks for your co-operation, " Malone said. He went to the door, andwalked on out. He blundered back into the same big room again, on his way through thecorridors. The bulbous-eyed woman, who seemed to have inherited a fullset of thirty-two teeth from each of her parents, gave him a friendlyif somewhat crowded smile, but Malone pressed on without a word. Aftera while, he found the reception room again. * * * * * The girl behind the desk looked up. "How did he react?" she said. Malone blinked. "React?" he said. "When you sneezed at him, " she said. "Because I've been thinking itover, and I've got a new theory. You're doing a survey on how peopleact when encountering sneezes. Like Kinsey. " This girl--Lou something, Malone thought, and with difficultyrefrained from adding "Gehrig"--had an unusual effect, he decided. Hewondered if there were anyone in the world she couldn't reduce toparalyzed silence. "Of course, " she went on, "Kinsey was dealing with sex, and youaren't. At least, you aren't during business hours. " She smiledpolitely at Malone. "No, " he said helplessly, "I'm not. " "It is sneezing, then, " she said. "Will I be in the book when it'spublished?" "Book?" Malone said, feeling more and more like a rather low-grademoron. "The book on sneezing, when you get it published, " she said. "I cansee it now--the Case of Miss X, a Receptionist. " "There isn't going to be any book, " Malone said. She shook her head. "That's a shame, " she said. "I've always wanted tobe a Miss X. It sounds exciting. " "X, " Malone said at random, "marks the spot. " "Why, that's the sweetest thing that's been said to me all day, " thegirl said. "I thought you could hardly talk, and here you come outwith lovely things like that. But I'll bet you say it to all thegirls. " "I have never said it to anybody before, " Malone said flatly. "And Inever will again. " The girl sighed. "I'll treasure it, " she said. "My one great moment. Good-by, Mr. . . . Malone, isn't it?" "Ken, " Malone said. "Just call me Ken. " "And I'm Lou, " the girl said. "Good-by. " An elevator arrived and Malone ducked into it. Louie? he thought. Louise? Luke? Of course, there was Sir Lewis Carter, who might becalled Lou. Was he related to the girl? No, Malone thought wildly. Relations went by last names. There was noreason for Lou to be related to Sir Lewis. They didn't even lookalike. For instance, he had no desire whatever to make a date with SirLewis Carter, or to take him to a glittering nightclub. And the veryidea of Sir Lewis Carter sitting on the Malone lap was enough to givehim indigestion and spots before the eyes. Sternly, he told himself to get back to business. The elevator stoppedat the lobby and he got out and started down the street, feeling thatconsideration of the Lady Known As Lou was much more pleasant. Afterall, what did he have to work with, as far as his job was concerned? So far, two experts had told him that his theory was full of lovelylittle holes. Worse than that, they had told him that mass control ofhuman beings was impossible, as far as they knew. And maybe it was impossible, he told himself sadly. Maybe he shouldjust junk his whole theory and think up a new one. Maybe there was nopsionics involved in the thing at all, and Boyd and O'Connor wereright. Of course, he had a deep-seated conviction that psionics was somewhereat the root of everything, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. A lot of people had deep-seated convictions that they were beetles, orthat the world was flat. And then again, murderers often suffered as aresult of deep-seated convictions. On the other hand, maybe he had invented a whole new psionictheory--or, at least, observed some new psionic facts. Maybe theywould call the results Maloneizing, instead of O'Connorizing. He triedto picture a man opening a door and saying: "Come out quick--Mr. Frembits is Maloneizing again. " It didn't sound very plausible. But, after all, he did have adeep-seated conviction. He tried to think of a shallow-seatedconviction, and failed. Didn't convictions ever stand up, anyhow, orlie down? He shook his head, discovered that he was on Sixty-ninth Street, andheaded for the FBI headquarters. His convictions, he had found, weresometimes an expression of his precognitive powers; he determined toride with them, at least for a while. By the time he came to the office of the agent-in-charge, he hadfigured out the beginnings of a new line of attack. "How about the ghosts?" the agent-in-charge asked as he passed. "They'll be along, " Malone said. "In a big bundle, addressed to mepersonally. And don't open the bundle. " "Why not?" the agent-in-charge asked. "Because I don't want the things to get loose and run around saying_Boo!_ to everybody, " Malone said brightly, and went on. * * * * * He opened the door of his private office, went inside and sat down atthe desk there. He took his time about framing a thought, a single, clear, deliberate thought: _Your Majesty, I'd like to speak to you. _ [Illustration] He hardly had time to finish it. A flash of color appeared in theroom, just a few feet from his desk. The flash resolved itself into atiny, grandmotherly-looking woman with a corona of white hair and akindly, twinkling expression. She was dressed in the full courtcostume of the First Elizabethan period, and this was hardlysurprising to Malone. The little old lady believed, quite firmly, thatshe was Queen Elizabeth I, miraculously preserved over all thesecenturies. Malone, himself, had practically forgotten that the woman'sreal name was Rose Thompson, and that she had only been alive forsixty-five years or so. For most of that time, she had been insane. For all of that time, however, she had been a genuine telepath. Shehad been discovered during the course of Malone's first psionic case, and by now she had even learned to teleport by "reading" the processin Malone's mind. "Good afternoon, Sir Kenneth, " she said in a regal, kindly voice. Shewas mad, he knew, but her delusion was nicely kept within bounds. Allof her bright world hinged on the single fact that she was unshakablycertain of her royalty. As long as the FBI catered to thatnotion--which included a Royal dwelling for her in Yucca Flats, andthe privilege of occasionally knighting FBI Agents who had pleased herunpredictable fancy--she was perfectly rational on all other points. She co-operated with Dr. O'Connor and with the FBI in theinvestigation of her psionic powers, and she had given her Royal wordnot to teleport except at Malone's personal request. "I'd like to talk to you, " Malone said, "Your Majesty. " There was an odd note in the Queen's voice, and an odd, hauntedexpression on her face. "I've been hoping you'd ask me to come, " shesaid. "I had a hunch you were following me telepathically, " Malone said. "Can you give me any help?" "I . . . I really don't know, " she said. "It's something new, andsomething . . . Disturbing. I've never come across anything like itbefore. " "Like what?" Malone asked. "It's the--" She made a gesture that conveyed nothing at all toMalone. "The . . . The static, " she said at last. Malone blinked. "Static?" he said. "Yes, " she said. "You're not telepathic, so I can't tell you what it'sreally like. But . . . Well, Sir Kenneth, have you ever seen disturbanceon a TV screen, when there's some powerful electric output nearby? Thebright, senseless snowstorms, the meaningless hash?" "Sure, " Malone said. "It's like that, " she said. "It's a . . . A sudden, meaningless, disturbing blare of telepathic energy. " The telephone rang once. Malone ignored it. "What's causing these disturbances?" he asked. She shook her head. "I don't know, Sir Kenneth. I don't know, " shesaid. "I can't pick up a person's mind over a distance unless I knowhim--and I can't see what's causing this at all. It's . . . Frankly, SirKenneth, it's rather terrifying. " The phone rang again. "How long have you been experiencing this disturbance?" Malone asked. He looked at the phone. "The telephone isn't important, " Her Majesty said. "It's only SirThomas, calling to tell you he's arrested three spies, and thatdoesn't matter at all. " "It doesn't?" "Not at all, " Her Majesty said. "What does matter is that I've onlybeen picking up these flashes since you were assigned to this newcase, Sir Kenneth. And--" She paused. "Well?" Malone said. "And they only appear, " Her Majesty said, "when I'm tuned to _your_mind!" [Illustration] V Malone stared. He tried to say something but he couldn't find anywords. The telephone rang again and he pushed the switch with a senseof relief. The beard-fringed face of Thomas Boyd appeared on thescreen. "You're getting hard to find, " Boyd said. "I think you're letting fameand fortune go to your head. " "I left word at the office that I was coming here, " Malone saidaggrievedly. "Sure you did, " Boyd said. "How do you think I found you? Am Itelepathic? Do I have strange powers?" "Wouldn't surprise me in the least, " Malone said. "Now, about thosespies--" "See what I mean?" Boyd said. "How did you know?" "Just lucky, I guess, " Malone murmured. "But what about them?" "Well, " Boyd said, "we picked up two men working in the Senate OfficeBuilding, and another one working for the State Department. " "And they are spies?" Malone said. "Real spies?" "Oh, they're real enough, " Boyd said. "We've known about 'em foryears, and I finally decided to pick them up for questioning. Maybethey have something to do with all this mess that's botheringeverybody. " "You haven't the faintest idea what you mean, " Malone said. "Mess ishardly the word. " Boyd snorted. "You go on getting yourself confused, " he said, "whilesome of us do the real work. After all--" "Never mind the insults, " Malone said. "How about the spies?" "Well, " Boyd said, a trifle reluctantly, "they've been working asjanitors and maintenance men, and of course we've made sure theyhaven't been able to get their hands on any really valuableinformation. " "So they've suddenly turned into criminal masterminds, " Malone said. "After being under careful surveillance for years--" "Well, it's possible, " Boyd said defensively. "Almost anything is possible, " Malone said. "Some things, " Boyd said carefully, "are more possible than others. " "Thank you, Charles W. Aristotle, " Malone said. "I hope you realizewhat you've done, picking up those three men. We might have been ableto get some good lines on them, if you'd left them where they were. " There is an old story about a general who went on an inspection tourof the front during World War I, and, putting his head incautiously upout of a trench, was narrowly missed by a sniper's bullet. He turnedto a nearby sergeant and bellowed: "Get that sniper!" "Oh, we've got him spotted, sir, " the sergeant said. "He's been therefor six days now. " "Well, then, " the general said, "why don't you blast him out ofthere?" "Well, sir, it's this way, " the sergeant explained. "He's fired aboutsixty rounds since he's been out there, and he hasn't hit anythingyet. We're afraid if we get rid of him they'll put up somebody who_can_ shoot. " This was standard FBI policy when dealing with minor spies. A greatmany had been spotted, including four in the Department of Fisheries. But known spies are easier to keep track of than unknown ones. And, aslong as they're allowed to think they haven't been spotted, they maylead the way to other spies or spy networks. "I thought it was worth the risk, " Boyd said. "After all, if they havesomething to do with the case--" "But they don't, " Malone said. Boyd exploded, "Let me find out for myself, will you? You're spoilingall the fun. " "Well, anyhow, " Malone said, "they don't. " "You can't afford to take any chances, " Boyd said. "After all, when Ithink about William Logan, I tell myself we'd better take care ofevery lead. " "Well, " Malone said finally, "you may be right. And then again, youmay be normally wrong. " "What is that supposed to mean?" Boyd said. "How should I know?" Malone said "I'm too busy to go around and aroundlike this. But since you've picked up the spies, I suppose it won't doany harm to find out if they know anything. " Boyd snorted again. "Thank you, " he said, "for your kind permission. " "I'll be right down, " Malone said. "I'll be waiting, " Boyd said. "In Interrogation Room 7. You'llrecognize me by the bullet hole in my forehead and the strange SouthAmerican poison, hitherto unknown to science, in my oesophagus. " "Very funny, " Malone said. "Don't give up the ship. " * * * * * Boyd switched off without a word. Malone shrugged at the blank screenand pushed his own switch. Then he turned slowly back to Her Majesty, who was standing, waiting patiently, at the opposite side of the desk. Interference, he thought, located around him-- "Why, yes, " she said. "That's exactly what I did say. " Malone blinked. "Your Majesty, " he said, "would you mind terribly if Iasked you questions before you answered them? I know you can see themin my mind, but it's simpler for me to do things the normal way, justnow. " "I'm sorry, " she said sincerely. "I do agree that matters are confusedenough already. Please go on. " "Thank you, Your Majesty, " Malone said. "Well, then. Do you mean that_I'm_ the one causing all this . . . Mental static?" "Oh, no, " she said. "Not at all. It's definitely coming from somewhereelse, and it's beamed at you, or beamed around you. " "But--" "It's just that I can only pick it up when I'm tuned to your mind, "she said. "Like now?" Malone said. She shook her head. "Right now, " she said, "there isn't any. It onlyhappens every once in a while--every so often, and not continuously. " "Does it happen at regular intervals?" Malone said. "Not as far as I've been able to tell, " Her Majesty said. "It just . . . Happens, that's all. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason toit. Except that it did start when you were assigned to this case. " "Lovely, " Malone said. "And what is it supposed to mean?" "Interference, " she said. "Static. Jumble. That's all it means. I justdon't know any more than that, Sir Kenneth; I've never experiencedanything like it in my life. It really does disturb me. " That, Malone told himself, he could believe. It must be an experience, he told himself, like having someone you were looking at suddenlydissolve into a jumble of meaningless shapes and lights. "That's a very good analogy, " Her Majesty said. "If you'll pardon mespeaking before you've voiced your thought--" "Not at all, " Malone said. "Go right ahead. " "Well, then, " Her Majesty said. "The analogy you use is a good one. It's just as disturbing and as meaningless as that. " "And you don't know what's causing it?" Malone said. "I don't know, " she said. "Nor what the purpose of it is?" he said. Her Majesty shook her head slowly. "Sir Kenneth, " she said, "I don'teven know whether or not there _is_ any purpose. " Malone sighed deeply. Nothing in the case seemed to make any sense. Itwasn't that there were no clues, or no information for him to workwith. There were a lot of clues, and there was a lot of information. But nothing seemed to link up with anything else. Every new fact was abright, shiny arrow pointing nowhere in particular. "Well, then--" he started. The intercom buzzed. Malone jabbed ferociously at the button. "Yes, "he said. "The ghosts are here, " the agent-in-charge's voice said. Malone blinked. "What?" he said. "You said you were going to get some ghosts, " the agent-in-chargesaid. "From the Psychical Research Society, in a couple of largebundles And they're here now. Want me to exorcise 'em for you?" "No, " Malone said wearily. "Just send them in to join the crowd. Gota messenger?" "I'll send them down, " the agent-in-charge said. "About one minute. " Malone nodded, realized the man couldn't see him, said: "Fine, " andswitched off. He looked at his watch. A little over half an hour hadpassed since he had left the Psychical Research Society offices. That, he told himself, was efficiency. Not that the books would mean anything, he thought. They would justtake their places at the end of the long row of meaningless, disturbing, vicious facts that cluttered up his mind. He wasn't an FBIagent any more; he was a clown and a failure, and he was through. Hewas going to resign and go to South Dakota and live the life of ahermit. He would drink goat's milk and eat old shoes or something, andwhenever another human being came near he would run away and hide. They would call him Old Kenneth, and people would write articles formagazines about The Twentieth Century Hermit. And that would make him famous, he thought wearily, and the wholecircle would start all over again. "Now, now, Sir Kenneth, " Queen Elizabeth said. "Things aren't quitethat bad. " "Oh, yes, they are, " Malone said. "They're even worse. " "I'm sure we can find an answer to all your questions, " Her Majestysaid. "Sure, " Malone said. "Even I can find an answer. But it isn't theright one. " "You can?" Her Majesty said. "That's right, " Malone said. "My answer is: To Hell with everything. " * * * * * Malone's Washington offices didn't look any different. He sighed andput the two big packages from the Psychical Research Society down onhis desk, and then turned to Her Majesty. "I wanted you to teleport along with me, " he said, "because I needyour help. " "Yes, " she said. "I know. " He blinked. "Oh. Sure you do. But let me go over the details. " Her Majesty waved a gracious hand. "If you like, Sir Kenneth, " shesaid. Malone nodded. "We're going on down to Interrogation Room 7 now, " hesaid. "Next door to it, there's an observation room, with a one-waypanel in the wall. You'll be able to see us, but we won't be able tosee you. " "I really don't require an observation panel, " Her Majesty said. "If Ienter your mind, I can see through your eyes--" "Oh, sure, " Malone said. "But the observation room was built for morenormal people--saving your presence, Your Majesty. " "Of course, " she said. "Now, " Malone went on, "I want you to watch all three of the men we'regoing to bring in, and dig everything you can out of their minds. " "Everything?" she said. "We don't know what might be useful, " Malone said. "Anything you canfind. And if you want any questions asked--if there's anything youthink I ought to ask the men, or say to them--there's a nonvisionphone in the observation room. Just lift the receiver. Thatautomatically rings the one in the Interrogation Room and I'll pick itup. Understand?" "Perfectly, Sir Kenneth, " she said. "O. K. , then, " Malone said. "Let's go. " They headed for the door. Malone stopped as he opened it. "And by the way, " he said. "Yes?" "If you get any more of those--disturbances, let me know. " "At once, " Her Majesty promised. They went on down the hall and took the elevator down to InterrogationRoom 7, on the lowest level. There was no particular reason forputting the Interrogation section down there, except that it tended tomake prisoners more nervous. And a nervous prisoner, Malone knew, wasvery possibly a confessing prisoner. Malone ushered Her Majesty through the unmarked door of theobservation chamber, made sure that the panel and phone were inworking order, and went out. He stepped into Interrogation Room 7trying hard to look bored, businesslike and unbeatable. Boyd and fourother agents were already there, all standing around and talkingdesultorily in low tones. None of them looked as if they had ever hada moment's worry in their lives. It was all part of the sametechnique, of course, Malone thought. Make the prisoner feelresistance is useless, and you've practically got him working for you. The prisoner was a hulking, flabby fat man in work coveralls. He hadblack hair that spilled all over his forehead, and tiny button eyes. He was the only man in the room who was sitting down, and that wasmeant to make him feel even more inferior and insecure. His hands wereclasped fatly in his lap, and he was staring down at them in aregretful manner. None of the FBI agents paid the slightest attentionto him. The general impression was that something really tough wascoming up, but that they were in no hurry for it. They were willing towait for the Third Degree, it seemed, until the blacksmith had done areally good job with the new spikes for the Iron Maiden. The prisoner looked up apprehensively as Malone shut the door. Malonepaid no attention to him, and the prisoner unclasped his hands, rubbedthem on his coveralls and then reclasped them in his lap. His eyesfell again. Boyd looked up, too. "Hello, Ken, " he said. He tapped a sheaf ofpapers on the single table in the room. Malone went over and pickedthem up. They were the abbreviated condensations of three dossiers. All threeof the men covered in the dossiers were naturalized citizens, but allhad come in us "political refugees"--from Hungary, fromCzechoslovakia, and from East Germany. Further checking had turned upthe fact that all three were actually Russians. They had been usingfalse names during their stay in the United States, but their realones were appended to the dossiers. The fat one in the Interrogation Room was named Alexis Brubitsch. Theother two, who were presumably waiting separately in other rooms, wereIvan Borbitsch and Vasili Garbitsch. The collection sounded, toMalone, like a seedy musical-comedy firm of lawyers: Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch. He could picture them dancing gaily across astage while the strains of music followed them, waving legal forms andtelephones and singing away. Brubitsch did not, however, look very gay. Malone went over to himnow, walking slowly, and looked down. Boyd came and stood next to him. * * * * * "This is the one who won't talk, eh?" Malone said, wondering if hesounded as much like Dick Tracy as he thought he did. It was astandard opening, meant to make the prisoner think his fellows hadalready confessed. "That's him, " Boyd said. "Hm-m-m, " Malone said, trying to look as if he were deciding betweenthe rack and the boiling oil. Brubitsch fidgeted slightly, but hedidn't say anything. "We didn't know whether we had to get this one to talk, too, " Boydsaid. "What with the others, and all. But we did think you ought tohave a look at him. " He sounded very bored. It was obvious from histone that the FBI didn't care in the least if Alexis Brubitsch neveropened his mouth again, in what was likely to be a very shortlifetime. "Well, " Malone said, equally bored, "we might be able to get a fewcorroborative details. " Brubitsch swallowed hard. Malone ignored him. "Now, just look at him, " Boyd said. "He certainly doesn't _look_ likethe head of a spy ring, does he?" "Of course he doesn't, " Malone said. "That's probably why the Russiansused him. They figured nobody would ever look twice at a fat slob likethis. Nobody would ever suspect him of being the head man. " "I guess you're right, " Boyd said. He yawned, which Malone thought wasoveracting a trifle. Brubitsch saw the yawn, and one hand came up tojerk at his collar. "Who'd ever think, " Malone said, "that he plotted those killings inRedstone--all three of them?" "It is surprising, " Boyd said. "But, then, " Malone said, "we know he did. There isn't any doubt ofthat. " Brubitsch seemed to be turning a pale green. It was a fascinatingcolor, unlike any other Malone had ever seen. He watched it withinterest. "Oh, sure, " Boyd said. "We've got enough evidence from the other twoto send this one to the chair tomorrow, if we want to. " "More than enough, " Malone agreed. Brubitsch opened his mouth, shut it again and closed his eyes. Hislips moved silently. "Tell me, " Boyd said conversationally, leaning down to the fat man, "Did your orders on that job come from Moscow, or did you mastermindit all by yourself?" Brubitsch's eyes stirred, then snapped open as if they'd been pulledby a string. "Me?" he said in a hoarse bass voice. "I know nothingabout this murder. What murder?" There were no such murders, of course. But Malone was not ready to letBrubitsch know anything about that. "Oh, the ones you shot inRedstone, " he said in an offhand way. "The what?" Brubitsch said. "I shot people? Never. " "Oh, sure you did, " Boyd said. "The others say you did. " Brubitsch's head seemed to sink into his neck. "Borbitsch andGarbitsch, they tell you about a murder? It is not true. Is a lie. " "Really?" Malone said. "We think it's true. " "Is a lie, " Brubitsch said, his little eyes peering anxiously fromside to side. "Is not true, " he went on hopefully. "I have alibi. " "You do?" Boyd said. "For what time?" "For time when murder happened, " Brubitsch said. "I was some placeelse. " "Well, then, " Malone said, "how do you know when the murders weredone? They were kept out of the newspapers. " That, he reflected, wasquite true, since the murders had never happened. But he watchedBrubitsch with a wary eye. "I know nothing about time, " Brubitsch said, jerking at his collar. "Idon't know when they happened. " "Then how can you have an alibi?" Boyd snapped. "Because I didn't do them!" Brubitsch said tearfully. "If I didn't, then I _must_ have alibi!" "You'd be surprised, " Malone said. "Now, about these murders--" "Was no murder, not by me, " Brubitsch said firmly. "Was never anykilling of anybody, not even by accident. " "But your two friends say--" Boyd began. "My two friends are not my friends, " Brubitsch said firmly. "If theytell you about murder and say it was me, they are no friends. I didnot murder anybody. I have alibi. I did not even murder anybody alittle bit. They are no friends. This is terrible. " "There, " Malone said reflectively, "I agree with you. It's positivelyawful. And I think we might as well give it up. After all, we don'tneed your testimony. The other two are enough; they'll get maybe tenyears apiece, but you're going to get the chair. " "I will not sit down, " Brubitsch said firmly. "I am innocent. I aminnocent like a small child. Does a small child commit a murder? It isridiculous. " * * * * * Boyd picked up his cue with ease. "You might as well give us your sideof the story, then, " he said easily. "If you didn't commit anymurders--" "I am a small child, " Brubitsch announced. "O. K. , " Boyd said. "But if you didn't commit any murders, just what_have_ you been doing since you've been in this country as a Sovietagent?" [Illustration] "I will say nothing, " Brubitsch announced. "I am a small child. It isenough. " He paused, blinked, and went on: "I will only tell you this:no murders were done by our group in any of our activities. " "And what were your activities?" "Oh, many things, " Brubitsch said. "Many, many things. We--" The telephone rang loudly, and Malone scooped it up with a practicedhand. "Malone here, " he said. Her Majesty's voice was excited. "Sir Kenneth!" she said. "I just gota tremendous burst of--static!" Malone blinked. _Is my mind acting up again?_ he thought, knowing shewould pick it up. _Am I being interfered with?_ He didn't feel any different. But then, how was he supposed to feel? "It's not _your_ mind, Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty said. "Not this time. It's _his_ mind. That sneaky-thinking Brubitsch fellow. " _Brubitsch?_ Malone thought. _Now what is that supposed to mean?_ "I don't know, Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty said. "But get on back toyour questioning. He's ready to talk now. " "O. K. , " Malone said aloud. "Fine. " He hung up and looked back to theRussian sitting on his chair. Brubitsch was ready to talk, and thatwas one good thing, anyhow. But what was all the static about? What was going on? "Now, then, " Malone said. "You were telling us about your groupactivities. " "True, " Brubitsch said. "I did not commit any murders. It is possiblethat Borbitsch committed murders. It is possible that Garbitschcommitted murders. But I do not think so. " "Why not?" Boyd said. "They are my friends, " Brubitsch said. "Even if they tell lies. Theyare also small children. Besides, I am not even the head of thegroup. " "Who is?" Malone said. "Garbitsch, " Brubitsch said instantly. "He worked in the StateDepartment, and he told us what to look for in the Senate OfficeBuilding. " "What were you supposed to look for?" Boyd said. "For information, " Brubitsch said. "For scraps of paper, or things weoverheard. But it was very bad, very bad. " "What do you mean, bad?" Malone said. "Everything was terrible, " Brubitsch said mournfully. "SometimesBorbitsch heard something and forgot to tell Garbitsch about it. Garbitsch did not like this. He is a very inflamed person. Once hethreatened to send Borbitsch to the island of Yap as a spy. That is avery bad place to go to. There are no enjoyments on the island of Yap, and no one likes strangers there. " "What did you do with your information?" Boyd said. "We remembered it, " Brubitsch said. "Or, if we had a scrap of paper, we saved it for Garbitsch and gave it to him. But I remember once thatI had some paper. It had a formula on it. I do not know what theformula said. " "What was it about?" Malone said. Brubitsch gave a massive shrug. "It was about an X and some numbers, "he said. "It was not very interesting, but it was a formula, andGarbitsch would have liked it. Unfortunately, I did not give it tohim. " "Why not?" Boyd said. "I am ashamed, " Brubitsch said, looking ashamed. "I was lighting acigarette in the afternoon, when I had the formula. It is a veryrelaxing thing to smoke a cigarette in the afternoon. It is soothingto the soul. " He looked very sad. "I was holding the piece of paper inone hand, " he said. "Unfortunately, the match and the paper came intocontact. I burned my finger. Here. " He stuck out a finger towardMalone and Boyd, who looked at it without much interest for a second. "The paper is gone, " he said. "Don't tell Garbitsch. He is veryinflamed. " Malone sighed. "But you remember the formula, " he said. "Don't you?" Brubitsch shook his massive head very slowly. "It was not veryinteresting, " he said. "And I do not have a mathematical mind. " "We know, " Malone said, "You are a small child. " * * * * * "It was terrible, " Brubitsch said. "Garbitsch was not happy about ouractivities. " "What did Garbitsch do with the information?" Boyd said. "He passed it on, " Brubitsch said. "Every week he would send ashort-wave message to the homeland, in code. Some weeks he did notsend the message. " "Why not?" Malone said. "The radio did not work, " Brubitsch said simply. "We received ordersby short-wave, but sometimes we did not receive the orders. The radiowas of very poor quality, and some weeks it refused to send anymessages. On other weeks, it refused to receive any messages. " "Who was your contact in Russia?" Boyd said. "A man named X, " Brubitsch said. "Like in the formula. " "But what was his real name?" Malone said. "Who knows?" Brubitsch said. "What else did you do?" Boyd said. "We met twice a week, " Brubitsch said. "Sometimes in Garbitsch's home, sometimes in other places. Sometimes we had information. At othertimes, we were friends, having a social gathering. " "Friends?" Malone said. Brubitsch nodded. "We drank together, talked, played chess. Garbitschis the best chess player in the group. I am not very good. But once wehad some trouble. " He paused. "We had been drinking Russian liquors. They are very strong. We decided to uphold the honor of our country. " "I think, " Malone murmured sadly, "I know what's coming. " "Ah?" Brubitsch said, interested. "At any rate, we decided to honorour country in song. And a policeman came and talked to us. He took usdown to the police station. " "Why?" Boyd said. "He was suspicious, " Brubitsch said. "We were singing the_Internationale_, and he was suspicious. It is unreasonable. " "Oh, I don't know, " Boyd said. "What happened then?" "He took us to the police station, " Brubitsch said, "and then after alittle while he let us go. I do not understand this. " "It's all right, " Malone said. "I do. " He drew Boyd aside for asecond, and whispered to him: "The cops were ready to charge thesethree clowns with everything in the book. We had a time springing themso we could go on watching them. I remember the stir-up, though Inever did know their names until now. " Boyd nodded, and they returned to Brubitsch, who was staring up atthem with surly eyes. "It is a secret you are telling him, " Brubitsch said. "That is notright. " "What do you mean, it's not right?" Malone said. "It is wrong, " Brubitsch went on. "It is not the American way. " He went on, with some prodding, to tell about the activities of thespy ring. It did not seem to be a very efficient spy ring; Brubitsch'slong sad tale of forgotten messages, mixed orders, misplaced documentsand strange mishaps was a marvel and a revelation to the listeningofficers. "I've never heard anything like it, " one of them whispered in a toneof absolute wonder. "They're almost working on our side. " Over an hour later, Malone turned wearily away from the prisoner. "Allright, Brubitsch, " he said. "I guess that pretty much covers thingsfor the moment. If we want any more information, though--" "Call on me, " Brubitsch said sadly. "I am not going any place. And Iwill give you all the information you desire. But I did not commit anymurders--" "Good-bye, small child, " Malone said, as two agents led the fat manaway. The other two left soon afterward, and Malone and Boyd werealone. * * * * * "Think he was telling the truth?" Boyd said. Malone nodded. "Nobody, " he said, "could make up a story like that. " "I suppose so, " Boyd said, and the phone rang. Malone picked it up. "Well?" he asked. "He was telling the truth, all right, " Her Majesty said. "There are afew more details, of course--there was a girl Brubitsch was involvedwith, Sir Kenneth. But she doesn't seem to have anything to do withthe spy ring, and besides, she isn't a very nice person. She alwayswants money. " "Sounds perfectly lovely, " Malone said. "As a matter of fact, I thinkI know her. I know a lot of girls who always want money. " "You don't know this one, Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty said, "andbesides, she wouldn't be a good influence on you. " Malone sighed. "How about the static explosions?" he said. "Pick upany more?" "No, " she said. "Just that one. " Malone nodded at the receiver. "All right, " he said. "We're going tobring in the second one now. Keep up the good work. " He hung up. "Who've you got in the Observation Room?" Boyd asked. "Queen Elizabeth I, " Malone said. "Her Royal Majesty. " "Oh, " Boyd said without surprise. "Well, was Brubitsch telling thetruth?" "He wasn't holding back anything important, " Malone said, thinkingabout the girl. It would be nice to meet a bad influence, he thoughtmournfully. It would be nice to go somewhere with a bad influence--abad influence, he amended, with a good figure--and forget all abouthis job, about the spies, about telepathy, teleportation, psionics andeverything else. It might be restful. Unfortunately, it was impossible. "What's this business about a static explosion?" Boyd said. "Don't ask silly questions, " Malone said. "A static explosion is acontradiction in terms. If something is static, it doesn't move--andwhoever heard of a motionless explosion?" "If it is a contradiction in terms, " Boyd said, "they're your terms. " "Sure, " Malone said. "But I don't know what they mean. I don't evenknow what I mean. " "You're in a bad way, " Boyd said, looking sympathetic. "I'm in a perfectly terrible way, " Malone said, "and it's going to getworse. You wait and see. " "Of course I'll wait and see, " Boyd said. "I wouldn't miss the end ofthe world for anything. It ought to be a great spectacle. " He paused. "Want them to bring in the next one?" "Sure, " Malone said. "What have we got to lose but our minds? And whois the next one?" "Borbitsch, " Boyd said. "They're saving Garbitsch for a big finish. " Malone nodded wearily. "Onward, " he said, and picked up the phone. Hepunched a number, spoke a few words and hung up. A minute later, the four FBI agents came back, leading a man. This onewas tall and thin, with the expression of a gloomy, degenerate andslightly nauseated bloodhound. He was led to the chair and he sat downin it as if he expected the worst to start happening at once. "Well, " Malone said in a bored, tired voice. "So this is the one whowon't talk. " VI Midnight. Kenneth J. Malone sat at his desk, in his Washington office, surrounded by piles of papers covering the desk, spilling off onto thefloor and decorating his lap. He was staring at the papers as if heexpected them to leap up, dance round him and shout the solution toall his problems at him in trained choral voices. They did nothing atall. Seated cross-legged on the rug in the center of the room, and lookinglike an impossible combination of the last Henry Tudor and GautamaBuddha, Thomas Boyd did nothing either. He was staring downward, hishands folded on his ample lap, wearing an expression of utter, burningfrustration. And on a nearby chair sat the third member of thecompany, wearing the calm and patient expression of the gently bornunder all vicissitudes: Queen Elizabeth I. "All right, " Malone said into the silence. "Now let's see what we'vegot. " "I think we've got cerebral paresis, " Boyd said. "It's been coming onfor years. " "Don't be funny, " Malone said. Boyd gave a short, mirthless bark. "Funny?" he said. "I'm absolutelyhysterical with joy and good humor. I'm out of my mind withhappiness. " He paused. "Anyway, " he finished, "I'm out of my mind. Which puts me in good company. The entire FBI, Brubitsch, Borbitsch, Garbitsch, Dr. Thomas O'Connor and Sir Lewis Carter--we're all out ofour minds. If we weren't, we'd all move away to the Moon. " "And drink to forget, " Malone added. "Sure. But let's try and get somework done. " "By all means, Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty said. Boyd had not includedher in his list of insane people, and she looked slightly miffed. Itwas hard for Malone to tell whether she was miffed by the mention ofinsanity, or at being left out. "Let's review the facts, " Malone said. "This whole thing started withsome inefficiency in Congress. " "And some upheavals elsewhere. " Boyd said. "Labor unions, gangsterorganizations--" "Just about all over, " Malone said. "And though we've found threespies, it seems pretty obvious that they aren't causing this. " "They aren't causing much of anything, " Boyd said. "Except a lot ofunbelieving laughter farther up the FBI line. I don't think anybody isgoing to believe our reports of those interviews. " "But they're true, " Her Majesty said. "Sure they're true, " Boyd said. "That's the unbelievable part. Theyread like farce--and not very good farce at that. " "Oh, I don't know, " Malone said. "I think they're pretty funny. " "Shall we get back to the business at hand?" Her Majesty said gently. "Ah, " Malone said. "Anyhow, it isn't the spies. And what we now haveis confusion even worse compounded. " "Confounded, " Boyd said. "John Milton. 