The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 01

by Anthology

  A long second passed. Then Burris said: "Oh. Malone, I forgot to give you the analysis report."

  That, Malone realized dimly, was supposed to be the wet sock. Fate, he told himself, was against him. Anyhow, something was against him. It was a few seconds before he came to the conclusion that what he had heard 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 begin to rise. "You analyzed a water cooler and discovered that it was a Siberian spy in disguise," he said, trying to make himself sound less hysterical.

  "No, no," Burris said, pushing at Malone with his palms. "The water in it, Malone. The water in it."

  "No Siberian spy," Malone said with decision, "could disguise himself as the water in a water cooler."

  "I didn't say that," Burris went on. "But what do you think was in that water cooler, Malone?"

  "Water," Malone said. "Cool water."

  "Congratulations," Burris said, in the hearty tones usually reserved for announcers on programs where housewives win trips to Nome. "You are just a shade less than ninety-nine point nine nine per cent correct."

  "The rest of the water," Malone hazarded, "was warm?"

  "The rest of the water," Burris said, "wasn't water. Aside from the usual minerals, there was also a trace of one of the psychodrugs."

  * * * * *

  The word seemed to hang in mid-air, like somebody's sword. Malone knew perfectly well what the psychodrugs were. Over the past twenty years, a great number of them had been developed by confused and anxious researchers. Some were solids, some liquids and a few gaseous at normal temperatures. Some were weak and some were highly potent. Some were relatively innocuous, and quite a few were as deadly as any of the more common poisons. They could be administered by mouth, by injection, by spray, as drops, grains, whiffs or in any other way conceivable to medical science. But they all had one thing in common. They affected the mental functioning--what seemed to be the personality itself--of the person dosed with them.

  The effect of the drugs was, in most cases, highly specific. One might make a normally brave man a craven coward; laboratory tests on that one had presented the interesting spectacle of terrified cats running from surprised, but by no means displeased, experimental mice. Another drug reversed this picture, and made the experimental mice mad with power. They attacked cats in battalions or singly, cheering and almost waving large flags as they went over the top, completely foolhardy in the presence of any danger whatever. Others made man abnormally suspicious and still others disassociated judgment to the point where all decisions were made completely at random.

  The FBI had a large file on psychodrugs, Malone knew. But he didn't need 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 as much about it as we do. In large doses, the drug affects even the automatic nervous system and throws the involuntary functions out of whack; 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. The technicians could be depended on to make a great many more mistakes than usual--just how many we can't determine, but the order of magnitude seems about right. It would depend on how much water each one of them drank, of course, and we haven't a chance of getting anything like a precise determination of that now."

  "Oh," Malone said. "But it comes out about right, doesn't it?" He felt hopeless.

  "Just about," Burris said cheerfully. "And since it was Brubitsch's job 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 the water--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 got to stop pressing so hard on this."

  "But a man who didn't drink water all day would be a little conspicuous," Malone said. "After a while, anyhow."

  Burris sighed. "The man is a janitor, Kenneth," he said. "Do you know what 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--or wherever the faucets might be. Nobody would notice. Nobody would think it odd."

  Malone said: "But--" and stopped and thought it over. "All right," he went on at last. "But I still insist--"

  "Now, Kenneth," Burris said in a voice that dripped oil. "I'll admit that psionics is new and wonderful and you've done a lot of fine work with it. A lot of very fine work indeed. But you can't go around blaming everything on psionics no matter what it is or how much sense it makes."

  "I don't," Malone said, injured. "But--"

  "But you do," Burris said. "Lately, you've been acting as though magic were 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 for anything and everything." He paused, "Kenneth," he said in a more kindly tone, "don't think I blame you. I know how hard you've been working. I know how much time and effort you've put into the gallant fight against this country's enemies."

  Malone closed his eyes and turned slightly green. "It was nothing," he said 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 working very hard and you're just not at peak efficiency any more. You need a rest, Kenneth. A nice rest."

  "I do not," Malone said indignantly.

  "A lovely rest," Burris went on, oblivious. "Somewhere peaceful and quiet, where you can just sit around and think peacefully about peaceful things. Oh, it ought to be wonderful for you, Kenneth. A nice, peaceful, lovely, wonderful vacation."

  Through the haze of adjectives, Malone remembered dimly the last time Burris had offered him a vacation in that tone of voice. It had turned out to be one of the toughest cases he'd ever had: the case of the teleporting 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 arresting all the suspected nose-pickers in Mobile, Alabama?"

  Burris choked and recovered quickly. "No," he said. "No, no, no. I mean 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 say you're my top man. My very top man. And because of that I've been overworking you."

  "But--"

  "Now, now," Burris said, waving a hand vaguely. "I have been overworking 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, all right, but from the way the conversation was going it looked very much as if "vacation" weren't going to be the right word.

  The right word, he thought dismally, was going to be "rest home." Or possibly 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 wheedling tone.

  Malone nodded. "Sure I will," h
e said. "Until they come and put me in a 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, for instance--"

  "Where there are nice big guards to watch everything," Malone said. "And nuts."

  "Guides," Burris said. "But you could just sit around and take things easy."

  "All locked up," Malone said. "Sure. I'll love it."

  "If you want to go out," Burris said, "you can go out. Anywhere. Just do whatever you feel like doing."

  Malone sighed. "O.K.," he said. "When do the men in the white coats arrive?"

