"But--"
"No arguments," Burris told him. "If you're going to let things like
that happen to you you're better off here. Besides, there are plenty
of men doing the actual searching. There's no need--"
Secretly, Malone felt relief. "Well, all right," he said. "But let me
check out this place first, will you?"
"Go ahead," Burris said. "But get right on back here."
Malone agreed and snapped the phone off. Then he turned back to find
Dr. Blake.
* * * * *
Examining hospital records was not an easy job. The inalienable right
of a physician to refuse to disclose confidences respecting a patient
applied even to idiots, imbecile and morons. But Malone had a slight
edge, due to Dr. Blake's embarrassment, and he put it mercilessly to
work.
For all the good it did him he might as well have stayed in his cell.
There wasn't even the slightest suspicion in any record that any of
the Rice Pavilion patients were telepathic.
"Are you sure that's what you're looking for?" Blake asked him, some
hours later.
"I'm sure," Malone said. "When you eliminate the impossible, whatever
remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
"Oh," Blake said. After a second he added: "What does that mean?"
Malone shrugged. "It's an old saying," he told the doctor. "It doesn't
have to mean anything. It just sounds good."
"Oh," Blake said again.
After a while, Malone said farewell to good old Rice Pavilion, and
headed back to Washington. There, he told himself, everything would be
peaceful.
And so it was. Peaceful and dispiriting.
Every agent had problems getting reports from hospitals--and not even
the FBI could open the private files of a licensed and registered
psychiatrist.
But the field agents did the best they could and, considering the
circumstances, their best was pretty good.
Malone, meanwhile, put in two weeks sitting glumly at his Washington
desk and checking reports as they arrived. They were uniformly
depressing. The United States of America contained more sub-normal
minds than Malone cared to think about. There seemed to be enough of
them to explain the results of any election you were unhappy over.
Unfortunately, subnormal was all you could call them. Like the
patients at Rice Pavilion, not one of them appeared to possess any
abnormal psionic abilities whatever.
There were a couple who were reputed to be poltergeists--but in
neither case was there a single shred of evidence to substantiate the
claim.
At the end of the second week, Malone was just about convinced that
his idea had been a total washout. He himself had been locked up in a
padded cell, and other agents had spent a full fortnight digging up
imbeciles, while the spy at Yucca Flats had been going right on his
merry way, scooping information out of the men at Project Isle as
though he were scooping beans out of a pot. And, very likely, laughing
himself silly at the feeble efforts of the FBI.
Who could he be?
Anyone, Malone told himself unhappily. Anyone at all. He could be the
janitor who swept out the buildings, one of the guards at the gate,
one of the minor technicians on another project, or even some old
prospector wandering around the desert with a scintillation counter.
Is there any limit to telepathic range?
The spy could even be sitting quietly in an armchair in the Kremlin,
probing through several thousand miles of solid earth to peep into the
brains of the men on Project Isle.
That was, to say the very least, a depressing idea.
Malone found he had to assume that the spy was in the United States--
that, in other words, there was some effective range to telepathic
communication. Otherwise, there was no point in bothering to continue
the search.
Therefore, he found one other thing to do. He alerted every agent to
the job of discovering how the spy was getting his information out of
the country.
He doubted that it would turn up anything, but it was a chance. And
Malone hoped desperately for it, because he was beginning to be sure
that the field agents were never going to turn up any telepathic
imbeciles.
He was right. They never did.
3
The telephone rang.
Malone rolled over on the couch and muttered four words under his
breath. Was it absolutely necessary for someone to call him at seven
in the morning?
He grabbed at the receiver with one hand, and picked up his cigar from
the ashtray with the other. It was bad enough to be awakened from a
sound sleep--but when a man hadn't been sleeping at all, it was even
worse.
He'd been sitting up since before five that morning, worrying about
the telepathic spy, and at the moment he wanted sleep more than he
wanted phone calls.
"Gur?" he said, sleepily and angrily, thankful that he'd never had a
visiphone installed in his apartment. A taste for blondes was
apparently hereditary. At any rate, Malone felt he had inherited it
from his father, and he didn't want any visible strangers calling him
at odd hours to interfere with his process of collection and research.
