Supermind
_There are probably a lot of ways it might work, but the simplest and
best way I can think of is this one: there’s a clearing-house sort of
set-up, and information comes in from various telepathic spies working
for the PRS, about various projected activities of the imbecile
contingent._
_And, from this information, you figure out the best time and place
for lightning to strike, and you select the kind of lightning it’s
going to be. Here it’s a misplaced letter, there some “facts” that
aren’t facts, and somewhere else a dropped package of secret records.
Somebody goofs—and is exposed._
_Maybe it works on the local-organization level. Maybe there are teams
all over the country, all ready to synchronize their minds and jab
somebody in the thought processes at just the right time, in just the
right way, as soon as they get the word. That’s one way of doing it,
maybe the best way._
_There are others, but it doesn’t really matter how that end of it
works. The important thing is that it does work._
_And, when it works, it can certainly create quite a mess. Yes-sirree,
Bob. Or Lou, as the case may be._
_I sure hope somebody’s picking all this up, because I’d hate to have
to explain it again when I get there._
_Are you there, anybody?_
Malone imagined he heard Lou’s voice. “Yes, Ken,” she said. “Yes, I’m
here.”
But, of course, there was no way for them to get through to him. They
were telepathic, but Kenneth J. Malone wasn’t he told himself sadly.
_Hello, out there_, he thought. _I hope you’ve been listening so far,
because there isn’t going to be too much more. But there are a couple
of things that still need to be cleared up. I’ve got some answers, but
there are others I’m going to need._
_There’s Russia, for instance. It does seem to me as if your teams in
Russia, whatever they’re calling themselves, are having a lot more fun
than the U. S. teams. For one thing they’ve got an easier job._
_In this country, the teams are looking for ways to get rid of the
blockheads, and there are a lot of them. In Russia, you don’t have to
get rid of the blockheads. All you have to do is clear the road for
them. And you can do that by fouling up the more intelligent people._
“Intelligent people?” he could hear Lou say.
_Intelligence doesn’t mean good sense_, Malone thought. _I don’t doubt
that the men who are maintaining Russia’s power are intelligent men—
but what they’re doing is bad for the world as a whole, in the long
run._
_So you foul them up, and leave the blockheads a clear field to run
the country into the ground. And that’s easier than fouling up the
blockheads._
_Sure it is._
_There are fewer intelligent, active people around than there are
blockheads._
_Always were._
_And maybe there always will be—but not if the PRS can help it._
_Oh, and by the way_, Malone thought. _You do know how I spotted you,
don’t you? You were tuned in then, weren’t you?_
_And I don’t mean just Lou. I mean all of you._
_In a world of blind men, the man who can see stands out. In a world
of the insane, the sane man stands out._
_And in a world where organizations are regularly being confused and
fouled up—either as whole organizations, or through your attempts to
get rid of individual members—a smooth-running, efficient
organization stands out like a sore thumb._
_Frankly, it took me longer to see it than it should have._
_But I’ve got the answer at last—the main answer. Though, as I say,
there are some others I’d like to have._
_Like, for instance, Russia. And exactly what did happen that night in
Moscow._
14
At this point Malone suddenly became aware of a sound that was not
coming from his own mind. It was coming from somewhere behind his car,
and it was a very loud sound. It was, he discovered when he looked
back, the siren of a highway patrolman on a motorcycle, coming toward
him at imminent risk of life and limb and waving frantically with an
unbelievably free hand.
Malone glanced down at the speedometer. With a sigh, he realized that
his reflexes had allowed him a little leeway, and that he was going
slightly over the legal speed limit for this Virginia highway. He
shook his head, eased up on the accelerator, and began to apply the
brakes.
By the time he had pulled over to the side of the road, the highway
patrolman was coming to a halt behind the big Lincoln. Malone watched
him check the number on the rear plate and then walk slowly around to
the window on the driver’s side. “Can’t you hurry?” Malone muttered
under his breath. “All this Virginian ease is okay in its place,
but—” In the meanwhile he was getting out his identification, and by
the time the patrolman reached him he had it in his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry?” the patrolman said, frowning. He had an open, boyish face
with freckles and a pug nose. He looked like somebody’s kid brother,
very dependable but just a little cute. “What for?” he said.
Malone shrugged. “What else?” he said. “Speeding.”
“Oh, that,” the patrolman said. “Why, don’t you worry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it?” Malone said. This particular kid brother was
obviously a little nuts, and should have been put away years ago. He
ground his teeth silently, but he didn’t make any complaints. It was
never wise, he knew, to irritate a traffic cop of any sort.
“Sure not,” the patrolman said. “Why, we don’t pay any attention out
here until a fella hits ten miles over the posted limit. That’s okay.”
“Fine,” Malone said cheerily. “Then I can drive on?”
“Now, just hold it a second there,” the patrolman said. “Let’s see
your identification if you don’t mind.”
Malone held it out wordlessly. The patrolman, obviously intent on
finding out just what kind of paper the card was made of, who had
printed it and whether there were any germs on it, gave it a long,
careful scrutiny. Malone shifted slightly in his seat, counted to ten
and managed to say nothing.
Then the patrolman started reading the card aloud. “Kenneth J.
