Supermind
“In that case,” Boyd said, “I suggest lots and lots of prayers.”
Her Majesty looked up. “That’s a fine idea,” she said.
“But God helps those,” Malone said, “who help themselves. And we’re
going to help ourselves. Mostly with facts.”
“All right,” Boyd said. “So far, all the facts have been a great
help.”
“Well, here’s one,” Malone said. “We got one flash each from
Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch while we were questioning them. And
in each case, that flash occurred just before they started to blab
everything they knew. Before the flash, they weren’t talking. They
were behaving just like good spies and keeping their mouths shut.
After the flash, they couldn’t talk fast enough.”
“That’s true,” Boyd said reflectively. “They did seem to give up
pretty fast, even for amateurs.”
Malone nodded. “So the question is this,” he said. “Just what happens
during those crazy bursts of static?”
He looked expectantly at Her Majesty, but she shook her head sadly. “I
don’t know,” she said. “I simply don’t know. It’s just noise to me,
meaningless noise.” She put her hands slowly over her face. “People
shouldn’t do things like that to their Sovereign,” she said in a
muffled voice.
Malone got up and went over to her. She wasn’t crying, but she wasn’t
far from it. He put an arm around her thin shoulders. “Now, look, Your
Majesty,” he said in gentle tones, “this will all clear up. We’ll find
out what’s going on, and we’ll find a way to put a stop to it.”
“Sure we will,” Boyd said. “After all, Your Majesty, Sir Kenneth and I
will work hard on this.”
“And the Queen’s own FBI,” Malone said, “won’t stop until we’ve
finished with this whole affair, once and for all.”
Her Majesty brought her hands down from her face, very slowly. She was
forcing a smile, but it didn’t look too well. “I know you won’t fail
your Queen,” she said. “You two have always been the most loyal of my
subjects.”
“We’ll work hard,” Malone said. “No matter how long it takes.”
“Because, after all,” Boyd said in a musing, thoughtful tone, “it is a
serious crime, you know.”
The words seemed to have an effect on Her Majesty, like a tonic. For a
second her face wore an expression of Royal anger and indignance, and
the accustomed strength flowed back into her aged voice. “You’re quite
correct, Sir Thomas!” she said. “The security of the Throne and the
Crown are at stake!”
Malone blinked. “What?” he said. “Are you two talking about something?
What crime is this?”
“An extremely serious one,” Boyd said in a grave voice. He rose
unsteadily to his feet, planted them firmly on the carpet, and
frowned.
“Go on,” Malone said, fascinated. Her Majesty was watching Boyd with
an intent expression.
“The crime,” Boyd said, “the very serious crime involved, is that of
Threatening the Welfare of the Queen. The criminal has committed the
crime of Causing the Said Sovereign, Baselessly, Reasonlessly and
Without Consent or Let, to Be in a State of Apprehension for Her Life
or Her Well-Being. And this crime—”
“Aha,” Malone said. “I’ve got it. The crime is—”
“High treason,” Boyd intoned.
“High treason,” Her Majesty said with satisfaction and fire in her
voice.
“Very high treason,” Malone said. “Extremely high.”
“Stratospheric,” Boyd agreed. “That is, of course,” he added, “if the
perpetrators of this dastardly crime are Her Majesty’s subjects.”
“My goodness,” the Queen said. “I never thought of that. Suppose
they’re not?”
“Then,” Malone said in his most vibrant voice, “it is an Act of War.”
“Steps,” Boyd said, “must be taken.”
“We must do our utmost,” Malone said. “Sir Thomas—”
“Yes, Sir Kenneth?” Boyd said.
“This task requires our most fervent dedication,” Malone said. “Please
come with me.”
He went to the desk. Boyd followed him, walking straight-backed and
tall. Malone bent and removed from a drawer of the desk a bottle of
bourbon. He closed the drawer, poured some bourbon into two handy
water-glasses from the desk, and capped the bottle. He handed one of
the water-glasses to Boyd, and raised the other one aloft.
“Sir Thomas,” Malone said, “I give you Her Majesty, the Queen!”
“To the Queen!” Boyd echoed.
They downed their drinks and turned, as one man, to hurl the glasses
into the wastebasket.
In thinking it over later, Malone realized that he hadn’t considered
anything about that moment silly at all. Of course, an outsider might
have been slightly surprised at the sequence of events, but Malone was
no outsider. And, after all, it was the proper way to treat a Queen,
wasn’t it?
And....
When Malone had first met Her Majesty, he had wondered why, although
she could obviously read minds, and so knew perfectly well that
neither Malone nor Boyd believed she was Queen Elizabeth I, she
insisted on an outward show of respect and dedication. He’d asked her
about it at last, and her reply had been simple, reasonable and to the
point.
According to her—and Malone didn’t doubt it for an instant—most
people simply didn’t think their superiors were all they claimed to
be. But they acted as if they did, at least while in the presence of
those superiors. It was a common fiction, a sort of handy oil on the
wheels of social intercourse.
And all Her Majesty had ever insisted on was the same sort of
treatment.
