Supermind
real name was Rose Thompson, and that she had only been alive for
sixty-five years or so. For most of that time, she had been insane.
For all of that time, however, she had been a genuine telepath. She
had been discovered during the course of Malone’s first psionic case,
and by now she had even learned to teleport by “reading” the process
in Malone’s mind.
“Good afternoon, Sir Kenneth,” she said in a regal, kindly voice. She
was mad, he knew, but her delusion was nicely kept within bounds. All
of her bright world hinged on the single fact that she was unshakably
certain of her royalty. As long as the FBI catered to that notion—which
included a Royal dwelling for her in Yucca Flats, and the privilege of
occasionally knighting FBI agents who had pleased her unpredictable
fancy—she was perfectly rational on all other points. She co-operated
with Dr. O’Connor and with the FBI in the investigation of her psionic
powers, and she had given her Royal word not to teleport except at
Malone’s personal request.
“I’d like to talk to you,” Malone said, “Your Majesty.”
There was an odd note in the Queen’s voice, and an odd, haunted
expression on her face. “I’ve been hoping you’d ask me to come,” she
said.
“I had a hunch you were following me telepathically,” Malone said.
“Can you give me any help?”
“I—I really don’t know,” she said. “It’s something new, and something
disturbing. I’ve never come across anything like it before.”
“Like what?” Malone asked.
“It’s the—” She made a gesture that conveyed nothing at all to
Malone. “The—the static,” she said at last.
Malone blinked. “Static?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re not telepathic, so I can’t tell you what it’s
really like. But—well, Sir Kenneth, have you ever seen disturbance on
a TV screen, when there’s some powerful electric output nearby? The
bright, senseless snowstorms, the meaningless hash?”
“Sure,” Malone said.
“It’s like that,” she said. “It’s a sudden, meaningless, disturbing
blare of telepathic energy.”
The telephone rang once. Malone ignored it.
“What’s causing these disturbances?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, Sir Kenneth. I don’t know,” she
said. “I can’t pick up a person’s mind over a distance unless I know
him, and I can’t see what’s causing this at all. It’s—frankly, Sir
Kenneth, it’s rather terrifying.”
The phone rang again.
“How long have you been experiencing this disturbance?” Malone asked.
He looked at the phone.
“The telephone isn’t important,” Her Majesty said. “It’s only Sir
Thomas, calling to tell you he’s arrested three spies, and that
doesn’t matter at all.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Not at all,” Her Majesty said. “What does matter is that I’ve only
been picking up these flashes since you were assigned to this new
case, Sir Kenneth. And....” She paused.
“Well?” Malone said.
“And they only appear,” Her Majesty said, “when I’m tuned to _your_
mind!”
5
Malone stared. He tried to say something but he couldn’t find any
words. The telephone rang again and he pushed the switch with a sense
of relief. The beard-fringed face of Thomas Boyd appeared on the
screen.
“You’re getting hard to find,” Boyd said. “I think you’re letting fame
and fortune go to your head.”
“I left word at the office that I was coming here,” Malone said
aggrievedly.
“Sure you did,” Boyd said. “How do you think I found you? Am I
telepathic? Do I have strange powers?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Malone said. “Now, about those
spies—”
“See what I mean?” Boyd said. “How did you know?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” Malone murmured. “But what about them?”
“Well,” Boyd said, “we picked up two men working in the Senate Office
Building, and another one working for the State Department.”
“And they are spies?” Malone said. “Real spies?”
“Oh, they’re real enough,” Boyd said. “We’ve known about ’em for
years, and I finally decided to pick them up for questioning. God
knows, but maybe they have something to do with all this mess that’s
bothering everybody.”
“You haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” Malone said. “Mess is
hardly the word.”
Boyd snorted. “You go on getting yourself confused,” he said, “while
some of us do the real work. After all—”
“Never mind the insults,” Malone said. “How about the spies?”
“Well,” Boyd said, a trifle reluctantly, “they’ve been working as
janitors and maintenance men, and of course we’ve made sure they
haven’t been able to get their hands on any really valuable
information.”
“So they’ve suddenly turned into criminal masterminds,” Malone said.
“After being under careful surveillance for years.”
“Well, it’s possible,” Boyd said defensively.
“Almost anything is possible,” Malone said.
“Some things,” Boyd said carefully, “are more possible than others.”
“Thank you, Charles W. Aristotle,” Malone said. “I hope you realize
what you’ve done, picking up those three men. We might have been able
to get some good lines on them, if you’d left them where they were.”
There is an old story about a general who went on an inspection tour
of the front during World War I, and, putting his head incautiously up
out of a trench, was narrowly missed by a sniper’s bullet. He turned
to a nearby sergeant and bellowed: “Get that sniper!”
“Oh, we’ve got him spotted, sir,” the sergeant said. “He’s been there
for six days now.”
“Well, then,” the general said, “why don’t you blast him out of
there?”
“Well, sir, it’s this way,” the sergeant explained. “He’s fired about
sixty rounds since he’s been out there, and he hasn’t hit anything
yet. We’re afraid if we get rid of him they’ll put up somebody who
_can_ shoot.”
This was standard FBI policy when dealing with minor spies. A great
many had been spotted, including four in the Department of Fisheries.
