That made it eight-thirty in Las Vegas. Malone opened his eyes again
in his hotel room there. He had half an hour to spare until his dinner
date with Luba. That gave him plenty of time to shower, shave and
dress, and he felt pleased to have managed the timing so neatly.
Two minutes later, he was soaking in the luxury of a hot tub allowing
the warmth to relax his body while his mind turned over the facts he
had collected. There were a lot of them, but they didn't seem to mean
anything special.
The world, he told himself, was going to hell in a handbasket. That
was all very well and good, but just what was the handbasket made of?
Burris' theory, the more he thought about it, was a pure case of
mental soapsuds, with perhaps a dash of old cotton-candy to make
confusion even worse confounded.
And there wasn't any other theory, was there?
Well, Malone reflected, there was one, or at least a part of one. Her
Majesty had said that everything was somehow tied up with the mental
bursts--and that sounded a lot more probable. Assuming that the bursts
and the rest of the mixups were _not_ connected made, as a matter of
fact, very little sense; it was multiplying hypotheses without reason.
When two unusual things happen, they have at least one definite
connection: they're both unusual. The sensible thing to do, Malone
thought, was to look for more connections.
Which meant asking who was causing the bursts, and why. Her Majesty
had said that she didn't know, and couldn't do it herself. Obviously,
though, some telepath or a team of telepaths was doing the job. And
the only trouble with that, Malone reflected sadly, was that all
telepaths were in the Yucca Flats laboratory.
It was at this point that he sat upright in the tub, splashing water
over the floor and gripping the soap with a strange excitement. Who'd
ever said that _all_ the telepaths were in Yucca Flats? All the ones
so far discovered were--but that, obviously, was an entirely different
matter.
Her majesty didn't know about any others, true. But Malone thought of
his own mind-shield. If he could make himself telepathically
"invisible," why couldn't someone else? Dr. Marshall's theories seemed
to point the other way--but they only went for telepaths like Her
Majesty, who were psychotic. A sane telepath, Malone thought, might
conceivably develop such a mind-shield.
All known telepaths were nuts, he told himself. Now, he began to see
why. He'd started out, two years before, _hunting_ for nuts, and for
idiots. But they wouldn't even know anything about sane telepaths--the
sane ones probably wouldn't even want to communicate with them.
A sane telepath was pretty much of an unknown quantity. But that,
Malone told himself with elation, was exactly what he was looking for.
Could a sane telepath do what an insane one couldn't--and project
thoughts, or at least mental bursts?
He got out of the cooling tub and grabbed for a terry-cloth robe. Not
even bothering about the time, he closed his eyes. When he opened them
again he was in the Yucca Flats apartment of Dr. Thomas O'Connor.
O'Connor wasn't sleeping, exactly. He sat in a chair in his
bare-looking living room, a book open on his lap, his head nodding
slightly. Malone's entrance made no sounds, and O'Connor didn't move
or look around.
"Doctor," Malone said, "is it possible that--"
O'Connor came up off the chair a good foot and a half. He went: "Eee,"
and came down again, still gripping the book. His head turned.
"It's me," Malone said.
"Indeed," O'Connor said. "Indeed indeed. My goodness." He opened his
mouth some more but no words came out of it. "Eee," he said again, at
last, in a conversational tone.
Malone took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I startled you," he said, "but
this is important and it couldn't wait." O'Connor stared blankly at
him. "Dr. O'Connor," Malone said, "it's me. Kenneth J. Malone. I want
to talk to you."
* * * * *
At last O'Connor's expression returned almost to normal. "Mr. Malone,"
he said, "you are undressed."
Malone sighed. "This is important, doctor," he said. "Let's not waste
time with all that kind of thing."
"But, Mr. Malone--" O'Connor began frostily.
"I need some information," Malone said, "and maybe you've got it. What
do you know about telepathic projection?"
"About what?" O'Connor said. "Do you mean nontelepaths receiving some
sort of ... communication from telepaths?"
"Right," Malone said. "Mind-to-mind communication, of course; I'm not
interested in the United States mail or the telephone companies. How
about it, doctor? Is it possible?"
O'Connor gnawed at his lower lip for a second. "There have been cases
reported," he said at last. "Very few have been written up with any
accuracy, and those seem to be confined to close relatives or loved
ones of the person projecting the message."
"Is that necessary?" Malone said. "Isn't it possible that--"
"Further," O'Connor said, getting back into his lecture-room stride,
"I think you'll find that the ... ah ... message so received is one
indicating that the projector of such a message is in dire peril. He
has, for instance, been badly injured, or is rapidly approaching
death, or else he has narrowly escaped death."
"What does that have to do with it?" Malone said. "I mean, why should
all those requirements be necessary?"
O'Connor frowned slightly. "Because," he said, "the amount of psionic
energy necessary for such a feat is tremendous. Usually, it is the
final burst of energy, the outpouring of all the remaining psionic
force immediately before death. And if death does not occur, the
person is at the least greatly weakened; his mind, if it ever does
recover, needs time and rest to do so."
"And he reaches a relative or a loved one," Malone said, "because the
linkage is easier; there's some thought of him in that other mind for
him to 'tune in' on."
"We assume so," O'Connor said.
"Very well, then," Malone said. "I'll assume so, too. But if the
energy is so great, then a person couldn't do this sort of thing very
often."
"Hardly," O'Connor said.
Malone nodded. "It's like ... like giving blood to a blood bank," he
said. "Giving ... oh, three quarts of blood. It might not kill you.
But if it didn't, you'd be weak for a long time."
"Exactly," O'Connor said. "A good analogy, Mr. Malone." Malone looked
at him and felt relieved that he'd managed to get the conversation
onto pure lecture-room science so quickly. O'Connor, easily at home in
that world, had been able to absorb the shock of Malone's sudden
appearance while providing the facts in his own inimitable, frozen
manner.
"So one telepath couldn't go on doing it all the time," he said.
"But--how about several people?"
"Several people?" O'Connor said.
"I mean ... well, let's look at that blood bank again," Malone said.
"You need three quarts of blood. But one person doesn't have to give
it. Suppose twelve people gave half a pint each."
"Ah," O'Connor said. "I see. Or twenty-four people, giving a
quarter-pint each. Or--"
"That's the idea," Malone said hurriedly. "I guess there'd be a point
of diminishing returns, but that's the point. Would something like
that be possible?"
O'Connor thought for what seemed like a long time. "It might," he said
at last. "At least theoretically. But it would take a great deal of
mental co-ordination among the participants. They would all have to be
telepaths, of course."
"In order to mesh their thoughts right on the button, and direct them
properly and at the correct time," Malone said. "Right?"
"Ah ... correct," O'Connor said. "Given that, Mr. Malone, I imagine
that it might possibly be done."
"Wonderful," Malone said.
"However," O'Connor said, apparently glad to throw even a little cold
water on the notion, "it could not be done for very long periods of
time, you understand. It would happen in rather short bursts."
"That's right," Malone said, enjoying the crestfallen look on
O'Connor's face. "That's exactly what I was looking for."
"I'm ... ah ... glad to have been of service," O'Connor said.
"However, Mr. Malone, I should like to request--"
"Oh, don't worry," Malone said. "I won't slam the door." He vanished.
* * * * *
It was eight-fifty. Hurriedly, he rinsed himself off, shaved and put
on his evening clothes. But he was still late--it was two minutes
after nine when he showed up at the door that led off the lobby to the
Universal Joint. Luba was, surprisingly, waiting for him there.
"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. Now,
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: