by Anthology
Sir Lewis' books on political and historical philosophy had been well-received, and he had also written a novel, But Some Are More Equal, which, for a few weeks after publication, had managed to reach the bottom of the best-seller list.
And that was that. Malone tried to figure out whether all this information did him any good at all, and he didn't have to think for very long. The answer was no. He opened the next dossier.
Luba Vasilovna Garbitsch had been born in New York. Her mother had been a woman of Irish descent named Mary O'Keefe, and had died in '68. Her father, of course, had now been revealed as a Russian agent, and was at present making his home, such as it probably was, in good old Moscow.
Malone sighed. Somewhere in the dossiers, he was sure, there was a clue, the basic clue that would tell him everything he needed to know. His prescience had never been so strong; he knew perfectly well that he was staring at the biggest, most startling and most complete disclosure of all. And he couldn't see it.
He stared at the folders for a long minute. What did they tell him? What was the clue?
And then, very slowly, the soft light of a prodigal sun illuminated his mind.
"Mr. Malone," Malone said gently, "you are a damned fool. There are times when it is necessary to discard the impossible after you have seen that the obscure is the obvious."
He wasn't sure whether that meant anything, or even whether he knew what he was saying. He was sure of only one thing: the final answer.
And it was obvious. Obvious as all hell.
13
There was, of course, only one thing to do, and only one place to go. Malone went downstairs without even stopping to wave farewell to the agent-in-charge, and climbed into the big, specially-built FBI Lincoln that waited for him.
"Want a driver?" one of the mechanics asked.
"No, thanks," Malone said. "This one's a solo job."
That was for sure. He drove out onto the streets and into the heavy late afternoon traffic of Washington, D. C. The Lincoln handled smoothly, but Malone didn't press his luck among the rushing cars. He wasn't in any hurry. He had all the time in the world, and he knew it. They--and, for once, Malone knew just who "they" were--would still be waiting for him when he got there.
If he got there, he thought suddenly, dodging a combination roadblock consisting of a green Plymouth making an illegal turn, a fourteen-year-old boy on a bicycle and a sweet young girl pushing a baby carriage. He managed to get past and wiped his forehead with one hand. He continued driving, even more carefully, until he was out of the city.
It took quite a lot of time. Washington traffic was getting worse and worse with every passing month, and the pedestrians were as nonchalant as ever. As Malone turned a corner, a familiar face popped into view, practically in front of his car. He swerved and got by without committing homicide, and a cheerful voice said: "Thanks, sorry."
"It's okay, Chester," Malone said. The big man skipped back to the sidewalk and watched the car go by. Malone knew him slightly, a private eye who did some work on the fringes of Washington crime; basically a nice guy, but a little too active for Malone's taste.
For a second he thought of asking the man to accompany him, but the last thing Malone needed was muscle. What he wanted was brains, and he even thought he might be developing some of those.
He was nearly sure of it by the time he finally did leave the city and get out onto the highway that went south into the depths of Virginia. And, while he drove, he began to use that brain, letting his reflexes take over most of the driving problems now that the Washington traffic tangle was behind him.
He took all his thoughts from behind the shield that had sheltered them and arrayed them neatly before him. Everything was perfectly clear; all he had to do now was explain it.
Malone had wondered, over the years, about the detectives in books. They always managed to wrap everything up in the last chapter--and that was all right. But they always had a whole crowd of suspects listening to them, too. And Malone knew perfectly well that he could never manage a set-up like that. People would be interrupting him. Things would happen. Dogs would rush in and start a fight on the floor. There would be earthquakes, or else somebody would suddenly faint and interrupt him.
But now, at long last, he realized, he had his chance.
Nobody, he thought happily, could interrupt him. And he could explain to his heart's content.
Because the members of the PRS were telepathic. And Malone, he thought cheerfully, was not.
Somebody, he was sure, would be tuned in on him as he drove toward their Virginia hiding place. And he hoped that that somebody would alert everybody else, so they could all tune in and hear his grand final explanation of everything.
And a hearty good afternoon to everybody, he thought. A very hearty and happy and sunny good afternoon to all--and most especially to Miss Luba Garbitsch. I hope she's the one who's tuned in--or that somebody has alerted her by now, because I'd rather talk to her than to anyone else I can think of out there.
Nothing personal, you understand. It's just that I'd like to show off a little. I don't need to hide anything from you--as a matter of plain, simple fact, I can't. Not with my shield down.
He paused then, and, in his imagination, he could almost hear Lou's voice.
"I'm listening, Kenneth," the voice said. "Go on."
Well, then, he thought. He fished around in his mind for a second, wondering exactly where to start. Then he decided, in the best traditions of the detective story, not to mention Alice in Wonderland, to start at the beginning.
The dear old Psychical Research Society, he thought, had been going along for a good many years now--since the 1880's, as a matter of fact, or somewhere near there. That's a long time and a lot of research. A lot of famous and intelligent men and women have belonged to the Society. And in all that time, they've worked hard, and worked sincerely, in testing every kind of psychic phenomenon. They've worked impartially and scientifically to find out whether a given unusual incident was explicable in terms of known natural laws, or was the result of some unknown force.
