Supermind
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’m 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 other 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 non-telepath 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?”
“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.”
* * * * *
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
giving him instructions. It was, Malone told himself, a hell of a
life.
“Now, Malone,” Burris said, “this is a very ticklish situation. You’ve
got to handle it with great care.”
“I can see that,” Malone said apprehensively. “It certainly looks
ticklish. And unusual.”
“Well, we don’t want any trouble,” Burris said. “We have enough
trouble now.”
“Sometimes I think we have too much,” Malone said.
“That’s our job,” Burris said, looking grim.
Malone blinked. “What is?” he said.
“Having trouble,” Burris said.
There was a short silence. Malone broke it. “Anyhow,” he said, “you
feel we have enough trouble, so we’re trying to make things easy for
everybody.”
Burris nodded. “I’ve talked with the president,” he said, “and he
feels this is the best way to handle matters.”
Malone tried to imagine Burris explaining the incredible complexities
of the situation to the president, and was torn between relief that he
hadn’t been there and a curious wish to have heard the scrambled
conversation that must have taken place. “The way it seems to me,” he
said cautiously, “shipping those spies back to Russia is a worse
punishment than sending them to the federal pen.”
“Maybe it is,” Burris said. “Maybe it is. How would you feel if you
were being sent to jail?”
“Innocent,” Malone said instantly.
“But that isn’t the point,” Burris went on. “You see, Malone, we don’t
really have much damaging evidence against those spies, except for
their confessions. During all the time we were watching them, we took
care that they never did come up with anything dangerous; we weren’t
fishing for them but for their superiors, for the rest of the
network.”
“There doesn’t seem to be any more network,” Malone said. “Not in this
country, anyhow.”
“Sure,” Burris said. “We know that now, thanks to the confessions, and
to Her Majesty. But we can’t prosecute on that sort of evidence. You
know what a good defense attorney could do with unsupported
confessions—and even if we wanted to take the lid off telepathy for
the general public, it would be absolute hell bringing it into court.”
“So,” Malone said, “we can’t put them in prison, even if we want to.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Burris said hastily. “We could probably win,
even against a good defense. But they wouldn’t get much time in
prison, and we’d only end up deporting them in any case.”
Malone fished for a cigarette, lit it and blew out smoke. “So we’re
going to save the taxpayers some money,” he said. “That’ll be nice for
a change.”
“That’s right,” Burris said, beaming. “We’re going to save Federal
funds by shipping them back to their motherland now. After all, they
did take out their naturalization papers under false names, and their
declarations are chockfull of false information. So all it takes is a
court order to declare their citizenships null and void, and hand all
three of them back to the Soviets.”
“A nice, simple housecleaning,” Malone said. “All open and
above-board. And the confessions will certainly stand up in a
deportation hearing.”
“No question of it,” Burris said. “But the reason I called you here,
Malone, is that there’s still one thing bothering me.”
Malone blew out some more smoke, thought wistfully about cigars, and
said: “What? Everything seems simple enough to me.”
Burris frowned and leaned back in his chair. “It’s this notion of
yours, Malone,” he said.
“Notion?”
“About going over there,” Burris said. “Now, I can understand your
wanting some facts on Moscow, current background and all that sort of
thing. So far, everything makes sense.”
“Fine,” Malone said warily.
“But, after all, Malone,” Burris said, “we do have such a thing as the
Central Intelligence Agency. They send us reports. That’s what they’re
for. And why you want to ignore the reports and make a trip over there
to walk around and see for yourself—”
“It’s because of everything that’s happening,” Malone said.
Burris looked puzzled. “What?” he said.
“Because of all the confusion,” Malone said. “Frankly, I can’t trust
the CIA, or any other branch of the government. I’ve got to see for
myself.”
Burris considered this for a second. “It’s going to look very
peculiar,” he said.
Malone shrugged. “Everything looks peculiar,” he said. “A little more
won’t hurt anything. And if I do turn up anything we can use, the
whole trip will be worth it.”
“But sending an FBI man along with Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch
is a little strange,” Burris said. “Not to mention Her Majesty.”
“There is that,” Malone said. “I wonder what our Red friends are going
to think of the Queen.”
“God knows,” Burris said. “If they take her seriously, they’re liable
to call her some sort of capitalist deviationist.”
“And if they don’t take her seriously?” Malone said.
“Then they’re going to wonder why she’s _pretending_ to be a
capitalist deviationist,” Burris said.
Malone flicked his cigarette at an ashtray. “You can’t win,” he said.
“Frankly,” Burris said, “I wouldn’t allow Her Majesty to go along
under any circumstances—except that there is an excuse for having an
older woman around.”
“There is?” Malone said.
Burris nodded. “As a chaperone,” he said.
“Now, wait a minute,” Malone said. “Brubitsch, Borbitsch and
what’s his name don’t need a chaperone.”
“I didn’t say it was for them,” Burris said.
“Me?” Malone asked in a tone of absolute wonder. “Now, Chief, I don’t
need a chaperone. I’m a grown man. I know my way around. And the idea
of having Her Majesty along to chaperone me is going to make
everything look even stranger. After all, Chief—”
“Malone,” Burris said, in a voice of steel.
“Sorry,” Malone mumbled. “But, really, I’m not some young, innocent
girl in a Victorian novel.”
“No,” Burris said, a trifle sadly, “you’re not. But there is one going
along on the trip with the rest of you.”
“There is?” Malone said. “Who is she? Rebecca?”
“Her name’s Luba,” Burris said. “Luba Garbitsch.”
“Garbitsch’s wife?” Malone said.
Burris shook his head. “His daughter,” he said. “And don’t tell me
there isn’t any such name as Luba. I know there isn’t. But what would
you pick to go with Garbitsch?”
“Wastepaper basket,” Malone said instantly. “Grapefruit rinds. Lemon
peels. Coffee grounds.”
“Damn it, Malone,” Burris said, “this is serious.”
“Well,” Malone said, “it doesn’t sound serious. What are we doing,
deporting the entire family?”