He blinked at the audio circuit, and a feminine voice said: "Mr.
Kenneth J. Malone?"
"Who's this?" Malone said peevishly, beginning to discover himself
capable of semirational English speech.
"Long distance from San Francisco," the voice said.
"It certainly is," Malone said. "Who's calling?"
"San Francisco is calling," the voice said primly.
Malone repressed a desire to tell the voice that he didn't want to
talk to St. Francis, not even in Spanish, and said instead: _"Who_ in
San Francisco?"
There was a momentary hiatus, and then the voice said: "Mr. Thomas
Boyd is calling, sir. He says this is a scramble call."
Malone took a drag from his cigar and closed his eyes. Obviously the
call was a scramble. If it had been clear, the man would have dialed
direct, instead of going through what Malone now recognized as an
operator.
"Mr. Boyd says he is the Agent-in-Charge of the San Francisco office
of the FBI," the voice offered.
"And quite right, too," Malone told her. "All right. Put him on."
"One moment," There was a pause, a click, another pause and then
another click. At last the operator said: "Your party is ready, sir."
Then there was still another pause.
Malone stared at the audio receiver. He began to whistle _When Irish
Eyes Are Smiling_.
_... And the sound of Irish laughter...._ "Hello? Malone?"
"I'm here, Tom," Malone said guiltily. "This is me. What's the
trouble?"
"Trouble?" Boyd said. "There isn't any trouble. Well, not really. Or
maybe it is. I don't know."
Malone scowled at the audio receiver, and for the first time wished he
had gone ahead and had a video circuit put in, so that Boyd could see
the horrendous expression on his face.
"Look," he said. "It's seven here and that's too early. Out there,
it's four, and that's practically ridiculous. What's so important?"
He knew perfectly well that Boyd wasn't calling him just for the fun
of it. The man was a damned good agent. But why a call at this hour?
Malone muttered under his breath. Then, self-consciously, he squashed
out his cigar and lit a cigarette while Boyd was saying: "Ken, I think
we may have found what you've been looking for."
It wasn't safe to say too much, even over a scrambled circuit. But
Malone got the message without difficulty.
"Yeah?" he said, sitting up on the edge of the couch. "You sure?"
"Well," Boyd said, "no. Not absolutely sure. Not absolutely. But it is
worth your taking a personal look, I think."
"Ah," Malone said cautiously. "An imbecile?"
"No," Boyd said flatly. "Not an imbecile. Definitely not an imbecile.
As a matter of fact, a hell of a fat long way from an imbecile."
Malone glanced at his watch and skimmed over the airline timetables in
his mind. "I'll be there nine o'clock, your time," he said. "Have a
car waiting for me at the field."
* * * * *
As usual, Malone managed to sleep better on the plane than he'd been
able to do at home. He slept so well, in fact, that he was still
groggy when he stepped into the waiting car.
"Good to see you, Ken," Boyd said briskly, as he shook Malone's hand.
"You, too, Tom," Malone said sleepily. "Now what's all this about?" He
looked around apprehensively. "No bugs in this car, I hope?" he said.
Boyd gunned the motor and headed toward the San Francisco Freeway.
"Better not be," he said, "or I'll fire me a technician or two."
"Well, then," Malone said, relaxing against the upholstery, "where is
this guy, and who is he? And how did you find him?"
Boyd looked uncomfortable. It was, somehow, both an awe-inspiring and
a slightly risible sight. Six feet one and one-half inches tall in his
flat feet, Boyd posted around over two hundred and twenty pounds of
bone, flesh and muscle. He swung a pot-belly of startling proportions
under the silk shirting he wore, and his face, with its wide nose,
small eyes and high forehead, was half highly mature, half startlingly
childlike. In an apparent effort to erase those childlike qualities,
Boyd sported a fringe of beard and a moustache which reminded Malone
of somebody he couldn't quite place.
But whoever the somebody was, his hair hadn't been black, as Boyd's
was...
