Not that Malone remembered his grandmother; she had died before he'd been born. But if he'd had a grandmother, and if he'd remembered her, he was sure she would have had the same sweet smile.
So she couldn't have meant what she'd said. Would Malone's own grandmother make things difficult for him? The very idea was ridiculous.
Dr. Harman opened his mouth, apparently changed his mind, and shut it again. The little old lady turned to him.
"Were you going to ask why I bothered to prove anything to Mr. Malone?” she said. “Of course you were, and I shall tell you. It's because Mr. Malone wanted to believe me. He wants me. He needs me. I'm a telepath, and that's enough for Mr. Malone. Isn't it?"
"Gur,” Malone said, taken by surprise. After a second he added: “I guess so."
"You see, Doctor?” the little old lady said.
"But you—” Dr. Harman began.
"I read minds,” the little old lady said. “That's right, Doctor. That's what makes me a telepath."
Malone's brain was whirling rapidly, like a distant galaxy. Telepath was a nice word, he thought. How do you telepath from a road?
Simple.
The road is paved.
Malone thought that was pretty funny, but he didn't laugh. He thought he would never laugh again. He wanted to cry, a little, but he didn't think he'd be able to manage that either.
He twisted his hat, but it didn't make him feel any better. Gradually, he became aware that the little old lady was talking to Dr. Harman again.
"But,” she said, “since it will make you feel so much better, Doctor, we give you our Royal permission to retire, and to speak to Mr. Malone alone."
"Malone alone,” Dr. Harman muttered. “Hmm. My. Well.” He turned and seemed to be surprised that Malone was actually standing near him. “Yes,” he said. “Well. Mr. Alone-Mr. Malone-please, whoever you are, just come into my office, please?"
Malone looked at the little old lady. One of her eyes closed and opened. It was an unmistakable wink.
Malone grinned at her in what he hoped was a cheerful manner. “All right,” he said to the psychiatrist, “let's go.” He turned with the barest trace of regret, and Boyd followed him.
Leaving the little old lady and, unfortunately, the startling Miss Wilson, behind, the procession filed back into Dr. Harman's office.
The doctor closed the door, and leaned against it for a second. He looked as though someone had suddenly revealed to him that the world was square. But when he spoke his voice was almost even.
"Sit down, gentlemen,” he said, and indicated chairs. “I really-well, I don't know what to say. All this time, all these years, she's been reading my mind! My mind. She's been reading ... looking right into my mind, or whatever it is."
"Whatever what is?” Malone asked, sincerely interested. He had dropped gratefully into a chair near Boyd's, across the desk from Dr. Harman.
"Whatever my mind is,” Dr. Harmon said. “Reading it. Oh, my."
"Dr. Harman,” Malone began, but the psychiatrist gave him a bright blank stare.
"Don't you understand?” he said. “She's a telepath."
"We—"
The phone on Dr. Harman's desk chimed gently. He glanced at it and said: “Excuse me. The phone.” He picked up the receiver and said: “Hello?"
There was no image on the screen.
But the voice was image enough. “This is Andrew J. Burris,” it said. “Is Kenneth J. Malone there?"
"Mr. Malone?” the psychiatrist said. “I mean, Mr. Burris? Mr. Malone is here. Yes. Oh, my. Do you want to talk to him?"
"No, you idiot,” the voice said. “I just want to know if he's all tucked in."
"Tucked in?” Dr. Harman gave the phone a sudden smile. “A joke,” he said. “It is a joke, isn't it? The way things have been happening, you never know whether—"
"A joke,” Burris’ voice said. “That's right. Yes. Am I talking to one of the patients?"
Dr. Harman gulped, got mad, and thought better of it. At last he said, very gently; “I'm not at all sure,” and handed the phone to Malone.
The FBI agent said: “Hello, Chief. Things are a little confused."
Burris’ face appeared on the screen. “Confused, sure,” he said. “I feel confused already.” He took a breath. “I called the San Francisco office, and they told me you and Boyd were out there. What's going on?"
Malone said cautiously: “We've found a telepath."
Burris’ eyes widened slightly. “Another one?"
