The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 01

by Anthology

  "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 pack in his pocket, and lit it. He sniffed. "You know," he said, "You're right. This one doesn't."

  "I told you," Malone said. "Must have been a bad cigarette. Spoiled or something."

  "I guess so," Boyd said vaguely. "But about these retirements--the FBI wanted me to look into it because of Burley's being mixed up with the space program scandal last year. Remember?

  "Vaguely," Malone said. "I was busy last year."

  "Sure you were," Boyd said. "We were both busy getting famous and well-known."

  Malone grinned. "Go on with the story," he said.

  Boyd puffed at his cigarette. "Anyhow, we couldn't find anything really wrong," he said. "Three senators retiring because of ill health, one because of old age. And Farnsworth, the youngest. He had a nervous breakdown."

  "I didn't hear about it," Malone said.

  Boyd shrugged. "We hushed it up," he said. "But Farnsworth's got delusions of persecution. He apparently thinks somebody's out to get him. 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 of everybody who talks to them. Not anything obvious, you understand. Just--worried. Apprehensive. Always looking at you out of the corners of their eyes. That kind of thing."

  Malone thought of Senator Lefferts, who was also suffering from delusions of persecution--delusions that had real evidence to back them up. "It does sound funny," he said cautiously.

  "Well, I reported everything to Burris," Boyd went on. "And he said you were working on something similar, and we might as well pool our resources."

  "Here we go again," Malone said. He took a deep breath, filling his nostrils with what remained of the cigar odor in the room, and felt more peaceful. Quickly, he told Boyd about what had been happening in Congress. "It seems pretty obvious," he finished, "that there is some kind of a tie-up between the two cases."

  "Maybe it's obvious," Boyd said, "But it is just a little bit odd. Fun and games. You know, Ken, Burris was right."

  "How?" Malone said.

  "He said everything was all mixed up," Boyd went on. "He told me the country was going to Rome in a handbasket, or something like that."

  Wondering vaguely if Burris had really been predicting mass religious conversions, Malone nodded silently.

  "And he's right," Boyd said. "Look at the newspapers. Everything's screwy lately."

  "Everything always is screwy," Malone said.

  "Not like now," Boyd said. "So many big-shot gangsters have been killed lately we might as well bring back Prohibition. And the labor unions are so busy with internal battles that they haven't had time to go on strike for over a year."

  "Is that bad?" Malone said.

  Boyd shrugged. "God knows," he said. "But it's sure confusing as all hell."

  "And now," Malone said, "with all that going on--"

  "The Congress of the United States decides to go off its collective rocker," Boyd finished. "Exactly." He stared down at his cigarette for a minute with a morose and pensive expression on his face. He looked, Malone thought, like Henry VIII trying to decide what to do about all these 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 nutty one 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 over to flip a second cigarette out onto Washington. He came back to his chair, sat down, and said: "What's our next step, Ken?"

  Malone considered carefully. "First," he said finally, "we'll start assuming something. We'll start assuming that there is some kind of organization behind all this--behind all the senators' resignations and everything like that."

  "It sounds like a big assumption," Boyd said.

  Malone shook his head. "It isn't really," he said. "After all, we can't figure it's the work of one person: it's too widespread for that. 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. "Reducing everything to chaos. And that brings in everything else, Tom. That brings in the unions and the gang wars and everything."

  Boyd blinked. "How?" he said.

  "Obvious," Malone said. "Strife brought on by internal confusion--that's what's going on all over. It's the same pattern. And if we assume an organization trying to jam up the United States, it even 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. Or the Chinese. Or both. Probably both."

  "It's a possibility," Malone said. "Anyhow, if it's sabotage, who else would be interested in sabotaging the United States? There's some Russian or Chinese organization fouling up Congress, and the unions, and the gangs. Come to think of it, why the gangs? It seems to me that if you left the professional gangsters strong, it would do even more to foul things up."

  "Who knows?" Boyd said. "Maybe they're trying to get rid of American gangsters 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't seem very probable that all the technicians in the Senate Office Building, for instance, are spies. It makes even less sense that the labor unions are composed mostly of spies. Or, for that matter, the Mafia and the organizations like it. What would spies be doing in the Mafia?"

  "Learning Italian," Boyd said instantly.

  "Don't be silly," Malone said. "If there were that many spies in this country, 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 how is all this getting done?"

  Malone beamed. "That's the question," he said. "And I think I have the answer."

  "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 passed and 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 my dreams. Now, look, Ken: I can't even see a pitchfork any more without thinking of Greek letters."

  Malone took a breath. "Which Greek letter?" he said.

  "You know ver
y 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 start with 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 around until the dossiers come up--they're for the Senate Office Building technicians, and they're on the way. You can go over them, and start checking on any known Russian agents in the country for contacts. You can also start checking on the dossiers, and in general for any hanky-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, and everything will be fine. After all, I'm going to have to do the real end 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 the State Department that ties in with your work. Their translator has been 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-Latin have to do with anything?"

  "You said--"

  "I said one of the State Department translators was acting up," Burris said. "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 the meaning slightly altered," Burris went on doggedly. "And I want you to check 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 I look like an Indian? Do I have feathers in my hair?"

  "Anything," Malone said grandly, "is possible." He broke the connection in a hurry.