And it's hardly surprising that, after about a hundred years of work, something finally came of it.
"Not surprising at all," he imagined Lou's voice saying. "You're making things very clear, Kenneth."
Or had that been "Sir Kenneth"? Malone wasn't sure, but it didn't really matter. He spun the car around a curve in the highway, smiled gently to himself, and went on.
Naturally, to the average man in the street, the Society was just a bunch of crackpots, and the more respected and famous the people who belonged to it, the happier he was; it just proved his superiority to them. He didn't deal with crackpot notions, did he?
No, the Society did. And nobody except the members paid much attention to what was going on.
I remember one of the book facsimiles you gave me, for instance. Some man, whose name I can't recall, wrote a great "exposé" of the Society, in which he tried to prove that Sir Lewis Carter and certain other members were trying to take over the world and run it to suit themselves, making a sort of horrible dictatorship out of their power and position. At that, he wasn't really far from the truth, though he had it turned around a little. But the book shows that he has no knowledge whatever of what psionics is, or how it works. He seems to me to be just a little afraid of it, which probably adds to his ignorance. And, as a result, he got a twisted idea of what the PRS is actually doing.
He could almost hear Lou's voice again. "Yes," she was saying. "I remember the book. It was put in our reference library for its humorous aspects."
That's right, Malone thought. It would be only funny to you. But it would be frightening and terrible to an awful lot of people simply because they wouldn't understand what the Society was all about.
"All right," Lou's voice said helpfully. "And what is it all about?"
Malone settled back in the driver's seat as the car continued to spin along the road. It seems to me, he thought carefully,
that any telepath has to go one of two ways. Either, like Her Majesty or the others we found when we discovered her two years ago, the telepath ends up insane--or perhaps commits suicide, which is simply one step further in retreat--or else he learns to understand and control his own powers, and to understand other human beings so well that, if he actually did control the world, everyone would benefit in the long run.
The difference between the two kinds is the difference between Her Majesty and the PRS.
"That's good thinking," he could hear Lou say.
No, it isn't, he thought; it's no more than guessing, and it could be just as wild as you please. But there is one thing I do know: the way to get a better world, or anyhow the first step, is to clear the road ahead. And that means getting rid of the fools, idiots, maniacs, blockheads, morons, psychopaths, paranoids, timidity-ridden, fear-worshipers, fanatics, thieves, criminals and a whole lot more.
"Get rid of them?" Lou's voice said.
Well, Malone thought, I don't mean they've got to be killed or driven out of the civilized world. You've just got to get them out of any place where their influence is heavily felt on society as a whole.
"All right," Lou's voice said pleasantly. "And how could we go about that? Do we write nasty letters to the editor?"
There's a much more effective way, Malone thought. There's no trouble in getting rid of a man if you can make him expose himself. And you've managed that pretty well. You've thwarted their idiotic plans, made them stumble over their own fumble-mindedness, played on their neuroses, concocted errors for them to fight and, in general, rigged things in any possible way so that they'd quit, or get fired, or lose elections, or get arrested, or just generally get put out of circulation somehow.
It's extremely effective--and it works very well.
Sometimes, you've only had to put the blocks to individuals. Sometimes whole nations have had to go. And sometimes it's been in-between, and you've managed to foul up whole organizations with misplaced papers missent messages, error, and changed minds and everything else you can think of.
As a matter of fact, it sounds like fun.
"Well," he imagined Lou saying, "it is fun, in away. But it's a deadly serious business, too."
Sure it is, Malone thought. I think the first time that came home to me was when I saw what was happening in Russia, and compared it to what had been going on over here. Tom Boyd saw that, too, when I pointed it out to him--as you probably know if you were spying on my mind at the time.
Not that I mind that in the least.
Come more often, by all means.
But Tom, in case you weren't listening, said: "Over here there are a lot of confused jerks and idiots... And in Russia there's a lot of confusion."
Now, that's perfectly true, and it spells out the difference. Over here, you've been confusing the jerks and the idiots, getting rid of them so the system can work properly. Over in Russia, on the other hand, you've left the jerks and the idiots all alone to do their dirty work, and you've just added to the confusion where necessary, so that the system will break down of its own weight.
"But, after all," Lou said, "things look pretty bad over here, too. Look at the papers."
Everybody, Malone thought, has been telling me to go and look at the newspapers. And when I do look at them I find all sorts of evidence of confusion. Teachers resigning, senators and representatives goofing up bills on Congress, gang wars cluttering up the streets with cadavers and making things tough for the Sanitation Department, factional fights in various organizations. Now, all of that looks pretty horrible in the papers, but do you know something? It isn't horrible at all.
It's pretty damn good, as a matter of fact.
The teachers who are resigning, for instance, are the nincompoops who've got to be pruned out so that competent teachers can come in. And, with the higher salaries, more and more competent men and women are going to be attracted to the job. The universities are going to be freer and better places to work in; they won't be monopolies any more.
"Monopolies?" Lou said.