'Paradise Lost. ' I heard itsomewhere. . . . " "I don't mean confounded, " Malone said. "I mean confusion. Anyhow, theRussian espionage rings in this country seem to be in as bad a stateas the Congress, the labor unions, the Syndicates, and all the rest. And all of them seem to have some sort of weird tie-in to theseflashes of telepathic interference. Right, Your Majesty?" "I . . . Believe so, Sir Kenneth, " she said. The old woman looked tiredand confused. Somehow, a lot of the brightness seemed to have gone outof her life. "That's right, " she said. "I didn't realize there was somuch of it going on. You see, Sir Kenneth, you're the only one I canpick up at a distance who has been having these flashes. But now thatI'm here in Washington, I can feel it going on all around me. " "It may not have anything to do with everything else, " Boyd said. Malone shook his head. "If it doesn't, " he said, "it's the weirdestcoincidence I've ever even dreamed about, and my dreams can be prettystrange. No, it's got to be tied in. There's some kind of mentalstatic that is somehow making all these people goof up. " "But why?" Boyd said. "What is it being done for? Just fun?" "God only knows, " Malone said. "But we're going to have to find out. " "In that case, " Boyd said, "I suggest lots and lots of prayers. " Her Majesty looked up. "That's a fine idea, " she said. "But God helps those, " Malone said, "who help themselves. And we'regoing to help ourselves. Mostly with facts. " "All right, " Boyd said. "So far, all the facts have been a greathelp. " "Well, here's one, " Malone said. "We got one flash each fromBrubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch while we were questioning them. And in each case, that flash occurred just before they started to blabeverything they knew. Before the flash, they weren't talking. Theywere behaving just like good spies and keeping their mouths shut. After the flash, they couldn't talk fast enough. " "That's true, " Boyd said reflectively. "They did seem to give uppretty fast, even for amateurs. " Malone nodded. "So the question is this, " he said. "Just what happensduring those crazy bursts of static?" He looked expectantly at Her Majesty, but she shook her head sadly. "Idon't know, " she said. "I simply don't know. It's just noise tome--meaningless noise. " She put her hands slowly over her face. "People shouldn't do things like that to their Sovereign, " she said ina muffled voice. * * * * * Malone got up and went over to her. She wasn't crying, but she wasn'tfar from it. He put an arm around her thin shoulders. "Now, look, YourMajesty, " he said in gentle tones, "this will all clear up. We'll findout what's going on, and we'll find a way to put a stop to it. " "Sure we will, " Boyd said. "After all, Your Majesty, Sir Kenneth and Iwill work hard on this. " "And the Queen's Own FBI, " Malone said, "won't stop until we'vefinished with this whole affair, once and for all. " Her Majesty brought her hands down from her face, very slowly. She wasforcing a smile, but it didn't look too well. "I know you won't failyour Queen, " she said. "You two have always been the most loyal of mysubjects. " "We'll work hard, " Malone said. "No matter how long it takes. " "Because, after all, " Boyd said in a musing, thoughtful tone, "it is aserious crime, you know. " The words seemed to have an effect on Her Majesty, like a tonic. For asecond her face wore an expression of Royal anger and indignance, andthe accustomed strength flowed back into her aged voice. "You're quitecorrect, Sir Thomas!" she said. "The security of the Throne and theCrown are at stake!" Malone blinked. "What?" he said. "Are you two talking about something?What crime is this?" "An extremely serious one, " Boyd said in a grave voice. He roseunsteadily to his feet, planted them firmly on the carpet, andfrowned. "Go on, " Malone said, fascinated. Her Majesty was watching Boyd withan intent expression. "The crime, " Boyd said, "the very serious crime involved, is that ofThreatening the Welfare of the Queen. The criminal has committed thecrime of Causing the Said Sovereign, Baselessly, Reasonlessly andWithout Consent or Let, to Be in a State of Apprehension for Her Lifeor Her Well-Being. And this crime--" "Aha, " Malone said. "I've got it. The crime is--" "High treason, " Boyd intoned. "High treason, " Her Majesty said with satisfaction and fire in hervoice. "Very high treason, " Malone said. "Extremely high. " "Stratospheric, " Boyd agreed. "That is, of course, " he added, "if theperpetrators of this dastardly crime are Her Majesty's subjects. " "My goodness, " the Queen said. "I never thought of that. Supposethey're not?" "Then, " Malone said in his most vibrant voice, "it is an Act of War. " "Steps, " Boyd said, "must be taken. " "We must do our utmost, " Malone said. "Sir Thomas--" "Yes, Sir Kenneth?" Boyd said. "This task requires our most fervent dedication, " Malone said. "Pleasecome with me. " He went to the desk. Boyd followed him, walking straight-backed andtall. Malone bent and removed from a drawer of the desk a bottle ofbourbon. He closed the drawer, poured some bourbon into two handywater glasses from the desk, and capped the bottle. He handed one ofthe water glasses to Boyd, and raised the other one aloft. "Sir Thomas, " Malone said, "I give you--Her Majesty, the Queen!" "To the Queen!" Boyd echoed. They downed their drinks and turned, as one man, to hurl the glassesinto the wastebasket. * * * * * In thinking it over later, Malone realized that he hadn't consideredanything about that moment silly at all. Of course, an outsider mighthave been slightly surprised at the sequence of events, but Malone wasno outsider. And, after all, it was the proper way to treat a Queen, wasn't it? And-- When Malone had first met Her Majesty, he had wondered why, althoughshe could obviously read minds, and so knew perfectly well thatneither Malone nor Boyd believed she was Queen Elizabeth I, sheinsisted on an outward show of respect and dedication. He'd asked herabout it at last, and her reply had been simple, reasonable and to thepoint. According to her--and Malone didn't doubt it for an instant--mostpeople simply didn't think their superiors were all they claimed tobe. But they acted as if they did--at least while in the presence ofthose superiors. It was a common fiction, a sort of handy oil on thewheels of social intercourse. And all Her Majesty had ever insisted on was the same sort oftreatment. "Bless you, " she'd said, "I can't help the way you _think_, but, asQueen, I do have some control over the way you _act_. " The funny thing, as far as Malone was concerned, was that the twoparts of his personality were becoming more and more alike. He didn'tactually believe that Her Majesty was Queen Elizabeth I, and he hopedfervently that he never would. But he did have a great deal of respectfor her, and more affection than he had believed possible at first. She was the grandmother Malone had never known; she was good, andkind, and he wanted to keep her happy and contented. There had beennothing at all phony in the solemn toast he had proposed--nor in therighteous indignation he had felt against anyone who was giving HerMajesty even a minute's worth of discomfort. And Boyd, surprisingly enough, seemed to feel the same way. Malonefelt good about that; Her Majesty needed all the loyal supporters shecould get. But all of this was later. At the time, Malone was doing nothingexcept what came naturally--nor, apparently, was Boyd. After theglasses had been thrown, with a terrifying crash, into the metalwastebasket, and the reverberations of that second had stopped ringingin their ears, a moment of silence had followed. Then Boyd turned, briskly rubbing his hands. "All right, " he said. "Let's get back to work. " Malone looked at the proud, happy look on Her Majesty's face; he sawthe glimmer of a tear in the corner of each eye. But he gave noindication that he had noticed anything at all out of the ordinary. "Fine, " he said. "Now, getting on back to the facts, we've establishedsomething, anyhow. Some agency is causing flashes of telepathic staticall over the place. And those flashes are somehow connected with theconfusion that's going on all around us. Somehow, these flashes havean effect on the minds of people. " "And we know at least one manifestation of that effect, " Boyd said. "It makes spies blab all their secrets when they're exposed to it. " "These three spies, anyhow, " Malone said. "If 'spies' is the right word, " Boyd said. "O. K. , " Malone said. "And now we've got another obvious question. " "It seems to me we've got about twelve, " Boyd said. "I mean: who's doing it?" Malone said. "Who is causing thesetelepathic flashes?" "Maybe it's just happening, " Boyd said. "Out of thin air. " "Maybe, " Malone said. "But let's go on the assumption that there's ahuman cause. The other way, we can't do a thing except sit back andwatch the world go to hell. " Boyd nodded. "It doesn't seem to be the Russians, " he said. "Although, of course, it might be a Red herring. " "What do you mean?" Malone said. "Well, " Boyd said, "they might have known we were on to Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch--" He stopped. "You know, " he said, "everytime I say that name I have to reassure myself that we're not allwalking around in the world of Florenz Ziegfeld?" "Likewise, " Malone said. "But go on. " "Sure, " Boyd said. "Anyhow, they might have set the three of them upas patsies--just in case we stumbled on to this mess. We can'toverlook that possibility. " "Right, " Malone said. "It's faint, but it is a possibility. In otherwords, the agency behind the flashes might be Russian, and it mightnot be Russian. " "That clears that up nicely, " Boyd said. "Next question?" * * * * * "The next one, " Malone said grimly, "is: what's behind the flashes?Some sort of psionic power is causing them--that much is obvious. " "I'll go along with that, " Boyd said. "I have to go along with it. Butdon't think I like it. " "Nobody likes it, " Malone said. "But let's go on. O'Connor isn't anyhelp; he washes his hands of the whole business. " "Lucky man, " Boyd said. "He says that it can't be happening, " Malone said, "and if it is we'reall screwy. Now, right or wrong, that isn't an opinion that gives usany handle to work with. " "No, " Boyd said reflectively. "A certain amount of comfort, to besure, but no handles. " "Sir Lewis Carter, on the other hand--" Malone said. He fumbledthrough some of the piles of paper until he had located the ones thePresident of the Psychical Research Society had sent. "Sir LewisCarter, " he went on, "does seem to be doing some pretty good work. Atleast, some of the more modern stuff he sent over looks pretty solid. They've been doing quite a bit of research into the subject, and theirtheories seem to be all right, or nearly all right, to me. Of course, I'm not an expert--" "Who is?" Boyd said. "Except for O'Connor, of course. " "Well, somebody is, " Malone said. "Whoever's doing all this, forinstance. And the theories do seem O. K. In most cases, for instance, they agree with O'Connor's work--though they're not in completeagreement. " "I should think so, " Boyd said. "O'Connor wouldn't recognize an AstralPlane if TWA were putting them into service. " "I don't mean that sort of thing, " Malone said. "There's lots aboutastral bodies and ghosts, ectoplasm, Transcendental Yoga, theosophy, deros, the Great Pyramid, Atlantis, and other such pediculous pets. That's just silly, as far as I can see. But what they have to sayabout parapsychology and psionics as such does seem to be reasonablyaccurate. " "I suppose so, " Boyd said tiredly. "O. K. , then, " Malone said. "Did anybody notice anything in that pileof stuff that might conceivably have any bearing whatever on ourproblems?" "I did, " Boyd said. "Or I think I did. " "You both did, " Her Majesty said. "And so did I, when I looked throughit. But I didn't bother with it. I dismissed it. " "Why?" Malone said. "Because I don't think it's true, " she said. "However, my opinion isreally only an opinion. " She smiled around at the others. Malone picked up a thick sheaf of papers from one of the piles of hisdesk. "Let's get straight what it is we're talking about, " he said. "All right?" "Anything's all right with me, " Boyd said. "I'm easy to please. " Malone nodded. "Now, this writer . . . What's his name?" he said. Heglanced at the copy of the cover page. "'Minds and Morons', " he read. "By Cartier Taylor. " "Great title, " Boyd said. "Does he say which is which?" "Let's get back to serious business, " Malone said, giving Boyd asingle look. There was silence for a second, and then Malone said: "Hementions something, in the book, that he calls 'telepathicprojection. ' As far as I understand what he's talking about, that'ssome method of forcing your thoughts on another person. " He glancedover at the Queen. "Now, Your Majesty, " he said, "you don't think it'strue--and that may only be an opinion, but it's a pretty informed one. It seems to me as if Taylor makes a good case for this 'telepathicprojection' of his. Why don't you think so?" "Because, " Her Majesty said flatly, "it doesn't work. " "You've tried it?" Boyd put in. "I have, " she said. "And I have had no success with it at all. It's acomplete failure. " * * * * * "Now, wait a minute, " Boyd said. "Just a minute. " "What's the matter?" Malone said. "Have you tried it, and made itwork?" Boyd snorted. "Fat chance, " he said. "I just want to look at thething, that's all. " He held out his hand, and Malone gave him thesheaf of papers. Boyd leafed through them slowly, stopping every nowand again to consult a page, until he found what he was looking for. "There, " he said. "There, what?" Malone said. "Listen to this, " Boyd said. "'For those who draw the line at demonicpossession, I suggest trying telepathic projection. Apparently, it ispossible to project one's own thoughts directly into the mind ofanother--even to the point of taking control of the other's mind. Hypnotism? You tell me, and we'll both know. Ever since the orthodoxscientists have come around to accepting hypnotism, I've been chary ofit. Maybe there really is an astral body or a soul that a person hasstashed about him somewhere--something that he can send out to takecontrol of another human being. But I, personally, prefer thetelepathic projection theory. All you have to do is squirt yourthoughts across space and spray them all over the fellow's brain. Presto-bingo, he does pretty much what you want him to do. '" "That's the quote I was thinking of, " Malone said. "Of course it is, " Her Majesty said. "But it really doesn't work. I'vetried it. " "How have you tried it?" Malone said. "There were many times, Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty said, "when I wantedsomeone to do something particular--for me, or for some other person. After all, you must remember that I was in a hospital for a longtime. Of course, that represents only a short segment of my life span, but it seemed long to me. " Malone, who was trying to view the years from age fifteen to agesixty-odd as a short segment of anybody's lifetime, remembered with ashock that this was not Rose Thompson speaking. It was Queen ElizabethI, who had never died. "That's right, Sir Kenneth, " she said kindly. "And in that hospital, there were a number of times when I wanted one of the doctors ornurses to do what I wanted them to. I tried many times, but I neversucceeded. " Boyd nodded his head. "Well--" he began. "Oh, yes, Sir Thomas, " Her Majesty said. "What you're thinking iscertainly possible. It may even be true. " "What _is_ he thinking?" Malone said. "He thinks, " Her Majesty said, "that I may not have the talent forthis particular effect--and perhaps I don't. But, talent or not, Iknow what's possible and what isn't. And the way Mr. Taylor describesit is simply silly, that's all. And unladylike. Imagine anyself-respecting lady 'squirting' her thoughts about in space!" "Well, " Malone said carefully, "aside from its being unladylike--" "Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty said, "you are not telepathic. Neither isSir Thomas. " "I'm nothing, " Boyd said. "I don't even exist. " "And it is very difficult to explain to the nontelepath just what Mr. Taylor is implying, " Her Majesty went on imperturbably. "Before youcould inject any thoughts into anyone else's mind, you'd have to beable to see into that mind. Is that correct?" [Illustration] "I guess so, " Malone said. "And in order to do that, you'd have to be telepathic, " Her Majestysaid. "Am I correct?" "Correct, " Malone said. "Well, then, " Her Majesty said with satisfaction, and beamed at him. A second passed. "Well, then, what?" Malone said in confusion. "Telepathy, " Her Majesty said patiently, "is an extremely complexaffair. It involves a sort of meshing with the mind of this otherperson. It has nothing--absolutely nothing--in common with this simple'squirting' of thoughts across space, as if they were orange pips youwere trying to put into a wastebasket. No, Sir Kenneth, I cannotbelieve in what Mr. Taylor says. " "But it's still possible, " Malone said. "Oh, " Her Majesty said, "it's certainly possible. But I should thinkthat if any telepaths were around, and if they were changing people'sminds by 'squirting' at them, I would know it. " Malone frowned. "Maybe you would at that, " he said. "I guess youwould. " "Not to mention, " Boyd put in, "that if you were going to controleverything we've come across like that you'd need an awful lot oftelepathic operators. " "That's true, " Malone admitted. "And the objections seem to make somesense. But what else is there to go on?" "I don't know, " Boyd said. "I haven't the faintest idea. And I'mrapidly approaching the stage where I don't care. " "Well, " Malone said, heaving a sigh, "let's keep looking. " He bent down and picked up another sheaf of copies from the PsychicalResearch Society. "After all, " he said, without much hope, "you never know. " VII Malone looked around the office of Andrew J. Burris as if he'd neverseen it before. He felt tired, and worn out, and depressed; it hadbeen a long night, and here it was morning and the head of the FBI wastalking to him about his report. It was, Malone told himself heavily, a hell of a life. "Now, Malone, " Burris said in a kindly voice, "this is a veryinteresting report. " "Yes, sir, " Malone said automatically. "A very interesting report indeed, Kenneth, " Burris went on, positively bursting with good-fellowship. "Thank you, sir, " Malone said dully. Burris beamed a little more. "You've done a fine job, " he said, "areally fine job. Hardly on the job any time at all, and here you'vemanaged to get all three of the culprits responsible. " "Now, wait a minute, " Malone said in sudden panic. "That isn't what Isaid. " "No?" Burris said, looking a little surprised. "Not at all, " Malone said. "I don't think those three spies haveanything to do with this at all. Not a thing. " There was a brief silence, during which Burris' surprise seemed toexpand like a gas and fill the room. "But they've confessed, " he saidat last. "Their job was to try and get information, and also todisrupt our own work here. " "I know all that, " Malone said. "But--" Burris held up a pink, patient hand. Malone stared at it, fascinated. It had five pink, patient fingers on it. "Malone, " Burris said slowly, "just what's bothering you? Don't you think those men _are_ spies? Isthat it?" "Spies?" Malone said, slightly confused. "You know, " Burris said. "The men you arrested, Malone. The men youwrote this report about. " Malone blinked and focused on the hand again. It still had fivefingers. "Sure they are, " he said. "They're spies, all right. Andthey're caught, and that's that. Except I don't think they're causingall the confusion around here. " "Well, of course they're not, " Burris said, the beam of kindlinesscoming back to his face. "Not any more. You caught them. " "I mean, " Malone said desperately, "they never were. Even before Icaught them. " "Then why, " Burris said with great patience, "did you arrest them?" "Because they're spies, " Malone said. "Besides, I didn't. " "Didn't what?" Burris said, looking confused. He seemed to realize hewas still holding up his hand, and dropped it to the desk. Malone feltsad as he watched it go. Now he had nothing to concentrate on exceptthe conversation, and he didn't even want to think about what washappening to that. "Didn't arrest them, " he said. "Tom Boyd did. " "Acting, " Burris pointed out gently, "under your orders, Kenneth. " It was the second time Burris had called him Kenneth, Malone realized. It started a small warning bell in the back of his mind. When Burriscalled him by his first name, Burris was feeling paternal and kindly. And that, Malone thought determinedly, boded Kenneth J. Malone verylittle good indeed. "He was under my orders to arrest them because they were spies, " hesaid at last. He wondered if the sentence made any real sense, butshrugged his shoulders and plunged on. "But they're not the realspies, " he said. "Not the ones everybody's been looking for. " "Kenneth, " Burris said, his voice positively dripping with what Malonethought of as the heavy, Grade A, Government-inspected cream of humankindness, "all the confusion with the computer-secretaries hasstopped. Everything is running fine in that department. " "But--" Malone began. "The technicians, " Burris said, hypnotized by this poem of beauty, "aren't making any more mistakes. The information is flowing throughbeautifully. It's a pleasure to see their reports. Believe me, Kenneth--" "Call me Chief, " Malone said wearily. Burris blinked. "What?" he said. "Oh. Ha. Indeed. Very well, then:Malone, what more proof do you want?" "Is that proof?" Malone said. "The spies didn't even confess to that. They--" "Of course they didn't, Malone, " Burris said. "Of course?" Malone said weakly. "Look at their confessions, " Burris said. "Just look at them, in blackand white. " He reached for a sheaf of papers and pushed them acrossthe desk. Malone looked at them. They were indeed, he told himself, inblack and white. There was no arguing with that. None at all. * * * * * "Well?" Burris said after a second. "I don't see anything about computer-secretaries, " Malone said. "The Russians, " Burris began slowly, "are not stupid, Malone. Youbelieve that, don't you?" "Of course I believe it, " Malone said. "Otherwise we wouldn't need anFBI. " Burris frowned. "There are still domestic cases, " he said. "Likejuvenile delinquents stealing cars inter-state, for instance. If youremember. " He paused, then went on: "But the fact remains: Russiansare not stupid. Not by a long shot. " "All right, " Malone said agreeably. "Do you really think, then, " Burris said instantly, "that a spy ringcould be as utterly inefficient as the one described in thoseconfessions?" "Lots of people are inefficient, " Malone said. "Not spies, " Burris said with decision. "Do you really believe thatthe Russians would send over a bunch of operatives as clodheaded asthese are pretending to be?" "People make mistakes, " Malone said weakly. "Russian spies, " Burris said, "do not make mistakes. Or, anyhow, wecan't depend on it. We have to depend on the fact that they'reoperating at peak efficiency, Malone. Peak. " Malone nearly asked: "Where?" but controlled himself at the lastminute. Instead, he said: "But the confessions are right there. And, according to the confessions--" "Do you really believe, " Burris said, "that a trio of Soviet agentswould confess everything as easily as all that if they didn't intendto get something out of it? Such as, for instance, covering up theirmethods of doing damage? And do you really believe--" Malone began to feel as if he were involved in the Athanasian Creed. "I don't think the spies are the real spies, " he said stubbornly. "Imean the spies we're all looking for. " "Do you mean to stand there and tell me, " Burris went on inexorably, "that you take the word of spies when they tell you about their ownactivities?" "Their confessions--" "Spies can lie, Malone, " Burris said gently. "As a matter of fact, they usually do. We have come to depend on it as one of the facts oflife. " "But Queen Elizabeth, " Malone said stubbornly, "told me they weren'tlying. " As he finished the sentence, he suddenly realized what itsounded like. "You know Queen Elizabeth, " he said chummily. "The Virgin Queen, " Burris said helpfully. "I wouldn't know, " Malone said, feeling uncomfortable. "I mean RoseThompson. She thinks she's Queen Elizabeth and I just said it that waybecause--" "It's all right, Malone, " Burris said softly. "I know who you mean. " "Well, then, " Malone said. "If Queen Elizabeth says the spies aren'tlying, then--" "Then nothing, " Burris said flatly. "Miss Rose Thompson is a nice, sweet, little old lady. I admit that. " "And she's been a lot of help, " Malone said. "I admit that, too, " Burris said. "But she is also somewhat battier, Malone, than the entire Order Chiroptera, including Count Dracula andall his happy friends. " "She only thinks she's Queen Elizabeth I, " Malone said defensively. "That, " Burris said, "is a large sort of _only_. Malone, you've got tolook at the facts sensibly. Square in the face. " Malone pictured a lot of facts going by with square faces. He didn'tlike the picture. "All right, " he said. "Things are going wrong in the Congressional computer-secretaries, "Burris said. "So I assign you to the case. You come back to me withthree spies, and the trouble stops. And what other information haveyou got?" "Plenty, " Malone said, and stopped for thought. There was a longpause. "All this business about mysterious psionic faculties, " Burris said, "comes direct from the testimony of that sweet little old twitch. Which she is. Dr. O'Connor, for instance, has told you in so manywords that there's no such thing as this mysterious force. And if youdon't want to take the word of the nation's foremost authority, there's this character from the Psychical Research Society--Carter, orwhatever his name is. Carter told you he'd never heard of such athing. " "But that doesn't mean there isn't such a thing, " Malone said. "Even your own star witness, " Burris said, "even the Queen herself, told you it couldn't be done. " "Nevertheless--" Malone began. But he felt puzzled. There was no way, he decided, to finish a sentence that started with _nevertheless_. Itwas the wrong kind of word. "What are you trying to do?" Burris said. "Beat your head against astone wall?" Malone realized that that was just what he felt like. Of course, Burris thought the stone wall was his psionic theory. Malone knew thatthe stone wall was Andrew J. Burris. But it didn't matter, he thoughtconfusedly. Where there's a stone, there's a way. "I feel, " he said carefully, "like a man with a stone head. " "And I don't blame you, " Burris said in an understanding tone. "Hereyou are trying to make evidence to fit your theories. What realevidence is there, Malone, that these three spies . . . These threecomic-opera spies--are innocent?" "What evidence is there that they're guilty?" Malone said. "Now, listen, Chief--" "Don't call me Chief, " Burris murmured. "Another five minutes, " Malone said in a sudden rage, "and I won'teven call you. " "Malone!" Burris said. Malone swallowed hard. "Sorry, " he said at last. "But isn't it justbarely possible that these three spies aren't the real criminals?Suppose you were a spy. " "All right, " Burris said. "I'm a spy. " Something in his tone madeMalone look at him with a sudden suspicion. Burris, he thought, washumoring him. Is it possible, Malone asked himself, that _I_ am the one who is as alittle child? Little children, he told himself with decision, do not capture Russianspies and then argue about it. They go home, eat supper and go to bed. * * * * * He stopped thinking about sleep in a hurry, and got back to thebusiness at hand. "If you were a spy, " he said, "and you knew that alot of other spies had been arrested and charged with the crimes youwere committing, what would you do?" Burris appeared to think deeply. "I would celebrate, " he said at last, in a judicious tone. "I mean, would you just go on with the same crimes?" Malone said. "What are you talking about, Malone?" Burris said cautiously. "If you knew we'd arrested Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch, " Malonewent on doggedly, "you'd lay off for a while, just to make us thinkwe'd caught the right men. Doesn't that make sense?" "Of course it makes sense, " Burris said in what was almost a pityingtone. "But don't push it too far. Malone, I want you to knowsomething. " Malone sighed. "Yes, sir?" he said. "Contrary to popular opinion, " Burris said, "I was not appointedDirector of the Federal Bureau of Investigation just because I own aHoover vacuum cleaner. " "Of course not, " Malone said, feeling that something of the sort wascalled for. "And I think you ought to know by now, " Burris went on, "that Iwouldn't fall for a trick like that any more than you would. There areobviously more members in this spy ring. Brubitsch, Borbitsch andGarbitsch are just a start. " "Well, then--" Malone began. "_I'm_ not going to be taken in by what these three say, " Burris said. "But now, Malone, we know what to look for. All we have to do ispretend to be taken in. Get it?" "Sure, " Malone said. "We pretend to be taken in. And in the meantime Ican go on looking for--" "We don't have to look for anything, " Burris said calmly. Malone took a deep breath. Somehow, he told himself, things were notworking out very well. "But the other spies--" "The next time they try anything, " Burris said, "we'll be able toreach out and pick them up as easy as falling off a log. " "It's the wrong log!" Malone said. Burris folded his hands on the desk and looked at them for a second, frowning slightly like a psychiatrist. "Malone, " he said at last, "Iwant you to listen to me. Calmly. Coolly. Collectedly. " Malone shrugged. "All right, " he said. "I'm calm and cool. " "And collected, " Burris added. "That, too, " Malone said vaguely. "Malone, " Burris began, "you've got to get rid of this idea thateverything the FBI investigates these days is somehow linked withpsionics. I know you've done a lot of work in that connection--" "Now, wait a minute, " Malone said. "There are those errors. How didthe technicians feed the wrong data into the machines?" "Errors do happen, " Burris said. "If I slip on a banana peel, do Iblame psionics? Do I even blame the United Fruit Growers? I do not, Malone. Instead, I tell myself that errors do happen. All the time. " "Now, " Malone said, "you've contradicted yourself. " "I have?" Burris said with a look of complete surprise. "Sure, " Malone said. He leaned forward across the desk. "If the errorswere just ordinary accidental errors, then how were the spiesresponsible? And why did they stop after the spies were arrested? Whenyou slip on a banana peel, does it matter whether or not the UnitedFruit Growers are out on strike?" "Oh, " Burris said. "You see?" Malone said. "You've gone and contradicted yourself. " Hefelt victorious, but somewhere in the back of his mind was thehorrible sensation that someone was about to come up behind him andhit him on the head with a wet sock full of old sand. A long second passed. Then Burris said: "Oh. Malone, I forgot to giveyou the analysis report. " That, Malone realized dimly, was supposed to be the wet sock. Fate, hetold himself, was against him. Anyhow, something was against him. Itwas a few seconds before he came to the conclusion that what he hadheard didn't really make any sense. "Analysis report?" he said. "On the water cooler, " Burris explained cheerfully. "There is an analysis report on a water cooler, " Malone said. "Everything now becomes as clear as crystal. " He heard his voice beginto rise. "You analyzed a water cooler and discovered that it was aSiberian spy in disguise, " he said, trying to make himself sound lesshysterical. "No, no, " Burris said, pushing at Malone with his palms. "The water init, Malone. The water in it. " "No Siberian spy, " Malone said with decision, "could disguise himselfas the water in a water cooler. " "I didn't say that, " Burris went on. "But what do you think was inthat water cooler, Malone?" "Water, " Malone said. "_Cool_ water. " "Congratulations, " Burris said, in the hearty tones usually reservedfor announcers on programs where housewives win trips to