Part 14

“Sure it does,” Manelli said. “But there was a foul-up someplace, because the win animal was disqualified and nobody heard about it until after a lot of payoffs were made. That costs money.” He stopped. “I mean it would cost money, if it happened,” he finished.

“Sure,” Malone said. “Certainly would.”

“And you tell me it’s not the FBI?” Manelli said.

“That’s right,” Malone said. “As a matter of fact, we’re investigating things like these confusions and inefficiencies all over.”

Manelli finished his drink in one long, amazed swallow. “Now, wait a minute,” he said. “Let’s say for a joke, like, for laughs, that I am some kind of a wheel in these things, in bookies and numbers boys and like that.”

“Let’s call it a syndicate,” Malone said. “Just for laughs.”

“Okay, then,” Manelli said, with a suspicious gaze at Malone. “Whatever you call it, a man like me today, he wouldn’t be some two-bit chiseler without brains. He would be a businessman, a smooth-operating smart businessman. Right?”

“Right,” Malone said. “And what I want to know is: how’s business?”

“You’re kidding?” Manelli said.

“I’m not kidding,” Malone said. “I mean it. The FBI’s investigating mix-ups just like the ones you’re telling me about. We want to stop them.”

Manelli blinked. “You know, Mr. Malone,” he said softly, “I heard about government interference in private enterprise, but don’t you think this is a little too far out?”

Malone shrugged. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said. “Take it or leave it.”

“Just so it’s understood,” Manelli said, “that we’re talking about imaginary things. Theoretical.”

“Sure,” Malone said. “Imagine away.”

“Well,” Manelli said slowly, “you heard about this wrecked night-club in Florida? It happened maybe a month ago, in Miami?”

“I heard about it,” Malone said.

“This is just a for-instance, you know,” Manelli said. “But suppose there was a roulette wheel in that club. Just a wheel.”

“Okay,” Malone said.

“And suppose the wheel was rigged a little bit,” Manelli said. “Not seriously, just a little bit.”

“Fine,” Malone said. “This is going to explain a wrecked club?”

“Well, sure,” Manelli said. “Because something went wrong with the machinery, or maybe the operator goofed up. And number seven came up eight times in a row.”

“Good old lucky seven,” Malone said.

“So there was a riot,” Manelli said. “Because some people had money on the number, and some people got suspicious, and like that. And there was a riot.”

“And the club got wrecked,” Malone said. “That’s what I call bad luck.”

“Luck?” Manelli said. “What does luck have to do with roulette? Somebody goofed, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Malone said. “Sure.”

“And that’s the way it’s been going,” Manelli said. He puffed on his cigar, put it in a nearby ashtray, and blew out a great Vesuvian spout of smoke.

“Too bad,” Malone said sympathetically.

“It’s all over,” Manelli said. “Mistakes and people making the mistakes, goofing up here and there and everyplace. There have been guys killed because they made mistakes, and nobody can afford guys being killed all the time.”

“It does run into expense,” Malone said.

“And time, and hiring guys to do the killing, and then they goof up, too,” Manelli said. “It’s terrible. Some guys have even been killed without they made any mistakes at all. Just by accident, sort of.”

“Well,” Malone said carefully, “you can depend on the government to do everything in its power to straighten things out.”

Manelli frowned. “You mean that, Mr. Malone?”

“Of course I do,” Malone said honestly. He hadn’t, he reminded himself, promised to help Manelli. He had only promised to straighten things out. And he could figure out what that might mean later, when he had the time.

“All I say is, it’s funny,” Manelli said. “It’s crazy.”

“That’s the way it is,” Malone said.

Manelli looked at him narrowly. “Mr. Malone,” he said at last, “maybe you mean it at that. Maybe you do.”

“Sure I do,” Malone said. “After all, the government is supposed to help its citizens.”

Manelli shook his head. “Mr. Malone,” he said, “you can call me Cesare. Everybody does.”

“No, they don’t,” Malone said. “They call you Cheese. I’ve got a research staff too.”

“So call me Cheese,” Manelli said. “I don’t mind.”

“There’s only one little trouble,” Malone said. “If I called you Cheese, you’d call me Ken. And word would get around.”

“I see what you mean,” Manelli said.

“I don’t think either one of us wants his associates to think we’re friends,” Malone said.

“I guess not,” Manelli said. “It would cause uneasiness.”

“And a certain lack of confidence,” Malone said. “So suppose I go on calling you Mr. Manelli?”

“Fine,” Manelli said. “And I’ll call you Mr. Malone, like always.”

Malone smiled and stood up. “Well, then,” he said, “goodbye, Mr. Manelli.”

Manelli rose, too. “Goodbye, Mr. Malone,” he said. “And good luck, if you really mean what you said.”

“Oh, I do,” Malone said.

“Because things are terrible,” Manelli said. “And they’re getting worse every day. You should only know.”

“Don’t worry,” Malone said. “Things will be straightened out pretty soon.” He hoped, as he went out the door and down the corridor, that he was telling the truth there, at least. He’d sounded fairly confident, he thought, but he didn’t feel quite so confident. The secretary was busy on the switchboard when he came out into the anteroom, and he went by without a greeting, his mind busy, churning and confused.