He decided it didn't make any difference. Anyhow, Boyd was speaking.
"In the first place," he said, "it isn't a guy. In the second, I'm not
exactly sure who it is. And in the third, Ken, I didn't find it."
There was a little silence.
"Don't tell me," Malone said. "It's a telepathic horse, isn't it? Tom,
I just don't think I could stand a telepathic horse...."
"No," Boyd said hastily. "No. Not at all. No horse. It's a dame. I
mean a lady." He looked away from the road and flashed a glance at
Malone. His eyes seemed to be pleading for something--understanding,
possibly, Malone thought. "Frankly," Boyd said, "I'd rather not tell
you anything about her just yet. I'd rather you met her first. Then
you could make up your own mind. All right?"
"All right," Malone said wearily. "Do it your own way. How far do we
have to go?"
"Just about an hour's drive," Boyd said. "That's all."
Malone slumped back in the seat and pushed his hat over his eyes.
"Fine," he said. "Suppose you wake me up when we get there."
But, groggy as he was, he couldn't sleep. He wished he'd had some
coffee on the plane. Maybe it would have made him feel better.
Then again, coffee was only coffee. True, he had never acquired his
father's taste for gin (and imagined, therefore, that it wasn't
hereditary, like a taste for blondes), but there was always bourbon.
He thought about bourbon for a few minutes. It was a nice thought. It
warmed him and made him feel a lot better. After a while, he even felt
awake enough to do some talking.
He pushed his hat back and struggled to a reasonable sitting position.
"I don't suppose you have a drink hidden away in the car somewhere?"
he said tentatively. "Or would the technicians have found that, too?"
"Better not have," Boyd said in the same tone as before, "or I'll fire
a couple of technicians." He grinned without turning. "It's in the
door compartment, next to the forty-five cartridges and the Tommy-
gun."
Malone opened the compartment in the thick door of the car and
extracted a bottle. It was Christian Brothers Brandy instead of the
bourbon he had been thinking about, but he discovered that he didn't
mind at all. It went down as smoothly as milk.
Boyd glanced at it momentarily as Malone screwed the top back on.
"No," Malone said in answer to the unspoken question. "You're
driving." Then he settled back again and tipped his hat forward.
He didn't sleep a wink. He was perfectly sure of that. But it wasn't
over two seconds later that Boyd said: "We're here, Ken. Wake up."
"Whadyamean, wakeup," Malone said. "I wasn't asleep." He thumbed his
hat back and sat up rapidly. "Where's 'here?'"
"Bayview Neuropsychiatric Hospital," Boyd said. "This is where Dr.
Harman works, you know."
"No," Malone said. "As a matter of fact, I don't know. You didn't tell
me--remember? And who is Dr. Harman, anyhow?"
The car was moving up a long, curving driveway toward a large, lawn-
surrounded building. Boyd spoke without looking away from the road.
"Well," he said, "this Dr. Wilson Harman is the man who phoned us
yesterday. One of my field agents was out here asking around about
imbeciles and so on. Found nothing, by the way. And then this Dr.
Harman called, later. Said he had someone here I might be interested
in. So I came on out myself for a look, yesterday afternoon--after
all, we had instructions to follow up every possible lead."
"I know," Malone said. "I wrote them."
"Oh," Boyd said. "Sure. Well, anyhow, I talked to this dame. Lady."
"And?"
"And I talked to her," Boyd said. "I'm not entirely sure of anything
myself. But--well, hell. You take a look at her."
He pulled the car up to a parking space, slid nonchalantly into a slot
marked _Reserved_--_Executive Director Sutton_, and slid out from
under the wheel while Malone got out the other side.
They marched up the broad steps, through the doorway and into the
glass-fronted office of the receptionist.
Boyd showed her his little golden badge, and got an appropriate gasp.
"FBI," he said. "Dr. Harman's expecting us."
The wait wasn't over fifteen seconds. Boyd and Malone marched down the
hall and around a couple of corners, and came to the doctor's office.