Nome. "Youare just a shade less than ninety-nine point nine nine per centcorrect. " "The rest of the water, " Malone hazarded, "was warm?" "The rest of the water, " Burris said, "wasn't water. Aside from theusual minerals, there was also a trace of one of the psychodrugs. " * * * * * The word seemed to hang in mid-air, like somebody's sword. Malone knewperfectly well what the psychodrugs were. Over the past twenty years, a great number of them had been developed by confused and anxiousresearchers. Some were solids, some liquids and a few gaseous atnormal temperatures. Some were weak and some were highly potent. Somewere relatively innocuous, and quite a few were as deadly as any ofthe more common poisons. They could be administered by mouth, byinjection, by spray, as drops, grains, whiffs or in any other wayconceivable to medical science. But they all had one thing in common. They affected the mental functioning--what seemed to be thepersonality itself--of the person dosed with them. The effect of the drugs was, in most cases, highly specific. One mightmake a normally brave man a craven coward; laboratory tests on thatone had presented the interesting spectacle of terrified cats runningfrom surprised, but by no means displeased, experimental mice. Anotherdrug reversed this picture, and made the experimental mice mad withpower. They attacked cats in battalions or singly, cheering and almostwaving large flags as they went over the top, completely foolhardy inthe presence of any danger whatever. Others made man abnormallysuspicious and still others disassociated judgment to the point whereall decisions were made completely at random. The FBI had a large file on psychodrugs, Malone knew. But he didn'tneed the file to see what was coming. He asked the question anyhow, just for the record: "What particular psychodrug was this one?" "One of the judgment-warpers, " Burris said. "Haenlingen's Mixture;it's more or less a new development, but the Russians probably know asmuch about it as we do. In large doses, the drug affects even theautomatic nervous system and throws the involuntary functions out ofwhack; but it isn't usually used in killing amounts. " "And in the water cooler?" Malone asked. "There wasn't much of it, " Burris said, "but there was enough. Thetechnicians could be depended on to make a great many more mistakesthan usual--just how many we can't determine, but the order ofmagnitude seems about right. It would depend on how much water eachone of them drank, of course, and we haven't a chance of gettinganything like a precise determination of that now. " "Oh, " Malone said. "But it comes out about right, doesn't it?" He felthopeless. "Just about, " Burris said cheerfully. "And since it was Brubitsch'sjob to change the cooler jug--" "Wait a minute, " Malone said. "I think I see a hole in that. " "Really?" Burris said. He frowned slightly. Malone nodded. "Sure, " he said. "If any of the spies drank thewater--their judgment would be warped, too, wouldn't it?" "So they didn't drink the water, " Burris said easily. "How can we be sure?" Malone asked. Burris shrugged. "Why do we have to be?" he said. "Malone, you've gotto stop pressing so hard on this. " "But a man who didn't drink water all day would be a littleconspicuous, " Malone said. "After a while, anyhow. " Burris sighed. "The man is a janitor, Kenneth, " he said. "Do you knowwhat a janitor is?" "Don't baby me, " Malone snapped. Burris shrugged. "A janitor doesn't work in the office with the men, "he said. "He can drink out of a faucet in the broom closet--orwherever the faucets might be. Nobody would notice. Nobody would thinkit odd. " Malone said: "But--" and stopped and thought it over. "All right, " hewent on at last. "But I still insist--" "Now, Kenneth, " Burris said in a voice that dripped oil. "I'll admitthat psionics is new and wonderful and you've done a lot of fine workwith it. A lot of very fine work indeed. But you can't go aroundblaming everything on psionics no matter what it is or how much senseit makes. " "I don't, " Malone said, injured. "But--" "But you do, " Burris said. "Lately, you've been acting as though magicwere loose in the world. As though nothing were dependable any more. " "It's not magic, " Malone said. "But it is, " Burris told him, "when you use it as an explanation foranything and everything. " He paused, "Kenneth, " he said in a morekindly tone, "don't think I blame you. I know how hard you've beenworking. I know how much time and effort you've put into the gallantfight against this country's enemies. " Malone closed his eyes and turned slightly green. "It was nothing, " hesaid at last. He opened his eyes but nothing had changed. Burris'expression was still kindly and concerned. "Oh, but it was, " Burris said. "Something, I mean. You've been workingvery hard and you're just not at peak efficiency any more. You need arest, Kenneth. A nice rest. " "I do not, " Malone said indignantly. "A lovely rest, " Burris went on, oblivious. "Somewhere peaceful andquiet, where you can just sit around and think peacefully aboutpeaceful things. Oh, it ought to be wonderful for you, Kenneth. Anice, peaceful, lovely, wonderful vacation. " Through the haze of adjectives, Malone remembered dimly the last timeBurris had offered him a vacation in that tone of voice. It had turnedout to be one of the toughest cases he'd ever had: the case of theteleporting delinquents. [Illustration] "Nice?" Malone said. "Peaceful? Lovely? Wonderful? I can see it now. " "What do you mean, Malone?" Burris said. "What am I going to get?" Malone said. "A nice easy job like arrestingall the suspected nose-pickers in Mobile, Alabama?" Burris choked and recovered quickly. "No, " he said. "No, no, no. Imean it. You've earned a vacation, Kenneth, a real vacation. A nice, peaceful--" "Lovely, wonderful vacation, " Malone said. "But--" "You're one of my best agents, " Burris said. "I might almost sayyou're my top man. My very top man. And because of that I've beenoverworking you. " "But--" "Now, now, " Burris said, waving a hand vaguely. "I have beenoverworking you, Kenneth, and I'm sorry. I want to make amends. " "A what?" Malone said, feeling confused again. "Amends, " Burris said. "I want to do something for you. " Malone thought about that for a second. Burris was well-meaning, allright, but from the way the conversation was going it looked very muchas if "vacation" weren't going to be the right word. The right word, he thought dismally, was going to be "rest home. " Orpossibly even "insane asylum. " "I don't want to stop work, " he said grimly. "Really, I don't. " "You'll have lots of time to yourself, " Burns said in a wheedlingtone. Malone nodded. "Sure I will, " he said. "Until they come and put me ina wet pack. " Burris blinked, but recovered gamely. "You don't have to go swimming, "he said, "if you don't want to go swimming. Up in the mountains, forinstance--" "Where there are nice big guards to watch everything, " Malone said. "And nuts. " "Guides, " Burris said. "But you could just sit around and take thingseasy. " "All locked up, " Malone said. "Sure. I'll love it. " "If you want to go out, " Burris said, "you can go out. Anywhere. Justdo whatever you feel like doing. " Malone sighed. "O. K. , " he said. "When do the men in the white coatsarrive?" "White coats?" Burris said. There was a short silence. "Kenneth, " hesaid, "don't suspect me of trying to do anything to you. This is myway of doing you a favor. It would just be a vacation--going anywhereyou want to go, doing anything you want to do. " "Avacado, " Malone muttered at random. Burris stared. "What?" "Nothing, " Malone said shamefacedly. "An old song. It runs through mymind. And when you said that about going where I want to go--" "An old song with avacados in it?" Burris said. Malone cleared his throat and burst into shy and slightly hoarse song. "Avacado go where you go, " he piped feebly, "do what you do--" "Oh, " Burris said. "Oh, my. " "Sorry, " Malone muttered. He took a breath and waited. A secondpassed. "Well, Kenneth, " Burris said at last, with an attempt at heartiness, "you can do anything you like. The mountains. The seashore. Hawaii. The Riviera. Just go and forget all about gangsters, spies, counter-espionage, kidnapings, mad telepaths, juvenile teleports andanything else like that. " "You forgot water coolers, " Malone said. Burris nodded. "And water coolers, " he said, "by all means. Forgetabout FBI business. Forget about me. Just relax. " It did sound appealing, Malone told himself. But there was a case tofinish, and he was sure Burris was finishing it wrong. He wanted toargue about it some more, but he was fresh out of arguments. And besides, the idea of being able to forget all about Andrew J. Burris for a little while was almost insidious. Malone liked it morethe more he thought about it. Burris went on naming vacation spots anddrawing magnificent travel-agency pictures of how wonderful life couldbe, and after a while Malone left. There just wasn't anything else tosay. Burris had given him an order for his vacation pay and anotherguaranteeing travel expenses. Not, he thought glumly, that he would beexpected to buy return tickets. Oh, no. Once he'd been to a place hecould teleport back, so there would be no point in taking a plane ora train back from wherever he went. "And suppose I like planes and trains?" he muttered, going on down thehall. But there was nothing he could do about it. He did think oflooking for some sympathy, at least, but he couldn't even get much ofthat. Tom Boyd had apparently already talked to Burris, and was infull agreement with him. "After all, " Boyd said, "there's the drug in the water--and it lookslike pretty solid proof to me, Ken. " "It's not proof of anything, " Malone said sourly. "Sure it is, " Boyd said. "Why would anybody put it there otherwise?" Malone shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "But I'm not surprised you likeBurris' theory. Psionics never did make you very happy, did it?" "Not very, " Boyd admitted. "This way, anyhow, I've got something I cancope with. And it makes nice, simple sense. No reason to go andcomplicate it, Ken. None at all. " * * * * * Glumly, Malone made his farewells and then teleported himself from theJustice Department Building back to his own apartment. There, slowlyand sadly, he began to pack. He hadn't yet decided just where he _was_going, but that was a minor detail. The important thing was that hewas going. If the Director of the FBI tells you that you need a restcure, Malone thought, you do not argue with him. Argument may resultin your vacation being extended indefinitely. And that is not a goodthing. Of course, such a "vacation" wouldn't be the end of the world. Notquite. He could even beat Burris to the gun, hand in his resignationand go into private practice as a lawyer. The name of Malone, he toldhimself proudly, had not been entirely forgotten in Chicago, by anymeans. But he didn't feel happy about the idea. He knew, perfectlywell, that he didn't want to live by trading on his father'sreputation. And besides, he _liked_ being an FBI agent. It hadglamour. It had standing. It had everything. It even had trouble. Malone caught his whirling mind and forced it back to a landing. Where, he asked himself, was he going? He thought about that for a second. Perhaps, as Burris had apparentlysuspected, he was going nuts. When he considered it, it even soundedlike a good possibility. After all, what evidence _did_ he have for his psionic theory? HerMajesty had told him about those peculiar bursts of metal energy, true. But there wasn't anything else. And, come to think of it, wasn'tit possible that Her Majesty had slipped just a little off the trolleyof her one-track psychosis? At that thought a quick wave of guilt swept through him. Her Majesty, after all, might be reading his mind from Yucca Flats, where she hadreturned the previous night, right at that moment. He felt as if hehad committed high, middle and low treason all in one great bigpackage, not to mention Jack and the Game, he added disconsolately. "Nevertheless, " he muttered, and stopped. He blinked and started overagain. In spite of all that, he told himself, the Burris Theorycertainly looked a lot sounder when you considered it objectively. The big question was whether or not he _wanted_ to consider itobjectively. But he put this aside for the future, and continuedpacking slowly and carefully. When at last he snapped shut the lastsuitcase, he still hadn't made up his mind as to the best spot for avacation. Images tumbled through his brain: mountains, seacoasts, beaches, beautiful native girls and even a few insane asylums. Butnothing definite appeared. He sat down in his favorite easychair, found a cigar and lit it, and luxuriated in the soothing fumes whilehis mind began to wander. Her Majesty, he was quite certain, wouldn't lie purposely. Granted, she had misled him now and again, but even when she felt misleadingnecessary she hadn't lied; she had merely juggled the truth a little. And Malone was sure she would continue to tell him the truth as sheknew it. Of course, that was the stopper: _as she knew it_. And she might havedeveloped another delusion. In which case, he thought sadly, Burriswas very probably right. But she might also be telling the actual truth. And that meant, Malonethought, that little pops of energy were occasionally bursting invarious minds. These little pops had an effect, or an apparent effect:they made people change their minds about doing one thing or another. And that meant--Malone stopped, his cigar halfway to his mouth. _Wasn't it possible that just such a burst of energy had made Burriscall him off the case?_ It seemed like a long time before the cigar reached his mouth. Malonefelt slightly appalled. The flashes that had been going on in his ownmind had already been bothering him, and he'd decided that he'd haveto check every decision he made to be sure that it was not capricious;now he made a resolve that he'd kept his mental faculties on aperpetual watch for that sort of interference. Of course, it was morethan barely possible that he wouldn't notice it if anything happened. But it would be pretty stupid to succumb to that sort of defeatismnow, he told himself grimly. Now that everything was narrowing down so nicely, anyhow, he thought. There were only two real possibilities. Malone numbered them in hismind: 1. Her Majesty has developed a new delusion. In this case, he thought, Burris was perfectly right. I can enjoy a month of free vacation. 2. Her Majesty is no nuttier than before. If this is the case, hethought, then there's more to the case than has appeared, and KennethJ. Malone, with or without the FBI, is going to get to the bottom ofit. Therefore, he summed up, everything now hinged on whether or not HerMajesty was unhinged. That was confusing, but he managed to straighten it out after asecond. He put his half-smoked cigar carefully in an ashtray and stoodup. He went over to the phone and dialed the special unlisted numberof the FBI. The face that appeared was faintly sallow and looked sad. "Pelhamhere, " it said in the tones of a discouraged horse. "Hello, Pelham, " Malone said. "Kenneth Malone here. " "Trouble?" Pelham said. It was obvious that he expected trouble, andalways had, and probably always would. "Nope, " Malone said. Pelham looked even sadder. "Just checking out forvacation. You can tell the Chief I'm going to take off for Las Vegas. I'm taking his advice, tell him; I'm going to carouse and throw mymoney away and look at dancing girls and smoke and drink and stay outlate. I'll let the local office know where I'm staying when I getthere, just in case something comes up. " "O. K. , " Pelham said unhappily. "I'll check you out. " He tried a smile, but it looked more like the blank expression on the face of a localcorpse. "Have fun, " he said. "Thanks, " Malone said. "I'll try. " But his precognitive sense suddenly rose up on its hind legs as hebroke the connection. The attempt to have fun, it told him in nouncertain terms, was going to be a morbid failure. "Nevertheless, " Malone muttered, heaved a great sigh, and started forthe suitcase and the door. VIII The Great Universal was not the tops in every field. Not by a longshot. As Las Vegas resorts went, as a matter of fact, almost any ofthem could outdo the Great Universal in one respect or another. TheGolden Palace, for instance, had much gaudier gaming rooms. TheMoonbeam had a louder orchestra. The Barbary Coast and the RingingWelkin both had more slot machines, and it was undeniable that theFlower of the West had fatter and pinker dancing girls. The Red Hot, the Last Fling and the Double Star all boasted more waiters and morefamous guests per square foot of breathable air. But the Great Universal, in sheer size, volume of business andelegance of surroundings, outdid any three of the others combined. Itstood grandly alone at the edge of the Strip, the grandiloquent LasVegas version of Broadway or Hollywood Boulevard. It had a centralTower that climbed thirty stories into the clean desert air, and theTower was surrounded by a quarter of a square mile of single-levelstructures. At the base, the building spread out for five hundred feetin every direction, and beyond that were the clusters of individualcabins interlaced by walks, small parks, an occasional pool, and a fewlittle groves of trees "for privacy and the feeling of oneness withNature, " the brochure said. But the brochure didn't even do justice tothe place. Nothing could have except the popping eyes of the thousandof tourists who saw the Great Universal every month. And they wereusually in no condition to sit down and talk calmly about it. Around the entire collection of buildings rose a wall that fitted thearchitectural style of the place perfectly. A Hollywood writer out fora three-day bender had called it "Futuristic Mediaeval, " since itseemed to be a set-designer's notion of Camelot combined with aTwenty-fifth Century city as imagined by Frank R. Paul. It hadEgyptian designs on it, but no one knew exactly why. On the otherhand, of course, there was no real reason why not. That was not the only decoration. Emblazoned on the Tower, in hugeletters of evershifting color, was a glowing sign larger than the eyecould believe. The sign proclaimed through daylight and the darkestnight: Great Universal Hotel. Malone had no doubts about it. There was a running argument as to whether or not the Great Universalwas actually on the Strip. Certainly the original extent of the Stripdidn't include it. But the Strip itself had been spreading Westward ata slow but steady pace for two decades, and the only imaginablestopping-point was the California border. Malone had taken a taxi from the airfield, and had supplied himselfwith silver dollars there. He gave the cabbie one of them and addedanother when the man's expression showed real pain. Still unhappy butlooking a little less like a figure out of the Great Depression, thecabbie gunned his machine away, leaving Malone standing in the carportsurrounded by suitcases and bags of all sizes and weights. A robot redcap came gliding along. Inevitably, it was gilded, andlooked absolutely brand new. Behind it, a chunky little man withbright eyes waved at Malone. "Reserved here?" he said. "That's right, " Malone said. "The name is Malone. " The redcap's escort shrugged. "I don't care if the name is Jack theRipper, " he said. "Just reservations, that's all I care. " Malone watched the luggage being stowed away, and followed after theredcap and its escort with mixed feelings. Las Vegas glittered likemad, but the two inhabitants he had met so far seemed a little dim. However, he told himself, better things might turn up. Better things did, almost immediately. In the great lobby of theTower, guests were lounging about in little groups. Many of the guestswere dressed in tuxedos, others in sport shirts and slacks. Quite anumber were wearing dresses, skirt-and-blouse combinations or eveninggowns, and Malone paid most of his attention to these. New York, Washington and even Chicago had nothing to match them, hethought dazedly. They were magnificent, and almost frightening intheir absolute beauty. Malone however, was not easily daunted. Hefollowed a snappily-dressed bellman to the registration desk while hisrobot purred gently after him. First things first, he thought--butmaking friends with the other guests definitely came up number two. Orthree, anyhow, he amended sadly. He signed his own name to the register, but didn't add: "FederalBureau of Investigation" after it. After all, he thought, he was thereunofficially. And even though gambling was perfectly legal in Nevada, the thought of the FBI still made many of the club owners just theleast little bit nervous. Instead, Malone gave a Chicago firm as hisbusiness address--one which the FBI used as a cover for just suchpurposes. The clerk looked at him politely and blankly. "A room in the Tower, sir?" he said. Malone shook his head. "Ground floor, " he said. "But not too far fromthe Tower. I get airsick easily. " The clerk gave Malone a large laugh, which made him uncomfortable anda little angry. The joke hadn't been all that good, he thought. Ifhe'd ordered a top-price room he could understand the hospitality, butthe most expensive rooms were in the Tower, with the outside cabinsrunning a close second. The other rooms dropped in price as theyapproached the periphery of the main building. "A humorist, sir?" the clerk said. "Not at all, " Malone said pleasantly, wishing he'd signed with hisfull occupation and address. "I'm a gravedigger. Business has beenvery good this year. " The clerk, apparently undecided as to whether or not to offercongratulations, settled for consulting his registry and then stabbingat a button on a huge and complex board at his right. A key slid outof a slot and the clerk handed it to Malone with a rather strainedsmile. "10-Q, " he said. "You're very welcome, " Malone said in his most unctuous tones. He tookthe key. The clerk blinked. "The bellman will take you to your rooms, sir, " hesaid in a good imitation of his original voice. "There are maps of thebuilding at intervals along the halls, and if you find that you havebecome lost you have only to ask one of the hall guides to show youthe proper directions. " "My, my, " Malone said. The clerk cleared his throat. "If you wish to use one of the cars, " hewent on in a slightly more unsteady voice, "simply insert your key inthe slot beneath one of the wall maps, and a car will be at yourservice. " Malone shook his head and gave a deep sigh. "What, " he said, "willthey think of next?" * * * * * Satisfied with that for an exit line, he turned and found that thebellman had already taken his luggage from the robot redcap and put itaboard a small electric car. Malone got in beside him and the bellmanstarted the vehicle down the hallway. It rolled along on soft, silenttires. It, too, was gilded. It didn't move very fast, Malone thought, but it certainly beat walking. Each hallway which radiated out from the central section beneath theTower was built like a small-edition city street. The little carsscooted up and down the two center lanes while pedestrians, poorbenighted souls, kept to the side walkways. Every so often Malone sawone, walking along the raised walkway and holding the rail along theoutside that was meant to keep guests of every stage of drunkennessfrom falling into the road. At the intersections, small, Japanese-style bridges crossed over the roadway. On these, Malone sawuniformed men standing motionless, one to a bridge. They all lookedidentical, and each one had a small gold stripe sewn to the chest ofthe red uniform. Malone read the letters on the stripe as they passedthe third man. It said: _Guide_. "Now, you live in Q-wing, sir, " the bellman was saying in a nasal, butrather pleasant voice as Malone looked away. "You're not far from theTower Lobby, so you won't have a lot to remember. It's not like livingalong, say, the D-E Passageway out near 20 or 23. " "I'm sure it isn't, " Malone said politely. "No, " the bellman said, "you got it simple. This here is Q-Yellow--seethe yellow stripe on the wall?" Malone looked. There was a yellow stripe on the wall. "I see it, " hesaid. "So all you got to do, " the bellman said, "is follow Q-Yellow to theTower Lobby. " He acted as if he had demonstrated a Euclideanproposition flawlessly. "Got it?" he asked. "Very simple, " Malone said. "O. K. , " the bellman said. "Now, the gaming rooms--" Malone listened with about a fifth of an ear while the bellman went onspinning out incredibly complex directions for getting around in thequasi-city that was the Great Universal. At one point he thought hecaught the man saying that an elephant ramp took guests past theresplendent glass rest rooms to the roots of the roulette wheel, butthat didn't sound even remotely plausible when he considered it. Atlast the bellman announced: "Here we are, sir. Right to your door. A courtesy of the friendlyGreat Universal Hotel. " He pulled over to the side, pushed a button on the sidewalk, and thelittle car's body elevated itself on hydraulic pistons until it waseven with the elevated sidewalk. The bellman pushed a stud on thewalkway rail and a gate swung open. Malone stepped out and waitedwhile luggage was unloaded. The courtesy of the Great Universal Hotelwas not free, of course; Malone got rid of some more silver dollars. He fished in his pockets, found one lone crumpled ten-dollar bill andarranged it neatly and visibly in his right hand. "I notice you've got a lot of guides in the halls, " he said as thebellman eyed the ten-spot. "Do that many people get lost in here?" "Well, not really, sir, " the bellman said. "Not really. That's forthe--what they call the protection of our guests. A courtesy. " "Protection?" Malone said. He had noticed, he recalled, odd bulgesbeneath the left armpits of the guides. "Protection from what?" heasked, keeping a firm, loving grip on the bill. "There are a lot moreguides than you'd expect, aren't there?" The bellman shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "Well, sir, " he saidat last in an uneasy manner, "I guess it's because of the politicsaround here. I mean, it's sort of confused. " "Confused how?" Malone said, waving the bill ever so slightly. The bellman appeared to be hypnotized by its green color. "It's thegovernor shooting himself, " he said at last. "And the Legislaturewants to impeach the Lieutenant-governor, and the City Council of LasVegas is having trouble with the Mayor, and the County Sheriff ishaving a feud with the State Police, and--Sir, it's all sort ofconfused right now. But it isn't serious. " He grinned hopefully. Malone sighed and let go of the ten. It stayed fluttering in the airfor perhaps a tenth of a second, and disappeared. "I'm sure it isn't, "Malone said. "Just forget I asked you. " The bellman's hand went to his pocket and came out again empty. "Askedme, sir?" he said. "Asked me what?" * * * * * The next fifteen minutes were busy ones. Malone made himself quicklyat home, keeping his eyes open for hidden TV cameras or other forms ofbugging. Satisfied at last that he was entirely alone, he took a deepbreath, closed his eyes and teleported himself to Yucca Flats. [Illustration] This time, he didn't land in Dr. O'Connor's office. Instead, he openedhis eyes in the hallway in the nearby building that housed thepsychologists, psychiatrists and psychotherapists who were workingwith the telepaths Malone and the FBI had unearthed two years before. Apparently, telepathy was turning out to be more a curse than ablessing. Of the seven known telepaths in the world, only Her Majestyretained anything like the degree of sanity necessary forcommunication. The psych men who were working with the other six hadbeen trying to establish some kind of rapport, but their efforts sofar had been as fruitless as a petrified tree. Malone went down the hallway until he came to a door near the end. Helooked at the sign painted on the opaqued glass for a second: ALAN MARSHALL, M. D. CHIEF OF STAFF PSYCHOLOGY DEPARTMENT With a slight sigh, he pushed open the door and went in. Dr. Marshall was a tall, balding man with a light-brown brush mustacheand a pleasant smile. He wore thick glasses but he didn't look at allscholarly; instead, he looked rather like Alec Guinness made up for arole as a Naval lieutenant. He rose as Malone entered, and stretched ahand across the desk. "Glad to see you, Sir Kenneth, " he said. "Veryglad. " Malone shook hands and raised his eyebrows. "_Sir_ Kenneth?" he said. Dr. Marshall shrugged slightly. "She prefers it, " he said. "And sincethere's no telling whose mind she might look into--" He smiled. "Afterall, " he finished, "why not?" "Tell me, doctor, " Malone said. "Don't you ever get uneasy about thefact that Her Majesty can look into your mind? I mean, it hasdisturbed some people. " "Not at all, " Marshall said. "Not in the least. After all, SirKenneth, it's all a matter of adjustment. Simple adjustment and nomore. " He paused, then added: "Like sex. " "Sex?" Malone said in a voice he hoped was calm. "Cultural mores, " Marshall said. "That sort of thing. Nothing, really. " He sat down. "Make yourself comfortable, " he told Malone. "Asa matter of fact, the delusion Her Majesty suffers from has itscompensations for the psychiatrist. Where else could I be appointedRoyal Psychiatrist, Advisor to the Crown, and Earl Marshal?" Malone looked around, found a comfortable chair and dropped into it. "I suppose so, " he said. "It must be sort of fun, in a way. " "Oh, it is, " Marshall said. "Of course, it can get to be specificallytroublesome; all cases can. I remember a girl who'd managed to getherself married to the wrong man--she was trying to escape her mother, or some such thing. And she'd moved into this apartment where hernext-door neighbor, a nice woman really, had rather strange sexualtendencies. Well, what with those problems, and the husband himself--arather ill-tempered brute, but a nice fellow basically--and hereventually meeting Mr. Right, which was inevitable--" "I'm sure it was very troublesome, " Malone put in. "Extremely, " Marshall said. "Worked out in the end, though. Ah . . . Most of them do seem to, when we're lucky. When things break right. " "And when they don't?" Malone said. Marshall shook his head slowly and rubbed at his forehead with twofingers. "We do what we can, " he said. "It's an infant science. Iremember one rather unhappy case--started at a summer theatre, but thecomplications didn't stop there. As I recall, there were somethinglike seven women and three men involved deeply before it began tostraighten itself out. My patient was a young boy. Ah . . . He hadactually precipitated the situation, or was convinced that he had. Allbasically nice people, by the way. All of them. But the kind of thingthey managed to get mixed up in--" "I'm sure it was interesting, " Malone said. "But--" "Oh, they're all interesting, " Marshall said. "But for sheercomplexity . . . Well, this is an unusual sort of case, the one I'mthinking about now. I remember it began with a girl named Ned--" "Dr. Marshall, " Malone said desperately, "I'd like to hear about agirl named Ned. I really would. It doesn't even sound probable. " "Ah?" Dr. Marshall said. "I'd like to tell you--" "Unfortunately, " Malone went on doggedly, "there is some business I'vegot to talk over. " Dr. Marshall's disappointment was evident for less than a second. "Yes, Sir Kenneth?" he said. Malone took a deep breath. "It's about Her Majesty's mental state, " hesaid. "I understand that a lot of it is complicated, and I probablywouldn't understand it. But can you give me as much as you think I candigest?" Marshall nodded slowly. "Ah . . . You must understand that psychiatristsdiffer, " he said. "We appear to run in schools--like fish, which isneither here nor there. But what I tell you might not be in accordwith a psychiatrist from another school, Sir Kenneth. " "O. K. , " Malone said. "Shoot. " "An extremely interesting slang word, by the way, " Marshall said. "'Shoot. ' Superficially an invitation to violence. I wonder--" Aglance from Malone was sufficient. "Getting back to the track, however, " he went on, "I should begin by saying that Her Majestyappears to have suffered a shock of traumatic proportions early inlife. That might be the telepathic faculty itself coming to thefore--or, rather, the realization that others did not share herfaculty. That she was, in fact, in communication with a world whichcould never reach her on her own deepest and most important level. " Hepaused. "Are you following me so far?" he asked. "Gamely, " Malone admitted. "In other words, when she couldn'tcommunicate, she went into this traumatic shock. " "Nor exactly, " Marshall said. "We must understand what communicationis. Basically, Sir Kenneth, we can understand it as a substitute forsexual activity. That is, in its deepest sense. It is this attack onthe deepest levels of the psychic organism that results in the trauma;and has results of its own, by the way, which succeed in stabilizingthe traumatic shock on several levels. " Malone blinked. "That last part began to get me a little, " he said. "Can we go over it again, just the tune this time and leave out theharmony?" Marshall smiled. "Certainly, " he said. "Remember that Her Majesty hasbeen locked up in institutions since early adolescence. Because ofthis--a direct result of the original psychosis--she has beendeprived, not only of the communication which serves as a sublimationfor sexual activity, but, in fact, any normal sexual activity. Heridentification of herself with the Virgin Queen is far fromaccidental, Sir Kenneth. " The idea that conservation was sex was a new and somewhat frighteningone to Malone, but he stuck to it grimly. "No sex, " Malone said. "That's the basic trouble. " Marshall nodded. "It always is, " he said. "In one form or another, SirKenneth; it is at the root of such problems at all times. But in HerMajesty's case the psychosis has become stabilized; she is the VirginQueen, and therefore her failure to become part of the normal sexualactivity of her group has a reason. It is accepted on that basis byher own psyche. " "I see, " Malone said. "Or, anyhow, I think I do. But how aboutchanges? Could she get worse or better? Could she start lying topeople--for the fun of it, or for reasons of her own?" "Changes in her psychic state don't seem very probable, " Marshallsaid. "In theory, of course, anything is possible; but in fact, I haveobserved and worked with Her Majesty and no such change has occurred. You may take that as definite. " "And the lying?" Malone said. Marshall frowned slightly. "I've just explained, " he said, "that HerMajesty has been blocked in the direction of communication--that is, in the direction of one of her most important sexual sublimations. Such communication as she can have, therefore, is to be highlytreasured by her; it provides the nearest thing to sex that she mayhave. As the Virgin Queen, she may still certainly _converse_ in anyway possible. She would not injure that valuable possession and rightby falsifying it. It's quite impossible, Sir Kenneth. Quiteimpossible. " This did not make Malone feel any better. It removed one of the twopossibilities--but it left him with no vacation, and the mostcomplicated case he had ever dreamed of sitting squarely in his lapand making rude faces at him. He had to solve the case--and he had nobody but himself to depend on. "You're sure?" he said. "Perfectly sure, Sir Kenneth, " Marshall said. Malone sighed. "Well, then, " he said, "can I see Her Majesty?" He knewperfectly well that he didn't have to