He felt as if his head were on just a little crooked. Or as if, maybe, he had a small hole in it somewhere and facts were leaking out onto the sidewalk.

If he only looked at the problem in the right way, he told himself, he would see just what was going on.

But what was the right way?

“That,” Malone murmured as he hailed a cab for the ride back to 69th Street, “is the big, sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. And how much time do I have for an answer?”

11

“Boyd?” the agent-in-charge said. “He went out to talk to Mike Sand down at the ITU a while ago, and he hasn’t come back yet.”

“Fine,” Malone said. “I’ll be in my office if he wants me.”

The agent-in-charge picked up a small package. “A messenger brought this,” he said. “It’s from the Psychical Research Society, and if it’s ghosts, they’re much smaller than last time.”

“Dehydrated,” Malone said. “Just add ectoplasm and out they come, shouting _boo_ at everybody and dancing all over the world.”

“Sounds wonderful,” the agent-in-charge said. “Can I come to the party?”

“First,” Malone said judiciously, “you’d have to be dead. Of course, I can arrange that—”

“Thanks,” the agent-in-charge said, leaving in a hurry. Malone went on down to his office and opened the package. It contained more facsimiles from Sir Lewis Carter, all dealing with telepathic projection. He spent a few minutes looking them over and trying to make some connected sense out of them, and then he just sat and thought for awhile.

Finally he picked up the phone. In a few minutes he was talking to Dr. Thomas O’Connor, at Yucca Flats.

“Telepathic projection?” O’Connor said when Malone asked him the question he’d thought of. “Well, now. I should say that—no. First, Mr. Malone, tell me what evidence you have for this phenomenon.”

Malone felt almost happy, as if he had done all his homework before the instructor called on him. “According to what I’ve been able to get from the PRS,” he said, “ordinary people—people who aren’t telepaths—occasionally receive some sort of messages from other people.”

“I assume,” O’Connor said frostily, “that you are speaking of telepathic messages?”

Malone nodded guiltily. “I didn’t mean the phone,” he said, “or letters or things like that. Telepathic messages, or something very like it.”

“Indeed,” O’Connor said. “Mr. Malone, I believe you will find that such occurrences, when accurately reported, are confined to close relatives or loved ones of the person projecting the message.”

Malone thought back. “That’s right,” he said.

“And, further,” O’Connor went on, “I think you’ll find that the—ah— message so received is one indicating that the projector of such a message is in dire peril. He has, for instance, been badly injured, or is rapidly approaching death, or else he has narrowly escaped death.”

“True,” Malone said.

“Under such circumstances,” O’Connor said coldly, “it is possible that the mind of the person projecting the communication might be capable of generating immense psionic power, thereby forcing even a non-telepath to recognize the content of the message.”

“Good,” Malone said. “That’s wonderful, Doctor, and I—”

“But,” O’Connor said sharply, “the amount of psionic energy necessary for such a feat is tremendous. Usually, it is the final burst of energy, the outpouring of all the remaining psionic force immediately before death. And if death does not occur, the person is at the least greatly weakened; his mind, if it ever does recover, needs time and rest to do so.”

Malone let that sink in slowly. “Then a person couldn’t do it very often,” he said.

“Hardly,” O’Connor said.

Malone nodded. “It’s like—like giving blood to a blood bank. Giving, say, three quarts of blood. It might not kill you. But if it didn’t, you’d be weak for a long time.”

“Exactly,” O’Connor said. “A good analogy, Mr. Malone.”

Malone hated himself for it, but he felt pleased when O’Connor praised him. “Well,” he said, “that winds up Cartier Taylor’s theory pretty thoroughly.”

“I should think so,” O’Connor said. “I am surprised, Mr. Malone, that you would put any credence whatever in that man’s theories. His factual data, I will admit, is fairly reliable. But his theories are— well, they are hardly worth the time it takes to read them.”

“I see,” Malone said. “It did seem like a good answer, though.”

“It undoubtedly is a good one,” O’Connor said. “It is clever and has the advantage of being simple. It is contradicted, Mr. Malone, only by the facts.”

“Sure,” Malone said sadly. “But—hey. Wait a minute.”

“Yes?” O’Connor said.

“One person couldn’t do this alone, at least, not very often and not without serious harm to himself. Right?”

“That is what I said,” O’Connor agreed. “Yes, Mr. Malone.”

“But how about several people?” Malone said. “I mean, well, let’s look at that blood bank again. You need three quarts of blood. But one person doesn’t have to give it. Suppose twelve people gave half a pint each. Suppose twenty-four people gave a quarter of a pint each. Suppose—”

“There is,” O’Connor said, “a point of diminishing returns. But I do see your point, Mr. Malone.” He thought for a second. “It might just be possible,” he said. “At least theoretically. But it would take a great deal of mental co-ordination among the participants. They would have to be telepathic themselves, for one thing.”

“Why?” Malone said, feeling stupid.

“Because they would have to mesh their thoughts closely enough to direct them properly and at the correct time.” O’Connor nodded. “But, given that, I imagine that it could be done.”

