Supermind
directed in this way, toward us. And how do we know that all the
deduction, all the careful case-building we have done, hasn’t been
influenced by this group? That might mean, of course, that we are
miles, or even light-years, from the solution.”
Malone said: “Yeep.” The sound was echoed by Sir Kenneth, and the two
halves of the coruscating mind of Kenneth J. Malone were once more
one.
_Your Majesty_, the minds thought, _I’d like to talk to you._
Nothing happened. Evidently, Her Majesty was temporarily out of mental
contact with him.
“Hell,” Malone said. “Not to mention od’s blood.” He flipped on the
visiphone and dialed Yucca Flats.
The figure that appeared on the screen was that of a tall,
solidly-built man with a red face and the uniform of a Beefeater. This
Tower Warder had the British royal crest embroidered on his chest, and
the letters: “E. R.”
“Good evening, Sir Kenneth,” he said politely.
Malone had sometimes wondered what it would be like to be on the
Queen’s permanent, personal staff. Evidently, it soaked in so
thoroughly that one began to stay in character all the time. The
little old lady’s delusion was such a pleasant one that it was
painlessly infectious.
“I’d like to speak to Her Majesty, Colonel Fairfax,” Malone said.
“Her Majesty,” Colonel Fairfax said with regret, “is asleep, sir. I
understand that she has had rather a trying time, of late.”
“Then I must ask you to wake her,” Malone said. “I don’t want to
disturb her any more than you do, Colonel, but this is important.”
“Her Majesty’s rest,” Colonel Fairfax said gently, “is also important,
Sir Kenneth.”
“This is more important,” Malone said. “I know how you feel, but it’s
necessary to wake her.”
The screen blanked out.
Malone sighed and began to sing softly to himself while he waited:
“The soldiers of the Queen are linked in friendly tether—
And if she’s off her bean, we’ll all go nuts together....”
Her Majesty appeared at this point, dressed in a silken robe bearing
her crest and initials (E. R., rather than R. T., of course), and
wearing a silken Mother Hubbard cap on her head. “Oh, dear,” she said
instantly. “Are you still worried about them?”
“The flashes?” Malone said. “That’s right. You tuned in on my mind
right away, didn’t you?”
“As soon as I got your message,” she said. “I like your little song,
at least, I think I do.”
Malone blushed faintly. “Sorry,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said. “After all, I do allow
my subjects a good deal of liberty; it is theirs to make use of.” She
smiled at him. “Actually, I should have told you, Sir Kenneth. But it
seemed so natural that I—that I forgot it.”
_Oh, no_, Malone thought.
“I’m afraid so,” Her Majesty said. “When I told you about the
interference, your mind quite automatically began to build what I
think of as a—as a defense against it. A shield, so to speak.”
_Me?_ Malone thought.
“Most certainly,” Her Majesty said. “You know, Sir Kenneth, you have a
very strong mind.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Malone said aloud. “Sometimes I don’t feel so
bright.”
“I’m not talking about intelligence,” Her Majesty said. “The two
properties are interconnected, of course, but they are not identical.
After all ... well, never mind. But you have strength of will, Sir
Kenneth, and strength of purpose. As a matter of fact, you have been
building your strength in the last few days.”
“Really?” Malone said, surprised.
“It’s become more and more difficult,” Her Majesty said, “to see into
the depths of your mind, during the past few days. The surface of your
mind is as easy to read as ever, but it’s hard to see what’s going on
in the depths.”
“I’m not doing it deliberately,” Malone said.
“In any case,” Her Majesty said, “this process has been going on ever
since you knew that telepathy was possible, two years ago. But in the
past forty-eight hours matters have accelerated tremendously.”
“That sounds good,” Malone said. “Does it mean these mind-changers
I’ve been thinking about can’t get through to me?”
“What mind-changers?” the Queen said. “Oh. I see.” She paused. “Well,
I can’t be positive about this, Sir Kenneth; it’s all so new, you
know. All I can tell you is that there haven’t been any flashes of
telepathic energy in your mind in the last forty-eight hours.”
“Well,” Malone said doubtfully, “that’s something. And I am sorry I
had to wake you, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, that’s perfectly all right,” she said. “I know you’re working
hard to restore order to the realm, and it is the duty of any
Sovereign to give such aid as she can to her Royal subjects.”
Malone cleared his throat. “I trust,” he said, “Your Majesty will ever
find me a faithful servant.”
Her Majesty smiled. “I’m sure I shall,” she said. “Good night, Sir
Kenneth.”
“Good night,” he said, and flipped off. At once, the phone chimed
again.
He flipped the switch on. “Malone here,” he said.
Boyd’s face appeared on the screen. “Ken,” he said fervently, “I am
very glad you’re still in town.”
“Thanks,” Malone said politely. “But what about Mike Sand? Any
information?”
“Plenty,” Boyd said. “I damn near didn’t believe it.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t believe it?” Malone said. “Isn’t the
information any good?”