The door was opaqued glass with nothing but a room number stenciled
on it. Without ceremony, Boyd pushed the door open. Malone followed
him inside.
The office was small but sunny. Dr. Wilson Harman sat behind a blond-
wood desk, a little man with crew-cut blond hair and rimless
eyeglasses, who looked about thirty-two and couldn't possibly, Malone
thought, have been anywhere near that young. On a second look, Malone
noticed a better age indication in the eyes and forehead, and revised
his first guess upward between ten and fifteen years.
"Come in, gentlemen," Dr. Harman called. His voice was that rarity, a
really loud high tenor.
"Dr. Harman," Boyd said, "this is my superior, Mr. Malone. We'd like
to have a talk with Miss Thompson, if we might."
"I anticipated that, sir," Dr. Harman said. "Miss Thompson is in the
next room. Have you explained to Mr. Malone that--"
"I haven't explained a thing," Boyd said quickly, and added in what
was obviously intended to be a casual tone: "Mr. Malone wants to get a
picture of Miss Thompson directly--without any preconceptions."
"I see," Dr. Harman said. "Very well, gentlemen. Through this door."
He opened the door in the right-hand wall of the room, and Malone took
one look. It was a long, long look. Standing framed in the doorway,
dressed in the starched white of a nurse's uniform, was the most
beautiful blonde he had ever seen.
She had curves. She definitely had curves. As a matter of fact, Malone
didn't really think he had ever seen curves before. These were
something new and different and truly three-dimensional. But it wasn't
the curves, or the long straight lines of her legs, or the quiet
beauty of her face, that made her so special. After all, Malone had
seen legs and bodies and faces before.
At least, he thought he had. Offhand, he couldn't remember where.
Looking at the girl, Malone was ready to write brand-new definitions
for every anatomical term. Even a term like "hands." Malone had never
seen anything especially arousing in the human hand before--anyway,
not when the hand was just lying around, so to speak, attached to its
wrist but not doing anything in particular. But these hands, long,
slender and tapering, white and cool-looking....
And yet, it wasn't just the sheer physical beauty of the girl. She had
something else, something more and something different. _(Something
borrowed_, Malone thought in a semidelirious haze, _and something
blue.)_ Personality? Character? Soul?
Whatever it was, Malone decided, this girl had it. She had enough of
it to supply the entire human race, and any others that might exist in
the Universe. Malone smiled at the girl and she smiled back.
After seeing the smile, Malone wasn't sure he could still walk evenly.
Somehow, though, he managed to go over to her and extend his hand. The
notion that a telepath would turn out to be this mind-searing Epitome
had never crossed his mind, but now, somehow, it seemed perfectly
fitting and proper.
"Good morning, Miss Thompson," he said in what he hoped was a winning
voice.
The smile disappeared. It was like the sun going out.
The vision appeared to be troubled. Malone was about to volunteer his
help--if necessary, for the next seventy years--when she spoke.
"I'm not Miss Thompson," she said.
"This is one of our nurses," Dr. Harman put in. "Miss Wilson, Mr.
Malone. And Mr. Boyd. Miss Thompson, gentlemen, is over there."
Malone turned.
There, in a corner of the room, an old lady sat. She was a small old
lady, with apple-red cheeks and twinkling eyes. She held some knitting
in her hands, and she smiled up at the FBI men as if they were her
grandsons come for tea and cookies, of a Sunday afternoon.
She had snow-white hair that shone like a crown around her old head in
the lights of the room. Malone blinked at her. She didn't disappear.
"You're Miss Thompson?" he said.
She smiled sweetly. "Oh, my, no," she said.
There was a long silence. Malone looked at her. Then he looked at the
unbelievably beautiful Miss Wilson. Then he looked at Dr. Harman. And,
at last, he looked at Boyd.
"All right," he said. "I get it. _You're_ Miss Thompson."
"Now, wait a minute, Malone," Boyd began.
"Wait a minute?" Malone said. "There are four people here, not
counting me. I know I'm not Miss Thompson. I never was, not even as a
child. And Dr. Harman isn't, and Miss Wilson isn't, and Whistler's
Great-Grandmother isn't, either. So you must be. Unless she isn't
here. Or unless she's invisible. Or unless I'm crazy."
