by Anthology
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 knew perfectly well that he didn't have to ask Marshall's permission--or anybody 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 Throne Room, though. He's giving her some psychological tests, but they ought to be finished in a minute or two."
"Fine," Malone said. "How about court dress? Got anything here that might fit me?"
Marshall nodded. "We've got a pretty complete line of court costume now," he said. "I should say it was the most complete in existence--except possibly for the TV historical companies. Down the hall, three doors farther on, you'll find the dressing room."
* * * * *
Malone thanked Dr. Marshall and went out slowly. He didn't really mind the court dress or the Elizabethan etiquette Her Majesty liked to preserve; as a matter of fact, he was rather fond of it. There had been some complaints about expense when the Throne Room and the costume arrangement were first set up, but the FBI and the Government had finally decided that it was better and easier to humor Her Majesty.
Malone spent ten minutes dressing himself magnificently in hose and doublet, slash-sleeved, ermine-trimmed coat, lace collar, and plumed hat. By the time he presented himself at the door to the Throne Room he felt almost cheerful. It had been a long time since he had entered the world of Elizabethan knighthood over which Her Majesty held sway, and it always made him feel taller and more sure of himself. He bowed to a chunkily-built man of medium height in a stiffly brocaded jacket, carrying a small leather briefcase. The man had a whaler's beard of blond-red hair that looked slightly out of period, but the costume managed 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, you know."
"I know," Malone said. "Any change?"
"Change?" Lord said. "In Her Majesty? Sir Kenneth, you might as well expect the very rocks to change. Her Majesty remains Her Majesty--and will, 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'm flying back to New York tonight. Look me up there, if you have a chance. I'm afraid there's little information I can give you, but it's always 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 young man in the uniform of a page, opened it and peered out at Malone. The FBI 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 in plastic and synthetic fibers to look like something out of the Sixteenth Century. It was as garish, and as perfect, as a Hollywood movie set--which wasn't surprising, since two stage designers had been hired away from color-TV spectaculars to set it up. At the far end of the room, past the rich hangings and the flaming chandeliers, was a great golden throne, and on it Her Majesty was seated.
Lady Barbara Wilson, Her Majesty's personal nurse, was sitting on a camp-chair arrangement nearby. She smiled slowly at Malone as he went by, and Malone returned the smile with a good deal of interest. He strode firmly down the long crimson carpet that stretched from the doorway to the throne. At the steps leading up toward the dais that held 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 tone of 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 realized that her expression was rather puzzled and worried. She looked even more confused than she had the last time he'd seen her.
He took a deep breath, wished for a cigar and plunged blindly ahead into the toils of court etiquette.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I know full well that you are aware of the thoughts that I have had concerning the case we have been working on. I beg Your Majesty's pardon for having doubted Your Majesty's Royal Word. Since my first doubts, of which I am sore ashamed, I have been informed by Our Majesty's Royal Psychiatrist that my doubts were ill-founded, and I wish to convey my deepest apologies. Now, having been fully convinced of the truth of Your Majesty's statements, I have a theory I would discuss with you, the particulars of which you can doubtless 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 your attitude. 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 all pretense 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 frightened voice, "I've been unable to contact your mind. And right now, as you stand 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. "Not thinking at all?" he said at last, weakly. "But I am thinking. At least, I think I am." He suddenly felt as if he had gone René Descartes one better. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.
Her Majesty regarded Malone for an interminable, silent second. Then she turned to Lady Barbara. "My dear," she said, "I would like to speak to Sir Kenneth alone. We will go to my chambers."
Malone, feeling as though his brain had suddenly turned to quince jelly, followed the two women out of a small door at the rear of the Throne Room, and into Her Majesty's private apartments. Lady Barbara left them alone with some reluctance, but she'd evidently been getting used to following her patient's orders. Which, Malone thought with admiration, must take a lot of effort for a nurse.
The door closed and he was alone with the Queen. Malone opened his mouth to speak, but Her Majesty raised a monitory hand. "Please, Sir Kenneth," she said. "Just a moment. Don't say anything for a little bit."
Malone shut his mouth. When the minute was up, Her Majesty began to nod her head, very slowly. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and calm.