ask Marshall's permission--oranybody else's. But it seemed more polite, somehow. "She's receiving Dr. Sheldon Lord in audience just at the moment, "Marshall said. "I don't see why you shouldn't go on to the ThroneRoom, though. He's giving her some psychological tests, but they oughtto be finished in a minute or two. " "Fine, " Malone said. "How about court dress? Got anything here thatmight fit me?" Marshall nodded. "We've got a pretty complete line of court costumenow, " he said. "I should say it was the most complete inexistence--except possibly for the TV historical companies. Down thehall, three doors farther on, you'll find the dressing room. " * * * * * Malone thanked Dr. Marshall and went out slowly. He didn't really mindthe court dress or the Elizabethan etiquette Her Majesty liked topreserve; as a matter of fact, he was rather fond of it. There hadbeen some complaints about expense when the Throne Room and thecostume arrangement were first set up, but the FBI and the Governmenthad finally decided that it was better and easier to humor HerMajesty. Malone spent ten minutes dressing himself magnificently in hose anddoublet, slash-sleeved, ermine-trimmed coat, lace collar, and plumedhat. By the time he presented himself at the door to the Throne Roomhe felt almost cheerful. It had been a long time since he had enteredthe world of Elizabethan knighthood over which Her Majesty held sway, and it always made him feel taller and more sure of himself. He bowedto a chunkily-built man of medium height in a stiffly brocaded jacket, carrying a small leather briefcase. The man had a whaler's beard ofblond-red hair that looked slightly out of period, but the costumemanaged to overpower it. "Dr. Lord?" Malone said. The bearded man peered at him. "Ah, Sir Kenneth, " he said. "Yes, yes. Just been giving Her Majesty a few tests. Normal weekly check, youknow. " "I know, " Malone said. "Any change?" "Change?" Lord said. "In Her Majesty? Sir Kenneth, you might as wellexpect the very rocks to change. Her Majesty remains Her Majesty--andwill, in all probability, throughout the foreseeable future. " "The same as ever?" Malone asked hopefully. "Exactly, " Lord said. "But--if you do want background on the case--I'mflying back to New York tonight. Look me up there, if you have achance. I'm afraid there's little information I can give you, but it'salways a pleasure to talk with you. " "Thanks, " Malone said dully. "Barrow Street, " Lord said with a cheery wave of the briefcase. "Number 69. " He was gone. The Security Officer at the door, a youngman in the uniform of a page, opened it and peered out at Malone. TheFBI Agent nodded to him and the Security Officer announced in a firm, loud voice: "Sir Kenneth Malone, of Her Majesty's Own FBI!" The Throne Room was magnificent. The whole place had been done inplastic and synthetic fibers to look like something out of theSixteenth Century. It was as garish, and as perfect, as a Hollywoodmovie set--which wasn't surprising, since two stage designers had beenhired away from color-TV spectaculars to set it up. At the far end ofthe room, past the rich hangings and the flaming chandeliers, was agreat golden throne, and on it Her Majesty was seated. Lady Barbara Wilson, Her Majesty's personal nurse, was sitting on acamp-chair arrangement nearby. She smiled slowly at Malone as he wentby, and Malone returned the smile with a good deal of interest. Hestrode firmly down the long crimson carpet that stretched from thedoorway to the throne. At the steps leading up toward the dais thatheld the Throne, his free hand went up and swept off the plumed hat. He sank to one knee. "Your Majesty, " he said gravely. The queen looked down on him. "Rise, Sir Kenneth, " she said in a toneof surprise. "We welcome your presence. " Malone got up off his knee and stood, his hat in his hand. "What is your business with us?" Her Majesty asked. Malone looked her full in the face for the first time. He realizedthat her expression was rather puzzled and worried. She looked evenmore confused than she had the last time he'd seen her. He took a deep breath, wished for a cigar and plunged blindly aheadinto the toils of court etiquette. "Your Majesty, " he said, "I know full well that you are aware of thethoughts that I have had concerning the case we have been working on. I beg Your Majesty's pardon for having doubted Your Majesty's RoyalWord. Since my first doubts, of which I am sore ashamed, I have beeninformed by Our Majesty's Royal Psychiatrist that my doubts wereill-founded, and I wish to convey my deepest apologies. Now, havingbeen fully convinced of the truth of Your Majesty's statements, I havea theory I would discuss with you, the particulars of which you candoubtless see in my mind. " He paused. Her Majesty was staring at him, her face pale. "Sir Kenneth, " she said in a strained voice, "we appreciate yourattitude. However--" She paused for a moment, and then continued. "However, Sir Kenneth, it is our painful duty to inform you--" She stopped again. And when she managed to speak, she had dropped allpretense of Court Etiquette. "Sir Kenneth, I've been so worried! I was afraid you were dead!" Malone blinked. "Dead?" he asked. "For the past twenty-four hours, " Her Majesty said in a frightenedvoice, "I've been unable to contact your mind. And right now, as youstand there, I can't read anything! "It's as though you weren't thinking at all!" [Illustration] PART 3 IX Malone stared at Her Majesty for what seemed like a long time. "Notthinking at all?" he said at last, weakly. "But I _am_ thinking. Atleast, I _think_ I am. " He suddenly felt as if he had gone RenéDescartes one better. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. Her Majesty regarded Malone for an interminable, silent second. Thenshe turned to Lady Barbara. "My dear, " she said, "I would like tospeak to Sir Kenneth alone. We will go to my chambers. " Malone, feeling as though his brain had suddenly turned to quincejelly, followed the two women out of a small door at the rear of theThrone Room, and into Her Majesty's private apartments. Lady Barbaraleft them alone with some reluctance, but she'd evidently been gettingused to following her patient's orders. Which, Malone thought withadmiration, must take a lot of effort for a nurse. The door closed and he was alone with the Queen. Malone opened hismouth to speak, but Her Majesty raised a monitory hand. "Please, SirKenneth, " she said. "Just a moment. Don't say anything for a littlebit. " Malone shut his mouth. When the minute was up, Her Majesty began tonod her head, very slowly. Her voice, when she spoke, was low andcalm. "It's as though you were almost invisible, " she said. "I can see youwith my eyes, of course, but mentally you are almost completelyindetectable. Knowing you as well as I do, and being this close toyou, it is just possible for me to detect very faint traces ofactivity. " "Now, wait a minute, " Malone said. "I am thinking. I know I am. Maybeit's not me. Your telepathy might be fading out temporarily, orsomething like that. It's possible, isn't it?" He was reasonably sureit wasn't, but it was a last try at making sense. Her Majesty shookher head. "I can still receive Sir Thomas, for instance, quite clearly, " shesaid. She seemed a little miffed, but the irritation was overpoweredby her worry. "I think, Sir Kenneth, that you just don't know your ownpower, that's all. I don't know how, but you've managed somehow tosmother telepathic communication almost completely. " "But not quite?" Malone said. Apparently, he was thinking, but veryweakly. Like a small child, he told himself dismally. Like a smallElizabethan child. Her Majesty's face took on a look of faraway concentration. "It's likelooking at a very dim light, " she said, "a light just at the thresholdof perception. You might say that you've got to look at such a lightsideways. If you look directly at it, you can't see it. And, ofcourse, you can't see it at all if you're a long way off. " Sheblinked. "It's not exactly like that, you understand, " she finished. "But in some ways--" "I get the idea, " Malone said. "Or I think I do. But what's causingit? Sunspots? Little green men?" "Not so little, " Her Majesty said with some return of her old humor, "and not green, either. As a matter of fact, _you_ are, Sir Kenneth. " Malone opened his mouth, shut it again and finally managed to say:"Me?" in a batlike squeal of surprise. "I don't know how, Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty went on, "but you are. It's . . . Rather frightening to me, as a matter of fact; I've neverseen such a thing before. I've never even considered it before. " "You?" Malone said. "How about me?" It was like suddenly discoveringthat you'd been lifting two-hundred-pound barbells and not knowing it. "How could I be doing anything like that without knowing anythingabout it?" Her Majesty shook her head. "I haven't the faintest idea, " she said. But Malone, very suddenly, did. He remembered deciding to keep a closecheck on his mental processes to make sure those bursts of energydidn't do anything to him. Subconsciously, he knew, he was stillkeeping that watch. And maybe the watch itself caused the complete blanking of histelepathic faculties. It was worth a test, at least, he decided. Andit was an easy test to make. "Listen, " he said. He told himself that he would now allowcommunication between himself and Her Majesty--and only between thosetwo. Maybe it wasn't possible to let down the barrier in a selectiveway, but he gave it all he had. A long second passed. "My goodness!" Her Majesty said in pleased surprise. "There you areagain!" "You can read me?" Malone asked. "Why . . . Yes, " Her Majesty said. "And I can see just what you'rethinking. I'm afraid, Sir Kenneth, that I don't know whether it'sselective or not. But . . . Oh. Just a minute. You go right on thinking, now, just the way you are. " Her Majesty's eyes unfocused slightly anda long time passed, while Malone tried to keep on thinking. But it wasdifficult, he told himself, to think about things without having anythings to think about. He felt his mind begin to spin gently with therhythm of the last sentence, and he considered slowly the possibilityof thinking about things when there weren't any things thinking aboutyou. That seemed to make as much sense as anything else, and he wasturning it over and over in his mind when a voice broke in. * * * * * "I was contacting Willie, " Her Majesty said. "Ah, " Malone said. "Willie. Of course. Very fine for contacting. " Her Majesty frowned. "You remember Willie, don't you?" she said. "Willie Logan--who used to be a spy for the Russians, just because hedidn't know any better, poor boy?" "Oh, " Malone said. "Logan. " He remembered the catatonic youngster whohad used his telepathic powers against the United States until HerMajesty, the FBI, and Kenneth J. Malone had managed to put mattersright. That had been the first time he'd met Her Majesty; it seemedlike fifty years before. "Well, " Her Majesty said, "Willie and I had a little argument justnow. And I think you'll be interested in it. " "I'm fascinated, " Malone said. "Was he thinking about things or were things thinking about him?" "Really, Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty said, "you do think about thesilliest notions when you don't watch yourself. " Malone blushed slightly. "Anyhow, " he said after a pause, "what wasthe argument about?" "Willie says you aren't here, " Her Majesty said. "He can't detect youat all. Even when I let him take a peek at you through my ownmind--making myself into sort of a relay station, so to speak--Williewouldn't believe it. He said I was hallucinating. " "Hallucinating me?" Malone said. "I think I'm flattered. Not manypeople would bother. " "Don't underestimate yourself, Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty said, ratherseverely. "But you do see what this little argument means, don't you?I think you may assume that your telepathic contact is quiteselective. If Willie can't read you, Sir Kenneth, believe me, nobodyat all can . . . Unless you let them. " How he had developed this mental shield, he couldn't imagine, unlesshis subconscious had done it for him. Good old subconscious, hethought, always looking out for a person's welfare, preparing littlesurprises and things. Though he hoped vaguely that the next surprise, if there were a next one, would sneak up a little more gently. Beingtold flatly that your mind was not in operation was not a very goodway to start an investigation. Then he thought of something else. "Do you think this . . . Barrier ofmine will keep out those little bursts of mental energy?" he said. Her Majesty looked judicious. "I really do, " she said. "It does appearquite impenetrable, Sir Kenneth. I can't understand how you're doingit. Or why, for that matter. " "Well--" Malone began. Her Majesty raised a hand. "No, " she said. "I'd rather not know, ifyou please. " Her voice was stern, but just a little shaken. "Thethought of blocking off thought--the only real form of communicationthat exists--is, frankly, quite horrible to me. I would rather beblinded, Sir Kenneth. I truly would. " Malone thought of Dr. Marshall and blushed. Her Majesty peered at himnarrowly, and then smiled. "You've been talking to my Royal Psychiatrist again, haven't you?" shesaid. Malone nodded. "Frankly, Sir Kenneth, " she went on, "I thinkpeople pay too much attention to that sort of thing nowadays. " The subject, Malone recognized, was firmly closed. He cleared histhroat and started up another topic. "Let's talk about these energybursts, " he said. "Do you still pick them up occasionally?" "Oh, my, yes, " Her Majesty said. "And it's not only me. Willie hasbeen picking them up too. We've had some long talks about it, Willieand I. It's frightening, in a way, but you must admit that it's veryinteresting. " "Fascinating, " Malone muttered. "Tell me, have you figured out whatthey might be, yet?" Her Majesty shook her head. "All we know is that they do seem to occurjust before a person intends to make a decision. The burst somehowappears to influence the decision. But we don't know how, and we don'tknow where they come from, or what causes them. Or even why. " "In other words, " Malone said, "we know absolutely nothing new. " "I'm afraid not, Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty said. "But Willie and I dointend to keep working on it. It is important, isn't it?" "Important, " Malone said, "is not the word. " He paused. "And now, ifyour Majesty will excuse me, " he said, "I'll have to go. I have workto do, and your information has been most helpful. " "You may go, Sir Kenneth, " Her Majesty said, returning with whatappeared to be real pleasure to the etiquette of the ElizabethanCourt. "We are grateful that you have done so much, and continue to doso much, to defend the peace of Our Realm. " "I pledge myself to continue in those efforts which please YourMajesty, " Malone said, and started back for the costume room. Oncehe'd changed into his regular clothing again he snapped himself backto the room he had rented in the Great Universal. He had a great dealof thinking to do, he told himself, and not much time to do it in. * * * * * However, he was alone. That meant he could light up a cigar--somethingwhich, as an FBI Agent, he didn't feel he should do in public. Cigarsjust weren't right for FBI Agents, though they were all right forordinary detectives like Malone's father. As a matter of fact, heconsidered briefly hunting up a vest, putting it on and letting thecigar ash dribble over it. His father seemed to have gotten a lot ofgood ideas that way. But, in the end, he rejected the notion as beingtoo complicated, and merely sat back in a chair, with an ashtrayconveniently on a table by his side, and smoked and thought. Now, he knew with reasonable certainty that Andrew J. Burris was wrongand that he, Malone, was right. The source of all the confusion in thecountry was due to psionics, not to psychodrugs and Walt Disney spies. His first idea was to rush back and tell Burris. However, this lookedlike a useless move, and every second he thought about it made it seemmore useless. He simply didn't have enough new evidence to convinceBurris of anything whatever; psychiatric evidence was fine to back upsomething else, but on its own it was still too shaky to be acceptedby the courts, in most cases. And Burris thought even more strictlythan the courts in such matters. Not only that, Malone realized with alarm, but even if he did managesomehow to convince Burris there was very little chance that Burriswould stay convinced. If his mind could be changed by a burst of wildmental power--and why not? Malone reflected--then he could beunconvinced as often as necessary. He could be spun round and roundlike a top and never end up facing the way Malone needed him to face. That left the burden of solving the problem squatting like ahunchback's hunch squarely on Malone's shoulders. He thought he couldbear the weight for a while, if he could only think of some way ofdislodging it. But the idea of its continuing to squat there foreverwas horribly unnerving. "Quasimodo Malone, " he muttered, and uttered abrief prayer of thanks that his father had been spared a classicaleducation. "Ken" wasn't so bad. "Quasi" would have been awful. He couldn't think of any way to get a fingerhold on the thing thatweighed him down. Slowly, he went over it in his mind. Situation: an unidentifiable something is attacking the United Stateswith an untraceable something else from a completely unknown source. Problem: how do you go about latching on to anything as downrightnonexistent as all that? Even the best detective, Malone told himself irritably, needed cluesof some kind. And this thing, whatever it was, was not playing fair. It didn't go around leaving bloody fingerprints or lipstickedcigarette butts or packets of paper matches with _Ciro's, Hollywood_, written on them. It didn't even have an alibi for anything that couldbe cracked, or leave tire marks or footprints behind that could bephotographed. Hell, Malone thought disgustedly, it wasn't that thetrail was cold. It just _wasn't_. Of course, there were ways to get clues, he reflected. He thought ofhis father. His father would have gone to the scene of the crime, orquestioned some of the witnesses. But the scene of the crime wasanywhere and everywhere, and most of the witnesses didn't know theywere witnessing anything. Except for Her Majesty, of course--but he'dalready questioned her, and there hadn't been any clues he couldrecall in that conversation. Malone stubbed out his cigar, lit another one absent-mindedly, andrescued his tie, which was working its slow way around to the side ofhis collar. There were, he remembered, three classic divisions of anycrime: method, motive and opportunity. Maybe thinking about thosewould lead somewhere. As an afterthought, he got up, found a pencil and paper with thehotel's name stamped on them in gold and came back to the chair. Clearing the ashtray aside, he put the paper on the table and dividedthe paper into three vertical columns with the pencil. He headed thefirst one _Method_, the second _Motive_ and the third _Opportunity_. He stared at the paper for a while, and decided with some trepidationto take the columns one by one. Under _Method_, he put down: "Littlebursts. Who knows cause?" Some more thought gave him another item, andhe set it down under the first one: "Psionic. Look for psionicpeople?" That apparently was all there was to the first column. After a whilehe moved to number two, _Motive_. "Confuse things, " he wrote withscarcely a second's reflection. But that didn't seem like enough. Afew minutes more gave him several other items, written down one underthe other. "Disrupt entire US. Set US up for invasion? Martians?Russians? CK: Is Russia having trble?" That seemed to exhaust thesubject and with some relief he went on. But the title of the nextcolumn nearly stopped him completely. [Illustration] _Opportunity. _ There wasn't anything he could put down under that one, Malone told himself, until he knew a great deal more about method. Asthings stood at present, the best entry under _Opportunity_ was alarge, tastefully done question mark. He made one, and then sat backto look at the entire list and see what help it gave him: _Method_Little bursts. Who knows cause?Psionic. Look for psionic people? _Motive_Confuse things. Disrupt entire US. Set US up for invasion?Martians?Russians?CK: Is Russia having trble? _Opportunity_? Somehow, it didn't seem to be much help, when he thought about it. Ithad a lot of information on it, but none of the information seemed tolead anywhere. It did seem to be established that the purpose was toconfuse or disrupt the United States, but this didn't seem to point toanybody except a Russian, an alien or a cosmic practical joker. Malonecould see no immediate way of deciding among the trio. However, hetold himself, there are other ways to start investigating a crime. There must be. Psychological methods, for instance. People had little gray cells, heremembered from his childhood reading. Some of the more brainyfictional detectives never stooped to anything so low as an actualphysical clue. They concentrated solely on finding a pattern in thecrimes that indicated, infallibly, the psychology of the individual. Once his psychology had been identified, it was only a short step toactually catching him and putting him in jail until his psychologychanged for the better. Or, of course, until it disappeared entirelyand was buried, along with the rest of him, in a small wood box. That wasn't Malone's affair. All he had to do was take the first fewsteps and actually find the man. And perhaps psychology and patternwas the place to start. Anyhow, he reflected, he didn't have any othermethod that looked even remotely likely to lead to anything exceptbrain-fag, disappointment, and catalepsy. But he didn't have enough cases to find a pattern. There must, hethought, be a way to get some more. After a few seconds he thought ofit. * * * * * At first he thought of asking Room Service for all the local andout-of-state papers, but that, he quickly saw, was a little unwise. People didn't come to Las Vegas to catch up on the news; they came toget away from it. A man might read Las Vegas papers, and possibly evenhis home town's paper if he couldn't break himself of the pernicioushabit. But nobody on vacation would start reading papers fromeverywhere. There was no sense in causing suspicion, Malone told himself. Instead, he reached for the phone and called the desk. "Great Universal, good afternoon, " a pleasant voice said in his ear. Malone blinked. "What time _is_ it?" he said. "A few minutes before six, " the voice said. "In the evening, sir. " "Oh, " Malone said. It was later than he'd thought; the list had takensome time. "This is Kenneth J. Malone, " he went on, "in Room--" Hetried to remember the number of his room and failed. It seemed likefour or five days since he'd entered it. "Well, wherever I am, " hesaid at last, "send up some kind of a car for me and have a taxiwaiting outside. " The voice sounded unperturbed. "Right away, sir, " it said. "Will therebe anything else?" "I guess not, " Malone said. "Not now, anyhow. " He hung up and stubbedout the latest in his series of cigars. The hallway car arrived in a few minutes. It was manned by a muscularlittle man with beady eyes and thinning black hair. "You Malone?" hesaid when the FBI Agent opened the door. "Kenneth J. , " Malone said. "I called for a car. " "Right outside, Chief, " the little man said in a gravelly voice. "Justhop in and off we go into the wild blue yonder. Right?" "I guess so, " Malone said helplessly. He followed the man outside, locked his door and climbed into a duplicate of the little car thathad taken him to his room in the first place. "Step right in, Chief, " the little man said. "We're off. " Malone, overcoming an immediate distaste for the chummy little fellow, climbed in and the car retreated down to the road. It started offsmoothly and they went back toward the lobby. The little man chattedincessantly and Malone tried not to listen. But there was nothing elseto do except watch the gun-toting "guides" as the car passed them, andthe sight was making him nervous. "You want anything--special, " the driver said, giving Malone a blow inthe ribs that was apparently meant to be subtle, "you just ask forMurray. Got it?" "I've got it, " Malone said wearily. "You just pick up the little phone and you ask for Murray, " the driversaid. "Maybe you want something a little out of the ordinary--get whatI mean?" Malone moved aside, but not fast enough, and Murray's stoneelbow caught him again. "Something special, extra-nice. For myfriends, pal. You want to be a friend of mine?" Assurances that friendship with Murray was Malone's dearest ambitionin life managed to fend off further blows until the car pulled to astop in the lobby. "Cab's outside, Mr. Malone, " Murray said. "Youremember me--hey?" "I will never, never forget you, " Malone said fervently, and got outin a hurry. He found the cab and the driver, a heavy-set man with aface that looked as if, somewhere along the line, it had run into aWaring Blendor and barely escaped, swiveled around to look at him ashe got in. "Where to, Mac?" he asked sourly. Malone shrugged. "Center of town, " he said. "A nice big newsstand. " The cabbie blinked. "A what?" he said. "Newsstand, " Malone said pleasantly. "All right with you?" "Everybody's a little crazy, I guess, " the cabbie said. "But why do Ialways get the real nuts?" He started the cab with a savage jerk andMalone was carried along the road at dizzying speed. They managed tomake ten blocks before the cab squealed to a stop. Malone peered outand saw a nice selection of sawhorses piled up in the road, guarded bytwo men with guns. The men were dressed in police uniforms and thecabby, staring at them, uttered one brief and impolite word. "What's going on?" Malone said. "Roadblock, " the cabbie said. "Thing's going to stay here until Hellfreezes over. Not that they need it. Hell, I passed it on the way inbut I figured they'd take it down pretty quick. " "Roadblock?" Malone said. "What for?" The cabbie shrugged eloquently. "Who knows?" he said. "You askquestions, you might get answers you don't like. I don't askquestions, I live longer. " "But--" The cops, meanwhile, had advanced toward the car. One of them lookedin. "Who's the passenger?" he said. The cabbie swore again. "You want me to take loyalty oaths frompeople?" he said. "You want to ruin my business? I got a passenger, how do I know who he is? Maybe he's the Lone Ranger. " "Don't get funny, " the cop said. His partner had gone around to theback of the car. "What's this, the trunk again?" the cabbie said. "You think maybe I'msmuggling in showgirls from the edge of town?" "Ha, ha, " the cop said distinctly. "One more joke and it's thirtydays, buster. Just keep cool and nothing will happen. " "Nothing, he calls it, " the cabbie said dismally. But he stayed silentuntil the second cop came back to rejoin his partner. "Clean, " he said. "Here, too, I guess, " the first cop said, and looked in again. "You, "he said to Malone. "You a tourist?" "That's right, " Malone said. "Kenneth J. Malone, at the GreatUniversal. Arrived this afternoon. What's happening here, officer?" "I'm asking questions, " the cop said. "You're answering them. Outsideof that, you don't have to know a thing. " He looked very tough andofficial. Malone didn't say anything else. After a few more seconds they went back to their positions and thecabbie started the car again. Ten yards past the roadblock he turnedaround and looked at Malone. "It's the sheriff's office every time, "he said. "Now, you take a State cop, he's O. K. Because what does hecare? He's got other things to worry about, he don't have to bear downon hard-working cabbies. " "Sure, " Malone said helpfully. "And the city police--they're right here in the city, they're O. K. Iknow them, they know me, nothing goes wrong. Get what I mean?" "The sheriff's office is the worst, though?" Malone said. "The worst is nothing compared to those boys, " the cabbie said. "Believe me, every time they can make life tough for a cabbie, they doit. It's hatred, that's what it is. They hate cabbies. That's thesheriff's office for you. " "Tough, " Malone said. "But the roadblock--what _was_ it for, anyhow?" The cabbie looked back at the road, avoided an oncoming car with acasual sweep of the wheel, and sighed gustily. "Mister, " he said, "youdon't ask questions, I don't give out answers. Fair?" There was, after all, nothing else to say. "Fair, " Malone told him, and rode the rest of the way in total silence. * * * * * Buying the papers in Las Vegas took more time than Malone hadbargained for. He had to hunt from store to store to get a good, representative selection, and there were crowds almost everywhereplaying the omnipresent slot-machines. The whir of the machines andthe low undertones and whispers of the bettors combined in the air tomake what Malone considered the single most depressing sound he hadever heard. It sounded like a factory, old, broken-down and unwanted, that was geared only to the production of cigarette butts and oldcellophane, ready-crumpled for throwing away. Malone pushed throughthe crowds as fast as possible, but nearly an hour had gone by when hehad all his papers and hailed another cab to get him back to thehotel. This time, the cabbie had a smiling, shining face. He looked likePollyanna, after eight or ten shots at the middleweight title. Malonebeamed right back at him and got in. "Great Universal, " he said. "Hey, that's a nice place, " the cabbie said heartily, as they startedoff. "I heard there was a couple TV stars there last week and they gotdrunk and had a fight. You see that?" "Just arrived this afternoon, " Malone said. "Sorry. " "Oh, don't worry, " the cabbie assured him. "Something's always goingon at the Universal. I hear they posted a lot of guards there, justwaiting for something to come up now. Something about some shooting, but I didn't get the straight story yet. That true?" "Far as I know, " Malone said. "There's a lot of strange thingshappening lately, aren't there?" "Lots, " the cabbie said eagerly. He meandered slowly around a coupleof bright-red convertibles. "A guy owned the _Last Stand_, he killedhimself with a gun today. It's in the papers. Listen, Mister, funnythings happen all the time around here. I remember last week there wasa lady in my cab, nice old bat, looked like she wouldn't take off anearring in public, not among strangers. You know the type. Well, sir, she asked me to take her on to the Golden Palace, and that's a fairride. So on the way down, she--" Fascinated as he was by the unreeling story of the shy old bat, Maloneinterrupted. "I hear there's a roadblock up now, and they're searchingall the cars. Know anything about that?" The cabbie nodded violently. "Sure, Mister, " he said. "Now, it's funnyyou should ask. I hit the block once today and I was saying to myself, I'll bet somebody's going to ask me about this. So when I was in townI talked around with Si Deeds . . . You know Si? Oh, no, you justarrived today . . . Anyhow, I figured Si would know. " "And did he?" Malone said. "Not a thing, " the cabbie said. Malone sighed disgustedly and thecabbie went on: "So I went over and talked to Bob Grindell. I figured, there was action, Bob would know. And guess what?" "He didn't know either, " Malone said tiredly. "Bob?" the cabbie said. "Say, Mister, you must be new here for sure, if you say Bob wouldn't know what was going on. Why, Bob knows moreabout this town than guys lived in it twice as long, I'll tell you. Believe me, he knows. " "And what did he say?" Malone asked. The cabbie paused. "About what?" he said. "About the roadblock, " Malone said distinctly. "Oh, " the cabbie said. "That. Well, that was a funny thing and nomistake. There was this fight, see? And Shellenberger got in themiddle of it, see? So when he was dead they had to set up thisroadblock. " Malone restrained himself with some difficulty. "What fight?" he said. "And who's Shellenberger? And how did he get in the way?" "Mister, " the cabbie said, "you must be new here. " "A remarkable guess, " Malone said. The cabbie nodded. "Sure must be, " he said. "Gus Shellenberger's livedhere over ten years now. I drove him around many's the time. Rememberwhen he used to go out to this motel out on the outskirts there; therewas this doll he was interested in but it never came to much. He saidshe wasn't right for his career, you know how guys like that are, theygot to be careful all the time. Never hit the papers or anything--Imean with the doll and all--but people get to know things. You know. So with this doll--" "How long ago did all this happen?" Malone asked. "The doll?" the cabbie said. "Oh, five-six years. Maybe seven. Iremember it was the year I got a new cab, business was pretty good, you know. Seven, I guess. Garage made me a price, you know, I had tobe an idiot to turn it down? A nice price. Well, George Lamel who ownsthe place, he's an old friend, you know? I did him some favors so hegives me a nice price. Well, this new cab--" "Can we get back to the present for a little while?" Malone said. "There was this fight, and your friend Gus Shellenberger got involvedin it somehow--" "Oh, that, " the cabbie said. "Oh, sure. Well, there was a kind ofchase. Some sheriff's officers were looking for an escaped convict, and they were chasing him and doing some shooting. And Shellenberger, he got in the way and got shot accidentally. The criminal, he gotaway. But it's kind of a mess, because--" A loud chorus of sirens effectively stopped all conversation. Two carsstamped with the insignia of the sheriff's office came into sight andstreaked past, headed for Las Vegas. "Because Shellenberger was State's attorney, after all, " the cabbiesaid. "It's not like just anybody got killed. " "And the roadblock?" Malone said. "For the criminal, I guess, " the cabbie said. Malone nodded heavily. The whole thing smelled rather loudly, hethought. The "accident" wasn't very plausible to start with. And asearch for an escaped criminal that didn't even involve checkingidentification of strangers like Malone wasn't much of a search. Thecops knew who they were looking for. And Shellenberger hadn't been killed by accident. The roadblock was down, he noticed. The sheriff's office cars hadapparently carried the cheerful cops back to Las Vegas. Maybe they'dfound their man, Malone thought, and maybe they just didn't care anymore. "Wouldn't a State's attorney live in Carson City?" he asked after awhile. "Not old Gus Shellenberger, " the cabbie said. "Many's the time Italked with him and he said he loved this old town. Loved it. Like anold friend. Why, he used to say to me--" At that point the Great Universal hove into view. Malone feltextraordinarily grateful to see it. * * * * * He went to his room with the bundle of papers in his hand and lockedhimself in. He lit a fresh cigar and started through the papers. LasVegas was the one on top, and he gave it a quick going-over. Sureenough, the suicide of the Golden Palace owner was on page one, alongwith a lot of other local news. _Mayor Resigns Under Council Pressure_, one headline read. On page 3another story was headlined: _County Attorney Indicted by Grand Juryin Bribery Case_. And at the bottom of page 1, complete with picturesof baffled phone operators and linemen, was a double column spread:_Damage to Phone Relay Station Isolates City Five Hours_. Carson City, the State Capitol, came in for lots of interesting news, too. Three