But known spies are easier to keep track of than unknown ones. And, as
long as they’re allowed to think they haven’t been spotted, they may
lead the way to other spies or spy networks.
“I thought it was worth the risk,” Boyd said. “After all, if they have
something to do with the case—”
“But they don’t,” Malone said.
“Damn it,” Boyd exploded, “let me find out for myself, will you?
You’re spoiling all the fun.”
“Well, anyhow,” Malone said, “they don’t.”
“You can’t afford to take any chances,” Boyd said. “After all, when I
think about William Logan, I tell myself we’d better take care of
every lead.”
“Well,” Malone said finally, “you may be right. And then again, you
may be normally wrong.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Boyd said.
“How should I know?” Malone said. “I’m too busy to go around and
around like this. But since you’ve picked the spies up, I suppose it
won’t do any harm to find out if they know anything.”
Boyd snorted again. “Thank you,” he said, “for your kind permission.”
“I’ll be right down,” Malone said.
“I’ll be waiting,” Boyd said. “In Interrogation Room 7. You’ll
recognize me by the bullet hole in my forehead and the strange South
American poison, hitherto unknown to science, in my esophagus.”
“Very funny,” Malone said. “Don’t give up the ship.”
Boyd switched off without a word. Malone shrugged at the blank screen
and pushed his own switch. Then he turned slowly back to Her Majesty,
who was standing, waiting patiently, at the opposite side of the desk.
Interference, he thought, located around him....
“Why yes,” she said. “That’s exactly what I did say.”
Malone blinked. “Your Majesty,” he said, “would you mind terribly if I
asked you questions before you answered them? I know you can see them
in my mind, but it’s simpler for me to do things the normal way, just
now.”
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I do agree that matters are confused
enough already. Please go on.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Malone said. “Well, then. Do you mean that
_I’m_ the one causing all this mental static?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Not at all. It’s definitely coming from somewhere
else, and it’s beamed at you, or beamed around you.”
“But—”
“It’s just that I can only pick it up when I’m tuned to your mind,”
she said.
“Like now?” Malone said.
She shook her head. “Right now,” she said, “there isn’t any. It only
happens every once in awhile, every so often, and not continuously.”
“Does it happen at regular intervals?” Malone asked.
“Not as far as I’ve been able to tell,” Her Majesty said. “It just
happens, that’s all. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to
it. Except that it did start when you were assigned to this case.”
“Lovely,” Malone said. “Perfectly lovely. And what is it supposed to
mean?”
“Interference,” she said. “Static. Jumble. That’s all it means. I just
don’t know any more than that, Sir Kenneth; I’ve never experienced
anything like it in my life. It really does disturb me.”
That, Malone told himself, he could believe. It must be an experience,
he told himself, like having someone you were looking at suddenly
dissolve into a jumble of meaningless shapes and lights.
“That’s a very good analogy,” Her Majesty said. “If you’ll pardon me
speaking before you’ve voiced your thought.”
“Not at all,” Malone said. “Go right ahead.”
“Well, then,” Her Majesty said. “The analogy you use is a good one.
It’s just as disturbing and as meaningless as that.”
“And you don’t know what’s causing it?” Malone said.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Nor what the purpose of it is?” he said.
Her Majesty shook her head slowly. “Sir Kenneth,” she said, “I don’t
even know whether or not there _is_ any purpose.”
Malone sighed deeply. Nothing in the case seemed to make any sense. It
wasn’t that there were no clues, or no information for him to work
with. There were a lot of clues, and there was a lot of information.
But nothing seemed to link up with anything else. Every new fact was a
bright, shiny arrow pointing nowhere in particular.
“Well, then—” he started.
The intercom buzzed. Malone jabbed ferociously at the button. “Yes?”
he said.
“The ghosts are here,” the agent-in-charge’s voice said.
Malone blinked. “What?” he said.
“You said you were going to get some ghosts,” the agent-in-charge
said. “From the Psychical Research Society, in a couple of large
bundles. And they’re here now. Want me to exorcise ’em for you?”
“No,” Malone said wearily. “Just send them in to join the crowd. Got a
messenger?”
“I’ll send them down,” the agent-in-charge said. “About one minute.”
Malone nodded, realized the man couldn’t see him, said: “Fine,” and
switched off. He looked at his watch. A little over half an hour had
passed since he had left the Psychical Research Society offices. That,
he told himself, was efficiency.
Not that the books would mean anything, he thought. They would just
take their places at the end of the long row of meaningless,
disturbing, vicious facts that cluttered up his mind. He wasn’t an FBI
agent any more; he was a clown and a failure, and he was through. He
was going to resign and go to South Dakota and live the life of a
hermit. He would drink goat’s milk and eat old shoes or something, and
whenever another human being came near he would run away and hide.
They would call him Old Kenneth, and people would write articles for
magazines about The Twentieth Century Hermit.
And that would make him famous, he thought wearily, and the whole
circle would start all over again.
“Now, now, Sir Kenneth,” Queen Elizabeth said. “Things aren’t quite
that bad.”
“Oh, yes, they are,” Malone said. “They’re even worse.”
“I’m sure we can find an answer to all your questions,” Her Majesty
said.
“Sure,” Malone said. “Even I can find an answer. But it isn’t the
right one.”
“You can?” Her Majesty said.
“That’s right,” Malone said. “My answer is: to hell with everything.”
* * * * *