“Wonderful,” Malone said.

“However,” O’Connor said, apparently glad to throw even a little cold water on the notion, “it could not be done for very long periods of time, you realize.”

“Sure,” Malone said happily.

“By the way, Mr. Malone,” O’Connor said. “Does this have anything to do with the hypothesis you presented to me some time ago? Mass hypnotism, as I recall—”

“No,” Malone said. “I’ve given that idea up for good. I think this is being done on an individual basis—working on one person at a time.” Then another idea hit him. “You say these people would have to be telepaths?”

“That’s right,” O’Connor said.

“Then wouldn’t Her Majesty know about them? If they’re telepaths? Or is there some kind of a mind shield or something that a telepath could work out?”

“Mind shield?” O’Connor said. “Ah, yes. Miss Thompson might be fooled by such a shield. It would have to be an exceptional one, but such things do seem to be possible. They belong to the realm of mental disciplines, of course, rather than psionics.”

“Sure,” Malone said. “But there could be that kind of shield?”

“There could,” O’Connor said. “The mind which created the shield for itself would have to be of tremendous power and a really high order of control. A strong, sane mind might conceivably create such a block that even Miss Thompson, let us say, might believe that she was picking up a real mind, when she was only picking up surface thoughts, with the real thought hidden behind the telepathic block.”

“Fine,” Malone said. “Thanks. Thanks a lot, Dr. O’Connor.”

“I am always happy to put my extensive knowledge of science at your disposal, Mr. Malone,” O’Connor said.

Malone watched the image collapse without really seeing it. Instead, he was busily talking to himself, or rather to his other self.

“Well, now, Sir Kenneth,” he said. “Let’s pull all the facts together and see what happens.”

“Indeed, Mr. Malone,” said Sir Kenneth Malone, “it is time that we did. Proceed, Sirrah. I shall attend.”

* * * * *

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Malone said. “We know there’s confusion in all parts of the country, in all parts of the world, I guess. And we know that confusion is being caused by carefully timed accidents and errors. We also know that these errors appear to be accompanied by violent bursts of psionic static—violent energy. And we know, further, that on three specific occasions, these bursts of energy were immediately followed by a reversal of policy in the mind of the person on the receiving end.”

“You mean,” Sir Kenneth put in, “that they changed their minds.”

“Correct,” Malone said. “I refer, of course, to the firm of Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch, Spying Done Cheap.”

“Indeed,” Sir Kenneth said. “Then the operators of this force, whatever it may be, have some interest in allowing these spies to confess?”

“Maybe,” Malone said. “Let’s leave that for later. To get back to the beginning of all this: it seems to me to follow that the accidents and errors which have caused all the confusion through the United States and Russia are caused by somebody’s mind being changed at exactly the right moment. A man does something just a little differently than he decided to—or else he forgets to do it at all.”

“Correct,” Sir Kenneth said. “And you feel, Mr. Malone, that a telepathic command is the cause of this confusion?”

“A series of them,” Malone said. “But we also know, from Dr. O’Connor, that it takes a great deal of psychic energy to perform this particular trick—more than a person can normally afford to expend.”

“Marry, now,” Sir Kenneth exclaimed, “such a statement does not seem to have reason in it. Changing the mind of a man seems a small thing in comparison to teleportation, or psychokinesis, or levitation. And yet it takes more power than any of these?”

Malone thought for a second. “Sure it does,” he said. “I’d say it was a matter of resistance. Moving an inanimate object is pretty simple— comparatively, anyhow—because inert matter has no mental resistance.”

“And moving yourself?” Sir Kenneth said.

“There is some resistance there, probably,” Malone said. “But you’ll remember that part of the Fueyo training system for teleportation involved overcoming your own mental resistance to the idea.”

“True,” Sir Kenneth said. “Quite true. Then let us say that it requires enormous power to effect these changes. What is our next step, Mr. Malone?”

“Next, Sir Kenneth,” Malone said, “We have to do a little supposing. This project must be handled by a fairly large group, since no individual can work it. This large group has to be telepathic, and not only for the precise timing O’Connor specified.”

“There is another reason?” Sir Kenneth said.

“There is,” Malone said. “They’ve also got to know exactly when to make their victim change his mind. Right?”

“Absolutely,” said Sir Kenneth. “Now, Sirrah, where does all this leave us? We have had the orderly presentation of the case; where, Sirrah, is your summation?”

“Coming up,” Malone said. “We’ve got to look for a widespread organization of telepaths, with enough mental discipline to hold a mental shield that Her Majesty can’t crack, and can’t even recognize the existence of. We thought she’d found all the telepaths. She said so, and she obviously thought so. But she didn’t. These are strong, trained—and sane.”

“Aha,” said Sir Kenneth.

“Her Majesty,” Malone said, “found us only the crazy telepaths, the weak ones, the nuts.”

“Fine,” said Sir Kenneth. “And this, Mr. Malone, leaves us with only one question. Her Majesty—may God bless her—stated that she first spotted these flashes of telepathic static by listening in on our minds.”

“Our mind,” Malone said. “I hope.”

“Very well,” Sir Kenneth said. “This means that some force is being 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....