“Bless you,” she’d said, “I can’t help the way you _think_, but, as
Queen, I do have some control over the way you _act_.”
The funny thing, as far as Malone was concerned, was that the two
parts of his personality were becoming more and more alike. He didn’t
actually believe that Her Majesty was Queen Elizabeth I, and he hoped
fervently that he never would. But he did have a great deal of respect
for her, and more affection than he had believed possible at first.
She was the grandmother Malone had never known; she was good, and
kind, and he wanted to keep her happy and contented. There had been
nothing at all phony in the solemn toast he had proposed, nor in the
righteous indignation he had felt against anyone who was giving Her
Majesty even a minute’s worth of discomfort.
And Boyd, surprisingly enough, seemed to feel the same way. Malone
felt good about that; Her Majesty needed all the loyal supporters she
could get.
But all of this was later. At the time, Malone was doing nothing
except what came naturally. Nor, apparently, was Boyd. After the
glasses had been thrown, with a terrifying crash, into the metal
wastebasket, and the reverberations of that second had stopped ringing
in their ears, a moment of silence had followed.
Then Boyd turned, briskly rubbing his hands. “All right,” he said.
“Let’s get back to work.”
Malone looked at the proud, happy look on Her Majesty’s face; he saw
the glimmer of a tear in the corner of each eye. But he gave no
indication that he had noticed anything at all out of the ordinary.
“Fine,” he said. “Now, getting on back to the facts, we’ve established
something, anyhow. Some agency is causing flashes of telepathic static
all over the place. And those flashes are somehow connected with the
confusion that’s going on all around us. Somehow, these flashes have
an effect on the minds of people.”
“And we know at least one manifestation of that effect,” Boyd said.
“It makes spies blab all their secrets when they’re exposed to it.”
“These three spies, anyhow,” Malone said.
“If spies is the right word,” Boyd said.
“Okay,” Malone said. “And now we’ve got another obvious question.”
“It seems to me we’ve got about twelve,” Boyd said.
“I mean, who’s doing it?” Malone said. “Who is causing these
telepathic flashes?”
“Maybe it’s just happening,” Boyd said. “Out of thin air.”
“Maybe,” Malone said. “But let’s go on the assumption that there’s a
human cause. The other way, we can’t do a thing except sit back and
watch the world go to hell.”
Boyd nodded. “It doesn’t seem to be the Russians,” he said. “Although,
of course, it might be a Red herring.”
“What do you mean?” Malone said.
“Well,” Boyd said, “they might have known we were on to Brubitsch,
Borbitsch and Garbitsch—” He stopped. “You know,” he said, “every
time I say that name I have to reassure myself that we’re not all
walking around in the world of Florenz Ziegfeld.”
“Likewise,” Malone said. “But go on.”
“Sure,” Boyd said. “Anyhow, they might have set the three of them up
as patsies, just in case we stumbled on to this mess. We can’t
overlook this possibility.”
“Right,” Malone said. “It’s faint, but it is a possibility. In other
words, the agency behind the flashes might be Russian, and it might
not be Russian.”
“That clears that up nicely,” Boyd said. “Next question?”
“The next one,” Malone said grimly, “is, what’s behind the flashes?
Some sort of psionic power is causing them, that much is obvious.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Boyd said. “I have to go along with it. But
don’t think I like it.”
“Nobody likes it,” Malone said. “But let’s go on. O’Connor isn’t any
help; he washes his hands of the whole business.”
“Lucky man,” Boyd said.
“He says that it can’t be happening,” Malone said, “and if it is we’re
all screwy. Now, right or wrong, that isn’t an opinion that gives us
any handle to work with.”
“No,” Boyd said reflectively. “A certain amount of comfort, to be
sure, but no handles.”
“Sir Lewis Carter, on the other hand—” Malone said. He fumbled
through some of the piles of paper until he had located the ones the
president of the Psychical Research Society had sent. “Sir Lewis
Carter,” he went on, “does seem to be doing some pretty good work. At
least, some of the more modern stuff he sent over looks pretty solid.
They’ve been doing quite a bit of research into the subject, and their
theories seem to be all right, or nearly all right, to me. Of course,
I’m not an expert.”
“Who is?” Boyd said. “Except for O’Connor, of course.”
“Well, somebody is,” Malone said. “Whoever’s doing all this, for
instance. And the theories do seem okay. In most cases, for instance,
they agree with O’Connor’s work, though they’re not in complete
agreement.”
“I should think so,” Boyd said. “O’Connor wouldn’t recognize an astral
plane if TWA were putting them into service.”
“I don’t mean that sort of thing,” Malone said. “There’s lots about
astral bodies and ghosts, ectoplasm, Transcendental Yoga, theosophy,
deros, the Great Pyramid, Atlantis, Mu, norns, and other such
ridiculous pets. That’s just silly, as far as I can see. But what they
have to say about parapsychology and psionics as such does seem to be
reasonably accurate.”
“I suppose so,” Boyd said tiredly.
“Okay, 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