Malone,” he said in a tone of some surprise. “Special Agent of the
FBI.” He looked up. “That right?” he said. “What it says here?”
“That’s right,” Malone said. “And you can have my autograph later.” He
regretted the last sentence as soon as it was out of his mouth, but
the patrolman didn’t seem to notice.
“Then you’re the man, all right,” he said happily. “I caught your
plate number as you went on by me, back there.”
“Plate number?” Malone said. “What am I supposed to have done?” He’d
overslept, he knew, but that was the only violation of even his
personal code that he could think of. And it didn’t seem likely that
the Virginia Highway Patrol was sending out its men to arrest people
who overslept.
“Why, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said with honest surprise written all
over his Norman Rockwell face, “as far as I know you didn’t do a thing
wrong.”
“But—”
“They just told us to be on the watch for a black 1973 Lincoln with
your number, and see if you were driving it. They did say you’d
probably be driving it.”
“Good,” Malone said. “And I am. And I’d like to continue doing so.” He
paused and then added, “But what happened?”
“Well,” the patrolman said, in exactly the manner of a man starting
out to tell a long, interesting story about the Wars of the Spanish
Succession, “well, sir, it seems FBI Headquarters in Washington, they
got in touch with the Highway Patrol Headquarters, down in Richmond,
and Highway Patrol Headquarters—”
“Down in Richmond,” Malone muttered resignedly.
“That’s right,” the patrolman said in a pleased voice. “Well, they
called all the local barracks, and then we got the message on our
radios.” He stopped, exactly as if he thought he had finished.
Malone counted to ten again, made it twenty and then found that he was
capable of speech. “What?” he said in a calm, patient voice, “was the
message about?”
“Well,” the patrolman said, “it seems some fella down in Washington,
fella name of Thomas Boyd, they said it was, wants to talk to you
pretty bad.”
“He could have called me on the car phone,” Malone said in what he
thought was a reasonable tone of voice. “He didn’t have to—”
“There’s no call for yelling at me, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said
reproachfully. “I only obeyed my orders, which were to locate your
black 1973 Lincoln and see if you were driving it, and give you a
message. That’s all.”
“It’s enough,” Malone muttered. “He didn’t have to send out the
militia to round me up.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said. “Not the militia. Highway
Patrol. We don’t rightly have any connection with the militia at all.”
“Glad to hear it,” Malone said. He picked up the receiver of the car
phone and waited for the buzz that would show that he was connected
with Communications Central in Washington.
It didn’t come.
“Oh, yes,” the patrolman said suddenly. “I suppose that’s why this Mr.
Boyd, he couldn’t call you on the car telephone, Mr. Malone. The
message we got, it also says that the fella at the FBI garage in
Washington just forgot to plug in that phone there.”
“Oh,” Malone said. “Well, thanks for telling me.”
“You’re right welcome, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said “You can plug
it in now.”
“I intend to,” Malone said through his teeth. He closed his eyes for a
long second, and then opened them again. He saw the interested face of
the patrolman looking down at him. Hurriedly, he turned away, felt
underneath the dashboard until he found the dangling plug, and
inserted it into its socket.
The buzz now arrived.
Malone heaved a great sigh and punched for Boyd’s office. Then he
looked around.
The patrolman was still standing at the car window. He was looking
down at Malone with an interested, slightly blank expression.
Malone thought of several things to say, and chose the most harmless.
“Thanks a lot,” he told the patrolman. “I appreciate your stopping off
to let me know.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said. “That was my
orders, to do that. And even if they weren’t, it was no trouble at
all. Any time. I’d always be glad to do anything for the FBI.”
“Boyd here,” a tinny voice from the phone said.
Malone eyed the patrolman sourly. “Malone here,” he said. “What’s the
trouble, Tom? I—No, wait a minute.”
“Ken!” Boyd’s voice said. “I’ve been trying to—”
“Hold it a second,” Malone said. He opened his mouth, and then he saw
a car go by. The patrolman hadn’t seen it. Malone felt sorry for the
driver, but not too sorry. “Say!” he said to the patrolman.
“Yes, sir?” the patrolman said.
“That boy was really going, wasn’t he?” Malone said. “He must have
been doing at least ninety.”
The patrolman jerked his head around to stare at the disappearing car.
“Well—” he said, and then: “Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Malone. Thanks.
I’ll see you later.” He raced for his machine, swung aboard and roared
down the road, guiding with one hand and manipulating the controls of
his radar set with the other.
Malone waved him a cheery farewell, and got back to the phone.
“Okay, Tom,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“Who was that you were talking to?” Boyd asked.
“Oh, just a motorcycle patrolman,” Malone said. “He wanted to be
helpful, so I told him to go chase a Buick.”
“Why a Buick?” Boyd said, interestedly.
“Why not?” Malone said. “There happened to be one handy at the time.
Now, what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been searching all over hell for you,” Boyd said. “I wish you’d
just leave some word where you were going, and then I wouldn’t have
to—”
“Damn it,” Malone cut in. “Tom, just tell me what you want. In
straightforward, simple language. It just took me ten minutes to pry a
few idiotic facts out of a highway patrolman. Don’t make me go through
it all over again with you.”