headlines caught Malone's attention: LT. -GOVERNOR MORRIS SWORN IN AS GOVERNOR TWELVE MEMBERS OF LEGISLATURE RESIGN Ill Health Given As Reason STATE'S ATTORNEY'S OFFICE: "NO COMMENT" ON RACKETS CONNECTION CHARGE. The next paper was the New York Post. Malone studied the front pagewith interest: MAYOR ORDERS ARREST OF POLICE COMM. The story on page 3 had a little more detail: MAYOR AMALFI ORDERS ARREST OF POLICE COMMISSIONER ON EVIDENCE SHOWING "COLLUSION WITH GAMBLING INTERESTS" But Malone didn't have time to read the story. Other headlines onpages 2 and 3 attracted his startled attention: TWELVE DIE IN BROOKLYN GANG MASSACRE Ricardo, Numbers Head, Among Slain "DANGEROUS DAN" SUGRUE LINKED WITH TRUCKER'S UNION Admits Connection "Gladly" [Illustration] HOUSING AUTHORITY DENIES, THEN CONFESSES GRAFT CHARGE Malone wiped a streaming brow. Apparently all hell was busting loose. Under the _Post_ was the San Francisco _Examiner_, its crowded frontpage filled with all sorts of strange and startling news items. Malonelooked over a few at random. A wildcat waterfront strike had beencalled off after the resignation of the union local's president. The"Nob Hill Mob, " which had grown notorious in the past few years, hadbeen rounded up and captured _in toto_ after what the paper describedonly as a "police tipoff. " Two headlines caught his special attention: BERSERK POLICE CAPTAIN KILLS TWO AIDES, SELF: CORRUPTION HINTED The second hit closer to home: FBI ARRESTS THREE STATE SENATORS ON INCOME TAX CHARGE Malone felt a pang of nostalgia. Conquering it after a brief struggle, he went on to the next paper. From Los Angeles, its front page showedthat Hollywood, at least, was continuing to hold its own: LAVISH FUNERAL PLANNED FOR WONDER DOG TOMORROW But the Washington _Times-Herald_ brought things back to the messMalone had expected. All sorts of things were going on: PRESIDENT ACCEPTS RESIGNATION OF THREE CABINET MEMBERS New Appointees Not Yet Named PENTAGON TO INVESTIGATE QUARTER-MASTER CORPS GRAFT Revelations Hinted In Closed Hearing Thursday RIOT ON SENATE FLOOR QUELLED BY GUARDS Sen. Briggs Hospitalized GENERAL BREGER, MISSILE BASE HEAD, DIES IN TESTING ACCIDENT Faulty Equipment Blamed Malone put the papers down with a deep sigh. There was some kind of apattern there, he was sure; there had to be. More was happening in thegood old United States inside of twenty-four hours than ordinarilyhappened in a couple of months. The big trouble was that some of itwas, doubtless, completely unconnected with the work of Malone'spsychological individual. It was equally certain that some of itwasn't; no normal workings of chance could account for the spate ofresignations, deaths, arrests of high officials, freak accidents andeverything else he'd just seen. But there was no way of telling which was which. The only one he wasreasonably sure he could leave out of his calculations was Hollywood'sgood old Wonder Dog. And when he looked at the rest all he could seewas that confusion was rampant. Which was exactly what he'd knownbefore. He remembered once, when he was a boy, his mother had taken him to anastronomical observatory, and he had looked at Mars through the bigtelescope, hoping to see the canals he'd heard so much about. Sure, enough, there had been a blurred pattern of some kind. It might haverepresented canals--but he'd been completely unable to trace any givenline. It was like looking at a spiderweb through a sheet of frostedglass. He needed a clearer view, and there wasn't any way to get it withoutfinding some more information. Sooner or later, he told himself, everything would fall into one simple pattern, and he would give a cryof "Eureka!" There was, at any rate, no need to go to the scene of the crime. Hewas right in the middle of it--and would have been, apparently, nomatter where he'd been. The big question was: where were all the factshe needed? He certainly wasn't going to find them all alone in his room, hedecided. Mingling with the Las Vegas crowds might give him some sortof a lead--and, besides, he had to act like a man on vacation, didn'the? Satisfied of this, Malone began to change into his dress suit. People who came to Las Vegas, he told himself while fiddling with whatseemed to be a left-hand-thread cufflink of a peculiarly nastydisposition, were usually rich. Rich people would be worried about theway the good old United States was acting up, just like anybody else, but they'd have access to various sources both of information andrumor. Rumor was more valuable than might at first appear, Malonethought sententiously, sneaking up on the cufflink and fastening itsecurely. He finished dressing with what was almost an air of hope. He surveyed himself in the mirror when he was done. Nobody, he toldhimself with some assurance, would recognize him as the FBI Agent whohad come into the Golden Palace two years before, clad in Elizabethancostume and escorting a Queen who had turned out to be a phenomenalpoker player. After all, Las Vegas was a town in which lots of strangethings happened daily, and he was dressed differently, and he'd agedat least two years in the intervening two years. He put in a call for a hallway car--carefully refraining from askingfor Murray. X "Business, Mr. Malone, " the bartender said, "is shot all to hell. Thewhole country is shot all to hell. " "I believe it, " Malone said. "Sure, " the bartender said. He finished polishing one glass and set towork on another one. "Look at the place, " he went on. "Half full. Youbeen here two weeks now, and you know how business was when you came. Now look. " It wasn't necessary, but Malone turned obediently to survey the hugegambling hall. It was roofed over by a large golden dome that seemedto make the place look even emptier than it could possibly be. Therewere still plenty of people around the various tables, and somethingapproaching a big crowd clustered around the _chemin de fer_ layout. But it was possible to breathe in the place, and even move from tableto table without stepping into anybody's pocket. Las Vegas wasdefinitely sliding downhill at the moment, Malone thought. The glitter of polished gold and silver ornaments, the low cries ofthe various dealers and officials, the buzz of conversation, were allthe same. But under the great dome, Malone told himself sadly, youcould almost see the people leaving, one by one. "No money around either, " the bartender said. "Except maybe for a fewguys like yourself. I mean, people take their chances at the wheel orthe tables, but there's no big betting going on, just nickel-dimestuff. And no big spending, either. Used to be tips in a place likethis, just tips, would really mount up to something worth while. Now, nothing. " He put the glass and towel down and leaned across the bar. "You know what I think, Mr. Malone?" he said. "No, " Malone said politely. "What do you think?" The bartender looked portentous. "I think all the big-money guys haverushed off home to look after their business and like that, " he said, "everything's going to hell, and what I want to know is: What's wrongwith the country? You're a big businessman, Mr. Malone. You ought tohave some ideas. " Malone paused and looked thoughtful. "I'll tell you what I think, " hesaid. "I think people have decided that gambling is sinful. Maybe weall ought to go and get our souls dry-cleaned. " The bartender shook his head. "You always got a little joke, Mr. Malone, " he said. "It's what I like about you. But there must be somereason for what's happening. " "There must be, " Malone agreed. "But I'll be double-roasted for extrafresh flavor if I know what it is. " His vacation pay, he told himself with a feeling of downright misery, was already down the drain. He'd been dipping into personal savings tokeep up his front as a big spender, but that couldn't go onforever--even though he saved money on the front by gambling verylittle while he tipped lavishly. And in spite of what he'd spent hewas no closer to an answer than he had been when he'd started. "Now, you take the stock market, " the bartender said, picking up theglass and towel again and starting to work in a semiautomatic fashion. "It's going up and down like a regular roller coaster. I know becauseI got a few little things going for me there--nothing much, youunderstand, but I keep an eye out for developments. It doesn't makeany sense, Mr. Malone. Even the financial columnists can't make senseout of it. " "Terrible, " Malone said. "And the Government's been cracking down on business everywhere itcan, " the bartender went on. "All kinds of violations. I got nothingagainst the law, you understand. But that kind of thing don't helpprofits any. Look at the Justice Department. " "You look at it, " Malone muttered. "No, " the bartender said. "I mean it. They been arresting people allover the place for swindling on Government contracts, and falsifyingtax records, and graft, and all kinds of things. Listen, every FBI manin the country must be up to his cute little derby hat in work. " "I'll bet they are, " Malone said. He heaved a great sigh. Every one ofthem except Kenneth J. Malone was probably hopping full time in aneffort to straighten out the complicated mess everything was gettinginto. Of course, he was working, too--but not officially. As far asthe FBI knew, he was on vacation, and they were perfectly willing tolet him stay there. A nationwide emergency over two weeks old, and getting worse all thetime--and Burris hadn't even so much as called Malone to talk aboutthe weather. He'd said that Malone was one of his top operatives, butnow that trouble was really piling up there wasn't a peep out of him. The enemy, whoever they were, were doing a great job, Malone thoughtbitterly. Every time Burris decided he might need Malone, apparently, they pushed a little mental burst at him and turned him around again. He could just picture Burris looking blankly at an FBI roster andsaying: "Malone? Who's he?" It wasn't a nice picture. Malone took a deep swallow of hisbourbon-and-water and tried forgetting about it. The bartender, calledby another customer, put the glass and towel down and went to theother end of the bar. Malone finished his drink very slowly, feelingmore lonely than he could ever remember being before. * * * * * At last, though, four-thirty rolled around and he got up from theplush bar stool and headed for the Universal Joint, the hotel's bigshow-room. It was one of the few places in the hotel that was easilyreachable from the front bar on foot, and Malone walked, taking anunexpected pleasure in this novel form of locomotion. In a few minuteshe was at the great curtained front doors. He pushed them open. Later, of course, when the Universal Joint wasopen to the public, a man in a uniform slightly more impressive thanthat of a South American generalissimo would be standing before thedoors to save patrons the unpleasant necessity of opening them forthemselves. But now, in the afternoon, the Universal Joint was closed. There was no one inside but Primo Palveri, the manager and majoritystockholder of the Great Universal, and the new strip act he waswatching. Malone didn't particularly like the idea of sharing hisconversation with a burlesque stripper, but there was little he coulddo about it; he'd waited several days for the appointment already. As the doors opened he could hear a nasal voice, almost withoutover-tones, saying: "Now turn around, baby. Turn around. " A pause, andthen another voice, this one female: "Is this all right, Mr. Palveri? You want me to show you somethingelse?" Malone shut the door quietly behind him. The female voice was comingfrom the throat of a semi-naked girl about five feet eight, withbright red hair and a wide, wide smile. She was staring at a chunkylittle black-haired man sunk in a chair, whose back was to Malone. "What else do you do, Sweetheart?" the chunky man said. "Let me seewhatever you do. I want some wide-talent stuff, you know, for theplace. Class. " The girl smiled even wider. Malone was sure her teeth were about tofall out onto the floor, probably in a neat arrangement that spelledout _Will You Kiss Me In The Dark Baby_. That would take an awful lotof teeth, he reflected, but the stripper looked as if she could managethe job. "I dance and sing, " she said. "I could do a dance for you, but my music is upstairs. You want me to go and get it?" Palveri shook his head. "How about a song, baby? You mind singingwithout a piano?" "I don't have anything prepared, " the girl said, her eyes wide. "Ididn't know this was going to be a special audition. I thought, youknow, just a burlesque audition, so I didn't bring anything. " Palveri sank a little lower in the chair. "O. K. , Sweetheart, " he said. "You got a nice shape, you'll fit in the line anyhow. But just sing asong you know. How about that? If you make it with that, you could getyourself a featured spot. More dough. " The girl appeared to consider this proposition. "Gee, " she saidslowly. "I could do 'God Bless America'. O. K. , Mr. Palveri?" The chunky man sank even deeper toward the floor. "Never mind, " hesaid. "Go get dressed, tell Tony you got the number five spot in theline. O. K. ?" "Gee, " she said. "Maybe I could work on something and do it for yousome other time, Mr. Palveri?" He nodded wearily. "Some other time, " he said. "Sure. " * * * * * The girl went off through a door at the left of the club. Malonethreaded his way past tables with chairs piled on top of them until hecame to Palveri's side. The club owner was sitting on a single chairdragged off the heap that stood on a table next to him. He didn't turnaround. "Mr. Malone, " he said, "take another chair, sit down and we'lltalk. O. K. ?" Malone blinked. "How'd you know I was there?" he said. "Much less whoI was?" "In this business, " Palveri said, still without turning, "you learn tonotice things, Mr. Malone. I heard you come in and wait. Who elsewould you be?" Malone took a chair from the pile and set it up next to Palveri's. Thechunky man turned to face him for the first time. Malone took a deepbreath and tried to look hard and tough as he studied the club owner. Palveri had small, sunken eyes decorated with bluish bags below andtufted black eyebrows above. The eyes were very cold. The rest of hisface didn't warm things up any; he had an almost lipless slash for amouth, a small reddish nose and cheeks that could have used either ashave or a good sandblasting job. * * * * * "You said you wanted to see me, " Palveri began after a second. "Butyou didn't say what about. What's up, Mr. Malone?" "I've been looking around, " Malone said in what he hoped was a grim, no-nonsense tone. "Checking things. You know. " "Checking?" Palveri said. "What's this about?" Malone shrugged. He fished out a cigarette and lit it. "Castelnuovo inChicago sent me down, " he said. "I've been doing some checking aroundfor him. " Palveri's eyes narrowed slightly. Malone puffed on the cigarette andtried to act cool. "You throwing names around to impress me?" the clubowner said at last. "I'm not throwing names around, " Malone said grimly. "Castelnuovowants me to look around, that's all. " "Castelnuovo's a big man in Chicago, " Palveri said. "He wouldn't senda guy down without telling me about it. " "He did, " Malone said. He thought back to the FBI files on GiacomoCastelnuovo, which took up a lot of space in Washington, even onmicrofilm. "You want proof?" he said. "He's got a scar over his ribson the left side--got it from a bullet in '62. He wears a little blackmustache because he thinks he looks like an old-time TV star, but hedoesn't, much. He's got three or four girls on the string, but theonly one he cares about is Carla Bragonzi. He--" "O. K. , " Palveri said. "O. K. , O. K. You know him. You're not fooling, around. But how come he sends you down without telling me?" Malone shrugged. "I've been here two weeks, " he said. "You didn't knowI was around, did you? That's the way Castelnuovo wanted it. " "He thinks I'd cheat him?" Palveri said, his face changing colorslightly. "He thinks I'd dress up for him or drag down? He knows mebetter than that. " Malone took a puff of his cigarette. "Maybe he just wants to be sure, "he said. "Funny things are happening all over. " The cigarette tastedterrible and he put it out in an ashtray from the chair-covered table. "You're telling me, " Palveri said. "Things are crazy. What I'mthinking is this: Maybe Castelnuovo wants to keep this placeoperating. Maybe he wants to keep me here working for him. " "And if he does?" Malone said. "If he does, he's going to have to pay for it, " Palveri said firmly. "The place needs dough to keep operating. I've got to have a loan, orelse I'm going under. " "The place is making money, " Malone said. Palveri shook his head vigorously. He reached into a pocket and tookout a gold cigar case. He flipped it open. "Have one, " he told Malone. An FBI Agent, Malone told himself, had no business smoking cigars andlooking undignified. But as a messenger from Castelnuovo, he could doas he pleased. He almost reached for one before he realized thatmaybe, sometime in the future, Palveri would find out who Kenneth J. Malone really was. And then he'd remember Malone smoking cigars, andthat would be bad for the dignity of the FBI. Reluctantly, he drew hishand back. "No, thanks, " he said. "Never touch 'em. " "To each his own, " Palveri muttered. He took out a cigar, lit it andreturned the case to his pocket. The immediate vicinity became crowdedwith smoke. Malone breathed deeply. "About the money--" Malone said after a second. Palveri snorted. "The place is making half of what I'm losing, " hesaid. "You got to see it this way, Malone: the contacts are gone. " "Contacts?" Malone said. Palveri nodded. "The mayor's resigned, remember?" he said. "You sawthat. Everybody's getting investigated. A couple of weeks ago theGolden Palace guy knocked himself off, and where does that leave me?He's my only contact with half the State boys; hell, he ran the wholestring of clubs here, more or less. Castelnuovo knows all that. " "Sure, " Malone said. "But you can make new contacts. " "Where?" Palveri said. He flung out his arms. "When nobody knowswhat's going to happen tomorrow? I tell you, Malone, it's like a curseon me. " Malone decided to push the man a little farther. "Castelnuovo, " hesaid with what he hoped was a steely glint in his eyes, "isn't goingto like a curse ruining business. " He took another deep breath oftobacco smoke. "Primo Palveri don't like it either, " Palveri said. "You thinkwhatever you like but that's the way things are. It's like Prohibitionexcept we're losing all the way down the line. Listen, and I'll tellyou something you didn't pick up around town. " "Go ahead, " Malone said. * * * * * Palveri blew out some more smoke. "You know about the shipments?" hesaid. "The stuff from out on the desert?" Malone nodded. The FBI had a long file on the possibility ofCastelnuovo, through Palveri or someone else in the vicinity, shippingpeyotl buttons from Nevada and New Mexico all over the country. Untilthis moment, it had only been a possibility. "Mike Sand wanted to get in on some of that, " Palveri said. "Well, it's big money, a guy figures he's got to have competition. But it'sbusiness nowadays, not a shooting war. That went out forty years ago. " "So?" Malone said, acting impatient. "I'm getting there, " Palveri said. "I'm getting there. Mike Sand andhis truckers, they tried to high jack a shipment coming through out onthe desert. Now, the Trucker's Union is old and experienced, maybe, but not as old and experienced as the Mafia. It figures we can takethem, right?" "It figures, " Malone agreed. "But you didn't?" Palveri looked doleful. "It's like a curse, " he said. "Two boyswounded and one of them dead, right there on the sand. The shipmentgone, and Mike Sand on his way to the East with it. A curse. " Hesucked some more at the cigar. Malone looked thoughtful and concerned. "Things are certainly bad, " hesaid. "But how's money going to make things any better?" Palveri almost dropped his cigar. Malone watched it lovingly. "Help?"the club owner said. "With money I could stay open, I could stayalive. Listen, I had investments, nice guaranteed stuff: real estate, some California oil stuff . . . You know the kind of thing. " "Sure, " Malone said. "Now that the contacts are gone and everybody's dead or resigned orbeing investigated, " Palveri said, "what do you think's happened toall that? Down the drain, Malone. " Malone said: "But--" "And not only that, " Palveri said, waving the cigar. "The club wasgoing good, and you know I thought about building a second one alittle farther out. A straight investment, get me: an honest one. " Malone nodded as if he knew all about it. "So I got the foundation in, Malone, " Palveri said, "and it's justsitting there, not doing anything. A whole foundation going to potbecause I can't do anything more with it. Just sitting there becauseeverything's going to hell with itself. " "In a handbasket, " Malone said automatically. Palveri gave him a violent nod. "You said it, Malone, " he added. "Everything. My men, too. " He sighed. "And the contractor after me forhis dough. Good old Harry Seldon, everybody's friend. Sure. Owe himsome money and find out how friendly he is. Talks about nothing butfigures. Ten thousand. Twelve thousand. " "Tough, " Malone said. "But what do you mean about your men?" "Mistakes, " Palveri said. "Book-keepers throwing the computers off andcroupiers making mistakes paying off and collecting--and alwaysmistakes against me, Malone. Always. It's like a curse. Even the hotelbills--three of them this week were made out too small and thecustomer paid up and went before I found out about it. " "It sounds like a curse, " Malone said. "Either that or there are spiesin the organization. " "Spies?" Palveri said. "With the checking we do? With the way I'veknown some of these guys from childhood? They were little kids withme, Malone. They stuck with me all the way. And with Castelnuovo, too, " he added hurriedly. "Sure, " Malone said. "But they could still be spies. " Palveri nodded sadly. "I thought of that, " he said. "I fired four ofthem. Four of my childhood friends, Malone. It was like cutting off anarm. And all it did was leave me with one arm less. The same mistakesgo on happening. " Malone stood up and heaved a sigh. "Well, " he said, "I'll see what Ican do. " "I'd appreciate it, Malone, " Palveri said. "And when Primo Palveriappreciates something, he _appreciates_ it. Get what I mean?" "Sure, " Malone said. "I'll report back and let you know what happens. " Palveri looked just as anxious, but a little hopeful. "I need thedough, " he said. "I really need it. " "With dough, " Malone said, "you could fix up what's been happening?" Palveri shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "But I could stay open longenough to find out. " Malone went back to the gaming room feeling that he had learnedsomething, but not being quite sure what. Obviously whateverorganization was mixing everything up was paying just as muchattention to gangsters as to congressmen and businessmen. The simplejustice of this arrangement did not escape Malone, but he failed tosee where it led him. [Illustration] He considered the small chance that Palveri would actually callCastelnuovo and check up on Kenneth J. Malone, but he didn't think itwas probable. Palveri was too desperate to take the chance of makinghis boss mad in case Malone's story were true. And, even if the checkwere made, Malone felt reasonably confident. It's hard to kill a manwho has a good, accurate sense of precognition and who can teleporthimself out of any danger he might get into. Not impossible, but hard. Being taken for a ride in the desert, for instance, might be aninteresting experience, but could hardly prove inconvenient to anybodyexcept the driver of the car and the men holding the guns. The gaming room wasn't any fuller, he noticed. He wended his way backto the bar for a bourbon-and-water and greeted the bartender morosely. The drink came along and he sipped at it quietly, trying to put thingstogether in his mind. The talk with Palveri, he felt sure, hadprovided an essential clue--maybe _the_ essential clue--to what wasgoing on. But he couldn't find it. "Mess, " he said quietly. "Everything's in a mess. And so what?" A voice behind him picked that second to say: "Gezundheit. " Malonedidn't turn. Instead he looked at the bar mirror, and one glance atwhat was reflected there was enough to freeze him as solid as the coreof Pluto. Lou was there. Lou Gehrig or whatever her name was, the girl behindthe reception desk of the New York offices of the Psychical ResearchSociety. That, in itself, didn't bother him. The company of abeautiful girl while drinking was not something Malone actually hated. But she knew he was an FBI Agent, and she might pick any second toblat it out in the face of an astonished bartender. This, Malone toldhimself, would not be pleasant. He wondered just how to hush her upwithout attracting attention. Knock-out pills in her drink? A handover her mouth? A sudden stream of unstoppable words? He had reached no decision when she sat down on the stool beside him, turned a bright, cheerful smile in his direction and said: "I'veforgotten your name. Mine's Luba Ardanko. " "Oh, " Malone said dully. Even the disclosure of what "Lou" stood fordid nothing to raise his spirits. "I'm always forgetting things, " Lou went on. "I've forgotten justabout everything about you. " Malone breathed a long, inaudible sigh of relief. If more people, hethought, had the brains not to greet FBI Agents by name, rank andserial number when meeting them in a strange place, there would befewer casualties among the FBI. He realized that Luba was still smiling at him expectantly. "My name'sMalone, " he said. "Kenneth Malone. I'm a cookie manufacturer, remember?" "Oh, " Luba said delightedly. "Sure! I remember last time I met you yougave me that lovely box of cookies. Modeled on the Seven Dwarfs. " Occasionally, Malone told himself, things moved a little faster thanhe liked. "On the Seven Dwarfs, " he said. "Oh, sure. " "And I thought the model of Sneezy was awfully cute, " she said. "Butdon't let's talk about cookies. Let's talk about Martinis. " Malone opened his mouth, tried to think of something clever to say, and shut it again. Luba Ardanko was, perfectly obviously, altogethertoo fast for him. But then, he reflected, I've had a hard day. "Allright, " he said at last. "What _about_ Martinis?" Luba's smile broadened. "I'd like one, " she said. "And since you're awealthy cookie manufacturer--" "Be my guest, " Malone said. "On the other hand, why not buy your own?Since they're free as long as you're in the gambling room. " The bartender had approached them silently. "That's right, " he said ina voice that betrayed the fact that he had memorized the entirespeech, word for word. "Drinks are free for those who play the gamingtables. A courtesy of the Great Universal. " He delivered a Martini and Luba drank it while Malone finished hisbourbon-and-water. "Well, " she said, "I suppose we've got to go to thegambling tables now. If only to be fair. " "A horrible fate, " Malone agreed, "but there you are: that's life. " "It certainly is, " she said brightly, and moved off. Malone, shakinghis head, went after her and found her standing in front of a roulettewheel. "I just love roulette, " she said, turning. "Don't you? It's soexciting and expensive. " Malone licked dry lips, said: "Sure, " and started to move off. "Oh, let's just play a little, " Luba said. There was nothing to do but agree. Malone put a small stack of silverdollars on Red, and the croupier looked up with a bored expression. There were three other people in the game, including a magnificent oldlady with blue hair who spent her money with a lavish hand. Two weeksbefore, she wouldn't even have been noticed. Now the croupier wasbending over backward in an attempt not to show how grateful he wasfor the patronage. The wheel spun around and landed on Number Two, Black. Malone sighedand fished for more money. He felt his precognitive sense beginning tocome into play and happily decided to ride with it. This time thestack of silver dollars was larger. Twenty minutes later he left the table approximately nine hundreddollars richer. Luba was beaming. "There, now, " she said. "Wasn't thatfun?" "Hysterical, " Malone said. He glanced back over his shoulder. Theblue-haired old lady was winning and losing large sums with a speedand aplomb that was certainly going to make her a twenty-four-hourlegend by the end of the evening. She looked grim and secure, as ifshe were undergoing a penance. Malone shrugged and looked away. "Now, " Luba said, "you can take me dancing. " "I can?" Malone said. "I mean, do I? I mean--" "I mean the Solar Room, " Luba said. "I've always wanted to enter onthe arms of a handsome cookie manufacturer. It will make me thesensation of New York society. " * * * * * The Solar Room was magnificently expensive. Malone had been thereonce, establishing his character as a man of lavish appetites, and hadthen avoided the place in deference to his real bankroll. Heremembered it as the kind of place where an order of scrambled eggswas liable to come in, flaming, on a golden sabre. But Luba wanted theSolar Room, and Malone was not at all sure she wouldn't use blackmailif he turned her down. "Fine, " he said in a lugubrious tone. The place shone, when they entered, as if they had come in from thedarkness of midnight. Along with the Universal Joint, it was the prideand glory of the Great Universal Hotel and no expense had been sparedin the attempt to give it what Primo Palveri called Class. Couples andfoursomes were scattered around at the marble-topped tables, andred-uniformed waiters scurried around bearing drinks, food and evenoccasional plug-in telephones. There seemed to be more of the lastthan Malone remembered as usual; people were worrying aboutinvestments and businesses, and even those who had decided to stick itout grimly at Las Vegas and, _enjoy_ themselves had to check up withthe home folks in order to know when to start pricing windows in highbuildings. Malone wondered how many people were actually getting theircalls through. Since the first breakdown two weeks before, Las Vegasand virtually every other United States city had sufferedinterruptions in telephone service. Las Vegas had had three breakdownsin two weeks; other cities weren't doing much better, if at all. Vaguely, Malone began looking around for handbaskets. "Let's dance, " Luba said happily. "They're playing our song. " On a stand at the front of the room a small orchestra was working awaybusily. There were two or three couples on the postage-stamp dancefloor, whirling away to the strains of something Malone dimlyremembered as: "My heart's in orbit out in space until I see youagain. " "Our song?" he said. Luba nodded. "You sang it to me the very first time we met, " she said. "At the cookie-manufacturer's ball. Remember?" Malone sighed. If Luba wanted to dance, Luba was going to dance. Andso was Malone. He rose and they went to the dance floor. Malone tookher in his arms and for a few bars they danced silently. At the end ofthat time they were much closer together than they had been, andMalone realized that he was somehow managing to enjoy himself. Thoroughly. He thought dimly of the stripper he'd seen when he walked in onPalveri. Like Luba, she had red hair. But somehow, she looked lessattractive undressed than Luba did in a complete wardrobe. Malonewondered what the funny feeling creeping up his spine was. After asecond he realized that it wasn't love. Luba's hand was tickling him. He shifted slightly and the hand left, but the funny feeling remained. Maybe it _was_ love, he thought. He didn't know whether or not to hopeso. Luba was pressed close to him. He wondered how to open theconversation, and decided that a sudden passionate declaration wouldbe more startling than welcome. At last he said: "Thanks for nottipping my hand. " Luba's whisper caressed his ear. "Don't thank me, " she said. "Ienjoyed it. " "Why are you doing this?" Malone said. "Not that I don't appreciateit, but I thought you were sore. " "Let's just say that your masterful, explosive approach wasirresistible, " Luba said. Malone wondered briefly whether or not they'd turned off theair-conditioning. If he moved slightly away from Luba, he thought, hecould breathe more easily. But breathing just wasn't worth it. "I willcheerfully admit, " he said, "that I am a ball of fire in thefeathers, as they say. But I didn't realize it was that obvious--evento a woman of your tender sensitivity. " Somehow, Luba had managed to get even closer to him. "You touch medeeply, " she whispered into his ear. Malone swallowed hard and tried to take another breath. Just one more, he thought; that would be all he needed. "What are you doing in LasVegas?" he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone. It didn't soundvery casual, though. "I'm on vacation, " Luba said in an off-handed manner. "I won't askwhat you're doing; I can guess pretty well. Besides, you obviouslywant to keep it under cover. " "Well, " Malone said, "I certainly wouldn't want what I'm doing to bebroadcast aloud to the great American public out there intelevision-land. " It was a long speech for a man without any breath. Just one more, Malone told himself, and he could die happy. "I felt that, " Luba said. "You know, Mr. Malone--" "Call me Ken, " Malone said. "It is silly to be formal now, isn't it?" Luba said. "You know, Ken, I'm beginning to realize that you are really a very nice person--inspite of your rather surprising method of attack. " "What's surprising about it?" Malone said. "People do it all thetime. " * * * * * The orchestra suddenly shifted from the previous slow number to arapid fire tune Malone couldn't remember having heard before. "That, "he announced, "is too fast for me. I'm going to get some fresh air. " Luba nodded, her red hair brushing Malone's cheek silkily. "I'mcoming, too, " she said. Surrounding the Great Universal, Malone remembered, was a small beltof parkland. He flagged a hallway car--remembering carefully to checkwhether or not the driver was the sniggering Murray--and he and Lubapiled in and started out for the park. In the car, he held her handsilently, feeling a little like a bashful schoolboy and a little likeSir Kenneth Malone. It was a strange mixture, but he decided that heliked it. They got out, standing in the cool darkness of the park. Overhead amoon and stars were shining. The little hallway car rolled away andthey were alone. Completely alone. Malone swallowed hard. "Sleuth, " Luba said softly in the darkness. Malone turned to face her. "Sleuth, " she said, "don't you ever take a chance?" "Chance?" Malone said. "Damn it, " Luba said in a soft, sweet voice, "kiss me, Ken. " Malone had no answer to that--at least, no verbal answer. But then, one didn't seem to be needed. When he finally came up for air, he said: "Lou--" "Yes, Ken?" "Lou, how long are you going to be here? Or in New York? What I meanis--" "I'll be around, " Lou said. "I will be going back to New York ofcourse; after all, Ken, I do have a living to make, such as it is, andSir Lewis is expecting me. " "I don't know, " Malone said, "but it still sounds funny. A girl likeyou working for . . . Well, for the Psychical Research people. Ghostsand ectoplasm and all that. " Suddenly Lou wasn't in his arms any more. "Now, wait a minute, " shesaid. "You seemed to need their information, all right. " "But that was . . . Oh, well, " Malone said. "Never mind. Maybe I'msilly. It really doesn't matter. " "I guess it doesn't, now, " Lou said in a softer tone. "Except that itdoes mean I'll be going back to New York pretty soon. " "Oh, " Malone said. "But . . . Look, Lou, maybe we could work somethingout. I could tell Sir Lewis I needed you here for something, and thenhe'd--" "My, my, " she said. "What it must be like to have all that influence. " "What?" Malone said. Lou grinned, almost invisibly. "Nothing, " she said. "Nothing. But, myfine feathered Fed, I don't want to be pulled around on somebodyelse's string. " "But--" "I mean it, Ken, " Luba said. Malone shrugged. "Suppose we table it for now, then, " he said, "andget around to it later. At dinner, say . . . Around nine?" "And just where, " Luba said, "will you be before nine? Making improperadvances to the local contingent of chorines?" "I will make improper advances, " Malone vowed, "only to you, Lou. " Lou's eyes sparkled. "Goody, " she said. "I've always wanted to be aFallen Woman. " "But I have got some things to do before nine, " Malone said. "I've gotto work, too. " "Well, then, " Lou said in a suspiciously sweet voice, "suppose I talkto Sir Lewis Carter, and tell him to keep you in New York? Then--" "Enough, " Malone said. "Nine o'clock. " [Illustration] XI Somebody somewhere was wishing all the world "a plague on both your houses, " and making it stick. Confusion is fun in a comedy--but in the pilot of a plane or an executive of a nation. . . . Back in his room, Malone put on a fresh shirt, checked the . 