by Anthology
"Maybe it's just happening," Boyd said. "Out of thin air."
"Maybe," Malone said. "But let's go on the assumption that there's a human cause. The other way, we can't do a thing except sit back and watch the world go to hell."
Boyd nodded. "It doesn't seem to be the Russians," he said. "Although, of course, it might be a Red herring."
"What do you mean?" Malone said.
"Well," Boyd said, "they might have known we were on to Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch--" He stopped. "You know," he said, "every time I say that name I have to reassure myself that we're not all walking around in the world of Florenz Ziegfeld."
"Likewise," Malone said. "But go on."
"Sure," Boyd said. "Anyhow, they might have set the three of them up as patsies, just in case we stumbled on to this mess. We can't overlook this possibility."
"Right," Malone said. "It's faint, but it is a possibility. In other words, the agency behind the flashes might be Russian, and it might not be Russian."
"That clears that up nicely," Boyd said. "Next question?"
"The next one," Malone said grimly, "is, what's behind the flashes? Some sort of psionic power is causing them, that much is obvious."
"I'll go along with that," Boyd said. "I have to go along with it. But don't think I like it."
"Nobody likes it," Malone said. "But let's go on. O'Connor isn't any help; he washes his hands of the whole business."
"Lucky man," Boyd said.
"He says that it can't be happening," Malone said, "and if it is we're all screwy. Now, right or wrong, that isn't an opinion that gives us any handle to work with."
"No," Boyd said reflectively. "A certain amount of comfort, to be sure, but no handles."
"Sir Lewis Carter, on the other hand--" Malone said. He fumbled through some of the piles of paper until he had located the ones the president of the Psychical Research Society had sent. "Sir Lewis Carter," he went on, "does seem to be doing some pretty good work. At least, some of the more modern stuff he sent over looks pretty solid. They've been doing quite a bit of research into the subject, and their theories seem to be all right, or nearly all right, to me. Of course, I'm not an expert."
"Who is?" Boyd said. "Except for O'Connor, of course."
"Well, somebody is," Malone said. "Whoever's doing all this, for instance. And the theories do seem okay. In most cases, for instance, they agree with O'Connor's work, though they're not in complete agreement."
"I should think so," Boyd said. "O'Connor wouldn't recognize an astral plane if TWA were putting them into service."
"I don't mean that sort of thing," Malone said. "There's lots about astral bodies and ghosts, ectoplasm, Transcendental Yoga, theosophy, deros, the Great Pyramid, Atlantis, Mu, norns, and other such ridiculous pets. That's just silly, as far as I can see. But what they have to say about parapsychology and psionics as such does seem to be reasonably accurate."
"I suppose so," Boyd said tiredly.
"Okay, then," Malone said. "Did anybody notice anything in that pile of stuff that might conceivably have any bearing whatever on our problems?"
"I did," Boyd said. "Or I think I did."
"You both did," Her Majesty said. "And so did I, when I looked through it. But I didn't bother with it. I dismissed it."
"Why?" Malone said.
"Because I don't think it's true," she said. "However, my opinion is really only an opinion." She smiled around at the others.
Malone picked up a thick sheaf of papers from one of the piles of his desk. "Let's get straight what it is we're talking about," he said. "All right?"
"Anything's all right with me," Boyd said. "I'm easy to please."
Malone nodded. "Now, this writer--what's his name?" he said. He glanced at the copy of the cover page. "Minds and Morons," he read. "By Cartier Taylor."
"Great title," Boyd said. "Does he say which is which?"
"Let's get back to serious business," Malone said, giving Boyd a single look. There was silence for a second, and then Malone said, "He mentions something, in the book, that he calls 'telepathic projection.' As far as I understand what he's talking about, that's some method of forcing your thoughts on another person." He glanced over at the Queen. "Now, Your Majesty," he said, "you don't think it's true--and that may only be an opinion, but it's a pretty informed one. It seems to me as if Taylor makes a good case for this 'telepathic projection' of his. Why don't you think so?"