  "White coats?" Burris said. There was a short silence. "Kenneth," he said, "don't suspect me of trying to do anything to you. This is my way of doing you a favor. It would just be a vacation--going anywhere you 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 my mind. 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 second passed.

  "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 and anything else like that."

  "You forgot water coolers," Malone said.

  Burris nodded. "And water coolers," he said, "by all means. Forget about FBI business. Forget about me. Just relax."

  It did sound appealing, Malone told himself. But there was a case to finish, and he was sure Burris was finishing it wrong. He wanted to argue 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 more the more he thought about it. Burris went on naming vacation spots and drawing magnificent travel-agency pictures of how wonderful life could be, and after a while Malone left. There just wasn't anything else to say. Burris had given him an order for his vacation pay and another guaranteeing travel expenses. Not, he thought glumly, that he would be expected to buy return tickets. Oh, no. Once he'd been to a place he could teleport back, so there would be no point in taking a plane or a train back from wherever he went.

  "And suppose I like planes and trains?" he muttered, going on down the hall. But there was nothing he could do about it. He did think of looking for some sympathy, at least, but he couldn't even get much of that. Tom Boyd had apparently already talked to Burris, and was in full agreement with him.

  "After all," Boyd said, "there's the drug in the water--and it looks like 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 like Burris' theory. Psionics never did make you very happy, did it?"

  "Not very," Boyd admitted. "This way, anyhow, I've got something I can cope with. And it makes nice, simple sense. No reason to go and complicate it, Ken. None at all."

  * * * * *

  Glumly, Malone made his farewells and then teleported himself from the Justice Department Building back to his own apartment. There, slowly and 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 he was going. If the Director of the FBI tells you that you need a rest cure, Malone thought, you do not argue with him. Argument may result in your vacation being extended indefinitely. And that is not a good thing.

  Of course, such a "vacation" wouldn't be the end of the world. Not quite. He could even beat Burris to the gun, hand in his resignation and go into private practice as a lawyer. The name of Malone, he told himself proudly, had not been entirely forgotten in Chicago, by any means. But he didn't feel happy about the idea. He knew, perfectly well, that he didn't want to live by trading on his father's reputation. And besides, he liked being an FBI agent. It had glamour. 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 apparently suspected, he was going nuts. When he considered it, it even sounded like a good possibility.

  After all, what evidence did he have for his psionic theory? Her Majesty had told him about those peculiar bursts of metal energy, true. But there wasn't anything else. And, come to think of it, wasn't it possible that Her Majesty had slipped just a little off the trolley of 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 had returned the previous night, right at that moment. He felt as if he had committed high, middle and low treason all in one great big package, not to mention Jack and the Game, he added disconsolately.

  "Nevertheless," he muttered, and stopped. He blinked and started over again. In spite of all that, he told himself, the Burris Theory certainly looked a lot sounder when you considered it objectively.

  The big question was whether or not he wanted to consider it objectively. But he put this aside for the future, and continued packing slowly and carefully. When at last he snapped shut the last suitcase, he still hadn't made up his mind as to the best spot for a vacation. Images tumbled through his brain: mountains, seacoasts, beaches, beautiful native girls and even a few insane asylums. But nothing definite appeared. He sat down in his favorite easychair, found a cigar and lit it, and luxuriated in the soothing fumes while his 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 misleading necessary 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 she knew it.

  Of course, that was the stopper: as she knew it. And she might have developed another delusion. In which case, he thought sadly, Burris was very probably right.

  But she might also be telling the actual truth. And that meant, Malone thought, that little pops of energy were occasionally bursting in various 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 Burris call him off the case?

  It seemed like a long time before the cigar reached his mouth. Malone felt slightly appalled. The flashes that had been going on in his own mind had already been bothering him, and he'd decided that he'd have to 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 a perpetual watch for that sort of interference. Of course, it was more than barely possible that he wouldn't notice it if anything happened. But it would be pretty stupid to succumb to that sort of defeatism now, 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 his mind:

  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, he thought, then there's more to the case than has appeared, and Kenneth J. Malone, with or without the FBI, is going to get to the bottom of it.

  Therefore, he summed
up, everything now hinged on whether or not Her Majesty was unhinged.

  That was confusing, but he managed to straighten it out after a second. He put his half-smoked cigar carefully in an ashtray and stood up. He went over to the phone and dialed the special unlisted number of the FBI.

  The face that appeared was faintly sallow and looked sad. "Pelham here," 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, and always had, and probably always would.

  "Nope," Malone said. Pelham looked even sadder. "Just checking out for vacation. 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 my money away and look at dancing girls and smoke and drink and stay out late. I'll let the local office know where I'm staying when I get there, 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 local corpse. "Have fun," he said.

  "Thanks," Malone said. "I'll try."

  But his precognitive sense suddenly rose up on its hind legs as he broke the connection. The attempt to have fun, it told him in no uncertain terms, was going to be a morbid failure.

  "Nevertheless," Malone muttered, heaved a great sigh, and started for the suitcase and the door.

  VIII

  The Great Universal was not the tops in every field. Not by a long shot. As Las Vegas resorts went, as a matter of fact, almost any of them could outdo the Great Universal in one respect or another. The Golden Palace, for instance, had much gaudier gaming rooms. The Moonbeam had a louder orchestra. The Barbary Coast and the Ringing Welkin both had more slot machines, and it was undeniable that the Flower of the West had fatter and pinker dancing girls. The Red Hot, the Last Fling and the Double Star all boasted more waiters and more famous guests per square foot of breathable air.