Occasion for Disaster

made his farewells and then teleported himself from theJustice Department Building back to his own apartment. There, slowlyand sadly, he began to pack. He hadn't yet decided just where he _was_going, but that was a minor detail. The important thing was that hewas going. If the Director of the FBI tells you that you need a restcure, Malone thought, you do not argue with him. Argument may resultin your vacation being extended indefinitely. And that is not a goodthing.

  Of course, such a "vacation" wouldn't be the end of the world. Notquite. He could even beat Burris to the gun, hand in his resignationand go into private practice as a lawyer. The name of Malone, he toldhimself proudly, had not been entirely forgotten in Chicago, by anymeans. But he didn't feel happy about the idea. He knew, perfectlywell, that he didn't want to live by trading on his father'sreputation. And besides, he _liked_ being an FBI agent. It hadglamour. It had standing.

  It had everything. It even had trouble.

  Malone caught his whirling mind and forced it back to a landing.Where, he asked himself, was he going?

  He thought about that for a second. Perhaps, as Burris had apparentlysuspected, he was going nuts. When he considered it, it even soundedlike a good possibility.

  After all, what evidence _did_ he have for his psionic theory? HerMajesty had told him about those peculiar bursts of metal energy,true. But there wasn't anything else. And, come to think of it, wasn'tit possible that Her Majesty had slipped just a little off the trolleyof her one-track psychosis?

  At that thought a quick wave of guilt swept through him. Her Majesty,after all, might be reading his mind from Yucca Flats, where she hadreturned the previous night, right at that moment. He felt as if hehad committed high, middle and low treason all in one great bigpackage, not to mention Jack and the Game, he added disconsolately.

  "Nevertheless," he muttered, and stopped. He blinked and started overagain. In spite of all that, he told himself, the Burris Theorycertainly looked a lot sounder when you considered it objectively.

  The big question was whether or not he _wanted_ to consider itobjectively. But he put this aside for the future, and continuedpacking slowly and carefully. When at last he snapped shut the lastsuitcase, he still hadn't made up his mind as to the best spot for avacation. Images tumbled through his brain: mountains, seacoasts,beaches, beautiful native girls and even a few insane asylums. Butnothing definite appeared. He sat down in his favorite easychair,found a cigar and lit it, and luxuriated in the soothing fumes whilehis mind began to wander.

  Her Majesty, he was quite certain, wouldn't lie purposely. Granted,she had misled him now and again, but even when she felt misleadingnecessary she hadn't lied; she had merely juggled the truth a little.And Malone was sure she would continue to tell him the truth as sheknew it.

  Of course, that was the stopper: _as she knew it_. And she might havedeveloped another delusion. In which case, he thought sadly, Burriswas very probably right.

  But she might also be telling the actual truth. And that meant, Malonethought, that little pops of energy were occasionally bursting invarious minds. These little pops had an effect, or an apparent effect:they made people change their minds about doing one thing or another.

  And that meant--Malone stopped, his cigar halfway to his mouth.

  _Wasn't it possible that just such a burst of energy had made Burriscall him off the case?_

  It seemed like a long time before the cigar reached his mouth. Malonefelt slightly appalled. The flashes that had been going on in his ownmind had already been bothering him, and he'd decided that he'd haveto check every decision he made to be sure that it was not capricious;now he made a resolve that he'd kept his mental faculties on aperpetual watch for that sort of interference. Of course, it was morethan barely possible that he wouldn't notice it if anything happened.But it would be pretty stupid to succumb to that sort of defeatismnow, he told himself grimly.

  Now that everything was narrowing down so nicely, anyhow, he thought.There were only two real possibilities. Malone numbered them in hismind:

  1. Her Majesty has developed a new delusion. In this case, he thought,Burris was perfectly right. I can enjoy a month of free vacation.

  2. Her Majesty is no nuttier than before. If this is the case, hethought, then there's more to the case than has appeared, and KennethJ. Malone, with or without the FBI, is going to get to the bottom ofit.

  Therefore, he summed up, everything now hinged on whether or not HerMajesty was unhinged.