“It’s good, all right,” Boyd said. “It’s great. He practically talked
his head off to me. Gave me all his books, including secret sets. And
I’ve put him under arrest as a material witness—at his own request.”
“It sounds,” Malone said, “as if Mike Sand has had a sudden and
surprising change of heart.”
“Doesn’t it, though,” Boyd said. “We can crack the ITU wide open now,
and I mean really wide open.”
“Same pattern?” Malone said.
“Of course it is,” Boyd said. “What does it sound like? Same pattern.”
“Good,” Malone said. “Get on up here. I’ll talk to you later.”
He cut off in a hurry, leaned back in his chair and started to think.
At first, he thought of a cigar. Boyd, he figured, couldn’t be back in
the office for some time, and nobody else would come in. He locked the
door, drew out the cigar-laden box he kept in his desk in New York,
and lit up with great satisfaction.
When the cloud of smoke around his head was dense enough to cut with a
knife, he went back to more serious subjects. He didn’t have to worry
too much about his mind being spied on; if Her Majesty couldn’t read
his deepest thoughts, and the mind-changers weren’t throwing any bolts
of static in his direction, he was safe.
Now, then, he told himself—and sneezed.
He shook his head, cursed slightly, and went on.
Now, then....
There was an organization, spread all over the Western world, and with
secret branches, evidently, in the Soviet Union. The organization had
to be an old one, because it had to have trained telepaths of such a
high degree of efficiency that they could evade Her Majesty’s probing
without her even being aware of the evasion. And training took time.
There was something else to consider, too. In order to organize to
such a degree that they could wreak the efficient, complete havoc they
were wreaking, the organization couldn’t be completely secret; there
are always leaks, always suspicious events, and a secret society that
covered all of those up would have no time for anything else.
So the organization had to be a known one, a known group, masquerading
as something else.
So far, everything made sense. Malone took another deep, grateful puff
on the cigar, and frowned. Where, he wondered, did he go from here?
He reached for a pencil and a piece of paper. He 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 just a little like Frankenstein’s Monster, so far. But what
else did he know about it?
After a second’s thought, he murmured: “Nothing,” and took another
puff.
But that 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 cooperative people, who could work together as a
unit without in the least impairing their own individuality.
He reached for the list again, put down:
4. Efficient
And looked at it. Now it didn’t remind him quite so much of the
Monster. But it didn’t look familiar, either. Who did he know, he
thought, who was large, old, disguised and efficient?
It sounded like an improbable combination. He set the list down again,
clearing off some of the papers the PRS had sent him to make room for
it.
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 tossed the cigar in the general direction of the ashtray, grabbed
the phone and jabbed at buttons.
The girl who answered the phone looked familiar. She did not look very
old, but she was large and she had to be disguised, Malone thought.
Nobody could naturally have that many teeth.
“Psychical Research Society,” she said. “Oh, Mr. Malone, good
evening.”
“Sir Lewis,” Malone said. “Sir Lewis Carter. President. I want to talk
to him. Hurry.”
“Sir Lewis?” the girl said slowly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Malone, but the
office is closed now for the day. And Sir Lewis has gone already. It’s
after six o’clock, Mr. Malone, and the office is closed.”
“Home number,” Malone said desperately. “I’ve got to.”
“Well, I can do that, Mr. Malone,” she said, “but it wouldn’t do you
any good, really. Because he went away on his vacation, and when he
goes on his vacation he never tells us where. You know? He won’t be
back for two or three weeks.”
“Oog,” Malone said, and thought for less than a second. “Miss
Garbitsch,” he said. “Lou. Got to talk to her. Now.”
“Oh, I can’t do that, either, Mr. Malone,” the toothy girl said. “All
of the executive officers, they left already on their vacation. And
that includes Miss Garbitsch, too. They just left a skeleton force
here at the office.”
“They’re all gone?” Malone said hollowly.
“That’s right,” she said cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, I’m in
charge now, and that’s why I’m staying so late. To sort of catch up on
things. You know?”
“It’s very important,” Malone said tensely. “You don’t know where any
of them went? You don’t have any address?”
“None at all,” she said. “I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. Maybe it’s
strange, and maybe you’d ask questions, but I obey orders, and
those’re my orders. To take over until they get back. They didn’t tell
me where they went, and I didn’t ask.”
“Great,” Malone said. He wanted to shoot himself.
Lou was one of them. Of course she was; that was obvious now, when he
thought about it. Lou was one of the secret group that was sabotaging
practically everything.
And now they’d all gone. For two weeks—or for good.
The girl’s 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.
“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 to you.”
Malone waited tensely. The girl found a slip of paper, blinked at it
and read:
“My dear Malone, I’m afraid you are perfectly correct in your
deductions; and, as you can see, that leaves us no alternative. Sorry.
Miss G. sends her apologies to you, as do I.” 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 bleakly. “It means entirely too
much.”
12
After the great mass of teeth, vaguely surrounded by a face, had faded