by Anthology
Malone tried to think. "Yes," he said at last. "Can you give me a condensed report on what is known--and I mean known--on telepathy and teleportation?"
"What you want," Sir Lewis said, "are those cases proven genuine, not the 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, it would provide a measuring-stick for the Society. The general public didn't know that the government was actually using psionic powers, and the Society's theories, checked against actual fact, would provide a rough index of reliability to use on the Society's other data.
But spirits, somehow, didn't seem very likely. Malone sighed and stood up.
"I'll have copies made of all the relevant material," Sir Lewis said, "from our library and research files. Where do you want the material sent? I do want to warn you of its bulk; there may be quite a lot of it."
"FBI Headquarters, on Sixty-ninth Street," Malone said. "And send a statement of expenses along with it. As long as the bill's within reason, don't worry about itemizing; I'll see that it goes through Accounting."
Sir Lewis nodded. "Fine," he said. "And, if you should have any difficulties with the material, please let me know. I'll always be glad to help."
"Thanks for your co-operation," Malone said. He went to the door, and walked on out.
He blundered back into the same big room again, on his way through the corridors. The bulbous-eyed woman, who seemed to have inherited a full set of thirty-two teeth from each of her parents, gave him a friendly if somewhat crowded smile, but Malone pressed on without a word. After a 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 it over, and I've got a new theory. You're doing a survey on how people act when encountering sneezes. Like Kinsey."
This girl--Lou something, Malone thought, and with difficulty refrained from adding "Gehrig"--had an unusual effect, he decided. He wondered if there were anyone in the world she couldn't reduce to paralyzed silence.
"Of course," she went on, "Kinsey was dealing with sex, and you aren't. At least, you aren't during business hours." She smiled politely at Malone.
"No," he said helplessly, "I'm not."
"It is sneezing, then," she said. "Will I be in the book when it's published?"
"Book?" Malone said, feeling more and more like a rather low-grade moron.
"The book on sneezing, when you get it published," she said. "I can see 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 to be 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," the girl said. "I thought you could hardly talk, and here you come out with lovely things like that. But I'll bet you say it to all the girls."
"I have never said it to anybody before," Malone said flatly. "And I never 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 be called Lou. Was he related to the girl?
No, Malone thought wildly. Relations went by last names. There was no reason for Lou to be related to Sir Lewis. They didn't even look alike. For instance, he had no desire whatever to make a date with Sir Lewis Carter, or to take him to a glittering nightclub. And the very idea of Sir Lewis Carter sitting on the Malone lap was enough to give him indigestion and spots before the eyes.
Sternly, he told himself to get back to business. The elevator stopped at the lobby and he got out and started down the street, feeling that consideration of the Lady Known As Lou was much more pleasant. After all, 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 lovely little holes. Worse than that, they had told him that mass control of human beings was impossible, as far as they knew.
And maybe it was impossible, he told himself sadly. Maybe he should just junk his whole theory and think up a new one. Maybe there was no psionics involved in the thing at all, and Boyd and O'Connor were right.
Of course, he had a deep-seated conviction that psionics was somewhere at the root of everything, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. A lot of people had deep-seated convictions that they were beetles, or that the world was flat. And then again, murderers often suffered as a result of deep-seated convictions.
On the other hand, maybe he had invented a whole new psionic theory--or, at least, observed some new psionic facts. Maybe they would call the results Maloneizing, instead of O'Connorizing. He tried to 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 a deep-seated conviction. He tried to think of a shallow-seated conviction, and failed. Didn't convictions ever stand up, anyhow, or lie down?
He shook his head, discovered that he was on Sixty-ninth Street, and headed for the FBI headquarters. His convictions, he had found, were sometimes an expression of his precognitive powers; he determined to ride with them, at least for a while.
By the time he came to the office of the agent-in-charge, he had figured 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 me personally. 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 at the 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 the room, just a few feet from his desk. The flash resolved itself into a tiny, grandmotherly-looking woman with a corona of white hair and a kindly, twinkling expression. She was dressed in the full court costume of the First Elizabethan period, and this was hardly surprising to Malone. The little old lady believed, quite firmly, that she was Queen Elizabeth I, miraculously preserved over all these centuries. Malone, himself, had practically forgotten that the woman's real name was Rose Thompson, and that she had only been alive for sixty-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. She had been discovered during the course of Malone's first psionic case, and by now she had even learned to teleport by "reading" the process in Malone's mind.