  That was confusing, but he managed to straighten it out after asecond. He put his half-smoked cigar carefully in an ashtray and stoodup. He went over to the phone and dialed the special unlisted numberof the FBI.

  The face that appeared was faintly sallow and looked sad. "Pelhamhere," it said in the tones of a discouraged horse.

  "Hello, Pelham," Malone said. "Kenneth Malone here."

  "Trouble?" Pelham said. It was obvious that he expected trouble, andalways had, and probably always would.

  "Nope," Malone said. Pelham looked even sadder. "Just checking out forvacation. You can tell the Chief I'm going to take off for Las Vegas.I'm taking his advice, tell him; I'm going to carouse and throw mymoney away and look at dancing girls and smoke and drink and stay outlate. I'll let the local office know where I'm staying when I getthere, just in case something comes up."

  "O.K.," Pelham said unhappily. "I'll check you out." He tried a smile,but it looked more like the blank expression on the face of a localcorpse. "Have fun," he said.

  "Thanks," Malone said. "I'll try."

  But his precognitive sense suddenly rose up on its hind legs as hebroke the connection. The attempt to have fun, it told him in nouncertain terms, was going to be a morbid failure.

  "Nevertheless," Malone muttered, heaved a great sigh, and started forthe suitcase and the door.

  VIII

  The Great Universal was not the tops in every field. Not by a longshot. As Las Vegas resorts went, as a matter of fact, almost any ofthem could outdo the Great Universal in one respect or another. TheGolden Palace, for instance, had much gaudier gaming rooms. TheMoonbeam had a louder orchestra. The Barbary Coast and the RingingWelkin both had more slot machines, and it was undeniable that theFlower of the West had fatter and pinker dancing girls. The Red Hot,the Last Fling and the Double Star all boasted more waiters and morefamous guests per square foot of breathable air.

  But the Great Universal, in sheer size, volume of business andelegance of surroundings, outdid any three of the others combined. Itstood grandly alone at the edge of the Strip, the grandiloquent LasVegas version of Broadway or Hollywood Boulevard. It had a centralTower that climbed thirty stories into the clean desert air, and theTower was surrounded by a quarter of a square mile of single-levelstructures. At the base, the building spread out for five hundred feetin every direction, and beyond that were the clusters of individualcabins interlaced by walks, small parks, an occasional pool, and a fewlittle groves of trees "for privacy and the feeling of oneness withNature," the brochure said. But the brochure didn't even do justice tothe place. Nothing could have except the popping eyes of the thousandof tourists who saw the Great Universal every month. And they wereusually in no condition to sit down and talk calmly about it.

  Around the entire collection of buildings rose a wall that fitted thearchitectural style of the place perfectly. A Hollywood writer out fora three-day bender had called it "Futuristic Mediaeval," since itseemed to be a set-designer's notion of Camelot combined with aTwenty-fifth Century city as imagined by Frank R. Paul. It hadEgyptian designs on it, but no one knew exactly why. On the otherhand, of course, there was no real reason why not.

  That was not the only decoration. Emblazoned on the Tower, in hugeletters of evershifting color, was a glowing sign larger than the eyecould believe. The sign proclaimed through daylight and the darkestnight: Great Universal Hotel. Malone had no doubts about it.

  There was a running argument as to whether or not the Great Universalwas actually on the Strip. Certainly the original extent of the
Stripdidn't include it. But the Strip itself had been spreading Westward ata slow but steady pace for two decades, and the only imaginablestopping-point was the California border.

  Malone had taken a taxi from the airfield, and had supplied himselfwith silver dollars there. He gave the cabbie one of them and addedanother when the man's expression showed real pain. Still unhappy butlooking a little less like a figure out of the Great Depression, thecabbie gunned his machine away, leaving Malone standing in the carportsurrounded by suitcases and bags of all sizes and weights.

  A robot redcap came gliding along. Inevitably, it was gilded, andlooked absolutely brand new. Behind it, a chunky little man withbright eyes waved at Malone. "Reserved here?" he said.