"Because," Her Majesty said flatly, "it doesn't work."
"You've tried it?" Boyd put in.
"I have," she said. "And I have had no success with it at all. It's a complete failure."
"Now, wait a minute," Boyd said. "Just a minute."
"What's the matter?" Malone said. "Have you tried it, and made it work?"
Boyd snorted. "Fat chance," he said. "I just want to look at the thing, that's all." He held out his hand, and Malone gave him the sheaf of papers. Boyd leafed through them slowly, stopping every now and again to consult a page, until he found what he was looking for. "There," he said.
"There what?" Malone said.
"Listen to this," Boyd said. "'For those who draw the line at demonic possession, I suggest trying telepathic projection. Apparently, it is possible to project one's own thoughts directly into the mind of another--even to the point of taking control of the other's mind. Hypnotism? You tell me, and we'll both know. Ever since the orthodox scientists have come around to accepting hypnotism, I'm been chary of it. Maybe there really is an astral body or a soul that a person has stashed about him somewhere--something that he can send out to take control of another human being. But I, personally, prefer the telepathic projection theory. All you have to do is squirt your thoughts across space and spray them all over the other fellow's brain. Presto-bingo, he does pretty much what you want him to do.'"
"That's the quote I was thinking of," Malone said.
"Of course it is," Her Majesty said. "But it really doesn't work. I've tried it."
"How have you tried it?" Malone said.
"There were many times, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, "when I wanted someone to do something particular for me or for some other person. After all, you must remember that I was in a hospital for a long time. Of course, that represents only a short segment of my life-span, but it seemed long to me."
Malone, who was trying to view the years from age fifteen to age sixty-odd as a short segment of anybody's lifetime, remembered with a shock that this was not Rose Thompson speaking. It was Queen Elizabeth I, who had never died.
"That's right, Sir Kenneth," she said kindly. "And in that hospital, there were a number of times when I wanted one of the doctors or nurses to do what I wanted them to. I tried many times, but I never succeeded."
Boyd nodded his head. "Well--" he began.
"Oh, yes, Sir Thomas," Her Majesty said. "What you're thinking is certainly possible. It may even be true."
"What is he thinking?" Malone said.
"He thinks," Her Majesty said, "that I may not have the talent for this particular effect--and perhaps I don't. But, talent or not, I know what's possible and what isn't. And the way Mr. Taylor describes it is simply silly, that's all. And unladylike. Imagine any self-respecting lady 'squirting' her thoughts about in space!"
"Well," Malone said carefully, "aside from its being unladylike--"
"Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, "you are not telepathic. Neither is Sir Thomas."
"I'm nothing," Boyd said. "I don't even exist."
"And it is very difficult to explain to the non-telepath just what Mr. Taylor is implying," Her Majesty went on imperturbably. "Before you could inject any thoughts into anyone else's mind, you'd have to be able to see into that mind. Is that correct?"
"I guess so," Malone said.
"And in order to do that, you'd have to be telepathic," Her Majesty said. "Am I correct?"
"Correct," Malone said.
"Well, then," Her Majesty said with satisfaction, and beamed at him.
A second passed.
"Well, then, what?" Malone said in confusion.
"Telepathy," Her Majesty said patiently, "is an extremely complex affair. It involves a sort of meshing with the mind of this other person. It has nothing, absolutely nothing, in common with this simple 'squirting' of thoughts across space, as if they were orange pips you were trying to put into a wastebasket. No, Sir Kenneth, I cannot believe in what Mr. Taylor says."
"But it's still possible," Malone said.
"Oh," Her Majesty said, "it's certainly possible. But I should think that if any telepaths were around, and if they were changing people's minds by 'squirting' at them, I would know it."
Malone frowned. "Maybe you would at that," he said. "I guess you would."
"Not to mention," Boyd put in, "that if you were going to control everything we've come across like that you'd need an awful lot of telepathic operators."
"That's true," Malone admitted. "And the objections seem to make some sense. But what else is there to go on?"