"What are you talking about, another one?” Malone said. “We have one. Does anybody else have any more?"
"Well,” Burris said, “we just got a report on another one-maybe. Besides yours, I mean."
"I hope the one you've got is in better shape than the one I've got,” Malone said. He took a deep breath, and then spat it all out at once: “The one we've found is a little old lady. She thinks she's Queen Elizabeth I. She's a telepath, sure, but she's nuts."
"Queen Elizabeth?” Burris said. “Of England?"
"That's right,” Malone said. He held his breath.
"Damn it,” Burris exploded, “they've already got one!"
Malone sighed. “This is another one,” he said. “Or, rather, the original one. She also claims she's immortal."
"Lives forever?” Burris said. “You mean like that?"
"Immortal,” Malone said. “Right."
Burris nodded. Then he looked worried. “Tell me, Malone,” he said. “She isn't, is she?"
"Isn't immortal, you mean?” Malone said. Burris nodded. Malone said confidently: “Of course not."
There was a little pause. Malone thought things over.
Hell, maybe she was immortal. Stranger things had happened, hadn't they?
He looked over at Dr. Harman. “How about that?” he said. “Could she be immortal?"
The psychiatrist shook his head decisively. “She's been here for over forty years, Mr. Malone, ever since her late teens. Her records show all that, and her birth certificate is in perfect order. Not a chance."
Malone sighed and turned back to the phone. “Of course she isn't immortal, Chief,” he said. “She couldn't be. Nobody is. Just a nut."
"I was afraid of that,” Burris said. “Afraid?” Malone said.
Burris nodded. “We've got another one, or anyhow we think we have,” he said. “If he checks out, that is. Right here in Washington."
"Not at-Rice Pavilion?” Malone asked.
"No,” Burris said absently. “St. Elizabeths."
Malone sighed. “Another nut?"
"Strait-jacket case,” Burris said. “Delusions of persecution, they tell me, and paranoia, and a whole lot of other things that sound nasty as hell. I can't pronounce any of them, and that's always a bad sign."
"Can he talk?” Malone said.
"Who knows?” Burris told him, and shrugged. “I'm sending him on out to Yucca Flats anyhow, under guard. You might find a use for him."
"Oh, sure,” Malone said. “We can use him as a horrible example. Suppose he can't talk, or do anything? Suppose he turns violent? Suppose—"
"We can't afford to overlook a thing,” Burris said, looking stern.
Once again, Malone sighed deeply. “I know,” he said. “But all the same—"
"Don't worry about a thing, Malone,” Burris said with a palpably false air of confidence. “Everything is going to be perfectly all right.” He looked like a man trying very hard to sell the Brooklyn Bridge to a born New Yorker. “You get this Queen Elizabeth of yours out of there and take her to Yucca Flats, too,” he added.
Malone considered the possibilities that were opening up. Maybe, after all, they were going to find more telepaths. And maybe all the telepaths would be nuts. When he thought about it, that didn't seem at all unlikely. He imagined himself with a talent nobody would believe he had.
A thing like that, he told himself glumly, could drive you buggy in short order-and then where were you?
In a loony bin, tha
t's where you were.
Or, possibly, in Yucca Flats. Malone pictured the scene: there they would be, just one big happy family. Kenneth J. Malone, and a convention of bats straight out of the nation's foremost loony bins.
Fun!
Malone began to wonder why he had gone into FBI work in the first place.
"Listen, Chief,” he said. “I—"
"Sure, I understand,” Burris said quickly. “She's batty. And this new one is batty, too. But what else can we do? Malone, don't do anything you'll regret."
"Regret?” Malone said. “Like what?"
"I mean, don't resign."
"Chief, how did you know-you're not telepathic too, are you?"
"Of course not,” Burris said. “But that's what I'd do in your place."
"Well—"
"Remember, Malone,” Burris said. His face took on a stern, stuffed expression. “Do not ask what your country can do for you,” he quoted the youngest living ex-President. “Ask rather what you can do for your country."
"Sure,” Malone said sadly.
"Well, it's true, isn't it?” Burris asked.
"What if it is?” Malone said. “It's still terrible. Everything is terrible. Look at the situation."