  "That's right," Malone said. "The name is Malone."

  The redcap's escort shrugged. "I don't care if the name is Jack theRipper," he said. "Just reservations, that's all I care."

  Malone watched the luggage being stowed away, and followed after theredcap and its escort with mixed feelings. Las Vegas glittered likemad, but the two inhabitants he had met so far seemed a little dim.However, he told himself, better things might turn up.

  Better things did, almost immediately. In the great lobby of theTower, guests were lounging about in little groups. Many of the guestswere dressed in tuxedos, others in sport shirts and slacks. Quite anumber were wearing dresses, skirt-and-blouse combinations or eveninggowns, and Malone paid most of his attention to these.

  New York, Washington and even Chicago had nothing to match them, hethought dazedly. They were magnificent, and almost frightening intheir absolute beauty. Malone however, was not easily daunted. Hefollowed a snappily-dressed bellman to the registration desk while hisrobot purred gently after him. First things first, he thought--butmaking friends with the other guests definitely came up number two. Orthree, anyhow, he amended sadly.

  He signed his own name to the register, but didn't add: "FederalBureau of Investigation" after it. After all, he thought, he was thereunofficially. And even though gambling was perfectly legal in Nevada,the thought of the FBI still made many of the club owners just theleast little bit nervous. Instead, Malone gave a Chicago firm as hisbusiness address--one which the FBI used as a cover for just suchpurposes.

  The clerk looked at him politely and blankly. "A room in the Tower,sir?" he said.

  Malone shook his head. "Ground floor," he said. "But not too far fromthe Tower. I get airsick easily."

  The clerk gave Malone a large laugh, which made him uncomfortable anda little angry. The joke hadn't been all that good, he thought. Ifhe'd ordered a top-price room he could understand the hospitality, butthe most expensive rooms were in the Tower, with the outside cabinsrunning a close second. The other rooms dropped in price as theyapproached the periphery of the main building.

  "A humorist, sir?" the clerk said.

  "Not at all," Malone said pleasantly, wishing he'd signed with hisfull occupation and address. "I'm a gravedigger. Business has beenvery good this year."

  The clerk, apparently undecided as to whether or not to offercongratulations, settled for consulting his registry and then stabbingat a button on a huge and complex board at his right. A key slid outof a slot and the clerk handed it to Malone with a rather strainedsmile. "10-Q," he said.

  "You're very welcome," Malone said in his most unctuous tones. He tookthe key.

  The clerk blinked. "The bellman will take you to your rooms, sir," hesaid in a good imitation of his original voice. "There are maps of thebuilding at intervals along the halls, and if you find that you havebecome lost you have only to ask one of the hall guides to show youthe proper directions."

  "My, my," Malone said.

  The clerk cleared his throat. "If you wish to use one of the cars," hewent on in a slightly more unsteady voice, "simply insert your key inthe slot beneath one of the wall maps, and a car will be at yourservice."

  Malone shook his head and gave a deep sigh. "What," he said, "willthey think of next?"

  * * * * *

  Satisfied with that for an exit line, he turned and found that thebellman had already taken his luggage from the robot redcap and put itaboard a small electric car. Malone got in beside him and the bellmanstarted the vehicle down the hallway. It rolled along on soft, silenttires. It, too, was gilded. It didn't move very fast, Malone thought,but it certainly beat walking.

  Each hallway which radiated out from the central section beneath theTower was built like a small-edition city street. The little carsscooted up and down the two center lanes while pedestrians, poorbenighted souls, kept to the side walkways. Every so often Malone sawone, walking along the raised walkway and holding the rail along theoutside that was meant to keep guests of every stage of drunkennessfrom falling into the road. At the intersections, small,Japanese-style bridges crossed over the roadway. On these, Malone sawuniformed men standing motionless, one to a bridge. They all lookedidentical, and each one had a small gold stripe sewn to the chest ofthe red uniform. Malone read the letters on the stripe as they passedthe third man. It said: _Guide_.

