Occasion for Disaster
always wanted tobe a Miss X. It sounds exciting."
"X," Malone said at random, "marks the spot."
"Why, that's the sweetest thing that's been said to me all day," thegirl said. "I thought you could hardly talk, and here you come outwith lovely things like that. But I'll bet you say it to all thegirls."
"I have never said it to anybody before," Malone said flatly. "And Inever will again."
The girl sighed. "I'll treasure it," she said. "My one great moment.Good-by, Mr. ... Malone, isn't it?"
"Ken," Malone said. "Just call me Ken."
"And I'm Lou," the girl said. "Good-by."
An elevator arrived and Malone ducked into it. Louie? he thought.Louise? Luke? Of course, there was Sir Lewis Carter, who might becalled Lou. Was he related to the girl?
No, Malone thought wildly. Relations went by last names. There was noreason for Lou to be related to Sir Lewis. They didn't even lookalike. For instance, he had no desire whatever to make a date with SirLewis Carter, or to take him to a glittering nightclub. And the veryidea of Sir Lewis Carter sitting on the Malone lap was enough to givehim indigestion and spots before the eyes.
Sternly, he told himself to get back to business. The elevator stoppedat the lobby and he got out and started down the street, feeling thatconsideration of the Lady Known As Lou was much more pleasant. Afterall, what did he have to work with, as far as his job was concerned?
So far, two experts had told him that his theory was full of lovelylittle holes. Worse than that, they had told him that mass control ofhuman beings was impossible, as far as they knew.
And maybe it was impossible, he told himself sadly. Maybe he shouldjust junk his whole theory and think up a new one. Maybe there was nopsionics involved in the thing at all, and Boyd and O'Connor wereright.
Of course, he had a deep-seated conviction that psionics was somewhereat the root of everything, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.A lot of people had deep-seated convictions that they were beetles, orthat the world was flat. And then again, murderers often suffered as aresult of deep-seated convictions.
On the other hand, maybe he had invented a whole new psionictheory--or, at least, observed some new psionic facts. Maybe theywould call the results Maloneizing, instead of O'Connorizing. He triedto picture a man opening a door and saying: "Come out quick--Mr.Frembits is Maloneizing again."
It didn't sound very plausible. But, after all, he did have adeep-seated conviction. He tried to think of a shallow-seatedconviction, and failed. Didn't convictions ever stand up, anyhow, orlie down?
He shook his head, discovered that he was on Sixty-ninth Street, andheaded for the FBI headquarters. His convictions, he had found, weresometimes an expression of his precognitive powers; he determined toride with them, at least for a while.
By the time he came to the office of the agent-in-charge, he hadfigured out the beginnings of a new line of attack.
"How about the ghosts?" the agent-in-charge asked as he passed.
"They'll be along," Malone said. "In a big bundle, addressed to mepersonally. And don't open the bundle."
"Why not?" the agent-in-charge asked.
"Because I don't want the things to get loose and run around saying_Boo!_ to everybody," Malone said brightly, and went on.
* * * * *
He opened the door of his private office, went inside and sat down atthe desk there. He took his time about framing a thought, a single,clear, deliberate thought:
_Your Majesty, I'd like to speak to you._
He hardly had time to finish it. A flash of color appeared in theroom, just a few feet from his desk. The flash resolved itself into atiny, grandmotherly-looking woman with a corona of white hair and akindly, twinkling expression. She was dressed in the full courtcostume of the First Elizabethan period, and this was hardlysurprising to Malone. The little old lady believed, quite firmly, thatshe was Queen Elizabeth I, miraculously preserved over all thesecenturies. Malone, himself, had practically forgotten that the woman'sreal name was Rose Thompson, and that she had only been alive forsixty-five years or so. For most of that time, she had been insane.
For all of that time, however, she had been a genuine telepath. Shehad been discovered during the course of Malone's first psionic case,and by now she had even learned to teleport by "reading" the processin Malone's mind.
"Good afternoon, Sir Kenneth," she said in a regal, kindly voice. Shewas mad, he knew, but her delusion was nicely kept within bounds. Allof her bright world hinged on the single fact that she was unshakablycertain of her royalty. As long as the FBI catered to thatnotion--which included a Royal dwelling for her in Yucca Flats, andthe privilege of occasionally knighting FBI Agents who had pleased herunpredictable fancy--she was perfectly rational on all other points.She co-operated with Dr. O'Connor and with the FBI in theinvestigation of her psionic powers, and she had given her Royal wordnot to teleport except at Malone's personal request.
"I'd like to talk to you," Malone said, "Your Majesty."
There was an odd note in the Queen's voice, and an odd, hauntedexpression on her face. "I've been hoping you'd ask me to come," shesaid.
"I had a hunch you were following me telepathically," Malone said."Can you give me any help?"
"I ... I really don't know," she said. "It's something new, andsomething ... disturbing. I've never come across anything like itbefore."
"Like what?" Malone asked.
"It's the--" She made a gesture that conveyed nothing at all toMalone. "The ... the static," she said at last.
Malone blinked. "Static?" he said.
"Yes," she said. "You're not telepathic, so I can't tell you what it'sreally like. But ... well, Sir Kenneth, have you ever seen disturbanceon a TV screen, when there's some powerful electric output nearby? Thebright, senseless snowstorms, the meaningless hash?"
"Sure," Malone said.
"It's like that," she said. "It's a ... a sudden, meaningless,disturbing blare of telepathic energy."
The telephone rang once. Malone ignored it.
"What's causing these disturbances?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I don't know, Sir Kenneth. I don't know," shesaid. "I can't pick up a person's mind over a distance unless I knowhim--and I can't see what's causing this at all. It's ... frankly, SirKenneth, it's rather terrifying."
The phone rang again.
"How long have you been experiencing this disturbance?" Malone asked.He looked at the phone.
"The telephone isn't important," Her Majesty said. "It's only SirThomas, calling to tell you he's arrested three spies, and thatdoesn't matter at all."
"It doesn't?"
"Not at all," Her Majesty said. "What does matter is that I've onlybeen picking up these flashes since you were assigned to this newcase, Sir Kenneth. And--" She paused.
"Well?" Malone said.
"And they only appear," Her Majesty said, "when I'm tuned to _your_mind!"
V
Malone stared. He tried to say something but he couldn't find anywords. The telephone rang again and he pushed the switch with a senseof relief. The beard-fringed face of Thomas Boyd appeared on thescreen.
"You're getting hard to find," Boyd said. "I think you're letting fameand fortune go to your head."
"I left word at the office that I was coming here," Malone saidaggrievedly.
"Sure you did," Boyd said. "How do you think I found you? Am Itelepathic? Do I have strange powers?"
"Wouldn't surprise me in the least," Malone said. "Now, about thosespies--"
"See what I mean?" Boyd said. "How did you know?"
"Just lucky, I guess," Malone murmured. "But what about them?"
"Well," Boyd said, "we picked up two men working in the Senate OfficeBuilding, and another one working for the State Department."
"And they are spies?" Malone said. "Real spies?"
"Oh, they're real enough," Boyd said. "We've known about 'em foryears, and I finally decided to pick them up for questioning. Maybethey
have something to do with all this mess that's botheringeverybody."
"You haven't the faintest idea what you mean," Malone said. "Mess ishardly the word."
Boyd snorted. "You go on getting yourself confused," he said, "whilesome of us do the real work. After all--"
"Never mind