Occasion ... for Disaster
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:
4. Efficient
He looked at it. Now it didn't remind him so much of the Monster. But
it didn't look terribly familiar, either. Who did he know, he thought,
who was large, old, disguised and efficient?
It sounded like an improbable combination. He set the paper down,
clearing off some of the PRS books to make room for it. And then he
stopped.
The papers the PRS had sent him....
And he'd gotten them so quickly, so efficiently....
They were a large organization....
And an old one....
He looked for a desk phone, found one and grabbed at it frantically.
* * * * *
The girl who answered the phone looked familiar. Malone suddenly
remembered to check the time--it was just after nine. The girl stared
at him. She did not look terribly old, but she was large and she had
to be disguised. There seemed to be a lot of teeth running around in
this case, Malone thought, between the burlesque stripper in Las Vegas
and Miss Dental Display here in New York. Nobody, he told himself,
could have collected that many teeth honestly.
"Psychical Research Society," she said. "Oh, Mr. Malone. Good
morning."
"Sir Lewis," Malone said in a rush. "Sir Lewis Carter. I want to talk
to him. Hurry."
"Sir Lewis Carter?" the girl said very slowly. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr.
Malone, but he won't be in at all today."
"Home number," Malone said desperately. "I've got to."
"Well, I can give you that, Mr. Malone," she said, "but it wouldn't do
you any good, really. Because he went away on his vacation and when he
does that he never tells us where. You know? He won't be back for two
or three weeks," she added as an afterthought.
Malone said: "Oog," and thought for less than a second. "Somebody
official," he said. "Got to talk to somebody official. Now."
"Oh, I can't do that either, Mr. Malone," the toothy girl said. "All
of the executives already left on their vacation. They just left a
skeleton force here at the office."
"They're all gone?" Malone said hollowly.
"That's right," the girl said with great cheer. "As a matter of fact,
I'm in charge now. You know?"
"I'm afraid I do," Malone said. "It's very important, though. You
don't have any idea where any of them went?"
"None at all," she said. "I'm sorry, but that's how it is. Maybe if
you were me you'd ask questions, but I just follow orders and those
were my orders. To take over until they get back. You know? They
didn't tell me where and I just didn't ask."
"Great," Malone said. He wanted to shoot himself. Everything was
obvious now--about twenty-four hours too late. And now, they'd all
gone--for two weeks--or for good.
The girl's rancid voice broke in on his thoughts.
"Oh, Mr. Malone," she said. "I'm sorry, but I just remembered they
left a note for you."
"A note?" Malone said. "For me?"
"Sir Lewis said you might call," the girl said, "and he left a
message. If you'll hold on a minute I'll read it."
Malone waited tensely. The girl found a slip of paper, blinked at it
and read:
"My dear Malone, I'm afraid that what you have deduced is quite
correct; and, as you can see, that leaves us no alternative. Sorry.
Miss Luba A. sends her apologies to you, since she is joining us; my
apologies are also tendered." The girl looked up. "It's signed by Sir
Lewis," she said. "Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Malone?"
"I'm afraid it does," Malone said blankly. "It means entirely too
much."
XIII
After Miss Dental Display had faded from Malone's screen, he just sat
there, looking at the dead, gray front of the visiphone and feeling
about twice as dead and at least three times as gray.
Things, he told himself, were terrible. But even that sentence, which
was a good deal more cheerful than what he actually felt, did nothing
whatever to improve his mood. All of the evidence, after all, had been
practically living on the tip of his nose for God alone knew how long,
and not only had he done nothing about it, he hadn't even seen it.
There was the organization, staring him in the face. There was
Luba--nobody's fool, no starry-eyed dreamer of occult dreams. She was
part of the Psychical Research Society, why hadn't he thought to
wonder why she was connected with it?
And there was his own mind-shield. Why hadn't he wondered whether
other telepaths might not have the same shield?
He thought about Luba and told himself bitterly that from now on she
was Miss Ardanko. Enough, he told himself, was enough. From now on he
was calling her by her last name, formally and distantly. In his own
mind, anyhow.
Facts came tumbling in on him like the side of a mountain falling on a
hapless traveler, during a landslide season. And, Malone told himself,
he had never possessed less hap in all of his ill-starred life.
And then, very suddenly, one more fact arrived, and pushed the rest
out into the black night of Malone's bitter mind. He stood up, pushing
the books away, and closed his eyes. When he opened them he went to
the telephone in his Las Vegas hotel suite, and switched it on. A
smiling operator appeared. Malone wanted to see him die of poison,
slowly.
"Give me Room 4-T," he snapped. "Hurry."
"Room forty?" the operator asked.
"Damn it," Malone said, "I said 4-T and I meant 4-T. Four as in four
and T as in--as in China. And hurry."
"Oh," the operator said. "Yes, sir." He turned away from the screen.
"That would have been Miss Luba Ardanko's room, sir?" he said.
"Right," Malone snapped. "I ... wait a minute. Would have been?"
"That's correct, sir," the operator said. "She checked out, sir, early
this morning. The room is unoccupied."
Malone swallowed hard. It was all true, then. Sir Lewis' note hadn't
simply been one last wave of the red cape before an angry bull. Luba
was one of them.
_Miss Ardanko_, he corrected himself savagely.
"What time?" he said.
The operator consulted an information board before him. "Approximately
one o'clock, sir," he said.
"In the morning?"
"Yes, sir," the clerk said.
Malone closed his eyes. "Thanks," he said.
"You're quite welcome, sir," the operator said. "A courtesy of the
Great Universal Ho--"
Malone cut him off. "Ho, indeed," he said bitterly. "Not to mention ha
and hee--hee and yippe-ki-yay. A great life." He whisked himself back
to New York in a dismal, rainy state of mind. As he sat down again to
the books and papers the door to the room opened.
"You still here?" the agent-in-charge said. "I'm just going off duty
and I came by to check. Don't you ever sleep?"
"I'm on vacation, remember?"
"Some vacation," the a-in-c said. "If you're on special assignment why
not tell the rest of us?"
"I want it to be a surprise," Malone said. "And meantime, I'd
appreciate it if I were left entirely to my own devices."
"Still conjuring up ghosts?" the a-in-c said.
"That," Malone said, "I don't know. I've got some long-distance calls
to make."
* * * * *
He started with the overseas calls, leaving the rest of the United
States time for the sun to get round to them. His first call, which
involved a lot of cursing on Malone's part and much hard work for the
operator, who claimed plaintively that she didn't know how things had
gotten so snarled up, but overseas calls were getting worse and worse,
went to New Scotland Yard in London. After great difficulty, Malone
managed to get Assistant Commissioner C. E. Teal, who promised to
check on the inquiry at once.
It seemed like years before he called back, and Malone leaped to the
phone.
"Yes?" he said.
Teal, red-faced and apparently masticating a stick of gum, said: "I
got C. I. D. Commander Gideon to follow up on that matter, Mr. Malone.
As you know, it's after noon here--"
"And they're all out to lunch," Malone said.
"As a matter of fact," Teal went on, "they seem to have disappeared
entirely. On vacation, that sort of thing. It is rather difficult
attempting any full-scale tracing job just now; our men are terribly
overworked. I imagine you've had reports from the New Scotland Yard
representatives working with you there--"
"Oh, certainly," Malone said. "But the hour; what does that have to do
with anything?"
"I'm afraid I was thinking of our Inspector Ottermole," Teal said. "He
was sent to locate Dr. Carnacki, President of the Psychical Research