44 Magnumin his shoulder holster, changed jackets, adjusted his hat to theproper angle, and vanished. He had, he'd realized, exactly one definite lead. And now he was goingto follow up on it. The Government was apparently falling to pieces;so was business and so was the Mafia. Nobody Malone had heard of hadgained anything. Except Mike Sand and his truckers. They'd beaten theMafia, at least. Sand was worth a chat. Malone had a way to get in to see him, but hehad to work fast. Otherwise Sand would very possibly know what Malonewas trying to do. And that might easily be dangerous. He had made his appearance in the darkness beneath one of the bridgesat the southwest side of Central Park, in New York. It was hardlyMalone's idea of perfect comfort, but it did mean safety; there wasvery seldom anyone around after dark, and the shadows were thickenough so that his "appearance" would only mean, to the improbablepasserby, that he had stepped out into the light. Now he strolled quietly over to Central Park West, and flagged a taxiheading downtown. He'd expected to run into one of the roving muggerswho still made the Park a trap for the unwary--he'd almost lookedforward to it, in a way--but nobody appeared. It was unusual, but hedidn't have time to wonder about it. The headquarters for the National Brotherhood of Truckers was east ofGreenwich Village, on First Avenue, so Malone had plenty of time tothink things out while the cab wended its laborious southeast way. After a few minutes he realized that he would have even more time tothink than he'd planned on. "Lots of traffic for this time of night, " he volunteered. The cabbie, a fiftyish man with a bald, wrinkled head and surprisinglybright blue eyes, nodded without turning his head. "Maybe you thinkthis is bad, " he said. "You would not recognize the place an hourearlier, friend. During the real rush hour, I mean. Things are whatthey call _meshuggah_, friend. It means crazy. " "How come?" Malone said. "The subway is on strike since last week, " the cabbie said. "The busesare also on strike. This means that everybody is using a car. Theycan make it faster if they wish to walk, but they use a car. It doesnot help matters, believe me. " "I can see that, " Malone murmured. "And the cops are not doing much good either, " the cabbie went on, "since they went on strike sometime last Tuesday. " Malone nodded, and then did a double-take. "Cops?" he said. "Onstrike? But that's illegal. They could be arrested. " "You can be funny, " the cabbie said. "I am too sad to be funny. " "But--" "Unless you are from Rhode Island, " the cabbie said, "or even fartheraway, you are deaf, dumb and blind. Everybody in New York knows whatis going on by this time. I admit that it is not in the newspapers, but the newspapers do not tell the truth since, as I remember it, theCity Council election of 1924, and then it is an accident, due to themajor's best friend working in the printing plants. " "But cops can't go on strike, " Malone said plaintively. "This, " the cabbie said in a judicious tone, "is true. But they do notgive out any parking tickets any more, or any traffic citationseither. They are working on bigger things, they say, and besides allthis there are not so many cops on the force now. They are spread verythin. " Malone could see what was coming. "Arrests of policemen, " he said, "and resignations. " "And investigations, " the cabbie said. "Mayor Amalfi is a good Joeand does not want anything in the papers until a real strike comesalong, but the word gets out anyhow, as it always does. " "Makes driving tough, " Malone said. "People can make better time on their hands and knees, " the cabbiesaid, "with the cops pulling a strike. They concentrate on big itemsnow, and you can even smoke in the subways if you can find a subwaythat is running. " Malone stopped to think how much of the city's income depended onparking tickets and small fines, and realized that a "strike" like theone the police were pulling might be very effective indeed. And, unlike the participants in the Boston Police Strike of sixty-odd yearsbefore, these cops would have public sentiment on their side--sincethey were keeping actual crime down. "How long do they think it's going to last?" Malone said. "It can be over tomorrow, " the cabbie said, "but this is not generallybelieved in the most influential quarters. Mayor Amalfi and the newCommissioner try to straighten things out all day long, but the waythings go straightening them out does no good. Something big is in thewind, friend. I--" * * * * * The cab, on Second Avenue and Seventeenth Street, stopped for atraffic light. Malone felt an itch in the back of his mind, as if hisprescience were trying to warn him of something; he'd felt it for alittle while, he realized, but only now could he pay attention to it. The door on the driver's side opened suddenly, and so did the doornext to Malone. Two young men, obviously in their early twenties, werestanding in the openings, holding guns that were plainly intended forimmediate use. The one next to the driver said, in a flat voice: "Don't nobody getwise. That way nobody gets hurt. Give us--" That was as far as he got. When the rear door had opened, Malone had had a full second to preparehimself, which was plenty of time. The message from his precognitivepowers had come along just in time. The second gunman thrust his gun into the cab. He seemed almost to behanding it to Malone politely, and this effect was spoiled only byMalone's twist of the gunman's wrist, which must have felt as if he'dput his hand into a loop tied to the axle of a high-speed centrifuge. The gunman let go of the gun and Malone, spurning it, let it drop. He didn't need it. His other hand had gone into his coat and come outagain with the . 44 Magnum. The thug at the front of the car had barely realized what washappening by the time it was all over. Automatic reflexes turned himaway from the driver and toward the source of danger, his gun pointingtoward Malone. But the reflexes gave out as he found himself staringdown a rifled steel tube which, though hardly more thanseven-sixteenths of an inch in diameter, must have looked as though ahigh-speed locomotive might come roaring out of it at any second. Malone hardly needed to bark: "_Drop it!_" The revolver hit the seatnext to the cabbie. "Driver, " Malone said in a conversational voice, "can you handle agun?" "Why, it is better than even that I still can, " the cabbie said. "I amin the business myself many years ago, before I see the error of myways and buy a taxi with the profits I make. It is a high-paybusiness, " he went on, "but very insecure. " The cabbie scooped up the weapon by his side, flipped out the cylinderexpertly to check the cartridges, flipped it back in and centered themuzzle on the gunman who'd dropped the revolver. "It is more than thirty years since I use one of these, " he saidgently, "but I do not forget how to pull the trigger, and at thisrange I can hardly miss. " Malone noticed vaguely that he was still holding hands with the secondgunman, and that this one was trying to struggle free. Malone shruggedand eased off a bit, at the same time shifting his own aim. The . 44Magnum now pointed at gunman number two, and the cabbie was aiming atgunman number one. The tableau was silent for some seconds. "Now, " Malone said at last, "we wait. Driver, if you would sort oflean against your horn button, we might be able to speed things up alittle. The light has turned green. " "The local constables, " the cabbie said, "do not bother with stalledcars in traffic these days. " "But, " Malone pointed out, "I have a hunch no cop could resist a taxiwhich is not only stalled and blocking traffic but is also blattingits horn continuously. Strike or no strike, " he finishedsententiously, "there are things beyond the power of man to ignore. " "Friend, " the cabbie said, "you convince me. It is a good move. " Hesagged slightly against the horn button, keeping the gun centered atall times on the man before him. The horn began to wail horribly. The first gunman swallowed nervously. "Hey, now, listen, " he said, shouting slightly above the horn. "This wasn't anything. Just a gag, see? A little gag. We was playing a joke. On a friend. " The driver addressed Malone. "Do you ever see either of these boysbefore?" "Never, " Malone said. "Nor do I, " the cabbie said. He eyed the gunman. "We are not yourfriend, " he said. "Either of us. " "No, no, " the gunman said. "Not you. This friend, he . . . Uh . . . Owns ataxi, and we thought this was it. It was kind of a joke, see? Afriendly joke, that's all. Believe me, the gun's not even loaded. Bothof them aren't. Phony bullets, honest. Believe me?" "Why, naturally I believe you, " the cabbie said politely. "I neverdoubt the word of a stranger, especially such an honest-appearingstranger as you seem to be. And since the gun is loaded with falsebullets, as you say, all you have to do is reach over and take it awayfrom me. " There was a short silence. "A joke, " the gunman said feebly. "Honest, just a joke. " "We believe you, " Malone assured him grandly. "As a matter of fact, weappreciate the joke so much that we want you to tell it to a panel oftwelve citizens, a judge and a couple of lawyers, so they canappreciate it, too. They get little fun out of life and your joke maygive them a few moments of happiness. Why hide your light under analibi?" The horn continued its dismal wail for a few seconds more before twopatrolmen and a sergeant came up on horses. It took somewhat more timethan that for Malone to convince the sergeant that he didn't have timeto go down to the station to prefer charges. He showed hisidentification and the police were suitably impressed. "Lock 'em up for violating the Sullivan Law, " he said. "I'm sure theydon't have licenses for these lovely little guns of theirs. " "Probably not, " the sergeant agreed. "There's been an awful lot ofthis kind of thing going on lately. But here's an idea: the cabbiehere can come on with us. " The top of the cabbie's head turned pale. "That, " he said, "is thetrouble with being a law-abiding citizen such as I have been forupwards of thirty years. Because I do not want to lose twenty dollarsto these young strangers, I lose twenty dollars' worth of time in aprecinct station, the air of which is very bad for my asthma. " Malone, taking the hint, dug a twenty out of his pockets, and thenadded another to it, remembering how much he had spent in Las Vegas, where his money funneled slowly into the pockets of Primo Palveri. Thecabbie took the money with haste and politeness and stowed it away. "Gentlemen, " he said, "I am now prepared to spend the entire nightsigning affidavits, if enough affidavits can be dug up. " He lookedpleased. "Mr. Malone, " the sergeant said wearily, "people just don't realizewhat's going on in this town. We never did have half enough cops, andnow, with so many men resigning and getting arrested and suspended, wehaven't got a quarter enough. People think this strike business isfunny, but if we spent any time fiddling around with traffic andparking tickets, we'd never have time to stop even crimes like this, let alone the big jobs. As it is, though, there haven't been a lot ofbig ones. Every hood in the city's out to make a couple of bucks--butthat's it so far, thank God. " Malone nodded. "How about the FBI?" he said. "Want them to come in andhelp?" "Mr. Malone, " the sergeant said, "the City of New York can take verygood care of itself, without outside interference. " Some day, Malone told himself, good old New York City was going tosecede from the Union and form a new country entirely. Then it wouldhave a war with New Jersey and probably be wiped right off the map. Viewing the traffic around him as he hunted for another cab, he wasn'tat all sure that that was a bad idea. He began to wish vaguely that hehad borrowed one of the policemen's horses. * * * * * Malone wasn't in the least worried about arriving at Mike Sand'soffice late. In the first place, Sand was notorious for sleeping lateand working late to make up for it. His work schedule was somewherearound forty-five degrees out of phase with the rest of the world, which made it just about average for the National Brotherhood ofTruckers. It had never agitated for a nine-to-five work day. A mandriving a truck, after all, worked all sorts of odd hours--and theunion officials did the same, maybe just to prove that they were allgood truckers at heart. The sign over the door read: National Headquarters NATIONAL BROTHERHOOD OF TRUCKERS Welcome, Brother Malone pushed at the door and it swung open, revealing a ratherdingy-looking foyer. More Good Old Truckers At Heart, he told himself. Mike Sand owned a quasi-palatial mansion in Puerto Rico for winteruse, and a two-floor, completely air-conditioned apartment on FifthAvenue for summer use. But the Headquarters Building looked dingyenough to make truckers conscience-stricken about paying back dues. Behind the reception desk there was a man whose face was theapproximate shape and color of a slightly used waffle. He looked upfrom his crossword puzzle as Malone came in, apparently trying todecide whether or not this new visitor should be greeted with:"Welcome, Brother!" Taking pity on his indecision, Malone strode to the desk and said:"Tell Mike Sand he has a visitor. " The waffle-faced man blinked. "Mr. Sand is busy right now, " he said. "Who wants to talk to him?" Malone tried to look steely-eyed and tough. "You pick up theintercom, " he said, "and you tell Sand there's a man out here who's inthe cloak-and-suit business. " "The what?" "Tell him this man is worried about a recent shipment of buttons, "Malone went on. "Mister, " the waffle-faced man said, "you're nuts. " "So I'm nuts, " Malone said. "Make the call. " It was put through. After a few minutes of earnest conversation theman turned to look at Malone again, dizzied wonder in his eyes. "Mr. Sand says go right up, " he told the FBI Agent in a shocked voice. "Elevator to the third floor. " Malone went over to the elevator, stepped in and pressed thethird-floor button. As the doors closed, the familiar itch ofprecognition began to assail him again. This time he had nothing elseto distract him. He paid very close attention to it as he was carriedslowly and creakily upward. He looked up. There was an escape-hatch in the top of the car. Standing on tiptoe, he managed to lift it aside, grasp the edges ofthe resulting hole and pull himself up through the hole to the top ofthe car. He looked back down, memorizing the elevator, and then pulledthe hatch shut again. There was a small peephole in it, and Malone puthis eye to it and waited. About twenty seconds later, the car stopped and the doors opened. Alittle more time passed, and then a gun, closely followed by a man, edged around the door frame. "What the hell, " the man said. "The car's empty!" Another voice said: "Let's cover the stairway. " Two pairs of footsteps receded rapidly down the hall. Malone, gun inhand, teleported himself back to the previously memorized elevator, tiptoed to the door and looked out. The two men were standing at thefar end of the hall, posted at either side of the stairwell andobviously waiting for him to come on up. Instead, he tiptoed out of the elevator hefting his gun, and came upsilently behind the pair. When he was within ten feet he stopped andsaid, very politely: "Drop the guns, boys. " The guns thudded to the floor and the two men turned round. "All right, " Malone said, smiling into their astonished faces. "Now, let's go on and see Mr. Sand. " [Illustration] He picked up the guns with his free hand and put them into his coatpockets. Together, the three men went down toward the lighted officeat the far end of the hall. "Open it, " Malone said as they came to the door. He followed them intothe office. Behind a battered, worm-eaten desk in a dingy room sat avery surprised-looking Mike Sand. He was only about five feet six, but he looked as if weighed over twohundred pounds. He had huge shoulders and a thick neck, and his facewas sleepy-looking. He seemed to have lost a lot of fights in his longcareer; Sand, Malone reflected, was nearing fifty now, and he wasbeginning to look his age. His short hair, once black, was turning toiron-gray. He didn't say anything. Malone smiled at him pleasantly. "These boyswere carrying deadly weapons, " he told Sand in a polite voice. "That'shardly the way to treat a brother. " His precognitive warning systemwasn't ringing any alarm bells, but he kept his gun trained on thepair of thugs as he walked over to Mike Sand's desk and took the twoextra revolvers from his pocket. "You'd better keep these, Sand, " hesaid. "Your boys don't know how to handle them. " Sand grinned sourly, pulled open a desk drawer and swept the guns intoit with one motion of his ham-like hand. He didn't look at Malone. "You guys better go downstairs and keep Jerry company, " he said. "Youcan do crossword puzzles together. " "Now, Mike, we--" one of them began. Mike Sand snorted. "Go on, " he said. "Scram. " "But he was supposed to be in the elevator, and we--" "Scram, " Sand said. It sounded like a curse. The two men got out. "Like apes in the trees, " Sand said heavily. "Ask for bright boys andwhat do you get? Everything, " he went on dismally, "is going to hell. " * * * * * That line, Malone reflected, was beginning to have all the persistenceof a bass-bourdon. It droned its melancholy way through anything andeverything else. He signed deeply, thought about a cigar and lit acigarette instead. It tasted awful. "About those buttons--" he said. "I got nothing to do with buttons, " Sand said. "You do with these, " Malone said. "A shipment of buttons from theNevada desert. You grabbed them from Palveri. " "I got nothing to do with it, " Sand said. Malone looked around and found a chair and an ashtray. He grabbed oneand sat down in the other. "I'm not from Castelnuovo, " he said. "OrPalveri, or any of the Mafia boys. If I were, you'd know it fastenough. " Sand regarded him from under eyelids made almost entirely ofscar-tissue. "I guess so, " he said sourly at last. "But what do youwant to know about the stuff? And who are you, anyhow?" "The name's Malone, " Malone said. "You might say trouble is mybusiness. Or something like that. I see an opportunity to create alittle trouble--but not for you. That is, if you want to hear somemore about those buttons. Of course, if you had nothing to do withit--" "All right, " Sand said. "All right. But it was strictly a legitimateproposition, understand?" "Sure, " Malone said. "Strictly legitimate. " "Well, it was, " Sand said defensively. "We got to stop scab trucking, don't we? And that Palveri was using nonunion boys on the trucks. Wehad to stop them; it was a service to the Brotherhood, understand?" "And the peyotl buttons?" Malone asked. Sand shrugged. "So we had to confiscate the cargo, didn't we?" hesaid. "To teach them a lesson. Nonunion drivers, that's what we'reagainst. " "And you're for peyotl, " Malone said, "so you can make it into peyoteand get enough money to refurbish Brotherhood Headquarters. " "Now, look, " Sand said. "You think you're tough and you can get awaywith a lot of wisecracks. That's a wrong idea, brother. " He didn'tmove, but he suddenly seemed set to spring. Malone wondered if, justmaybe, his precognition had blown a fuse. "O. K. , let's forget it, " he said. "But I've got some inside lines, Sand. You didn't get the real shipment. " "Didn't get it?" Sand said with raised eyebrows. "I got it. It'sright where I can put my finger on it now. " "That was the fake, " Malone said easily. "They knew you were after ashipment, Sand, so they suckered you in. They fed your spies withfalse information and sent you out after the fake shipment. " "Fake shipment?" Sand said. "It's the real stuff, brother. The realstuff. " "But not enough of it, " Malone said. "Their big shipments are almostthree times what you got. They made one while you were suckered offwith the fake--and they're making another one next week. Interested?" Sand snorted. "The hell, " he said. "Didn't you hear me say I got thefirst shipment right where I can put my finger on it?" "So?" Malone said. "So I can't get rid of it, " Sand said. "What do I want with a newload? Every day I hold the stuff is dangerous. You never know whensomebody's going to look for it and maybe find it. " "Can't get rid of it?" Malone said. This was a new turn of events. "What's happening?" "Everything, " Sand said tersely. "Look, you want to sell me someinformation--but you don't know the setup. Maybe when I tell you, you'll stop bothering me. " He put his head in his hands, and hisvoice, when he spoke again, was muffled. "The contacts are gone, " hesaid. "With the arrests and the resignations and everything else, nobody wants to take any chances; the few guys that aren't locked upare scared they will be. I can't make any kind of a deal for anything. There just isn't any action. " "Things are tough, huh?" Malone said hopelessly. Apparently even MikeSand wasn't going to pan out for him. "Things are terrible, " Sand said. "The locals are havingrevolutions--guys there are kicking out the men from NationalHeadquarters. Nobody knows where he stands any more--a lot of myorganizers have been goofing up and getting arrested for one thing andanother. Like apes in the trees, that's what. " Malone nodded very slowly and took another puff of the cigarette. "Nothing's going right, " he said. "Listen, " Sand said. "You want to hear trouble? My account books arein duplicate--you know? Just to keep things nice and peaceful andquiet. " "One for the investigators and one for the money, " Malone said. "Sure, " Sand said, preoccupied with trouble. "You know the setup. Butboth sets are missing. Both sets. " He raised his head, the picture ofwitless agony. "I've got an idea where they are, too. I'm just waitingfor the axe to fall. " "O. K. , " Malone said. "Where are they?" "The U. S. Attorney's Office, " Sand said dismally. He stared down athis battered desk and sighed. Malone stubbed out his cigarette. "So you're not in the market for anymore buttons?" he said. "All I'm in the market for, " Sand said without raising his eyes, "isa nice, painless way to commit suicide. " * * * * * Malone walked several blocks without noticing where he was going. Hetried to think things over, and everything seemed to fall into apattern that remained, agonizingly, just an inch or so out of hismental reach. The mental bursts, the trouble the United States washaving, Palveri, Queen Elizabeth, Burris, Mike Sand, Dr. O'Connor, SirLewis Carter and even Luba Ardanko juggled and flowed in his mind likepieces out of a kaleidoscope. But they refused to form any pattern hecould recognize. He uttered a short curse and managed to collide with a bulky womanwith frazzled black hair. "Pardon me, " he said politely. "The hell with it, " the woman said, looking straight past him, andwent jerkily on her way. Malone blinked and looked around him. Therewere a lot of people still on the streets, but they didn't look likenormal New York City people. They were all curiously tense and wary, as if they were suspicious not only of him and each other, but eventhemselves. He caught sight of several illegal-looking bulges beneathmen's armpits, and many heavily sagging pockets. One or two womenappeared to be unduly solicitous of their large and heavy handbags. But it wasn't his job to enforce the Sullivan Law, he told himself. Especially while he was on vacation. A single foot patrolman stood a few feet ahead, guarding a liquorstore with drawn revolver, his eyes scanning the passers-by warilywhile he waited for help. Behind him, the smashed plate glass andbroken bottles and the sprawled figure just inside the door told afairly complete story. Down the block, Malone saw several stores that carried _Closed_ or_Gone Out Of Business_ signs. The whole depressing picture gave himthe feeling that all the tragedies of the 1930-1935 period had somehowbeen condensed into the past two weeks. Ahead there was a chain drugstore, and Malone headed for it. Twouniformed men wearing Special Police badges were standing near thedoor eyeing everyone with suspicion, but Malone managed to get pastthem and went on to a telephone booth. He tried dialling theWashington number of the FBI, but got only a continuous _beep-beep_, indicating a service delay. Finally he managed to get a specialoperator, who told him sorrowfully that calls to Washington werejamming all available trunk lines. Malone glanced around to make sure nobody was watching. Then heteleported himself to his apartment in Washington and, on arriving, headed for the phone there. Using that one, he dialed again, gotPelham's sad face on the screen, and asked for Thomas Boyd. Boyd didn't look any different, Malone thought, though maybe he was alittle more tired. Henry VIII had obviously had a hard day trying toget his wives to stop nagging him. "Ken, " he said. "I thought you wereon vacation. What are you doing calling up the FBI, or do you justwant to feel superior to us poor working slobs?" "I need some information, " Malone said. Boyd uttered a short, mirthless laugh. "How to beat the tables, youmean?" he said. "How are things in good old Las Vegas?" Malone, realizing that with direct-dial phones Boyd had no idea wherehe was actually calling from, kept wisely quiet. "How about Burris?"he said after a second. "Has he come up with any new theories yet?" "New theories?" Boyd said. "What about?" "Everything, " Malone said. "From all I see in the papers thingshaven't been quieting down any. Is it still Brubitsch, Borbitsch andGarbitsch putting psychodrugs in water-coolers, or has something newbeen added?" "I don't know what the chief thinks, " Boyd said. "Things'll straightenout in a while. We're working on it--twenty-four hours a day, or damnnear, but we're working. While you take a nice, long vacation that--" "I want you to get me something, " Malone said. "Just go and get it andsend it to me at Las Vegas. " "Money?" Boyd said with raised eyebrows. "Dossiers, " Malone said. "On Mike Sand and Primo Palveri. " "Palveri I can understand, " Boyd said. "You want to threaten him withexposure unless he lets you beat the roulette tables. But why Sand?Ken, are you working on something psionic?" "Me?" Malone said sweetly. "I'm on vacation. " "The chief won't like--" "Can you send me the dossiers?" Malone interrupted. Boyd shook his head very slowly. "Ken, I can't do it without the chieffinding out about it. If you are working on something . . . Hell, I'dlike to help you. But I don't see how I can. You don't know whatthings are like here. " "What are they like?" Malone said. "The full force is here, " Boyd said. "As far as I know, you're theonly vacation leave not canceled yet. And not only that, but we've gotagents in from the Sureté and New Scotland Yard, agents from Belgiumand Germany and Holland and Japan . . . Ken, we've even got three MVDmen here working with us. " "It's happening all over?" Malone said. "All over the world, " Boyd said. "Ken, I'm beginning to think we'vegot a case of Martian Invaders on our hands. Or something like it. " Hepaused. "But we're licking them, Ken, " he went on. "Slowly but surely, we're licking them. " "How do you mean?" Malone said. "Crime is down, " Boyd said, "away down. Major crime, I mean--pettytheft, assault, breaking and entering and that sort of thing has goneaway up, but that's to be expected. Everything's going to--" "Skip the handbasket, " Malone said. "But you're working things out?" "Sooner or later, " Boyd said. "Every piece of equipment and every manin the FBI is working overtime; we can't be stopped forever. " "I'll wave flags, " Malone said bitterly. "And I wish I could joinyou. " "Believe me, " Boyd said, "you don't know when you're well off. " Malone switched off. He looked at his watch; it was ten-thirty. XII That made it eight-thirty in Las Vegas. Malone opened his eyes againin his hotel room there. He had half an hour to spare until his dinnerdate with Luba. That gave him plenty of time to shower, shave anddress, and he felt pleased to have managed the timing so neatly. Two minutes later, he was soaking in the luxury of a hot tub allowingthe warmth to relax his body while his mind turned over the facts hehad collected. There were a lot of them, but they didn't seem to meananything special. The world, he told himself, was going to hell in a handbasket. Thatwas all very well and good, but just what was the handbasket made of?Burris' theory, the more he thought about it, was a pure case ofmental soapsuds, with perhaps a dash of old cotton-candy to makeconfusion even worse confounded. And there wasn't any other theory, was there? Well, Malone reflected, there was one, or at least a part of one. HerMajesty had said that everything was somehow tied up with the mentalbursts--and that sounded a lot more probable. Assuming that the burstsand the rest of the mixups were _not_ connected made, as a matter offact, very little sense; it was multiplying hypotheses without reason. When two unusual things happen, they have at least one definiteconnection: they're both unusual. The sensible thing to do, Malonethought, was to look for more connections. Which meant asking who was causing the bursts, and why. Her Majestyhad said that she didn't know, and couldn't do it herself. Obviously, though, some telepath or a team of telepaths was doing the job. Andthe only trouble with that, Malone reflected sadly, was that alltelepaths were in the Yucca Flats laboratory. It was at this point that he sat upright in the tub, splashing waterover the floor and gripping the soap with a strange excitement. Who'dever said that _all_ the telepaths were in Yucca Flats? All the onesso far discovered were--but that, obviously, was an entirely differentmatter. Her majesty didn't know about any others, true. But Malone thought ofhis own mind-shield. If he could make himself telepathically"invisible, " why couldn't someone else? Dr. Marshall's theories seemedto point the other way--but they only went for telepaths like HerMajesty, who were psychotic. A sane telepath, Malone thought, mightconceivably develop such a mind-shield. All known telepaths were nuts, he told himself. Now, he began to seewhy. He'd started out, two years before, _hunting_ for nuts, and foridiots. But they wouldn't even know anything about sane telepaths--thesane ones probably wouldn't even want to communicate with them. A sane telepath was pretty much of an unknown quantity. But that, Malone told himself with elation, was exactly what he was looking for. Could a sane telepath do what an insane one couldn't--and projectthoughts, or at least mental bursts? He got out of the cooling tub and grabbed for a terry-cloth robe. Noteven bothering about the time, he closed his eyes. When he opened themagain he was in the Yucca Flats apartment of Dr. Thomas O'Connor. O'Connor wasn't sleeping, exactly. He sat in a chair in hisbare-looking living room, a book open on his lap, his head noddingslightly. Malone's entrance made no sounds, and O'Connor didn't moveor look around. "Doctor, " Malone said, "is it possible that--" O'Connor came up off the chair a good foot and a half. He went: "Eee, "and came down again, still gripping the book. His head turned. "It's me, " Malone said. "Indeed, " O'Connor said. "Indeed indeed. My goodness. " He opened hismouth some more but no words came out of it. "Eee, " he said again, atlast, in a conversational tone. Malone took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I startled you, " he said, "butthis is important and it couldn't wait. " O'Connor stared blankly athim. "Dr. O'Connor, " Malone said, "it's me. Kenneth J. Malone. I wantto talk to you. " * * * * * At last O'Connor's expression returned almost to normal. "Mr. Malone, "he said, "you are undressed. " Malone sighed. "This is important, doctor, " he said. "Let's not wastetime with all that kind of thing. " "But, Mr. Malone--" O'Connor began frostily. "I need some information, " Malone said, "and maybe you've got it. Whatdo you know about telepathic projection?" "About what?" O'Connor said. "Do you mean nontelepaths receiving somesort of . . . Communication from telepaths?" "Right, " Malone said. "Mind-to-mind communication, of course; I'm notinterested in the United States mail or the telephone companies. Howabout it, doctor? Is it possible?" O'Connor gnawed at his lower lip for a second. "There have been casesreported, " he said at last. "Very few have been written up with anyaccuracy, and those seem to be confined to close relatives or lovedones of the person projecting the message. " "Is that necessary?" Malone said. "Isn't it possible that--" "Further, " O'Connor said, getting back into his lecture-room stride, "I think you'll find that the . . . Ah . . . Message so received is oneindicating that the projector of such a message is in dire peril. Hehas, for instance, been badly injured, or is rapidly approachingdeath, or else he has narrowly escaped death. " "What does that have to do with it?" Malone said. "I mean, why shouldall those requirements be necessary?" O'Connor frowned slightly. "Because, " he said, "the amount of psionicenergy necessary for such a feat is tremendous. Usually, it is thefinal burst of energy, the outpouring of all the remaining psionicforce immediately before death. And if death does not occur, theperson is at the least greatly weakened; his mind, if it ever doesrecover, needs time and rest to do so. " "And he reaches a relative or a loved one, " Malone said, "because thelinkage is easier; there's some thought of him in that other mind forhim to 'tune in' on. " "We assume so, " O'Connor said. "Very well, then, " Malone said. "I'll assume so, too. But if theenergy is so great, then a person couldn't do this sort of thing veryoften. " "Hardly, " O'Connor said. Malone nodded. "It's like . . . Like giving blood to a blood bank, " hesaid. "Giving . . . Oh, three quarts of blood. It might not kill you. But if it didn't, you'd be weak for a long time. " "Exactly, " O'Connor said. "A good analogy, Mr. Malone. " Malone lookedat him and felt relieved that he'd managed to get the conversationonto pure lecture-room science so quickly. O'Connor, easily at home inthat world, had been able to absorb the shock of Malone's suddenappearance while providing the facts in his own inimitable, frozenmanner. "So one telepath couldn't go on doing it all the time, " he said. "But--how about several people?" "Several people?" O'Connor said. "I mean . . . Well, let's look at that blood bank again, " Malone said. "You need three quarts of blood. But one person doesn't have to giveit. Suppose twelve people gave half a pint each. " "Ah, " O'Connor said. "I see. Or twenty-four people, giving aquarter-pint each. Or--" "That's the idea, " Malone said hurriedly. "I guess there'd be a pointof diminishing returns, but that's the point. Would something likethat be possible?" O'Connor thought for what seemed like a long time. "It might, " he saidat last. "At least theoretically. But it would take a great deal ofmental co-ordination among the participants. They would all have to betelepaths, of course. " "In order to mesh their thoughts right on the button, and direct themproperly and at the correct time, " Malone said. "Right?" "Ah . . . Correct, " O'Connor said. "Given that, Mr. Malone, I imaginethat it might possibly be done. " "Wonderful, " Malone said. "However, " O'Connor said, apparently glad to throw even a little coldwater on the notion, "it could not be done for very long periods oftime, you understand. It would happen in rather short bursts. " "That's right, " Malone said, enjoying the crestfallen look onO'Connor's face. "That's exactly what I was looking for. " "I'm . . . Ah . . . Glad to have been of service, " O'Connor said. "However, Mr. Malone, I should like to request--" "Oh, don't worry, " Malone said. "I won't slam the door. " He vanished. * * * * * It was eight-fifty. Hurriedly, he rinsed himself off, shaved and puton his evening clothes. But he was still late--it was two minutesafter nine when he showed up at the door that led off the lobby to theUniversal Joint. Luba was, surprisingly, waiting for him there. "Ready for a vast feast?" she asked pleasantly. "In about a minute and a half, " Malone said. "Do you mind waiting thatlong?" "Frankly, " Luba said, "in five minutes I will be gnawing holes in thegold paneling around here. And I do want to catch the first floorshow, too. I understand they've got a girl who has--" "That, " Malone said sternly, "should interest me more than it doesyou. " "I'm always interested in what the competition is doing, " Luba said. "Nevertheless, " Malone began, and stopped. After a second he startedagain: "Anyhow, this is important. " [Illustration] "All right, " she said instantly. "What is it?" He led her away from the door to an alcove in the lobby where theycould talk without being overheard. "Can you get hold of Sir Lewis atthis time of night?" he asked. "Sir Lewis?" she said. "If . . . If it's urgent, I suppose I could. " "It's urgent, " Malone said. "I need all the data on telepathicprojection I can get. The scientists have given me some of it--maybePsychical Research has some more. I imagine it's all mixed up withghosts and ectoplasm, but--" "Telepathic projection, " Luba said. "Is that where a person projects athought into somebody else's mind?" "That's it, " Malone said. "Can Sir Lewis get me all the data on thattonight?" "Tonight?" Luba said. "It's pretty late and what with sending themfrom New York to Nevada--" "Don't bother about that, " Malone said. "Just send 'em to the FBIOffices in New York. I'll have the boys there make copies and send thecopies on. " Instead, he thought, he would teleport to New Yorkhimself. But Luba definitely didn't have to know that. "He'd have to send the originals, " Luba said. "I'll guarantee their safety, " Malone said. "But I need the data rightnow. " Luba hesitated. "Tell him to bill the FBI, " Malone said. "Call him collect and he canbill the phone call, too. " "All right, Ken, " Luba said at last. "I'll try. " She went off to make the call, and came back in a few minutes. "O. K. ?" Malone said. She smiled at him, very gently. "O. K. , " she said. "Now let's go in todinner, before I get any hungrier and the Great Universal loses someof its paneling. " Dinner, Malone told himself, was going to be wonderful. He was alonewith Luba, and he was in a fancy, fine, expensive place. He was happy, and Luba was happy, and everything was going to be perfectly frabjous. It was. He had no desire whatever, when dinner and the floor show wereover, to leave Luba. Unfortunately, he did have work to do--work thatwas more important than anything else he could imagine. He made atentative date for the next day, went to his room, and from thereteleported himself to FBI Headquarters, New York. The agent-in-charge looked up at him. "Hey, " he said. "I thought youwere on vacation, Malone. " "How come everybody knows about me being on vacation?" Malone saidsourly. The agent-in-charge shrugged. "The only leave not canceled?" he said. "Hell, it was all over the place in five minutes. " "O. K. , O. K. , " Malone said. "Don't remind me. Is there a package forme?" The agent-in-charge produced a large box. "A messenger brought it, " hesaid. "From the Psychical Research Society, " he said. "What is it, ghosts?" "Dehydrated, " Malone said. "Just add ectoplasm and out they come, shouting _Boo!