"I am looking,” Burris said. “And it's another New Frontier. Just like it was when President Kennedy first said those words."
"A New Frontier inhabited entirely by maniacs,” Malone said. “Perfectly wonderful. What a way to run a world."
"That,” Burris said, “is the way the ball bounces. Or whatever you're supposed to say. Malone, don't think you haven't got my sympathy. You have. I know how hard the job is you're doing."
"You couldn't,” Malone told him bitterly.
"Well, anyhow,” Burris went on, “don't resign. Stay on the job. Don't give it up, Malone. Don't desert the ship. I want you to promise me you won't do it."
"Look, chief,” Malone said. “These nuts—"
"Malone, you've done a wonderful job so far,” Burris said. “You'll get a raise and a better job when all this is over. Who else would have thought of looking in the twitch-bins for telepaths? But you did, Malone, and I'm proud of you, and you're stuck with it. We've got to use them now. We have to find that spy!” He took a breath. “On to Yucca Flats!” he said. Malone gave up. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Anything else?"
"Not right now,” Burris said. “If there is, I'll let you know."
Malone hung up unhappily as the image vanished. He looked across at Dr. Harman. “Well,” he said, “that's that. What do I have to do to get a release for Miss Thompson?"
Harman stared at him. “But, Mr. Malone,” he said, “that just isn't possible. Really. Miss Thompson is a ward of the state, and we couldn't possibly allow her release without a court order."
Malone thought that over. “Okay,” he said at last. “I can see that.” He turned to Boyd. “Here's a job for you, Tom,” he said. “Get one of the judges on the phone. You'll know which one will do us the most good, fastest."
"Mmm,” Boyd said. “Say Judge Dunning,” he said. “Good man. Fast worker."
"I don't care who,” Malone said. “Just get going, and get us a release for Miss Thompson.” He turned back to the doctor. “By the way,” he said. “Has she got any other name? Besides Elizabeth Tudor, I mean,” he added hurriedly.
"Her full name,” Dr. Harman said, “is Rose Walker Thompson. She is not Queen Elizabeth I, II or XXVIII, and she is not immortal."
"But she is,” Malone pointed out, “a telepath. And that's why I want her."
"She may,” Dr. Harman said, “be a telepath.” It was obvious that he had partly managed to forget the disturbing incidents that had happened a few minutes before. “I don't even want to discuss that part of it."
"Okay, never mind it,” Malone said agreeably. “Tom, get us a court order for Rose Walker Thompson. Effective yesterday-day before, if possible."
Boyd nodded, but before he could get to the phone Dr. Harman spoke again.
"Now, wait a moment, gentlemen,” he said. “Court order or no court order, Miss Thompson is definitely not a well woman, and I can't see my way clear to—"
"I'm not well myself,” Malone said. “I need sleep and I probably have a cold. But I've got to work for the national security, and—"
"This is important,” Boyd put in.
"I don't dispute that,” Dr. Harman said. “Nevertheless, I—"
The door that led into the other room burst suddenly open. The three men turned to stare at Miss Wilson, who stood in the doorway for a long second and then stepped into the office, closing the door quietly behind her.
"I'm sorry to interrupt,” she said.
"Not at all,” Malone said. “It's a pleasure to have you. Come again soon.” He smiled at her.
She didn't smile back. “Doctor,” she said, “you'd really better talk to Miss Thompson. I'm not at all sure what I can do. It's something new."
"New?” he said. The worry lines on his face were increasing, but he spoke softly.
"The poor dear thinks she's going to get out of the hospital now,” Miss Wilson said. “For some reason, she's convinced that the FBI is going to get her released, and—"
As she saw the expression on three faces, she stopped.
"What's wrong?” she said.
"Miss Wilson,” Malone said, “we-may I call you by your first name?"
"Of course, Mr. Malone,” she said. There was a little silence.
"Miss Wilson,” Malone said, “what is your first name?"
She smiled now, very gently. Malone wanted to walk through mountains, or climb fire. He felt confused, but wonderful. “Barbara,” she said.
"Lovely,” he said. “Well, Barbara-and please call me Ken. It's short for Kenneth."