  "Now, you live in Q-wing, sir," the bellman was saying in a nasal, butrather pleasant voice as Malone looked away. "You're not far from theTower Lobby, so you won't have a lot to remember. It's not like livingalong, say, the D-E Passageway out near 20 or 23."

  "I'm sure it isn't," Malone said politely.

  "No," the bellman said, "you got it simple. This here is Q-Yellow--seethe yellow stripe on the wall?"

  Malone looked. There was a yellow stripe on the wall. "I see it," hesaid.

  "So all you got to do," the bellman said, "is follow Q-Yellow to theTower Lobby." He acted as if he had demonstrated a Euclideanproposition flawlessly. "Got it?" he asked.

  "Very simple," Malone said.

  "O.K.," the bellman said. "Now, the gaming rooms--"

  Malone listened with about a fifth of an ear while the bellman went onspinning out incredibly complex directions for getting around in thequasi-city that was the Great Universal. At one point he thought hecaught the man saying that an elephant ramp took guests past theresplendent glass rest rooms to the roots of the roulette wheel, butthat didn't sound even remotely plausible when he considered it. Atlast the bellman announced:

  "Here we are, sir. Right to your door. A courtesy of the friendlyGreat Universal Hotel."

  He pulled over to the side, pushed a button on the sidewalk, and thelittle car's body elevated itself on hydraulic pistons until it waseven with the elevated sidewalk. The bellman pushed a stud on thewalkway rail and a gate swung open. Malone stepped out and waitedwhile luggage was unloaded. The courtesy of the Great Universal Hotelwas not free, of course; Malone got rid of some more silver dollars.He fished in his pockets, found one lone crumpled ten-dollar bill andarranged it neatly and visibly in his right hand.

  "I notice you've got a lot of guides in the halls," he said as thebellman eyed the ten-spot. "Do that many people get lost in here?"

  "Well, not really, sir," the bellman said. "Not really. That's forthe--what they call the protection of our guests. A courtesy."

  "Protection?" Malone said. He had noticed, he recalled, odd bulgesbeneath the left armpits of the guides. "Protection from what?" heasked, keeping a firm, loving grip on the bill. "There are a lot moreguides than you'd expect, aren't there?"

  The bellman shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "Well, sir," he saidat last in an uneasy manner, "I guess it's because of the politicsaround here. I mean, it's sort of confused."

  "Confused how?" Malone said, waving the bill ever so slightly.

  The bellman appeared to be hypnotized by its green color. "It's thegovernor shooting himself," he said at last. "And the Legislaturewants to impeach the Lieutenant-governor, and the City Council of LasVegas is having trouble with the Mayor, and the County Sheriff ishaving a feud with the State Police, and--Sir, it's all sort ofconfused right now. But it isn't serious." He grinned hopefully.

  Malone sighed and let go of the ten. It stayed flutt
ering in the airfor perhaps a tenth of a second, and disappeared. "I'm sure it isn't,"Malone said. "Just forget I asked you."

  The bellman's hand went to his pocket and came out again empty. "Askedme, sir?" he said. "Asked me what?"

  * * * * *

  The next fifteen minutes were busy ones. Malone made himself quicklyat home, keeping his eyes open for hidden TV cameras or other forms ofbugging. Satisfied at last that he was entirely alone, he took a deepbreath, closed his eyes and teleported himself to Yucca Flats.

  This time, he didn't land in Dr. O'Connor's office. Instead, he openedhis eyes in the hallway in the nearby building that housed thepsychologists, psychiatrists and psychotherapists who were workingwith the telepaths Malone and the FBI had unearthed two years before.

  Apparently, telepathy was turning out to be more a curse than ablessing. Of the seven known telepaths in the world, only Her Majestyretained anything like the degree of sanity necessary forcommunication. The psych men who were working with the other six hadbeen trying to establish some kind of rapport, but their efforts sofar had been as fruitless as a petrified tree.

  Malone went down the hallway until he came to a door near the end. Helooked at the sign painted on the opaqued glass for a second:

  ALAN MARSHALL, M.D.