Occasion ... for Disaster

"O.K., 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've 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 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 nontelepath 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?"

Illustration note

[Illustration]

"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." VII 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 talking to him about his report. It was, Malone told himself heavily, a hell of a life. "Now, Malone," Burris said in a kindly voice, "this is a very interesting report." "Yes, sir," Malone said automatically. "A very interesting report indeed, Kenneth," Burris went on, positively bursting with good-fellowship. "Thank you, sir," Malone said dully. Burris beamed a little more. "You've done a fine job," he said, "a really fine job. Hardly on the job any time at all, and here you've managed to get all three of the culprits responsible." "Now, wait a minute," Malone said in sudden panic. "That isn't what I said." "No?" Burris said, looking a little surprised. "Not at all," Malone said. "I don't think those three spies have anything to do with this at all. Not a thing." There was a brief silence, during which Burris' surprise seemed to expand like a gas and fill the room. "But they've confessed," he said at last. "Their job was to try and get information, and also to disrupt our own work here." "I know all that," Malone said. "But--" Burris held up a pink, patient hand. Malone stared at it, fascinated. It had five pink, patient fingers on it. "Malone," Burris said slowly, "just what's bothering you? Don't you think those men _are_ spies? Is that it?" "Spies?" Malone said, slightly confused. "You know," Burris said. "The men you arrested, Malone. The men you wrote this report about." Malone blinked and focused on the hand again. It still had five fingers. "Sure they are," he said. "They're spies, all right. And they're caught, and that's that. Except I don't think they're causing all the confusion around here." "Well, of course they're not," Burris said, the beam of kindliness coming back to his face. "Not any more. You caught them." "I mean," Malone said desperately, "they never were. Even before I caught them." "Then why," Burris said with great patience, "did you arrest them?" "Because they're spies," Malone said. "Besides, I didn't." "Didn't what?" Burris said, looking confused. He seemed to realize he was still holding up his hand, and dropped it to the desk. Malone felt sad as he watched it go. Now he had nothing to concentrate on except the conversation, and he didn't even want to think about what was happening to that. "Didn't arrest them," he said. "Tom Boyd did." "Acting," Burris pointed out gently, "under your orders, Kenneth." It was the second time Burris had called him Kenneth, Malone realized. It started a small warning bell in the back of his mind. When Burris called him by his first name, Burris was feeling paternal and kindly. And that, Malone thought determinedly, boded Kenneth J. Malone very little good indeed. "He was under my orders to arrest them because they were spies," he said at last. He wondered if the sentence made any real sense, but shrugged his shoulders and plunged on. "But they're not the real spies," he said. "Not the ones everybody's been looking for." "Kenneth," Burris said, his voice positively dripping with what Malone thought of as the heavy, Grade A, Government-inspected cream of human kindness, "all the confusion with the computer-secretaries has stopped. Everything is running fine in that department." "But--" Malone began. "The technicians," Burris said, hypnotized by this poem of beauty, "aren't making any more mistakes. The information is flowing through beautifully. It's a pleasure to see their reports. Believe me, Kenneth--" "Call me Chief," Malone said wearily. Burris blinked. "What?" he said. "Oh. Ha. Indeed. Very well, then: Malone, what more proof do you want?" "Is that proof?" Malone said. "The spies didn't even confess to that. They--" "Of course they didn't, Malone," Burris said. "Of course?" Malone said weakly. "Look at their confessions," Burris said. "Just look at them, in black and white." He reached for a sheaf of papers and pushed them across the desk. Malone looked at them. They were indeed, he told himself, in black and white. There was no arguing with that. None at all. * * * * * "Well?" Burris said after a second. "I don't see anything about computer-secretaries," Malone said. "The Russians," Burris began slowly, "are not stupid, Malone. You believe that, don't you?" "Of course I believe it," Malone said. "Otherwise we wouldn't need an FBI." Burris frowned. "There are still domestic cases," he said. "Like juvenile delinquents stealing cars inter-state, for instance. If you remember." He paused, then went on: "But the fact remains: Russians are not stupid. Not by a long shot." "All right," Malone said agreeably. "Do you really think, then," Burris said instantly, "that a spy ring could be as utterly inefficient as the one described in those confessions?" "Lots of people are inefficient," Malone said. "Not spies," Burris said with decision. "Do you really believe that the Russians would send over a bunch of operatives as clodheaded as these are pretending to be?" "People make mistakes," Malone said weakly.