"It isn't _you_, Malone," Boyd said. "What isn't me?"
"That's crazy," Boyd said.
"Okay," Malone said. "I'm not crazy. Then will somebody please tell
me--"
The little old lady cleared her throat. A silence fell. When it was
complete she spoke, and her voice was as sweet and kindly as anything
Malone had ever heard.
"You may call me Miss Thompson," she said. "For the present, at any
rate. They all do here. It's a pseudonym I have to use."
"A pseudonym?" Malone said.
"You see, Mr. Malone," Miss Wilson began.
Malone stopped her. "Don't talk," he said. "I have to concentrate and
if you talk I can barely think." He took off his hat suddenly, and
began twisting the brim in his hands. "You understand, don't you?"
The trace of a smile appeared on her face. "I think I do," she said.
"Now," Malone said. "You're Miss Thompson, but not really, because you
have to use a pseudonym." He blinked at the little old lady. "Why?"
"Well," she said, "otherwise people would find out about my little
secret."
"Your little secret," Malone said.
"That's right," the little old lady said. "I'm immortal, you see."
Malone said: "Oh." Then he kept quiet for a long time. It didn't seem
to him that anyone in the room was breathing.
He said: "Oh," again, but it didn't sound any better than it had the
first time. He tried another phrase. "You're immortal," he said.
"That's right," the little old lady agreed sweetly.
There was only one other question to ask, and Malone set his teeth
grimly and asked it. It came out just a trifle indistinct, but the
little old lady nodded.
"My real name?" she said. "Elizabeth. Elizabeth Tudor, of course. I
used to be Queen."
"Of England," Malone said faintly. "Malone, look--" Boyd began.
"Let me get it all at once," Malone told him. "I'm strong. I can take
it." He twisted his hat again and turned back to the little old lady.
"You're immortal, and you're not really Miss Thompson, but Queen
Elizabeth I?" he said slowly.
"That's right," she said. "How clever of you. Of course, after little
Jimmy--cousin Mary's boy, I mean--said I was dead and claimed the
Throne, I decided to change my name and all. And that's what I did.
But I am Elizabeth Regina." She smiled, and her eyes twinkled merrily.
Malone stared at her for a long minute.
_Burris_, he thought, _is going to love this._
"Oh, I'm so glad," the little old lady said. "Do your really think he
will? Because I'm sure I'll like your Mr. Burris, too. All of you FBI
men are so charming. Just like poor, poor Essex."
Well, Malone told himself, that was that. He'd found himself a
telepath.
And she wasn't an imbecile.
Oh, no. That would have been simple.
Instead, she was battier than a cathedral spire.
* * * * *
The long silence was broken by the voice of Miss Wilson.
"Mr. Malone," she said. "You've been thinking." She stopped. "I mean,
you've been so quiet."
"I like being quiet," Malone said patiently. "Besides--" He stopped
and turned to the little old lady. _Can you really read my mind?_ he
thought deliberately. After a second he added: ... _your Majesty?_
"How sweet of you, Mr. Malone," she said. "Nobody's called me that for
centuries. But of course I can. Although it's not reading, really.
After all, that would be like asking if I can read your voice. Of
course I can, Mr. Malone."
"That does it," Malone said. "I'm not a hard man to convince. And when
I see the truth, I'm the first one to admit it, even if it makes me
look like a nut." He turned back to the little old lady. "Begging your
pardon," he said.
"Oh, my," the little old lady said. "I really don't mind at all.
Sticks and stones, you know, can break my bones. But being called
nuts, Mr. Malone, can never hurt me. After all, it's been so many
years--so many hundreds of years--"
"Sure," Malone said easily.
Boyd broke in. "Listen, Malone," he said. "Do you mind telling me what
the hell is going on?"
"It's very simple," Malone said. "Miss Thompson here--pardon me; I
mean Queen Elizabeth I--really is a telepath. That's all. I think I
want to lie down somewhere until it goes away."