"It's as though you were almost invisible," she said. "I can see you with my eyes, of course, but mentally you are almost completely indetectable. Knowing you as well as I do, and being this close to you, it is just possible for me to detect very faint traces of activity."
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "I am thinking. I know I am. Maybe it's not me. Your telepathy might be fading out temporarily, or something like that. It's possible, isn't it?" He was reasonably sure it wasn't, but it was a last try at making sense. Her Majesty shook her head.
"I can still receive Sir Thomas, for instance, quite clearly," she said. She seemed a little miffed, but the irritation was overpowered by her worry. "I think, Sir Kenneth, that you just don't know your own power, that's all. I don't know how, but you've managed somehow to smother telepathic communication almost completely."
"But not quite?" Malone said. Apparently, he was thinking, but very weakly. Like a small child, he told himself dismally. Like a small Elizabethan child.
Her Majesty's face took on a look of faraway concentration. "It's like looking at a very dim light," she said, "a light just at the threshold of perception. You mig
ht say that you've got to look at such a light sideways. If you look directly at it, you can't see it. And, of course, you can't see it at all if you're a long way off." She blinked. "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 causing it? 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 never seen such a thing before. I've never even considered it before."
"You?" Malone said. "How about me?" It was like suddenly discovering that you'd been lifting two-hundred-pound barbells and not knowing it. "How could I be doing anything like that without knowing anything about 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 close check on his mental processes to make sure those bursts of energy didn't do anything to him. Subconsciously, he knew, he was still keeping that watch.
And maybe the watch itself caused the complete blanking of his telepathic faculties. It was worth a test, at least, he decided. And it was an easy test to make.
"Listen," he said. He told himself that he would now allow communication between himself and Her Majesty--and only between those two. Maybe it wasn't possible to let down the barrier in a selective way, but he gave it all he had. A long second passed.
"My goodness!" Her Majesty said in pleased surprise. "There you are again!"
"You can read me?" Malone asked.
"Why ... yes," Her Majesty said. "And I can see just what you're thinking. I'm afraid, Sir Kenneth, that I don't know whether it's selective or not. But ... oh. Just a minute. You go right on thinking, now, just the way you are." Her Majesty's eyes unfocused slightly and a long time passed, while Malone tried to keep on thinking. But it was difficult, he told himself, to think about things without having any things to think about. He felt his mind begin to spin gently with the rhythm of the last sentence, and he considered slowly the possibility of thinking about things when there weren't any things thinking about you. That seemed to make as much sense as anything else, and he was turning 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 he didn't know any better, poor boy?"
"Oh," Malone said. "Logan." He remembered the catatonic youngster who had used his telepathic powers against the United States until Her Majesty, the FBI, and Kenneth J. Malone had managed to put matters right. That had been the first time he'd met Her Majesty; it seemed like fifty years before.
"Well," Her Majesty said, "Willie and I had a little argument just now. 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 the silliest notions when you don't watch yourself."
Malone blushed slightly. "Anyhow," he said after a pause, "what was the argument about?"
"Willie says you aren't here," Her Majesty said. "He can't detect you at all. Even when I let him take a peek at you through my own mind--making myself into sort of a relay station, so to speak--Willie wouldn't believe it. He said I was hallucinating."
"Hallucinating me?" Malone said. "I think I'm flattered. Not many people would bother."
"Don't underestimate yourself, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, rather severely. "But you do see what this little argument means, don't you? I think you may assume that your telepathic contact is quite selective. If Willie can't read you, Sir Kenneth, believe me, nobody at all can ... unless you let them."
How he had developed this mental shield, he couldn't imagine, unless his subconscious had done it for him. Good old subconscious, he thought, always looking out for a person's welfare, preparing little surprises and things. Though he hoped vaguely that the next surprise, if there were a next one, would sneak up a little more gently. Being told flatly that your mind was not in operation was not a very good way to start an investigation.
Then he thought of something else. "Do you think this ... barrier of mine will keep out those little bursts of mental energy?" he said.
Her Majesty looked judicious. "I really do," she said. "It does appear quite impenetrable, Sir Kenneth. I can't understand how you're doing it. Or why, for that matter."
"Well--" Malone began.