The smile on her face broadened. “I thought it might be,” she said.
"Well,” Malone said softly, “it is. Kenneth. That's my name. And you're Barbara."
Boyd cleared his throat.
"Ah,” Malone said. “Yes. Of course. Well, Barbara-well, that's just what we intend to do. Take Miss Thompson away. We need her-badly."
Dr. Harman had said nothing at all, and had barely moved. He was staring at a point on his desk. “She couldn't possibly have heard us,” he muttered. “That's a soundproof door. She couldn't have heard us."
"But you can't take Miss Thompson away,” Miss Wilson said.
"We have to, Barbara,” Malone said gently. “Try to understand. It's for the national security."
"She heard us thinking,” Dr. Harman muttered. “That's what; she heard us thinking. Behind a soundproof door. She can see inside their minds. She can even see inside my mind."
"She's a sick woman,” Barbara said. “But you have to understand—"
"Vital necessity,” Boyd put in. “Absolutely vital."
"Nevertheless—” Barbara said. “She can read minds,” Dr. Harman whispered in an awed tone. “She knows. Everything. She knows."
"It's out of the question,” Barbara said. “Whether you like it or not, Miss Thompson is not going to leave this hospital. Why, what could she do outside these walls? She hasn't left in over forty years! And furthermore, Mr. Malone—"
"Kenneth,” Malone put in, as the door opened again. “I mean Ken."
The little old lady put her haloed head into the room. “Now, now, Barbara,” she said. “Don't you go spoiling things. Just let these nice men take me away and everything will be fine, believe me. Besides, I've been outside more often then you imagine."
"Outside?” Barbara said.
"Of course,” the little old lady said. “In other people's minds. Even yours. I remember that nice young man-what was his name?—"
"Never mind his name,” Barbara said, flushing furiously.
Malone felt instantly jealous of every nice young man he had ever even heard of. He wasn't a nice young man; he was an FBI agent, and he liked to get drunk and smoke cigars and carouse with loose women. Anyway, reasonably loose women.
&nbs
p; All nice young men, he decided, should be turned into ugly old men as soon as possible. That'll fix them!
He noticed the little old lady smiling at him, and tried to change his thoughts rapidly. But the little old lady said nothing at all.
"At any rate,” Barbara said, “I'm afraid that we just can't—"
Dr. Harman cleared his throat imperiously. It was a most impressive noise, and everyone turned to look at him. His face was a little gray, but he looked, otherwise, like a rather pudgy, blond, crew-cut Roman emperor.
"Just a moment,” he said with dignity. “I think you're doing the United States of America a grave injustice, Miss Wilson-and that you're doing an injustice to Miss Thompson, too."
"What do you mean?” she said.
"I think it would be nice for her to get away from me-I mean from here,” the psychiatrist said. “Where did you say you were taking her?” he asked Malone.
"Yucca Flats,” Malone said.
"Ah.” The news seemed to please the psychiatrist. “That's a long distance from here, isn't it? It's quite a few hundred miles away. Perhaps even a few thousand miles away. I feel sure that will be the best thing for me-I mean, of course, for Miss Thompson. I shall recommend that the court so order."
"Doctor—” But even Barbara saw, Malone could tell, that it was no good arguing with Dr. Harman. She tried a last attack. “Doctor, who's going to take care of her?"
A light the size and shape of North America burst in Malone's mind. He almost chortled. But he managed to keep his voice under control. “What she needs,” he said, “is a trained psychiatric nurse."
Barbara Wilson gave him a look that had carloads of U235 stacked away in it, but Malone barely minded. She'd get over it, he told himself.
"Now, wasn't that sweet of you to think of that,” the little old lady said. Malone looked at her and was rewarded with another wink. Good God, he thought. She reads minds!
"I'm certainly glad you thought of Barbara,” the little old lady went on. “You will go with me, won't you, dear? I'll make you a duchess. Wouldn't you like to be a duchess, dear?"
Barbara looked from Malone to the little old lady, and then she looked at Dr. Harman. Apparently what she saw failed to make her happy.
The Queen's Own FBI Trilogy: Brain Twister; The Impossibles; Supermind Page 6