Occasion for Disaster

possible to let down the barrier in a selectiveway, but he gave it all he had. A long second passed.

  "My goodness!" Her Majesty said in pleased surprise. "There you areagain!"

  "You can read me?" Malone asked.

  "Why ... yes," Her Majesty said. "And I can see just what you'rethinking. I'm afraid, Sir Kenneth, that I don't know whether it'sselective or not. But ... oh. Just a minute. You go right on thinking,now, just the way you are." Her Majesty's eyes unfocused slightly anda long time passed, while Malone tried to keep on thinking. But it wasdifficult, he told himself, to think about things without having anythings to think about. He felt his mind begin to spin gently with therhythm of the last sentence, and he considered slowly the possibilityof thinking about things when there weren't any things thinking aboutyou. That seemed to make as much sense as anything else, and he wasturning it over and over in his mind when a voice broke in.

  * * * * *

  "I was contacting Willie," Her Majesty said.

  "Ah," Malone said. "Willie. Of course. Very fine for contacting."

  Her Majesty frowned. "You remember Willie, don't you?" she said."Willie Logan--who used to be a spy for the Russians, just because hedidn't know any better, poor boy?"

  "Oh," Malone said. "Logan." He remembered the catatonic youngster whohad used his telepathic powers against the United States until HerMajesty, the FBI, and Kenneth J. Malone had managed to put mattersright. That had been the first time he'd met Her Majesty; it seemedlike fifty years before.

  "Well," Her Majesty said, "Willie and I had a little argument justnow. And I think you'll be interested in it."

  "I'm fascinated," Malone said.

  "Was he thinking about things or were things thinking about him?"

  "Really, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, "you do think about thesilliest notions when you don't watch yourself."

  Malone blushed slightly. "Anyhow," he said after a pause, "what wasthe argument about?"

  "Willie says you aren't here," Her Majesty said. "He can't detect youat all. Even when I let him take a peek at you through my ownmind--making myself into sort of a relay station, so to speak--Williewouldn't believe it. He said I was hallucinating."

  "Hallucinating me?" Malone said. "I think I'm flattered. Not manypeople would bother."

  "Don't underestimate yourself, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, ratherseverely. "But you do see what this little argument means, don't you?I think you may assume that your telepathic contact is quiteselective. If Willie can't read you, Sir Kenneth, believe me, nobodyat all can ... unless you let them."

  How he had developed this mental shield, he couldn't imagine, unlesshis subconscious had done it for him. Good old subconscious, hethought, always looking out for a person's welfare, preparing littlesurprises and things. Though he hoped vaguely that the next surprise,if there were a next one, would sneak up a little more gently. Beingtold flatly that your mind was not in operation was not a very goodway to start an investigation.

  Then he thought of something else. "Do you think this ... barrier ofmine will keep out those little bursts of mental energy?" he said.

  Her Majesty looked judicious. "I really do," she said. "It does appearquite impenetrable, Sir Kenneth. I can't understand how you're doingit. Or why, for that matter."

  "Well--" Malone began.

  Her Majesty raised a hand. "No," she said. "I'd rather not know, ifyou please." Her voice was stern, but just a little shaken. "Thethought of blocking off thought--the only real form of communicationthat exists--is, frankly, quite horrible to me. I would rather beblinded, Sir Kenneth. I truly would."

  Malone thought of Dr. Marshall and blushed. Her Majesty peered at himnarrowly, and then smiled.

  "You've been talking to my Royal Psychiatrist again, haven't you?" shesaid. Malone nodded. "Frankly, Sir Kenneth," she went on, "I thinkpeople pay too much attention to that sort of thing nowadays."

  The subject, Malone recognized, was firmly closed. He cleared histhroat and started up another topic. "Let's talk about these energybursts," he said. "Do you still pick them up occasionally?"

  "Oh, my, yes," Her Majesty said. "And it's not only me. Willie hasbeen picking them up too. We've had some long talks about it, Willieand I. It's frightening, in a way, but you must admit that it's veryinteresting."

  "Fascinating," Malone muttered. "Tell me, have you figured out whatthey might be, yet?"

  Her Majesty shook her head. "All we know is that they do seem to occurjust before a person intends to make a decision. The burst somehowappears to influence the decision. But we don't know how, and we don'tknow where they come from, or what causes them. Or even why."

  "In other words," Malone said, "we know absolutely nothing new."

  "I'm afraid not, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "But Willie and I dointend to keep working on it. It is important, isn't it?"

  "Important," Malone said, "is not the word." He paused. "And now, ifyour Majesty will excuse me," he said, "I'll have to go. I have workto do, and your information has been most helpful."

  "You may go, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, returning with whatappeared to be real pleasure to the etiquette of the ElizabethanCourt. "We are grateful that you have done so much, and continue to doso much, to defend the peace of Our Realm."

  "I pledge myself to continue in those efforts which please YourMajesty," Malone said, and started back for the costume room. Oncehe'd changed into his regular clothing again he snapped himself backto the room he had rented in the Great Universal. He had a great dealof thinking to do, he told himself, and not much time to do it in.

  * * * * *

  However, he was alone. That meant he could light up a cigar--somethingwhich, as an FBI Agent, he didn't feel he should do in public. Cigarsjust weren't right for FBI Agents, though they were all right forordinary detectives like Malone's father. As a matter of fact, heconsidered briefly hunting up a vest, putting it on and letting thecigar ash dribble over it. His father seemed to have gotten a lot ofgood ideas that way. But, in the end, he rejected the notion as beingtoo complicated, and merely sat back in a chair, with an ashtrayconveniently on a table by his side, and smoked and thought.

  Now, he knew with reasonable certainty that Andrew J. Burris was wrongand that he, Malone, was right. The source of all the confusion in thecountry was due to psionics, not to psychodrugs and Walt Disney spies.

  His first idea was to rush back and tell Burris. However, this lookedlike a useless move, and every second he thought about it made it seemmore useless. He simply didn't have enough new evidence to convinceBurris of anything whatever; psychiatric evidence was fine to back upsomething else, but on its own it was still too shaky to be acceptedby the courts, in most cases. And Burris thought even more strictlythan the courts in such matters.

  Not only that, Malone realized with alarm, but even if he did managesomehow to convince Burris there was very little chance that Burriswould stay convinced. If his mind could be changed by a burst of wildmental power--and why not? Malone reflected--then he could beunconvinced as often as necessary. He could be spun round and roundlike a top and never end up facing the way Malone needed him to face.

  That left the burden of solving the problem squatting like ahunchback's hunch squarely on Malone's shoulders. He thought he couldbear the weight for a while, if he could only think of some way ofdislodging it. But the idea of its continuing to squat there foreverwas horribly unnerving. "Quasimodo Malone," he muttered, and uttered abrief prayer of thanks that his father had been spared a classicaleducation. "Ken" wasn't so bad. "Quasi" would have been awful.

  He couldn't think of any way to get a fingerhold on the thing thatweighed him down. Slowly, he went over it in his mind.

  Situation: an unidentifiable something is attacking the United Stateswith an untraceable something else from a completely unknown source.

  Problem: how do you go about latching on to anything as downrightnonexistent as all that?

  Even the
best detective, Malone told himself irritably, needed cluesof some kind. And this thing, whatever it was, was not playing fair.It didn't go around leaving bloody fingerprints or lipstickedcigarette butts or packets of paper matches with _Ciro's, Hollywood_,written on them. It didn't even have an alibi for anything that couldbe cracked, or leave tire marks or footprints behind that could bephotographed. Hell, Malone thought disgustedly,