Her Majesty raised a hand. "No," she said. "I'd rather not know, if you please." Her voice was stern, but just a little shaken. "The thought of blocking off thought--the only real form of communication that exists--is, frankly, quite horrible to me. I would rather be blinded, Sir Kenneth. I truly would."
Malone thought of Dr. Marshall and blushed. Her Majesty peered at him narrowly, and then smiled.
"You've been talking to my Royal Psychiatrist again, haven't you?" she said. Malone nodded. "Frankly, Sir Kenneth," she went on, "I think people pay too much attention to that sort of thing nowadays."
The subject, Malone recognized, was firmly closed. He cleared his throat and started up another topic. "Let's talk about these energy bursts," he said. "Do you still pick them up occasionally?"
"Oh, my, yes," Her Majesty said. "And it's not only me. Willie has been picking them up too. We've had some long talks about it, Willie and I. It's frightening, in a way, but you must admit that it's very interesting."
"Fascinating," Malone muttered. "Tell me, have you figured out what they might be, yet?"
Her Majesty shook her head. "All we know is that they do seem to occur just before a person intends to make a decision. The burst somehow appears to influence the decision. But we don't know how, and we don't know 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 do intend to keep working on it. It is important, isn't it?"
"Important," Malone said, "is not the word." He paused. "And now, if your Majesty will excuse me," he said, "I'll have to go. I have work to do, and your information has been most helpful."
"You may go, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, returning with what appeared to be real pleasure to the etiquette of the Elizabethan Court. "We are grateful that you have done so much, and continue to do so much, to defend the peace of Our Realm."
"I pledge myself to continue in those efforts which please Your Majesty," Malone said, and started back for the costume room. Once he'd changed into his regular clothing again he snapped himself back to the room he had rented in the Great Universal. He had a great deal of 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--something which, as an FBI Agent, he didn't feel he should do in public. Cigars just weren't right for FBI Agents, though they were all right for ordinary detectives like Malone's father. As a matter of fact, he considered briefly hunting up a vest, putting it on and letting the cigar ash dribble over it. His father seemed to have gotten a lot of good ideas that way. But, in the end, he rejected the notion as being too complicated, and merely sat back in a chair, with an ashtray conveniently on a table by his side, and smoked and thought.
Now, he knew with reasonable certainty that Andrew J. Burris was wrong and that he, Malone, was right. The source of all the confusion in the country was due to psionics, not to psychodrugs and Walt D
isney spies.
His first idea was to rush back and tell Burris. However, this looked like a useless move, and every second he thought about it made it seem more useless. He simply didn't have enough new evidence to convince Burris of anything whatever; psychiatric evidence was fine to back up something else, but on its own it was still too shaky to be accepted by the courts, in most cases. And Burris thought even more strictly than the courts in such matters.
Not only that, Malone realized with alarm, but even if he did manage somehow to convince Burris there was very little chance that Burris would stay convinced. If his mind could be changed by a burst of wild mental power--and why not? Malone reflected--then he could be unconvinced as often as necessary. He could be spun round and round like a top and never end up facing the way Malone needed him to face.
That left the burden of solving the problem squatting like a hunchback's hunch squarely on Malone's shoulders. He thought he could bear the weight for a while, if he could only think of some way of dislodging it. But the idea of its continuing to squat there forever was horribly unnerving. "Quasimodo Malone," he muttered, and uttered a brief prayer of thanks that his father had been spared a classical education. "Ken" wasn't so bad. "Quasi" would have been awful.
He couldn't think of any way to get a fingerhold on the thing that weighed him down. Slowly, he went over it in his mind.
Situation: an unidentifiable something is attacking the United States with an untraceable something else from a completely unknown source.
Problem: how do you go about latching on to anything as downright nonexistent as all that?
Even the best detective, Malone told himself irritably, needed clues of some kind. And this thing, whatever it was, was not playing fair. It didn't go around leaving bloody fingerprints or lipsticked cigarette butts or packets of paper matches with Ciro's, Hollywood, written on them. It didn't even have an alibi for anything that could be cracked, or leave tire marks or footprints behind that could be photographed. Hell, Malone thought disgustedly, it wasn't that the trail was cold. It just wasn't.