In restraint of knowledge, Malone thought. The old monopoly was in restraint of trade, and legal action helped to kill that kind. The monopoly in restraint of knowledge took a little more killing, but you're doing the job quite nicely. And not only in the schools.
The factional fights are having the same result. Look at the AAAM, for instance. That organization is a monopoly, pure and simple. Simple, anyhow. And what the factional fights are doing to it is just breaking up the monopoly and letting knowledge free again.
And then we come to Congress. Senators and representatives are having a terrible time, some of them. There's a fight going on between Furbisher and Deeks because Deeks has discovered some evidence against Furbisher. Who's having the terrible time?
All of them?
Nope. Furbisher is. Deeks isn't.
And that's the way it's going all over. The useful, necessary legislation is going through Congress now without being cluttered up by stupid dam bills and water bills and other idiocies that simply clog the works.
And then, of course, there are the gang wars. Now, I feel as sorry for the Sanitation Department as anybody, but at least they're cleaning the streets for good now. The boys who are dying off and getting sent to hospitals and jails are just the ones who should have been sent away long ago. Everybody knows that, but nobody can prove it.
Except the PRS.
And the PRS is busy doing just what it can about that proof.
And all it takes is a few of you. I don't know how many--I don't know how many of you there really are, for that matter. But it must be a fair number to stock all your branches with "top-level" executives and the lower-level men and women who really believe in the PRS blind, and do their best to keep it working.
There are probably a lot of ways it might work, but the simplest and best way I can think of is this one: there's a clearing-house sort of set-up, and information comes in from various telepathic spies working for the PRS, about various projected activities of the imbecile contingent.
And, from this information, you figure out the best time and place for lightning to strike, and you select the kind of lightning it's going to be. Here it's a misplaced letter, there some "facts" that aren't facts, and somewhere else a dropped package of secret records. Somebody goofs--and is exposed.
Maybe it works on the local-organization level. Maybe there are teams all over the country, all ready to synchronize their minds and jab somebody in the thought processes at just the right time, in just the right way, as soon as they get the word. That's one way of doing it, maybe the best way.
There are others, but it doesn't really matter how that end of it works. The important thing is that it does work.
And, when it works, it can certainly create quite a mess. Yes-sirree, Bob. Or Lou, as the case may be.
I sure hope somebody's picking all this up, because I'd hate to have to explain it again when I get there.
Are you there, anybody?
Malone imagined he heard Lou's voice. "Yes, Ken," she said. "Yes, I'm here."
But, of course, there was no way for them to get through to him. They were telepathic, but Kenneth J. Malone wasn't he told himself sadly.
Hello, out there, he thought. I hope you've been listening so far, because there isn't going to be too much more. But there are a couple of things that still need to be cleared up. I've got some answers, but there are others I'm going to need.
There's Russia, for instance. It does seem to me as if your teams in Russia, whatever they're calling themselves, are having a lot more fun than the U. S. teams. For one thing they've got an easier job.
In this country, the teams are looking for ways to get rid of the blockheads, and there are a lot of them. In Russia, you don't have to get rid of the blockheads. All you have to do is clear the road for them. And you can do that by fouling up the more intelligent people.
"Intelligent people?" he could hear Lou say.
I
ntelligence doesn't mean good sense, Malone thought. I don't doubt that the men who are maintaining Russia's power are intelligent men-- but what they're doing is bad for the world as a whole, in the long run.
So you foul them up, and leave the blockheads a clear field to run the country into the ground. And that's easier than fouling up the blockheads.
Sure it is.
There are fewer intelligent, active people around than there are blockheads.
Always were.
And maybe there always will be--but not if the PRS can help it.
Oh, and by the way, Malone thought. You do know how I spotted you, don't you? You were tuned in then, weren't you?
And I don't mean just Lou. I mean all of you.
In a world of blind men, the man who can see stands out. In a world of the insane, the sane man stands out.
And in a world where organizations are regularly being confused and fouled up--either as whole organizations, or through your attempts to get rid of individual members--a smooth-running, efficient organization stands out like a sore thumb.
Frankly, it took me longer to see it than it should have.
But I've got the answer at last--the main answer. Though, as I say, there are some others I'd like to have.
Like, for instance, Russia. And exactly what did happen that night in Moscow.
14
At this point Malone suddenly became aware of a sound that was not coming from his own mind. It was coming from somewhere behind his car, and it was a very loud sound. It was, he discovered when he looked back, the siren of a highway patrolman on a motorcycle, coming toward him at imminent risk of life and limb and waving frantically with an unbelievably free hand.
Malone glanced down at the speedometer. With a sigh, he realized that his reflexes had allowed him a little leeway, and that he was going slightly over the legal speed limit for this Virginia highway. He shook his head, eased up on the accelerator, and began to apply the brakes.
By the time he had pulled over to the side of the road, the highway patrolman was coming to a halt behind the big Lincoln. Malone watched him check the number on the rear plate and then walk slowly around to the window on the driver's side. "Can't you hurry?" Malone muttered under his breath. "All this Virginian ease is okay in its place, but--" In the meanwhile he was getting out his identification, and by the time the patrolman reached him he had it in his hand.