_ at everybody. " "Sounds wonderful, " the agent-in-charge said. "Can I come to theparty?" "First, " Malone said judiciously, "you'd have to be dead. Of course Ican arrange that--" "Thanks, " the agent-in-charge said, leaving in a hurry. Malone went ondown to his office and opened the box. It contained books, pamphletsand reports from Sir Lewis, all dealing with some area of telepathicprojection. He spent a few minutes looking them over and trying tomake some connected sense out of them, but finally he gave up and justsat and thought. The material seemed to be no help at all; it told himeven less than Dr. O'Connor had. What he needed, he decided, was somebody to talk to. But who? Hecouldn't talk to the FBI, and nobody else knew much about what he wastrying to investigate. He thought of Her Majesty and rejected thenotion with a sigh. No, what he needed was somebody smart and quick, somebody who could be depended on, somebody with training andknowledge. And then, very suddenly, he knew who he wanted. "Well, now, Sir Kenneth, " he said. "Let's put everything together andsee what happens. " "Indeed, " said Sir Kenneth Malone, "it is high time we did so, Sirrah. Proceed: I shall attend. " * * * * * "Let's start from the beginning, " Malone said. "We know there'sconfusion in all parts of the country--in all parts of the world, Iguess. And we know that confusion is being caused by carefully timedaccidents and errors. We also know that these errors appear to beaccompanied by violent bursts of psionic static--violent energy. Andwe know, further, that on three specific occasions, these bursts ofenergy were immediately followed by a reversal of policy in the mindof the person on the receiving end. " "You mean, " Sir Kenneth put in, "that these gentlemen changed theiropinions. " "Correct, " Malone said. "I refer, of course, to the firm of Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch, Spying Done Cheap. " "Indeed, " Sir Kenneth said. "Then the operators of this strange force, whatever it may prove to be, must have some interest in allowing thespies' confession?" "Maybe, " Malone said. "Let's leave that for later. To get back to thebeginning of all this: it seems to me to follow that the accidents anderrors which have caused all the confusion throughout the world happenbecause somebody's mind is changed just the right amount at the righttime. A man does something he didn't intend to do--or else he forgetsto do it at all. " "Ah, " Sir Kenneth said. "We have done those things we ought not tohave done; we have left undone those things we ought to have done. Andyou feel, Sirrah, that a telepathic command is the cause of thisconfusion?" "A series of them, " Malone said. "But we also know, from Dr. O'Connor, that it takes a great deal of psychic energy to perform thisparticular trick--more than a person can normally afford to expend. " "Marry, now, " Sir Kenneth said. "Meseemeth this is not reasonable. Changing the mind of a man indeed seems a small thing in comparison toteleportation, or psychokinesis, or levitation or any such witchery. And yet it take more power than any of these?" Malone thought for a second. "Sure it does, " he said. "I'd say it wasa matter of resistance. Moving an inanimate object is prettysimple--comparatively, anyhow--because inert matter has no mentalresistance. " "And moving oneself?" Sir Kenneth said. "There's some resistance there, probably, " Malone said. "But you'llremember that the Fueyo system of training for teleportation involvedovercoming your own mental resistance to the idea. " "True, " Sir Kenneth said. "'Tis true. Then let us agree that it takesgreat power to effect this change. Where does our course point fromthat agreement, Sirrah?" "Next, " Malone said, "we have to do a little supposing. This projectmust be handled by a fairly large group, since no individual can do italone. This large group has to be telepathic--and not only for thereasons Dr. O'Connor and I specified. " "And why else?" Sir Kenneth demanded. "They've also got to know exactly when to make this victim of theirschange his mind, " Malone said. "Right?" "Correct, " Sir Kenneth said. "We've got to look for a widespread organization of telepaths, " Malonesaid, "with enough mental discipline to hold onto a tough mentalshield. Strong, trained, sane men. " "A difficult assignment, " Sir Kenneth commented. "Well, " Malone said, "suppose you hold on for a second--don't goaway--and let me figure something out. " "I shall wait, " sir Kenneth said, "without. " "Without what?" Malone murmured. But there was no time for games. Now, then, he told himself--and sneezed. He shook his head, cursed softly and went on. Now, then. . . . * * * * * There was an organization, spread all over the Western world, and withwhat were undoubtedly secret branches in the Soviet Union. Theorganization had to be an old one--because it had to have trainedtelepaths, of a high degree of efficiency. And training took time. There was something else to consider, too. In order to organize tosuch a degree that they could wreak the complete havoc they werewreaking, the organization couldn't be completely secret; there arealways leaks, always suspicious events, and a society that spent timecovering all of those up would have no time for anything else. So the organization had to be a known one, in the Western world atleast--a known group, masquerading as something else. So far, everything made sense. Malone frowned and tried to think. Where, he wondered, did he go from here? Maybe this time a list would help. He found a pencil and a piece ofpaper, and headed the paper: _Organization_. Then he started puttingdown what he knew about it, and what he'd figured out: 1. Large2. Old3. Disguised It sounded, so far, just a little like Frankenstein's Monster wearinga red wig. But what else did he know about it? After a second's thought, he murmured: "Nothing, " and put the pencildown. But that, he realized, wasn't quite true. He knew one more thing aboutthe organization. He knew they'd probably be immune to the confusioneverybody else was suffering from. The organization would be--had tobe--efficient. It would be composed of intelligent, superblyco-operative people, who could work together as a unit without in theleast impairing their own individuality. He reached for the pencil again, and put down: 4. Efficient He looked at it. Now it didn't remind him so much of the Monster. Butit didn't look terribly familiar, either. Who did he know, he thought, who was large, old, disguised and efficient? It sounded like an improbable combination. He set the paper down, clearing off some of the PRS books to make room for it. And then hestopped. The papers the PRS had sent him. . . . And he'd gotten them so quickly, so efficiently. . . . They were a large organization. . . . And an old one. . . . He looked for a desk phone, found one and grabbed at it frantically. * * * * * The girl who answered the phone looked familiar. Malone suddenlyremembered to check the time--it was just after nine. The girl staredat him. She did not look terribly old, but she was large and she hadto be disguised. There seemed to be a lot of teeth running around inthis case, Malone thought, between the burlesque stripper in Las Vegasand Miss Dental Display here in New York. Nobody, he told himself, could have collected that many teeth honestly. "Psychical Research Society, " she said. "Oh, Mr. Malone. Goodmorning. " "Sir Lewis, " Malone said in a rush. "Sir Lewis Carter. I want to talkto him. Hurry. " "Sir Lewis Carter?" the girl said very slowly. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Malone, but he won't be in at all today. " "Home number, " Malone said desperately. "I've got to. " "Well, I can give you that, Mr. Malone, " she said, "but it wouldn't doyou any good, really. Because he went away on his vacation and when hedoes that he never tells us where. You know? He won't be back for twoor three weeks, " she added as an afterthought. Malone said: "Oog, " and thought for less than a second. "Somebodyofficial, " he said. "Got to talk to somebody official. Now. " "Oh, I can't do that either, Mr. Malone, " the toothy girl said. "Allof the executives already left on their vacation. They just left askeleton force here at the office. " "They're all gone?" Malone said hollowly. "That's right, " the girl said with great cheer. "As a matter of fact, I'm in charge now. You know?" "I'm afraid I do, " Malone said. "It's very important, though. Youdon't have any idea where any of them went?" "None at all, " she said. "I'm sorry, but that's how it is. Maybe ifyou were me you'd ask questions, but I just follow orders and thosewere my orders. To take over until they get back. You know? Theydidn't tell me where and I just didn't ask. " "Great, " Malone said. He wanted to shoot himself. Everything wasobvious now--about twenty-four hours too late. And now, they'd allgone--for two weeks--or for good. The girl's rancid voice broke in on his thoughts. "Oh, Mr. Malone, " she said. "I'm sorry, but I just remembered theyleft a note for you. " "A note?" Malone said. "For me?" "Sir Lewis said you might call, " the girl said, "and he left amessage. If you'll hold on a minute I'll read it. " Malone waited tensely. The girl found a slip of paper, blinked at itand read: "My dear Malone, I'm afraid that what you have deduced is quitecorrect; and, as you can see, that leaves us no alternative. Sorry. Miss Luba A. Sends her apologies to you, since she is joining us; myapologies are also tendered. " The girl looked up. "It's signed by SirLewis, " she said. "Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Malone?" "I'm afraid it does, " Malone said blankly. "It means entirely toomuch. " XIII After Miss Dental Display had faded from Malone's screen, he just satthere, looking at the dead, gray front of the visiphone and feelingabout twice as dead and at least three times as gray. Things, he told himself, were terrible. But even that sentence, whichwas a good deal more cheerful than what he actually felt, did nothingwhatever to improve his mood. All of the evidence, after all, had beenpractically living on the tip of his nose for God alone knew how long, and not only had he done nothing about it, he hadn't even seen it. There was the organization, staring him in the face. There wasLuba--nobody's fool, no starry-eyed dreamer of occult dreams. She waspart of the Psychical Research Society, why hadn't he thought towonder why she was connected with it? And there was his own mind-shield. Why hadn't he wondered whetherother telepaths might not have the same shield? He thought about Luba and told himself bitterly that from now on shewas Miss Ardanko. Enough, he told himself, was enough. From now on hewas calling her by her last name, formally and distantly. In his ownmind, anyhow. Facts came tumbling in on him like the side of a mountain falling on ahapless traveler, during a landslide season. And, Malone told himself, he had never possessed less hap in all of his ill-starred life. And then, very suddenly, one more fact arrived, and pushed the restout into the black night of Malone's bitter mind. He stood up, pushingthe books away, and closed his eyes. When he opened them he went tothe telephone in his Las Vegas hotel suite, and switched it on. Asmiling operator appeared. Malone wanted to see him die of poison, slowly. "Give me Room 4-T, " he snapped. "Hurry. " "Room forty?" the operator asked. "Damn it, " Malone said, "I said 4-T and I meant 4-T. Four as in fourand T as in--as in China. And hurry. " "Oh, " the operator said. "Yes, sir. " He turned away from the screen. "That would have been Miss Luba Ardanko's room, sir?" he said. "Right, " Malone snapped. "I . . . Wait a minute. Would have been?" "That's correct, sir, " the operator said. "She checked out, sir, earlythis morning. The room is unoccupied. " Malone swallowed hard. It was all true, then. Sir Lewis' note hadn'tsimply been one last wave of the red cape before an angry bull. Lubawas one of them. _Miss Ardanko_, he corrected himself savagely. "What time?" he said. The operator consulted an information board before him. "Approximatelyone o'clock, sir, " he said. "In the morning?" "Yes, sir, " the clerk said. Malone closed his eyes. "Thanks, " he said. "You're quite welcome, sir, " the operator said. "A courtesy of theGreat Universal Ho--" Malone cut him off. "Ho, indeed, " he said bitterly. "Not to mention haand hee--hee and yippe-ki-yay. A great life. " He whisked himself backto New York in a dismal, rainy state of mind. As he sat down again tothe books and papers the door to the room opened. "You still here?" the agent-in-charge said. "I'm just going off dutyand I came by to check. Don't you ever sleep?" "I'm on vacation, remember?" "Some vacation, " the a-in-c said. "If you're on special assignment whynot tell the rest of us?" "I want it to be a surprise, " Malone said. "And meantime, I'dappreciate it if I were left entirely to my own devices. " "Still conjuring up ghosts?" the a-in-c said. "That, " Malone said, "I don't know. I've got some long-distance callsto make. " * * * * * He started with the overseas calls, leaving the rest of the UnitedStates time for the sun to get round to them. His first call, whichinvolved a lot of cursing on Malone's part and much hard work for theoperator, who claimed plaintively that she didn't know how things hadgotten so snarled up, but overseas calls were getting worse and worse, went to New Scotland Yard in London. After great difficulty, Malonemanaged to get Assistant Commissioner C. E. Teal, who promised tocheck on the inquiry at once. It seemed like years before he called back, and Malone leaped to thephone. "Yes?" he said. Teal, red-faced and apparently masticating a stick of gum, said: "Igot C. I. D. Commander Gideon to follow up on that matter, Mr. Malone. As you know, it's after noon here--" "And they're all out to lunch, " Malone said. "As a matter of fact, " Teal went on, "they seem to have disappearedentirely. On vacation, that sort of thing. It is rather difficultattempting any full-scale tracing job just now; our men are terriblyoverworked. I imagine you've had reports from the New Scotland Yardrepresentatives working with you there--" "Oh, certainly, " Malone said. "But the hour; what does that have to dowith anything?" "I'm afraid I was thinking of our Inspector Ottermole, " Teal said. "Hewas sent to locate Dr. Carnacki, President of the Psychical ResearchSociety here. On being told that Dr. Carnacki was 'out to lunch, 'Ottermole investigated every restaurant and eating-place within tenblocks of the offices. Dr. Carnacki was not present; he, like the restof the Society here, appears to have left for places unknown. " "Thorough work, " Malone said. "Ottermole's a good man, " Teal said. "We've checked as quickly aspossible, Mr. Malone. I would like to ask you a question in return. " "Ask away, " Malone said. Teal looked worried. "Do you people think this may have anything to dowith the present . . . Ah . . . Trouble?" he said. "Things are quite upsethere, as you know; so many members of Parliament have resigned or . . . Ah . . . Died that the realm is being run by a rather shakily assembledcoalition government. There is even some talk of giving executivepower to Her Majesty until a general election can be held. " For one brief moment, Malone thought Teal was talking about RoseThompson. Then he recalled Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, and feltbetter. Things weren't quite as bad as he'd thought. But they were bad enough. "We simply don't know yet, " he saiduntruthfully. "But as soon as anything definite comes up, of course, you'll be informed. " "Thank you, Mr. Malone, " Teal said. "Of course, we'll do the same. "And then, still masticating, he switched off. Paris was next, then Rome, Berlin and a couple more. Every one had thesame result. From Maigret of the Paris Sureté to Poirot in Belgium, from Berlin's strict officialdom to the cheerful Hollanders, all thereports were identical. The PRS of each country had gone underground. Malone buried his face in his hands, thought about a cigar and decidedthat even a cigar might make him feel worse. Where were they? Whatwere they doing now? What did they plan to do? Where had they gone? "Out of the everywhere, " he heard himself say in a hollow, sepulchralvoice, "into the here. " But where was the here? He tried to make up his mind whether or not that made sense. Superficially, it sounded like extremely bad English, but he wasn'tsure of anything any more. Things were getting much too confused. He close his eyes wearily, and vanished. When he opened them, he was in his Washington apartment. He went overto the big couch and sat down, feeling that if he were going to cursehe might as well be comfortable while he did it. But, some minuteslater, when the air was a bright electric blue around him, he didn'tfeel any better. Cursing was not the answer. Nothing seemed to be. What was his next move? Where did he go from here? The more he thought about it, the more his mind spun. He was, herealized, at an absolute, total dead end. Oh, there were things he could do. Malone knew that very well. Hecould make a lot of noise and go through a lot of waste motion; thatwas what it amounted to. He could have all the homes of all themissing PRS members checked somehow. That would undoubtedly result inthe startling discovery that the PRS members involved weren't home. Hecould have their dossiers sent to him, which would clutter everythingwith a great many more pieces of paper. But he felt quite sure thatthe pieces of paper would do no good at all. In general, he couldraise all hell--and find nothing whatever. Now, he told himself sadly, he had the evidence to start the FBI inmotion. The only trouble was that he could think of nowhere for themto go. And, though he had evidence that might convince Burris--the PRSmembers, after all, _had_ done a rather unusual fadeout--he hadnowhere near enough to carry the case into court, much less make atry at getting the case to stand up once carried in. That was onething he couldn't do, he realized, he couldn't issue warrants for thearrest of anybody at all. [Illustration] But, vacation or no vacation, he thought solemnly, he was an FBIAgent, and his motto was: "There's always a way. " No normal method oftracking down the PRS members, or finding their present whereabouts, was going to work. They'd been covering themselves for such anemergency, undoubtedly, for a good many years--and if anyone gotclose, a burst of mental energy was quite enough to turn the seekeraside. Nobody, Malone told himself grimly, was perfect. There were clueslying around somewhere; he was sure of that. There had to be. Theproblem was simply to figure out where to look, and how to look, andwhat to look for. Somewhere, the clues were sitting quietly and waiting for him to findthem. The thought cheered him slightly, but not very much. He stood upslowly and went into the kitchen to start heating water for coffee. There was, he told himself, a long night ahead of him. He sighedgently. But there was no help for it; the work had to be done--anddone quickly. But when eight cigars had been reduced to ash, and what seemed likeseveral gallons of coffee had sloshed their way into Malone's interiorworkings, his mind was as blank as a baby's. The lovely, opalescentdawn began to show in the East, and Malone tendered it some extremelyrude words. Then, Haggard, red-eyed, confused, violently angry, andnot one inch closer to a solution, he fell into a fitful doze on hiscouch. * * * * * When he awoke, the sun was high in the sky, and outside his window thecheerful sound of too much traffic floated in the air. Downstairssomebody was playing a television set too loudly, and the voicereached Malone's semiaware mind in a great tinny shout: "The President, taking action on the current crisis, has declared martiallaw throughout the nation, " a voice said in an important-soundedmonotone. "Exempt from this proclamation are members of the ArmedServices, Special Agents and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Theproclamation, issued this morning, was made public in a special newsconference which--" Malone ripped out a particularly foul oath and sat up on the couch. "That, " he muttered, "is a fine thing to wake up to. " He focused hiseyes, with only slight difficulty, on his watch. The time was a littleafter two. "Later developments will be reported as and when they occur, " theannouncer was saying, "and in one hour a special panel of newscasterswill be assembled here to discuss this latest action in the light ofpresent happenings. Any special rules and regulations will bebroadcast over this station--" "Shut up, " Malone said. He had wasted a lot of time doing nothing butsleeping, he told himself. This was no time to be listening totelevision. He got up and found, to his vague surprise, that he felt alot better and clearer-headed than he had been. Maybe the sleep hadactually done him some good. He yawned, blinked and stretched, and then padded into the bathroomfor a shower and shave. After he'd changed he thought about a morningor afternoon cup of coffee, but last night's dregs appeared to havetaken up permanent residence in his digestive tract, and he decidedagainst it at last. He swallowed some orange juice and toast andthen, heaving a great sigh of resignation and brushing crumbs off hisshirt, he teleported himself over to his office. Now he knew that, sooner or later, he was going to have to talk toBurris. Burris _had_ to know, even if there was nothing to be done. And now was just as good--or as bad--a time as any. He didn't hesitate. He punched the button on his intercom for Burris'office and then sat back, with his eyes closed, waiting for thewell-known voice. It didn't come. Instead, Wolf, the Director's secretary, spoke up. "Burris isn't in, Malone, " he said. "He had to fly to Miami. I can geta call through to him on the plane, if it's urgent, but he'll belanding in about fifteen minutes. And he did say he'd call in thisafternoon. " "Oh, " Malone said. "Sure. O. K. It isn't urgent. " He was just as gladof the reprieve; it gave him one more chance to work matters throughto a solution, and hand it to Burris on a silver platter. "But whyMiami?" he added. "Don't you hear about anything any more?" Wolf asked. "I've been on vacation. " "Oh, " Wolf said. "Well, the Governor of Mississippi was assassinatedyesterday, at Miami Beach. " "Ah, " Malone said. He thought about it for a second. "Frankly, " hesaid, "this does not strike me as an irreparable loss to the nation. Not even to Mississippi. " "You express my views precisely, " Wolf said. "How about the killer?" Malone said. "I gather they haven't got himyet, or Burris wouldn't be on his way down. " "No, " Wolf said. "The killer would be on his way here instead. But youknow how things are--everything's confused. Governor Flarion waswalking along Collins Avenue when somebody fired at him, using ahigh-powered rifle with, I guess, a scope sight. " "Professional, " Malone commented. "It looks like it, " Wolf said. "And he picked the right time for it, too--the way things are he was just one more confusion among the rest. Nobody even heard the sniper's shot; the governor just fell over, right there in the street. And by the time his bodyguards found outwhat had happened, it was impossible even to be sure just which way hewas facing when the shot had been fired. " "And as I remember Collins Avenue--" Malone started. "Right, " Wolf said. "But it's even worse now, with everything goingnuts. Out where Governor Flarion was taking his stroll, there's anawful lot of it to search. The boys are trying to find somebody whosaw a man acting suspicious in any of the nearby buildings, or heard ashot, or saw anybody at all lurking or loitering anywhere near to thescene. " "Lovely, " Malone said. "Sounds like a nice complicated job. " "You don't know the half of it, " Wolf said. "There's also the MiamiBeach Chamber of Commerce. According to them, Flarion died of a heartattack, and not even in Miami Beach. Everything happening down thereisn't happening, according to them; Miami Beach is the one unsulliedbeauty spot in a mixed-up United States. " "All I can say, " Malone offered, "is good luck. This is the saddestday in American history since the assassination of Huey P. Long. " "Agreed, " Wolf said. "Want me to tell Burris you called?" "Right, " Malone said, and switched off. * * * * * The assassination of Nemours P. Flarion, he told himself, obviouslymeant something. It pointed straight toward some entirely new kind ofanswer. Granted, old Nemours P. Had been a horrible mistake, aparanoid, self-centered, would-be, dictator whose final act was quitein keeping with the rest of his official life. Who else would be inMiami Beach, far away from his home state, while the President wasdeclaring nationwide martial law? But that, Malone told himself, wasn't the point. Or not quite thepoint, anyhow. Maybe some work would dig up more facts. Anyhow, Malone was reasonablysure that he could reassign himself from vacation time, at least untilhe called Burris. And he had work to do; nobody was going to hand himanything on a silver serving salver. He punched the intercom again and got the Records office. "Yes, sir?" a familiar voice said. "Potter, " Malone said, "this is Malone. I want facsimiles ofeverything we have on the Psychical Research Society, on Sir LewisCarter, and on Luba Ardanko. Both of these last are connected with theSociety. " "You're back on duty, Malone?" Potter said. "Right, " Malone said. "Make that fast, will you?" Potter nodded. "Right away, " he said. It didn't take long for the facsimile records to arrive, and Malonewent right to work on them. Maybe somewhere in those records was theclue he had desperately needed. Where was the PRS? What were theydoing now? What did they plan to do? And why had they started the whole row in the first place? The PRS, he saw, was even more widely spread than he had thought. Ithad branches in almost every major city in the United States, inEurope, South Africa, South America and Australia. There was even asmall branch society in Greenland. True, the Communist disapproval ofsuch nonmaterialistic, un-Marxian objectives as Psychical Researchshowed up in the fact that there were no registered branches in theSino-Soviet bloc. But that, Malone thought, hardly mattered. Maybe inRussia they called themselves the Lenin Study Group, or the BetterBorschch League. He was fairly sure, from all the evidence, that thePRS had some kind of organization even behind the Iron Curtain. Money backing didn't seem to be much of a problem, either. Malonechecked for the supporters of the organization and found a microfilmedlist that ran into the hundreds of thousands of names, most of themordinary people who seemed to be interested in spiritualism and thelike, and who donated a few dollars apiece to the PRS. Besides thismass of small donations, of course, there were a few large ones, fromindependently wealthy men who gave support to the organization andseemed actively interested in its aims. It wasn't an unusual picture; just an exceptionally big one. Malone sighed and went on to the personal dossiers. Sir Lewis Carter himself was a well-known astronomer andmathematician. He was a Fellow of the Royal Society, the RoyalAstronomical Society and the Royal Mathematical Society. He had beenknighted for his contributions in higher mathematics only two yearsbefore he had come to live in the United States. Malone went over thepapers dealing with his entry into the country carefully, but theywere all in order and they contained absolutely nothing in the way ofusable clues. Sir Lewis' books on political and historical philosophy had beenwell-received, and he had also written a novel, "But Some Are MoreEqual, " which, for a few weeks after publication, had managed to clawits way to the bottom of the best-seller list. And that was that. Malone tried to figure out whether all thisinformation did him any good, and the answer came very quickly. Theanswer was no. He opened the second dossier. Luba Ardanko had been born in New York. Her mother had been a woman ofIrish descent named Mary Foley, and had died in '69. Her father hadbeen a Hungarian named Chris Yorgen Ardanko, and had died in the sameyear. Malone sighed. Somewhere in the dossiers, he was sure, there was aclue, the basic clue that would tell him everything he needed to know. His prescience had never been so strong; he knew perfectly well thathe was staring at the biggest, most startling and most completedisclosure of all. And he couldn't see it. He stared at the folders for a long minute. What did they tell him?What was the clue. And then, very slowly, the soft light of a prodigal sun illuminatedhis mind. "Mr. Malone, " Malone said gently, "you are a damned fool. There aretimes when it is necessary to discard the impossible after you haveseen that the obscure is the obvious. " He wasn't sure whether that meant anything, or even whether he knewwhat he was saying. But, as the entire structure of facts becameclear, and then turned right upside down in his mind and changed intosomething else entirely--something that told him not only who, andwhere, but also why, he became absolutely sure of one thing. He knew the final answer. And it _was_ obvious. Obvious as all hell! XIV There was, of course, only one thing to do and only one place to go. Malone teleported to the New York offices of the FBI and wentimmediately downstairs to the garage, where a specially-built Lincolnawaited him at all times. One of the mechanics looked up curiously as Malone headed for the car. "Want a driver?" he said. Malone thanked his lucky stars that he didn't have to get into anylengthy and time-consuming argument about whether or not he was onvacation. "No, thanks, " he said. "This is a solo job. " That, he told himself, was for sure. He drove out onto the streets andinto the heavy late-afternoon traffic of New York. The Lincoln handledsmoothly, but Malone didn't press his luck in the traffic which hethought was even worse than the mess he'd driven through with thehappy cab driver two days before. He wasn't in any hurry now, afterall. He had all the time in the world, and he knew it. They--and, foronce, Malone could put real names to that "they"--would still bewaiting for him when he got there. _If_ he got there, he thought suddenly, turning a corner and beingconfronted with a great mass of automobiles wedged solidly fender tofender as far as the eye could see. The noise of honking horns wasdeafening, and great clouds of smoke rose up to make the scene looklike the circle of Hell devoted to hot-rod drivers. Malone cursed andsweated until the line began to move, and then cursed and sweated somemore until he was out of the city at last. It took quite a lot of time. New York traffic, in the past forty-eighthours, hadn't gotten better; it had gotten a lot worse. He was nearlyexhausted by the time he finally crossed the George Washington Bridgeand headed west. And, while he drove, he began to let his reflexestake over most of the automotive problems now that New York City wasbehind him. He took all his thoughts from behind the shield that had shelteredthem and arrayed them neatly before him. They were beamed, he toldhimself firmly, to one particular group of persons and to no one else. Everything was perfectly clear; all he had to do now was explain it. Malone had wondered, over the years, about the detectives in books. They always managed to wrap everything up in the last chapter, whichwas perfectly all right by itself. But they always had a whole crowdof suspects listening to them, too. Malone knew perfectly well that hecould never manage a setup like that. People would interrupt him. Things would happen. Two dogs would rush in and start a battle royalon the floor. There would be an earthquake or an invasion of littlegreen Venusians, or else somebody would just decide to faint andcause a furor. But now, at long last, he realized, he had his chance. Nobody couldinterrupt him. And he could explain to his heart's content. Because the members of the PRS were telepathic. And Kenneth J. Malone, he thought happily, was not. Luba, he was sure, would be tuned in on him as he drove toward theirPennsylvania hiding place. At least, he wanted to think so; it madethings much more pleasant. And he hoped that Luba, or whoever wasreally tuned in, would alert everybody else, so they could all hook inand hear his grand final explanation of everything. He opened his mind in that one special direction, beaming his thoughtsto nobody else but the group he'd decided on. A second of silencepassed. And then a sound began. Malone had passed a company of soldiers someyards back, but he hadn't noticed them particularly; with the countryunder martial law, soldiers were going to be as common as tree frogs. Now, however, something different was happening. Malone felt the car tremble slightly, and stopped. Past him, rollingalong the side of the highway he was on, came a parade of thirty-tontanks. They rumbled and roared their slow, elephantine way down thehighway and, after what seemed about three days, disappeared fromsight. Malone wondered what the tanks were for, and then dismissed itfrom his mind. It certainly wasn't very pleasant to think about, nomatter how necessary it turned out to be. He started up again. There were few cars on the road, although a lotof them were parked along the sides. A series of _Closed_ signs onfilling stations explained that, and Malone began to be grateful forthe national emergency. It allowed him to drive without muchinterference, anyhow. * * * * * _And a hearty good afternoon to all, he thought--especially to MissLuba Ardanko. I hope she's tuned in . . . And, if she isn't, I hopesomebody alerts her. Frankly, I'd rather talk to her than to anyoneelse I can think of at the moment. As a matter of fact, it's a littleeasier to concentrate if I talk out loud, so I think I'll do that. _ He swerved the car at this point, neatly avoiding a broken woodencrate that crouched in wait for him. "Road hog, " he told it bitterly, and went on. "Nothing personal, " he went on after a second. "I don't care if you're_all_ listening in, as a matter of fact. And I'm not going to hideanything. " He thought a second, and then added: "Frankly, I'm not sureI've got anything to hide. " He paused and, in his imagination, he could almost hear Luba's voice. _I'm listening, Kenneth, _ she said. _Go on. _ He fished around in his mind for a second, wondering exactly where tostart. Then he decided, in the best traditions of the detective story, not to mention "Alice in Wonderland, " to start at the beginning. "The dear old Psychical Research Society, " he said, speaking earnestlyto his windshield, "has been going on for a good many years now--sincethe 1880's, as a matter of fact. That's a long time and it adds up toa lot of Psychical Research. A lot of famous and intelligent peoplehave belonged to the Society. And, with all that, it's hardlysurprising that, after nearly a hundred years of work, somethingfinally turned up. " At this point, there was another interruption. A couple of sawhorsesblocked the road ahead of Malone. As he stared at them, he felt hisprescience begin to itch. He took out his . 