"Until what goes away?" Miss Wilson said.
Malone stared at her almost without seeing her, if not quite.
"Everything," he said. He closed his eyes.
"My goodness," the little old lady said after a second. "Everything's
so confused. Poor Mr. Malone is terribly shaken up by everything." She
stood up, still holding her knitting, and went across the room. Before
the astonished eyes of the doctor and nurse, and Tom Boyd, she patted
the FBI agent on the shoulder. "There, there, Mr. Malone," she said.
"It will all be perfectly all right. You'll see." Then she returned to
her seat.
Malone opened his eyes. "My God," he said. He closed them again but
they flew open as if of their own accord. He turned to Dr. Harman.
"You called up Boyd here," he said, "and told him that--er--Miss
Thompson was a telepath. How'd you know?"
"It's all right," the little old lady put in from her chair. "I don't
mind your calling me Miss Thompson, not right now, anyhow."
"Thanks," Malone said faintly.
Dr. Harman was blinking in a kind of befuddled astonishment. "You mean
she really _is_ a--" He stopped and brought his tenor voice to a
squeaking halt, regained his professional poise, and began again. "I'd
rather not discuss the patient in her presence, Mr. Malone," he said.
"If you'll just come into my office--"
"Oh, _bosh_, Dr. Harman," the little old lady said primly. "I do wish
you'd give your own Queen credit for some ability. Goodness knows you
think _you're_ smart enough."
"Now, now, Miss Thompson," he said in what was obviously his best
Grade A Choice Government Inspected couchside manner. "Don't--"
"--upset yourself," she finished for him. "Now, really, Doctor. I know
what you're going to tell them."
"But Miss Thompson, I--"
"You didn't honestly think I _was_ a telepath," the little old lady
said. "Heavens, we know that. And you're going to tell them how I used
to say I could read minds--oh, years and years ago. And because of
that you thought it might be worthwhile to tell the FBI about me--
which wasn't very kind of you, Doctor, before you know anything about
why they wanted somebody like me."
"Now, now, Miss Thompson," Miss Wilson said, walking across the room
to put an arm around the little old lady's shoulder. Malone wished for
one brief second that he were the little old lady. Maybe if he were a
patient in the hospital he would get the same treatment.
He wondered if he could possibly work such a deal.
Then he wondered if it would be worthwhile, being nuts. But of course
it would. He was nuts anyhow, wasn't he?
Sure, he told himself. They were all nuts.
"Nobody's going to hurt you," Miss Wilson said. She was talking to the
old lady. "You'll be perfectly all right and you don't have to worry
about a thing."
"Oh, yes, dear, I know that," the little old lady said. "You only want
to help me, dear. You're so kind. And these FBI men really don't mean
any harm. But Doctor Harman didn't know that. He just thinks I'm crazy
and that's all."
"Please, Miss Thompson--" Dr. Harman began.
"Just crazy, that's all," the little old lady said. She turned away
for a second and nobody said anything.
Then she turned back. "Do you all know what he's thinking now?" she
said. Dr. Harman turned a dull purple, but she ignored him. "He's
wondering why I didn't take the trouble to prove all this to you years
ago. And besides that, he's thinking about--"
"Miss Thompson," Dr. Harman said. His bedside manner had cracked
through and his voice was harsh and strained. "Please."
"Oh, all right," she said, a little petulantly. "If you want to keep
all that private."
Malone broke in suddenly, fascinated. "Why didn't you prove you were
telepathic before now?" he said.
The little old lady smiled at him. "Why, because you wouldn't have
believed me," she said. She dropped her knitting neatly in her lap and
folded her hands over it. '"None of you _wanted_ to believe me," she
said, and sniffed. Miss Wilson moved nervously and she looked up. "And
don't tell me it's going to be all right. I know it's going to be all
right. I'm going to make sure of that."
Malone felt a sudden chill. But it was obvious, he told himself, that
the little old lady didn't mean what she was saying. She smiled at him
again, and her smile was as sweet and guileless as the smile on the
face of his very own sainted grandmother.
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.