by Anthology
"Ready for a vast feast?" she asked pleasantly.
"In about a minute and a half," Malone said. "Do you mind waiting that long?"
"Frankly," Luba said, "in five minutes I will be gnawing holes in the gold paneling around here. And I do want to catch the first floor show, too. I understand they've got a girl who has--"
"That," Malone said sternly, "should interest me more than it does you."
"I'm always interested in what the competition is doing," Luba said.
"Nevertheless," Malone began, and stopped. After a second he started again: "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 they could talk without being overheard. "Can you get hold of Sir Lewis at this 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 telepathic projection I can get. The scientists have given me some of it--maybe Psychical Research has some more. I imagine it's all mixed up with ghosts and ectoplasm, but--"
"Telepathic projection," Luba said. "Is that where a person projects a thought into somebody else's mind?"
"That's it," Malone said. "Can Sir Lewis get me all the data on that tonight?"
"Tonight?" Luba said. "It's pretty late and what with sending them from New York to Nevada--"
"Don't bother about that," Malone said. "Just send 'em to the FBI Offices in New York. I'll have the boys there make copies and send the copies on." Instead, he thought, he would teleport to New York himself. 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 right now."
Luba hesitated.
"Tell him to bill the FBI," Malone said. "Call him collect and he can bill 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 to dinner, before I get any hungrier and the Great Universal loses some of its paneling."
Dinner, Malone told himself, was going to be wonderful. He was alone with 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 were over, to leave Luba. Unfortunately, he did have work to do--work that was more important than anything else he could imagine. He made a tentative date for the next day, went to his room, and from there teleported himself to FBI Headquarters, New York.
The agent-in-charge looked up at him. "Hey," he said. "I thought you were on vacation, Malone."
"How come everybody knows about me being on vacation?" Malone said sourly.
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 for me?"
The agent-in-charge produced a large box. "A messenger brought it," he said. "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 the party?"
"First," Malone said judiciously, "you'd have to be dead. Of course I can arrange that--"
"Thanks," the agent-in-charge said, leaving in a hurry. Malone went on down to his office and opened the box. It contained books, pamphlets and reports from Sir Lewis, all dealing with some area of telepathic projection. He spent a few minutes looking them over and trying to make some connected sense out of them, but finally he gave up and just sat and thought. The material seemed to be no help at all; it told him even less than Dr. O'Connor had.
What he needed, he decided, was somebody to talk to. But who? He couldn't talk to the FBI, and nobody else knew much about what he was trying to investigate. He thought of Her Majesty and rejected the notion with a sigh. No, what he needed was somebody smart and quick, somebody who could be depended on, somebody with training and knowledge.
And then, very suddenly, he knew who he wanted.
"Well, now, Sir Kenneth," he said. "Let's put everything together and see 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's confusion in all parts of the country--in all parts of the world, I guess. And we know that confusion is being caused by carefully timed accidents and errors. We also know that these errors appear to be accompanied by violent bursts of psionic static--violent energy. And we know, further, that on three specific occasions, these bursts of energy were immediately followed by a reversal of policy in the mind of the person on the receiving end."
"You mean," Sir Kenneth put in, "that these gentlemen changed their opinions."
"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 the spies' confession?"
"Maybe," Malone said. "Let's leave that for later. To get back to the beginning of all this: it seems to me to follow that the accidents and errors which have caused all the confusion throughout the world happen because somebody's mind is changed just the right amount at the right time. A man does something he didn't intend to do--or else he forgets to do it at all."
"Ah," Sir Kenneth said. "We have done those things we ought not to have done; we have left undone those things we ought to have done. And you feel, Sirrah, that a telepathic command is the cause of this confusion?"
"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 this particular 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 to teleportation, 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 was a matter of resistance. Moving an inanimate object is pretty simple--comparatively, anyhow--because inert matter has no mental resistance."
"And moving oneself?" Sir Kenneth said.
"There's some resistance there, probably," Malone said. "But you'll remember that the Fueyo system of training for teleportation involved overcoming your own mental resistance to the idea."
"True," Sir Kenneth said. "'Tis true. Then let us agree that it takes great power to effect this change. Where does our course point from that agreement, Sirrah?"
"Next," Malone said, "we have to do a little supposing. This project must be handled by a fairly large group, since no individual can do it alone. This large group has to be telepathic--and not only for the reasons 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 theirs change his mind," Malone said. "Right?"
"Correct," Sir Kenneth said.
"We've got to look for a widespread organization of telepaths," Malone said, "with enough mental discipline to hold onto a tough mental shield. Strong, trained, sane men."
"A difficult assignment," Sir Kenneth commented.
"Well," Malone said, "suppose you hold on for a second--don't go away--and let me figure something out."
"I shall wait," sir Kenneth said, "without."
"Without what?" Malone murmured. But there was no time for games. N
ow, 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 with what were undoubtedly secret branches in the Soviet Union. The organization had to be an old one--because it had to have trained telepaths, of a high degree of efficiency. And training took time.
There was something else to consider, too. In order to organize to such a degree that they could wreak the complete havoc they were wreaking, the organization couldn't be completely secret; there are always leaks, always suspicious events, and a society that spent time covering all of those up would have no time for anything else.