"Good afternoon, Sir Kenneth," she said in a regal, kindly voice. She was mad, he knew, but her delusion was nicely kept within bounds. All of her bright world hinged on the single fact that she was unshakably certain of her royalty. As long as the FBI catered to that notion--which included a Royal dwelling for her in Yucca Flats, and the privilege of occasionally knighting FBI Agents who had pleased her unpredictable fancy--she was perfectly rational on all other points. She co-operated with Dr. O'Connor and with the FBI in the investigation of her psionic powers, and she had given her Royal word not 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, haunted expression on her face. "I've been hoping you'd ask me to co
me," she said.
"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, and something ... disturbing. I've never come across anything like it before."
"Like what?" Malone asked.
"It's the--" She made a gesture that conveyed nothing at all to Malone. "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's really like. But ... well, Sir Kenneth, have you ever seen disturbance on a TV screen, when there's some powerful electric output nearby? The bright, 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," she said. "I can't pick up a person's mind over a distance unless I know him--and I can't see what's causing this at all. It's ... frankly, Sir Kenneth, 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 Sir Thomas, calling to tell you he's arrested three spies, and that doesn't matter at all."
"It doesn't?"
"Not at all," Her Majesty said. "What does matter is that I've only been picking up these flashes since you were assigned to this new case, 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 any words. The telephone rang again and he pushed the switch with a sense of relief. The beard-fringed face of Thomas Boyd appeared on the screen.
"You're getting hard to find," Boyd said. "I think you're letting fame and fortune go to your head."
"I left word at the office that I was coming here," Malone said aggrievedly.
"Sure you did," Boyd said. "How do you think I found you? Am I telepathic? Do I have strange powers?"
"Wouldn't surprise me in the least," Malone said. "Now, about those spies--"
"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 Office Building, 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 for years, and I finally decided to pick them up for questioning. Maybe they have something to do with all this mess that's bothering everybody."
"You haven't the faintest idea what you mean," Malone said. "Mess is hardly the word."
Boyd snorted. "You go on getting yourself confused," he said, "while some 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 as janitors and maintenance men, and of course we've made sure they haven't been able to get their hands on any really valuable information."
"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 realize what you've done, picking up those three men. We might have been able to 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 tour of the front during World War I, and, putting his head incautiously up out of a trench, was narrowly missed by a sniper's bullet. He turned to a nearby sergeant and bellowed: "Get that sniper!"
"Oh, we've got him spotted, sir," the sergeant said. "He's been there for six days now."
"Well, then," the general said, "why don't you blast him out of there?"
"Well, sir, it's this way," the sergeant explained. "He's fired about sixty rounds since he's been out there, and he hasn't hit anything yet. 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 great many had been spotted, including four in the Department of Fisheries. But known spies are easier to keep track of than unknown ones. And, as long as they're allowed to think they haven't been spotted, they may lead the way to other spies or spy networks.
"I thought it was worth the risk," Boyd said. "After all, if they have something to do with the case--"
"But they don't," Malone said.
Boyd exploded, "Let me find out for myself, will you? You're spoiling all the fun."
"Well, anyhow," Malone said, "they don't."
"You can't afford to take any chances," Boyd said. "After all, when I think about William Logan, I tell myself we'd better take care of every lead."
"Well," Malone said finally, "you may be right. And then again, you may 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 around like this. But since you've picked up the spies, I suppose it won't do any 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'll recognize me by the bullet hole in my forehead and the strange South American 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 screen and 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 I asked you questions before you answered them? I know you can see them in my mind, but it's simpler for me to do things the normal way, just now."
"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I do agree that matters are confused enough 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 somewhere else, 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 only happens 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 to it. 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 just don't know any more than that, Sir Kenneth; I've never experienced anything 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 suddenly dissolve into a jumble of meaningless shapes and lights.
"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't even know whether or not there is any purpose."
Malone sighed deeply. Nothing in the case seemed to make any sense. It wasn't that there were no clues, or no information for him to work with. 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 a bright, 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-charge said. "From the Psychical Research Society, in a couple of large bundles And they're here now. Want me to exorcise 'em for you?"
"No," Malone said wearily. "Just send them in to join the crowd. Got a 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," and switched off. He looked at his watch. A little over half an hour had passed 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 just take their places at the end of the long row of meaningless, disturbing, vicious facts that cluttered up his mind. He wasn't an FBI agent any more; he was a clown and a failure, and he was through. He was going to resign and go to South Dakota and live the life of a hermit. He would drink goat's milk and eat old shoes or something, and whenever another human being came near he would run away and hide. They would call him Old Kenneth, and people would write articles for magazines about The Twentieth Century Hermit.