  III

  The summer sun beat down on the white city of Washington, D. C. as if it had mistaken its instructions slightly, and was convinced that the city had been put down somewhere in the Sahara. The sun seemed confused, Malone thought. If this were the Sahara, obviously there was no reason whatever for the Potomac to be running through it. The sun was doing its best to correct this small error, however, by exerting even more heat in a valiant attempt to dry up the river.

  Its attempt was succeeding, at least partially. The Potomac was still there, 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 that Malone was willing to swear that it was splashing into his lungs at every inhalation. Resisting an impulse to try the breast-stroke, he stood in the full glare of the straining sun, just outside the Senate Office Building. He looked across at the Capitol, squinting his eyes manfully against the glare of its dome in the brightness.

  The Capitol was, at any rate, some relief from the sight of Thomas Boyd and a group of agents busily grilling two technicians. That was going on in the Senate Office Building, and Malone had come over to watch the proceedings. Everything had been set up in what Malone considered the most complicated fashion possible. A big room had been turned into a projection chamber, and films were being run off over and over. The films, taken by hidden cameras watching the computer-secretaries, had caught two technicians red-handed punching errors into the machines. Boyd had leaped on this evidence, and he and his crew were showing the movies to the technicians and questioning them 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 success than the sun was having, turning Washington into the Sahara. After all, Malone told himself, wiping his streaming brow, there were no Pyramids in Washington. He tried to discover whether that made any sense, but it was too much work. He went back to thinking about Boyd.

  The technicians were sticking to their original stories, that the mistakes had been honest ones. It sounded like a sensible idea to Malone; after all, people did make mistakes. And the FBI didn't have a single shred of evidence to prove that the technicians were engaged in deliberate sabotage. But Boyd wasn't giving up. Over and over he got the technicians to repeat their stories, looking for discrepancies or slips. Over and over he ran off the films of their mistakes, looking for some clue, some shred of evidence.

  Even the sight of the Capitol, Malone told himself sadly, was better than any more of Boyd's massive investigation techniques.

  He had come out to do some thinking. He believed, in spite of a good deal of evidence to the contrary, that his best ideas came to him while walking. At any rate, it was a way of getting away from four walls and from the prying eyes and anxious looks of superiors. He sighed 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 he was swimming through. But the people who passed him as he trudged onward to no particular destination didn't seem to notice; they gave him a fairly wide berth, and seemed very polite, but that wasn't because they thought he was nuts, Malone knew. It was because they knew 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 only dredged up the idea that you had to have a hat in case somebody asked you to keep something under it. But the FBI was firm about its rulings. No matter what the weather, an agent wore a hat. Malone thought bitterly that he might just as well wear a red, white and blue luminous sign that said FBI in great winking letters, and maybe a hooting siren, too. Still, the Federal Bureau of Investigation was not supposed to be a secret organization--no matter what occasional critics might say. And the hats, at least as long as the weather remained 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 and replaced the hat, feeling as if he had become incognito for a few seconds. The hat was back on now, feeling official but terrible, and about the same was true of the fully-loaded Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum revolver which hung in his shoulder holster. The harness chafed at his shoulder and chest and the weight of the gun itself was an added and unwelcome burden.

  But even without the gun and the hat, Malone did not feel exactly chipper. His shirt and undershirt were no longer two garments, but one, welded together by seamless sweat and plastered heavily and not too skillfully to his skin. His trouser legs clung damply to calves and thighs, rubbing as he walked, and at the knees each trouser leg attached and detached itself with the unpleasant regularity of a wet bastinado. Inside Malone's shoes, his socks were completely awash, and he seemed to squish as he walked. It was hard to tell, but there seemed 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 willing to 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 back to the troubles of the FBI in general, such as the problem at hand. It was an effort, but he frowned and kept walking, and within a block he was concentrating again on the psi powers.

  * * * * *

  Psi, he told himself, was behind the whole mess. In spite of Boyd's horrified refusal to believe such a thing, Malone was sure of it. Three years ago, of course, he wouldn't have considered the notion either. But since the
n a great many things had happened, and his horizons had widened. After all, capturing a double handful of totally insane, if perfectly genuine telepaths, from asylums all over the country, was enough by itself to widen quite a few stunned horizons. And then, later, there had been the gang of juvenile delinquents. They had been perfectly normal juvenile delinquents, stealing cars and bopping a stray policeman or two. It just happened, though, that they had solved the secret of instantaneous teleportation, too. This made them 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't bother him much. After all, the psionic spectrum--if it was a spectrum at all--was just as much a natural phenomenon as gravity, or magnetism.

  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 Australian aborigine. He tried to imagine an Australian aborigine in a hat on a hot day, decided the aborigine would have too much sense, and got back off the subject again.

  However, he thought grimly, there was this Australian aborigine. And he had a magnifying glass, which he'd picked up from the wreck of some ship. Using that--assuming that experience, or a friendly missionary, taught him how--he could manage to light a fire, using the sun's thermonuclear processes to do the job. Malone doubted that the aborigine knew anything about thermonuclear processes, but he could start a fire with them.

  As a matter of fact, he told himself, the aborigine didn't understand oxidation, 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 psionic processes, he thought; but then, nobody did, really, as far as he knew. 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 force would it take to make so many people in the United States goof up the way they were doing?