"I don't know," Boyd said. "I haven't the faintest idea. And I'm rapidly approaching the stage where I don't care."
"Well," Malone said, heaving a sigh, "let's keep looking."
He bent down and picked up another sheaf of copies from the Psychical Research Society.
"After all," he said, without much hope, "you never know."
* * * * *
Malone looked around the office of Andrew J. Burris as if he'd never seen it before. He felt tired, and worn out, and depressed; it had been a long night, and here it was morning and the head of the FBI was giving him instructions. It was, Malone told himself, a hell of a life.
"Now, Malone," Burris said, "this is a very ticklish situation. You've got to handle it with great care."
"I can see that," Malone said apprehensively. "It certainly looks ticklish. And unusual."
"Well, we don't want any trouble," Burris said. "We have enough trouble now."
"Sometimes I think we have too much," Malone said.
"That's our job," Burris said, looking grim.
Malone blinked. "What is?" he said.
"Having trouble," Burris said.
There was a short silence. Malone broke it. "Anyhow," he said, "you feel we have enough trouble, so we're trying to make things easy for everybody."
Burris nodded. "I've talked with the president," he said, "and he feels this is the best way to handle matters."
Malone tried to imagine Burris explaining the incredible complexities of the situation to the president, and was torn between relief that he hadn't been there and a curious wish to have heard the scrambled conversation that must have taken place. "The way it seems to me," he said cautiously, "shipping those spies back to Russia is a worse punishment than sending them to the federal pen."
"Maybe it is," Burris said. "Maybe it is. How would you feel if you were being sent to jail?"
"Innocent," Malone said instantly.
"But that isn't the point," Burris went on. "You see, Malone, we don't really have much damaging evidence against those spies, except for their confessions. During all the time we were watching them, we took care that they never did come up with anything dangerous; we weren't fishing for them but for their superiors, for the rest of the network."
"There doesn't seem to be any more network," Malone said. "Not in this country, anyhow."
"Sure," Burris said. "We know that now, thanks to the confessions, and to Her Majesty. But we can't prosecute on that sort of evidence. You know what a good defense attorney could do with unsupported confessions--and even if we wanted to take the lid off telepathy for the general public, it would be absolute hell bringing it into court."
"So," Malone said, "we can't put them in prison, even if we want to."
"Oh, I didn't say that," Burris said hastily. "We could probably win, even against a good defense. But they wouldn't get much time in prison, and we'd only end up deporting them in any case."
Malone fished for a cigarette, lit it and blew out smoke. "So we're going to save the taxpayers some money," he said. "That'll be nice for a change."
"That's right," Burris said, beaming. "We're going to save Federal funds by shipping them back to their motherland now. After all, they did take out their naturalization papers under false names, and their declarations are chockfull of false information. So all it takes is a court order to declare their citizenships null and void, and hand all three of them back to the Soviets."
"A nice, simple housecleaning," Malone said. "All open and above-board. And the confessions will certainly stand up in a deportation hearing."
"No question of it," Burris said. "But the reason I called you here, Malone, is that there's still one thing bothering me."
Malone blew out some more smoke, thought wistfully about cigars, and said: "What? Everything seems simple enough to me."
Burris frowned and leaned back in his chair. "It's this notion of yours, Malone," he said.
"Notion?"
"About going over there," Burris said. "Now, I can understand your wanting some facts on Moscow, current background and all that sort of thing. So far, everything makes sense."
"Fine," Malone said warily.
"But, after all, Malone," Burris said, "we do have such a thing as the Central Intelligence Agency. They send us reports. That's what they're for. And why you want to ignore the reports and make a trip over there to walk around and see for yourself--"
"It's because of everything that's happening," Malone said.
Burris looked puzzled. "What?" he said.
"Because of all the confusion," Malone said. "Frankly, I can't trust the CIA, or any other branch of the government. I've got to see for myself."
Burris considered this for a second. "It's going to look very peculiar," he said.