44 Magnum and slowed thecar, memorizing the road as he passed it. He stopped the car beforethe sawhorses. Three enlisted men carrying M-1 rifles, and a stern, pale captain, his bars pointing sideways and glittering on hisshoulders, appeared from the sides of the road. The captain's voice was a military bark. "Out of the car!" Malone began to obey. "With your hands up!" the captain snapped. Malone dropped the . 44unobtrusively into his jacket pocket and complied. Then, as he cameout of the car, he teleported himself back to a section of the roadhe'd memorized, ten feet behind the car. The four men were gaping, dumbfounded, as Malone drew his gun and shot them. Then he removed thesawhorses, got back in his car, reloaded the . 44, put it back in hisholster and drove on. "Now, " he said in a thoughtful tone. "Where was I?" He imagined Luba's voice saying: _You were telling us how, all thistime, it's hardly surprising--_ "Oh, yes, " he said. "Well, then. So you solved some of the problems, you'd set. You learned how to use and control telepathy andteleportation, maybe, long before scientific boys like Dr. O'Connorbecame interested. But you never announced it publicly. You kept theknowledge all to yourself. 'Is this what the common folk calltelepathy, Lord Bromley?' 'Yes, Lady Bromley. ' 'Much too good forthem, isn't it?' And maybe it is, at that; I don't know. " His thoughts, he recognized, were veering slightly. After a second hegot back on the track. "At any rate, " he went on, "you--all of your out there--areresponsible for what's happening to this country and all of Europe andAsia--and, for all I know, the suburbs of Hell. "I remember one of the book facsimiles you got me, for instance, " hesaid. "The writer tried for an 'expose' of the Society, in which heattempted to prove that Sir Lewis Carter and certain other memberswere trying to take over the world and run it to suit themselves, using their psionic powers to institute a rather horrible type ofdictatorship over the world. "It was a pretty convincing book in a lot of ways. The authorevidently know a lot about what he was dealing with. " * * * * * At this point, Malone ran into another roadblock. There had been afight of some kind up ahead, and a lot of cars with what looked likeshell-holes in them were piled on one side of the road. The StatePolice were working under the confused direction of an Army major tostraighten things out, while a bulldozer pushed the cars off the roadonto the grass bordering it. The major stopped what he was doing andcame to meet Malone as the car stopped. "Get off the road, " the major said surlily. Malone looked up at him. "I've got some identification here, " he said. "Mind if I get it out?" The major reached for a gun and held it. "Go ahead, " he said. "Don'ttry anything funny. It's been hell up and down this road, mister. " Malone flipped out his wallet and showed the identification. "FBI?" the Major said. "What're you doing out here?" "Special assignment, " Malone said. "Oh . . . By the way . . . You mightsend some men back a ways. There are four dead mean in militaryuniforms lying on the road near a couple of sawhorses. " The major stared. "Dead?" he said at last. "Dead how?" "I shot them, " Malone said. "You--" The major's finger tightened on the trigger of his gun. "Now wait a minute, " Malone said. "I said they were in militaryuniforms. I didn't say they were soldiers. " "But--" "Three enlisted men carrying M-1 rifles?" Malone said. "When the M-1'sout of date? And a captain with his bars on sideways? No, major. Those were renegades. Looters of some kind; they wanted to kill me andget the car and any valuables I happened to have. " The major, very slowly, relaxed his grip on the gun and his arm fellto his side. "You did the smart thing, Mr. Malone, " he said. "And I've got to go on doing it, " Malone said. "I'm in a hurry. " He noticed a newspaper fluttering at the side of the road, not toonear the cars. Somehow it made everything seem even more lonely andstrange. The headlines fluttered into sight: MARTIAL LAW EDICT "MUST BE OBEYED, " SAYS GOVERNOR But Riots Are Feared In Outlying Towns MAN AND WIFE CONFESS KILLING OF RELATIVES ABOARD PRIVATE PLANE: Force Kin To Drop Off There was a photo of a woman there, too, and Malone could read just alittle of the caption: "Obeying the edict of martial law laid down by the President, MissHelen A. --" He wondered vaguely if her last name were Handbasket. The major was looking at him. "O. K. , then, " he said. "I can go on?" Malone said. The major looked stern. "Drive on, " he said. Malone got the car going; the roadblock was lifted for him and he wenton by. After a moment, he said: "Pardon the interruption. I trust that allthe devoted listeners to Uncle Kenneth's Happy Hour are still tunedin. " _Go ahead, _ said Lou's voice. "All right, let's take a look at what you've been doing. You've causedpeople to change their minds about what they've been intending to do. You can cause all sorts of hell to break loose that way. You have alot of people you want to get rid of, so you play on their neurosesand concoct errors for them to fight. You rig things so that theyquit, or get fired, or lose elections, or get arrested, or justgenerally get put out of circulation. Some of the less stable onesjust up and did away with themselves. "Sometimes, it's individuals who have to go. Sometimes, it's wholegroups or maybe even whole nations. And sometimes it's in between, andyou manage to foul up organizational moves with misplaced papers, mis-sent messages, errors, changed minds, and everything else you canthink of. "You know, " he went on, "at first I couldn't see any pattern in whatwas going on--though I remember telling myself that there was a kindof justice in the way this thing was just as hard on gangsters as itwas on businessmen and Congressmen. "The Congressman from Gahoochie County, Arkansas, gets himself in ajam over fraudulent election returns on the same day that theaccountant for the Truckers Union sends Mike Sands' books to theAttorney General. Simple justice, I call it. "And, you know, seen from that viewpoint, this whole caper might comeout looking pretty good. If most of the characters you've taken careof are just the boys who needed taking care of, I'd say more power toyou--except for one thing. It's all right to get rid of all the fools, idiots, maniacs, blockheads, morons, psychopaths, paranoids, timidity-ridden, fear-worshipers, fanatics, thieves, and the rest ofthe general, all-round, no-good characters; I'm all for it. But notthis way. Oh, no. "You've pressed the panic button, that's what you've done. "You've done more damage in two weeks than all those fumblebrains havebeen able to do in several myriads of lifetimes. You've loused up theeconomy of this nation and every other civilized nation. You've causedriots in which innocent people have died; you've caused thousands moreto lose their businesses and their savings. And only God Himself knowshow many more are going to die of starvation and murder before thisthing is over. "And you can't tell me that _all_ of those people deserve to die. " He slowed down as he came to a small town, and for the first time inmany miles he focused on the road ahead with his full mind. The town, he saw, looked like a shambles. There were four cars tastefullyarranged on the lawn of what appeared to be the local library. Acrossthe street, a large drugstore was in flames, and surprised people werehurrying to put it out. There didn't seem to be any State Police orArmy men around, but they'd passed through; Malone saw a forgottenoverseas cap lying on the road ahead. With a shock, he realized that he was now in Pennsylvania, close towhere he wanted to go. A signboard told him the town he was looking atwas Milford. It was a mess, and Malone hoped fervently that it was amess that could eventually be cleaned up. The town was a small one, and Malone was glad to get out of it soquickly. "That's the kind of thing I mean, " he said aloud. Then he paused. "Areyou there, anybody?" He imagined he heard Luba's voice saying: _Yes, Ken. Yes, I'm here. Listening to you. _ Imagination was fine but, of course, there was no way for them to getthrough to him. They were telepathic, but Kenneth J. Malone, he toldhimself sadly, was not. "Hello, out there, " he went on. "I hope you've been listening so far, because there isn't too much more for me to say. "Just this: you've wrecked my country, and you've wrecked almost allof the rest of civilization. You've brought my world down around myears. "I have every logical reason to hate your guts. By all the evidence Ihave, you are a group of the worst blackguards who ever existed; byall the evidence, I should be doing everything in my power toexterminate you. "But I'm not. "My prescience tells me that what you've been doing is right andnecessary. I'm damned if I can see it, but there it is. I just hopeyou can explain it to me. " XV Soon, he was in the midst of the countryside. It was, of course, filled with country. It spread around him in the shape of hills, birds, trees, flowers, grass, billboards and other distractions to thepassing motorist. It took Malone better than two hours more to find the place he waslooking for. Long before he found it, he had come to the conclusionthat finding country estates in Pennsylvania was only a shade easierthan finding private homes in the Borough of Brooklyn. In both cases, he had found himself saddled with the same frantic search down whatseemed likely routes which turned out to lead nowhere. He had found, in both cases, complete ignorance of the place on the part of localcitizens, and even strong doubts that the place could possibly haveany sort of existence. The fact that is was growing dark didn't help much, either. But he found it at last. Rounding a curve in a narrow, blacktop road, he saw the home behind a grove of trees. He recognized it instantly. He had seen it so often that he felt as if he knew it intimately. [Illustration] It was a big, rambling, Colonial-type mansion, painted a blinding andbeautiful white, with a broad, pillared porch and a great carved frontdoor. The front windows were curtained in rich purples, and before thehouse was a great front garden, and tall old trees. Malonehalf-expected Scarlett O'Hara to come tripping out of the house at anyminute shouting: "Rhett! The children's mush is on fire!" or somethingequally inappropriate. Inside it, however, if Malone were right, was not the magneticScarlett. Inside the house were some of the most important members ofthe PRS--and one person who was not a member. But it was impossible to tell from the outside. Nothing moved on thewell-kept grounds, and the windows didn't show so much as the flutterof a purple curtain. There was no sound. No cars were parked aroundthe house--nor, Malone realized, thinking of "Gone With the Wind, "were there any horses or carriages. The place looked deserted. Malone thought he knew better, but it took a few minutes for him toget up enough courage to go up the long driveway. He stared at thehouse. It was an old one, he knew, built long before the Civil War andoriginally commanding a huge tract of land. Now, all that remained ofthe vast acreage was the small portion that surrounded the house. But the original family still inhabited it, proud of the house and oftheir part in its past. Over the years, Malone knew, they had kept itup scrupulously, and the place had been both restored and modernizedon the inside without harming the classic outlines of thehundred-and-fifty-year-old structure. A fence surrounded the estate, but the front gate was swinging open. Malone saw it and took a deep breath. Now, he told himself, or never. He drove the Lincoln through the opening slowly, alert for almostanything. There was no disturbance. Thirty yards from the front door he pulledthe car to a cautious stop and got out. He started to walk toward thebuilding. Each step seemed to take whole minutes, and everything hehad thought raced through his mind again. Nothing seemed to moveanywhere, except Malone himself. Was he right? Were the people he'd been beaming to really here? Or hadhe been led astray by them? Had he been manipulated, in spite of hisshield, as easily as they had manipulated so many others? That was possible. But it wasn't the only possibility. Suppose, he thought, that he was perfectly right, and that the groupwas waiting inside. And suppose, too, that he'd misunderstood theirmotives. Suppose they were just waiting for him to get a little closer. Malone kept walking. In just a few steps, he could be close enough sothat a bullet aimed at him from the house hadn't a real chance ofmissing him. And it didn't have to be bullets, either. They might have set a trap, he thought, and were waiting for him to walk into it. Then they wouldhold him prisoner while they devised ways to. . . . To what? He didn't know. And that was even worse; it called up horrible terrorsfrom the darkest depths of Malone's mind. He continued to walkforward. Finally he reached the steps that led up to the porch, and took themone at a time. He stood on the porch. A long second passed. He took a step toward the high, wide and handsome oaken door. Then hetook another step, and another. What was waiting for him inside? He took a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell button. The door swung open immediately, and Malone involuntarily steppedback. The owner of the house smiled at him from the doorway. Malone let outhis breath in one long sigh of relief. "I was hoping it would be you, " he said weakly. "May I come in?" "Why, certainly, Malone. Come on in. We've been expecting you, youknow, " said Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI. XVI Malone sat, quietly relaxed and almost completely at ease, in thedepths of a huge, comfortable, old-fashioned Morris chair. Threesimilar chairs were clustered around a squat, massive coffee table, made of a single slab of dark wood set on short, curved legs. Malonelooked around at the other three with a relaxed feeling ofrecognition: Andrew J. Burris, Sir Lewis Carter and Luba Ardanko. Sir Lewis softly exhaled a cloud of smoke as he removed the briar fromhis mouth. "Malone, " he asked gently, "how did you know we would behere?" "Well, " Malone said, "I just . . . I mean, it was obvious as soon asI--" He stopped, frowning. "I had one thing to go on, anyway, " hesaid. "I figured out the PRS was responsible for all the troublesbecause it was so efficient. And then, while I was sitting and staringat the file reports, it suddenly came to me: the FBI was just asefficient. So it was obvious. " "What was?" Burris said. Malone shrugged. "I thought you'd been keeping me on vacation becauseyour mind was being changed, " he said. "Now I can see you were doingit of your own free will. " "Yes, " Sir Lewis said. "But how did you know you'd find us _here_, Malone?" There was a shadow in the room, but not a visible one. Malone felt thechill of sudden danger. Whatever was going to happen, he realized, hewould not be around for the finish. He, Kenneth Joseph Malone, thecuddly, semi-intrepid FBI Agent he had always known and loved, wouldnever get out of this deadly situation. If he lived, he would be sochanged that-- He didn't even want to think about it. "What sort of logic, " Sir Lewis was saying, "led you to the beliefthat we would all be here, in Andrew's house?" Malone forced his mind to consider the question. "Well, " he began, "itisn't exactly logic, I guess. " Luba smiled at him. He felt a little reassured, but not much. "Youshould have phrased that differently, " she said. "It's: 'It isn'texactly logic. I guess. '" "Not guess, " Sir Lewis said. "You know. Prescience, Malone. Yourprecognitive faculty. " "All right, " Malone said. "All right. So what?" "Take it easy, " Burris put in. "Relax, Malone. Everything's going tobe all right. " Sir Lewis waved a hand negligently. "Let's continue, " he said. "Tellme, Malone: if you were a mathematics professor, teaching a course incalculus, how would you grade a paper that had all the answers butdidn't show the work?" "I never took calculus, " Malone said. "But I imagine I'd flunk him. " "Why?" Sir Lewis said. "Because if he can't back up his answer, " Malone said slowly, "thenit's no better than a layman's guess. He has to give reasons for hisanswers; otherwise nobody else can understand him. " "Fine, " Sir Lewis said. "Perfectly fine. Now--" he puffed at hispipe--"can you give me a logical reason for arriving at the decisionyou made a few hours ago?" The danger was coming closer, Malone realized. He didn't know what itwas or how to guard himself against it. All he could do was answer, and play for time. "While I was driving up here, " he said, "I sent you a message. I toldyou what I knew and what I believed about the whole world picture asit stands now. I don't know if you received it, but I--" Luba spoke without the trace of a smile. "You mean you didn't know?"she said. "You didn't know I was answering you?" That was the first pebble of the avalanche, Malone knew suddenly--theavalanche that was somehow going to destroy him. "You forced yourthoughts into my mind, then, " he said as coolly as he could. "Just asyou forced decision on the rest of society. " "Now, dammit, Malone!" Burris said suddenly. "You know those burststake a lot of energy, and only last for a fraction of a second!" Malone blinked. "Then you . . . Didn't--" _Of course I didn't force anything on you, Kenneth. I can't. Not allthe power of the entire PRS could force anything through your shield. But you opened it to me. _ It was Luba's mental "voice. " Malone opened his mouth, shut it andthen, belatedly, snapped shut the channel through which he'd contactedher. Luba gave him a wry look, but said nothing. "You mean I'm atelepath?" Malone asked weakly. "Certainly, " Sir Lewis snapped. "At the moment, you can only pick upLuba--but you are certainly capable of picking up anyone, eventually. Just as you learned to teleport, you can learn to be a telepath. You--" The room was whirling, but Malone tried to keep his mind steady. "Waita minute, " he said. "If you received what I sent, then you know I'vegot a question to ask. " There was a little silence. Finally Sir Lewis looked up. "You want to know why you felt we--thePRS--were innocent of the crimes you want to charge us with. Verywell. " He paused. "We have wrecked civilization: granted. We couldhave done it more smoothly: granted. " "Then--" Sir Lewis' face was serious and steady. Malone tensed. "Malone, " Sir Lewis said, "do you think you're the only one with amental shield?" Malone shook his head. "I guess stress--fixity of mind orpurpose--could develop it in anyone, " he said. "At least, in somepeople. " "Very well, " Sir Lewis said. "Now, among the various people of theworld who have, through one necessity or another, managed to developsuch shields--" Burris broke in impatiently. His words rang, and then echoed in theold house. "Some fool, " he said flatly, "was going to start the Last War. " * * * * * "So you had to stop it, " Malone said after a long second. "But I stilldon't see--" "Of course you don't, " Sir Lewis said. "But you've got to understandwhy you don't see it first. " "Because I'm stupid, " Malone said. Luba was shaking her head. Malone turned to face her. "Not stupid, "she said. "But some people, Kenneth, have certain talents. Othershave--other talents. There's no way of equating these talents; all areuseful, each performs a different function. " "And my talent, " Malone said, "is stupidity. But--" She lit a cigarette daintily. "Not at all, " she said. "You've done areally tremendous job, Kenneth. I was trained ever since I was a babyto use my psionic abilities--the PRS has known how to train childrenin that line ever since 1970. Only Mike Fueyo developed a system forinstruction independently; the boy was, and is, a genius, as you'venoticed. " "Agreed, " Malone said. "But--" "You, however, " Luba said, "have the distinction of being the firsthuman being who has, as an adult, achieved his full powers withoutchildhood training. In addition, you're the only human being who hasever developed to the extent you have--in precognition, too. " She puffed on the cigarette. Malone waited. "But what you don't have, " she said at last, very carefully, "is theability to reason out the steps you've taken, after you've reached theproper conclusion. " "Like the calculus student, " Malone said. "I flunk. " Something insidehim grated over the marrow in his bones. It was as though someone haddecided that the best cure for worry was coarse emery in the joints, and he, Kenneth J. Malone, had been picked for the first experiment. "You're not flunking, " Luba said. "You're a very long way fromflunking, Kenneth. " Burris cleared his throat suddenly. Malone turned to him. The Head ofthe FBI stuck an unlighted cigar into his mouth, chewed it a little, and then said: "Malone, we've been keeping tabs on you. Your shieldwas unbreakable--but we have been able to reach the minds of peopleyou've talked to: Mike Sands, Primo Palveri, and so on. And HerMajesty, of course: you opened up a gap in your shield to talk to her, and you haven't closed it down. Until you started broadcasting here onthe way up, naturally. " "All right, " Malone said, waiting with as much patience as possiblefor the point. "I tried to take you off the case, " Burris went on, "because Sir Lewisand the others felt you were getting too close to the truth. Which youwere, Malone, which you were. " He lit his cigar and looked obscurelypleased. "But they didn't know how you'd take it, " he said. "They . . . We . . . Felt that a man who hadn't been trained since childhood toaccept the extrasensory abilities of the human mind couldn't possiblylearn to accept the reality of the job the PRS has to do. " "I still don't, " Malone said. "I'm stupid. I flunk. Remember?" "Now, now, " Burris said helplessly. "Not at all, Malone. But we wereworried. I lied to you about those three spies--I put the drug in thewater-cooler. I tried to keep you from learning the Fueyo method ofteleportation. I didn't want you to learn that you were telepathic. " "But I did, " Malone said, "And what does that make me?" "That, " Sir Lewis cut in, "is what we're attempting to find out. " Malone felt suitably crushed, but he wasn't sure by what. "I've gotsome questions, " he said after a second. "I want to know threethings. " "Go ahead, " Sir Lewis said. "One:" Malone said, "How come Her Majesty and the other nuttytelepaths didn't spot you? Two: How come you sent me out on these jobswhen you were afraid I was dangerous? And three: What was it that wasso safe about busting up civilization? How did that save us from theLast War?" Sir Lewis nodded. "First, " he said, "we've developed a technique ofthrowing up a shield and screening it with a surface of innocuousthoughts--like hiding behind a movie screen. Second . . . Well, we hadto get the jobs done, Malone. And Andrew thought you were the mostcapable, dangerous or not. For one thing, we wanted to get all theinsane telepaths in one place; it's difficult to work when theatmosphere's full of such telepathic ravings. " "But wrecking the world because of a man with a mind-shield--why notjust work things so his underlings wouldn't obey him?" Malone shookhis head. "That sounds more reasonable. " "It may, " Sir Lewis said. "But it wouldn't work. As a matter of fact, it was tried, and it didn't work. You see, the Sino-Soviet top menwere smart enough to see that their underlings were being tamperedwith. And they've developed a system, partly depending on automaticfiring systems, partly on individuals with mind-blocks--that is, people who aren't being tampered with--which we can't disruptdirectly. So we had to smash them. " "And the United States at the same time, " Burris said. "The economicbalance had to be kept; a strong America would be forced in to fillthe power vacuum otherwise, and that would make for an even worsecatastrophe. And if we weren't in trouble, the Sino-Soviet Bloc wouldblame their mess on us. And that would start the Last War beforecollapse could get started. Right, Malone?" "I see, " Malone said, thinking that he almost did. He told himself hecould feel happy now; the danger--which hadn't been danger to him, really, but danger from him toward the PRS, toward civilization--wasover. But he didn't feel happy. He didn't feel anything. "There's a crisis building in New York, " Sir Lewis said suddenly, "that's going to take all our attention. Malone, why don't you . . . Well, go home and get some rest? We're going to be busy for a while, and you'll want to be fresh for the work coming up. " "Sure, " Malone said listlessly. "Sure. " As the others rose, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Thenhe vanished. XVII Two hours passed, somehow. Bourbon and soda helped them pass, Malonediscovered; he drank two high-balls slowly, trying not to think aboutanything. He felt terrible. After a while he made himself a thirdhigh-ball and started on it. Maybe this would make him feel better. Maybe he thought, he ought to break out his cigars and celebrate. But there didn't seem to be very much to celebrate somehow. He feltlike an amoeba on a slide being congratulated on having successfullyconquered the world. He drank some more bourbon-and-soda. Amoebae, he told himself, didn'tdrink bourbon-and-soda. He was better off than an amoeba. He washappier than an amoeba. But somehow he couldn't imagine any amoeba inthe world, no matter how heart-broken, feeling any worse than KennethJ. Malone. He looked up. There was another amoeba in the room. Then he frowned. She wasn't an amoeba, he thought. She was thescientist the amoeba was supposed to fall in love with, so thescientist could report on everything he did, so all the otherscien--psiontists could know all about him. But whoever heard of ascien--psiontist--falling in love with an amoeba? Nobody. It was fate. And fate was awful. Malone had often suspected it, but now he wassure. Now he was looking at things from the amoeba's side, and fatewas terrible. "No, Ken, " the psiontist said. "It needn't be at all like that. " "Oh, yes, it need, " Malone said positively. "It need be even worse. When I have some more to drink, it'll _be_ even worse. Wait and see. " "Ken, " Luba said softly, "you don't have to suffer this way. " "No, " Malone said agreeably, "I don't. You could shoot me and then I'dbe dead. Just quit all this amoebing around, O. K. ?" "You're already half shot, " Luba said sharply. "Now be quiet andlisten. You're angry because you've fallen in love with me and you'reall choked up over the futility of it all. " "Exactly, " Malone said. "Ex-positively-actly. You're a psionicsuper-man--woman. You can figure things out in your own little headinstead of just getting along on dum psionic luck like us amoebae. You're too far above me. " "Ken, listen!" Luba snapped. "Look into my mind. You can link up withme: go ahead and do it. You can read me clear down to the subconsciousif you want to. " Malone blinked. "Now, Ken!" Luba said. Malone looked. For a long time. * * * * * Half an hour later, Kenneth J. Malone, alone in his room, was humminghappily to himself as he brushed a few specks of dust from the top ofhis best royal blue bowler. He faced the mirror on the wall, puffed onthe cigar clenched between his teeth, and adjusted the bowler to justthe right angle. There was a knock on the door. He went and opened it, carefullydisposing of the cigar first. "Oh, " he said. "What are you doinghere?" "Just saying hello, " Thomas Boyd grinned. "Back at work?" Boyd didn't know, of course, what had happened. Nor need he ever know. "Just about, " Malone said. "Spending the evening relaxing, though. " "Hm-m-m, " Boyd said. "Let me guess. Her name begins with L?" "It does not, " Malone said flatly. "But--" Boyd began. Malone cast about in his mind for an explanation. Telling Boyd thetruth--that Luba and Kenneth J. Malone just weren't equals as far associal intercourse went--would leave him exactly nowhere. But, somehow, it had to be said. "Tom, " he said, "suppose you met abeautiful girl--charming, wonderful, brilliant. " "Great, " Boyd said. "I like it already. " "Suppose she looked about . . . Oh . . . Twenty-three, " Malone went on. "Do any more supposing, " Boyd said, "and I'll be pawing the ground. " "And then, " Malone said, very carefully, "suppose you found out, afteryou'd been out with her . . . Well, when you took her out, say, you metyour grandmother. " "My grandmother, " Boyd said virtuously, "doesn't go to joints likethat. " "Use your imagination, " Malone snapped. "And suppose your grandmotherrecognized the girl as an old schoolmate of hers. " Boyd swallowed hard. "As a what?" "An old schoolmate, " Malone said. "Suppose this girl were so charmingand everything just because she'd had . . . Oh, ninety years or so topractice in. " "Malone, " Boyd said in a depressed tone, "you can spoil more ideas--" "Well, " Malone said, "would you go out with her again?" "You kidding?" Boyd said. "Of course not. " "But she's the same girl, " Malone said. "You've just found outsomething new about her, that's all. " Boyd nodded. "So, " he said, "you found out something new about Luba. Like, maybe, she's ninety years old?" "No, " Malone said. "Nothing like that. Just--something. " He rememberedQueen Elizabeth's theory of politeness toward superiors: people, she'dsaid, act as if they believed their bosses were superior to them, butthey didn't believe it. On the other hand, he thought, when a man knows and believes thatsomeone actually _is_ superior--then, he doesn't mind at all. He candepend on that superiority to help him. And love, ordinaryman-and-woman love, just can't exist. Nor, Malone told himself, would anyone want it to. It would, afterall, be damned uncomfortable. "So who's the girl?" Boyd said. "And where? The clubs are all closed, and the streets probably aren't very safe just now. " "Barbara Wilson, " Malone said, "and Yucca Flats. I ought to be able toget a fast plane. " He shrugged. "Or maybe teleport, " he added. "Sure, " Boyd said. "But on a night with so many troubles--" "Oh, King Henry, " Malone said, "hearken. A man who looks as historicalas you do ought to know a little history. " "Such as?" Boyd said, bristling slightly. "There have always been troubles, " Malone said. "In the EighthCentury, it was Saracens; in the Fourteenth, the Black Death. Thenthere was the Reformation, and the Prussians in 1870, and the Spanishin 1898, and--" "And?" Boyd said. Malone took a deep breath. He could almost feel the court dressflowing over him, as the court manners did. Lady Barbara, after all, attendant to Her Majesty, would expect a certain character from him. After a second, he had it. "In 1914, it was enemy aliens, " said Sir Kenneth Malone. THE END * * * * *