So the organization had to be a known one, in the Western world at least--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 of paper, and headed the paper: Organization. Then he started putting down what he knew about it, and what he'd figured out:
1. Large 2. Old 3. Disguised
It sounded, so far, just a little like Frankenstein's Monster wearing a red wig. But what else did he know about it?
After a second's thought, he murmured: "Nothing," and put the pencil down.
But that, he realized, wasn't quite true. He knew one more thing about the organization. He knew they'd probably be immune to the confusion everybody else was suffering from. The organization would be--had to be--efficient. It would be composed of intelligent, superbly co-operative people, who could work together as a unit without in the least 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. But it 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 he stopped.
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 suddenly remembered to check the time--it was just after nine. The girl stared at him. She did not look terribly old, but she was large and she had to be disguised. There seemed to be a lot of teeth running around in this case, Malone thought, between the burlesque stripper in Las Vegas and 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. Good morning."
"Sir Lewis," Malone said in a rush. "Sir Lewis Carter. I want to talk to 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 do you any good, really. Because he went away on his vacation and when he does that he never tells us where. You know? He won't be back for two or three weeks," she added as an afterthought.
Malone said: "Oog," and thought for less than a second. "Somebody official," he said. "Got to talk to somebody official. Now."
"Oh, I can't do that either, Mr. Malone," the toothy girl said. "All of the executives already left on their vacation. They just left a skeleton 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. You don't have any idea where any of them went?"
"None at all," she said. "I'm sorry, but that's how it is. Maybe if you were me you'd ask questions, but I just follow orders and those were my orders. To take over until they get back. You know? They didn't tell me where and I just didn't ask."
"Great," Malone said. He wanted to shoot himself. Everything was obvious now--about twenty-four hours too late. And now, they'd all gone--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 they left a note for you."
"A note?" Malone said. "For me?"
"Sir Lewis said you might call," the girl said, "and he left a message. If you'll hold on a minute I'll read it."
Malone waited tensely. The girl found a slip of paper, blinked at it and read:
"My dear Malone, I'm afraid that what you have deduced is quite correct; and, as you can see, that leaves us no alternative. Sorry. Miss Luba A. sends her apologies to you, since she is joining us; my apologies are also tendered." The girl looked up. "It's signed by Sir Lewis," she said. "Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Malone?"
"I'm afraid it does," Malone said blankly. "It means entirely too much."
XIII
After Miss Dental Display had faded from Malone's screen, he just sat there, looking at the dead, gray front of the visiphone and feeling about twice as dead and at least three times as gray.
Things, he told himself, were terrible. But even that sentence, which was a good deal more cheerful than what he actually felt, did nothing whatever to improve his mood. All of the evidence, after all, had been practically 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 was Luba--nobody's fool, no starry-eyed dreamer of occult dreams. She was part of the Psychical Research Society, why hadn't he thought to wonder why she was connected with it?
And there was his own mind-shield. Why hadn't he wondered whether other telepaths might not have the same shield?
He thought about Luba and told himself bitterly that from now on she was Miss Ardanko. Enough, he told himself, was enough. From now on he was calling her by her last name, formally and distantly. In his own mind, anyhow.
Facts came tumbling in on him like the side of a mountain falling on a hapless 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 rest out into the black night of Malone's bitter mind. He stood up, pushing the books away, and closed his eyes. When he opened them he went to the telephone in his Las Vegas hotel suite, and switched it on. A smiling 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 four and 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, early this morning. The room is unoccupied."
Malone swallowed hard. It was all true, then. Sir Lewis' note hadn't simply been one last wave of the red cape before an angry bull. Luba was one of them.
Miss Ardanko, he corrected himself savagely.
"What time?" he said.
The operator consulted an information board before him. "Approximately one 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 the Great Universal Ho--"
"You still here?" the agent-in-charge said. "I'm just going off duty and 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 why not tell the rest of us?"
"I want it to be a surprise," Malone said. "And meantime, I'd appreciate 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 calls to make."
* * * * *
He started with the overseas calls, leaving the rest of the United States time for the sun to get round to them. His first call, which involved a lot of cursing on Malone's part and much hard work for the operator, who claimed plaintively that she didn't know how things had gotten so snarled up, but overseas calls were getting worse and worse, went to New Scotland Yard in London. After great difficulty, Malone managed to get Assistant Commissioner C. E. Teal, who promised to check on the inquiry at once.
It seemed like years before he called back, and Malone leaped to the phone.
"Yes?" he said.
Teal, red-faced and apparently masticating a stick of gum, said: "I got 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 disappeared entirely. On vacation, that sort of thing. It is rather difficult attempting any full-scale tracing job just now; our men are terribly overworked. I imagine you've had reports from the New Scotland Yard representatives working with you there--"
"Oh, certainly," Malone said. "But the hour; what does that have to do with anything?"
"I'm afraid I was thinking of our Inspector Ottermole," Teal said. "He was sent to locate Dr. Carnacki, President of the Psychical Research Society here. On being told that Dr. Carnacki was 'out to lunch,' Ottermole investigated every restaurant and eating-place within ten blocks of the offices. Dr. Carnacki was not present; he, like the rest of the Society here, appears to have left for places unknown."