Malone shrugged. "Everything looks peculiar," he said. "A little more won't hurt anything. And if I do turn up anything we can use, the whole trip will be worth it."
"But sending an FBI man along with Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch is a little strange," Burris said. "Not to mention Her Majesty."
"There is that," Malone said. "I wonder what our Red friends are going to think of the Queen."
"God knows," Burris said. "If they take her seriously, they're liable to call her some sort of capitalist deviationist."
"And if they don't take her seriously?" Malone said.
"Then they're going to wonder why she's pretending to be a capitalist deviationist," Burris said.
Malone flicked his cigarette at an ashtray. "You can't win," he said.
"Frankly," Burris said, "I wouldn't allow Her Majesty to go along under any circumstances--except that there is an excuse for having an older woman around."
"There is?" Malone said.
Burris nodded. "As a chaperone," he said.
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "Brubitsch, Borbitsch and what's-his-name don't need a chaperone."
"I didn't say it was for them," Burris said.
"Me?" Malone asked in a tone of absolute wonder. "Now, Chief, I don't need a chaperone. I'm a grown man. I know my way around. And the idea of having Her Majesty along to chaperone me is going to make everything look even stranger. After all, Chief--"
"Malone," Burris said, in a voice of steel.
"Sorry," Malone mumbled. "But, really, I'm not some young, innocent girl in a Victorian novel."
"No," Burris said, a trifle sadly, "you're not. But there is one going along on the trip with the rest of you."
"There is?" Malone said. "Who is she? Rebecca?"
"Her name's Luba," Burris said. "Luba Garbitsch."
"Garbitsch's wife?" Malone said.
Burris shook his head. "His daughter," he said. "And don't tell me there isn't any such name as Luba. I know there isn't. But what would you pick to go with Garbitsch?"
"Wastepaper basket," Malone said instantly. "Grapefruit rinds. Lemon peels. Coffee grounds."
"Damn it, Malone," Burris said, "this is serious."
>
"Well," Malone said, "it doesn't sound serious. What are we doing, deporting the entire family?"
"I suppose we could," Burris said, "if we really wanted to get complicated about it. What with Garbitsch's false declaration, I haven't the faintest idea what his daughter's status would be--but she was born here, Malone, and as far as we can tell she's perfectly loyal to the United States."
"Fine," Malone said. "So you're sending her to Russia. This is making less and less sense, you know."
Burris rubbed a hand over his face. "Malone," he said in a quiet, patient voice, "why don't you wait for me to finish? Then everything will make sense. I promise."
"Well, all right," Malone said doubtfully. "Luba Garbitsch is going along to Russia, in spite of the fact that she's perfectly loyal."
"True," Burris said. "You see, Malone, she loves her traitorous old daddy just the same. Family affection. Very touching."
"And if he's going to Moscow--"
"She wants to go along," Burris said. "That's right."
"And you're going to send her along," Malone said, "out of the goodness of your kindly old heart. Just like Santa Claus. Or the Easter bunny."
Burris looked acutely uncomfortable. "Now, Malone," he said. "It's not exactly that, and you know it."
"It isn't?" Malone said, trying to look surprised.
Burris shook his head. "If we send Luba Garbitsch along," he said, "that gives us a good excuse for Her Majesty. As a chaperone."
"Are you sure," Malone asked slowly, "that anybody with a name like Luba Garbitsch could plausibly need a chaperone? Even in a den of vice? Because somehow it doesn't sound right: Luba Garbitsch, chaperoned by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I."
"Well," Burris said, "it won't be the Queen. I mean, she won't be known as the Queen."
"Incognito?" Malone said.
Burris shrugged. "In away," he said. "What do you think would be a good name for her to travel under?"
Malone considered. "I don't know," he said at last. "But no more Lubas."
"I was thinking," Burris said carefully. "How about Rose Thompson?"
There was a long silence.
"I don't know whether she'll go for the idea," Malone said. "But I'll try it."
"You can do it, Malone," Burris said instantly. "I know you can. I just know it."