thereseemed to be a small fish in his left shoe. It might, he told himself,be no more than a pebble or a wrinkle in his sock. But he was willingto swear that it was swimming upstream.
And the forecast, he told himself bitterly, was for continued warm.
He forced himself to take his mind off his own troubles and get backto the troubles of the FBI in general, such as the problem at hand. Itwas an effort, but he frowned and kept walking, and within a block hewas concentrating again on the _psi_ powers.
* * * * *
_Psi_, he told himself, was behind the whole mess. In spite of Boyd'shorrified refusal to believe such a thing, Malone was sure of it.Three years ago, of course, he wouldn't have considered the notioneither. But since then a great many things had happened, and hishorizons had widened. After all, capturing a double handful of totallyinsane, if perfectly genuine telepaths, from asylums all over thecountry, was enough by itself to widen quite a few stunned horizons.And then, later, there had been the gang of juvenile delinquents. Theyhad been perfectly normal juvenile delinquents, stealing cars andbopping a stray policeman or two. It just happened, though, that theyhad solved the secret of instantaneous teleportation, too. This madethem just a trifle unusual.
In capturing them, Malone, too, had learned the teleportation secret.Unlike Boyd, he thought, or Burris, the idea of psionic power didn'tbother him much. After all, the psionic spectrum--if it was a spectrumat all--was just as much a natural phenomenon as gravity, ormagnetism.
It was just a little hard for some people to get used to.
And, of course, he didn't fully understand _how_ it worked, or _why_.This put him in the position, he told himself, of an Australianaborigine. He tried to imagine an Australian aborigine in a hat on ahot day, decided the aborigine would have too much sense, and got backoff the subject again.
However, he thought grimly, there was this Australian aborigine. Andhe had a magnifying glass, which he'd picked up from the wreck of someship. Using that--assuming that experience, or a friendly missionary,taught him how--he could manage to light a fire, using the sun'sthermonuclear processes to do the job. Malone doubted that theaborigine knew anything about thermonuclear processes, but he couldstart a fire with them.
As a matter of fact, he told himself, the aborigine didn't understandoxidation, either. But he could use that fire, when he got it going.In spite of his lack of knowledge, the aborigine could use that nice,hot, burning fire ...
Hurriedly, Malone pried his thoughts away from aborigines and heat,and tried to focus his mind elsewhere. He didn't understand psionicprocesses, he thought; but then, nobody did, really, as far as heknew. But he could use them.
And, obviously, somebody else could use them, too.
Only what kind of force was being used? What kind of psionic forcewould it take to make so many people in the United States goof up theway they were doing?
That, Malone told himself, was a good question, a basic and animportant question. He was proud of himself for thinking of it.
Unfortunately, he didn't have the answer.
But he thought he knew a way of getting one.
It was perfectly true that nobody knew much about how psionics worked.For that matter, nobody knew very much about how gravity worked. Butthere was still some information--and, in the case of psionics, Maloneknew where it was to be found.
It was to be found in Yucca Flats, Nevada.
It was, of course, true that Nevada would probably be even hotter thanWashington, D. C. But there was no help for that, Malone told himselfsadly; and, besides, the cold chill of the expert himself wouldprobably cool things off quite rapidly. Malone thought of Dr. ThomasO'Connor, the Westinghouse psionics expert and frowned. O'Connor wasnot exactly what might be called a friendly man.
But he did know more about psionics than anyone else Malone couldthink of. And his help had been invaluable in solving the two previouspsionic cases Malone had worked on.
For a second he thought of calling O'Connor, but he brushed thatthought aside bravely. In spite of the heat of Yucca Flats, he wouldhave to talk to the man personally. He thought again of O'Connor'scongealed personality, and wondered if it would really be effective incombating the heat. If it were, he told himself, he would take the manright back to Washington with him, and plug him into theair-conditioning lines.
He sighed deeply, thought about a cigar and decided regretfullyagainst it, here on the public street where he would be visible toanyone. Instead, he looked around him, discovered that he was only ablock from a large, neon-lit drugstore and headed for it. Less than aminute later he was in a phone booth.
* * * * *
The operators throughout the country seemed to suffer from heatprostration, and Malone was hardly inclined to blame them. But, allthe same, it took several minutes for him to get through to Dr.O'Connor's office, and a minute or so more before he could convince asecurity-addled secretary that, after all, he would hardly blowO'Connor to bits over the long-distance phone.
Finally the secretary, with a sigh of reluctance, said she would seeif Dr. O'Connor were available. Malone waited in the phone booth,opening the door every few seconds to breathe. The booth wasair-conditioned, but remained for some mystical reason an even tendegrees above the boiling point of Malone's temper.
Finally Dr. O'Connor's lean, pallid face appeared on the screen. Hehad not changed since Malone had last seen him. He still looked, andacted, like one of Malone's more disliked law professors.
"Ah," the scientist said in a cold, precise voice. "Mr. Malone. I amsorry for our precautions, but you understand that security must beserved."
"Sure," Malone said.
"Being an FBI man, of course you would," Dr. O'Connor went on, hisface changing slightly and his voice warming almost to the boilingpoint of nitrogen. It was obvious that the phrase was Dr. O'Connor'sidea of a little joke, and Malone smiled politely and nodded. Thescientist seemed to feel some friendliness toward Malone, though itwas hard to tell for sure. But Malone had brought him some finespecimens to work with--telepaths and teleports, though human, beingno more than specimens to such a very precise scientific mind--and heseemed grateful for Malone's diligence and effort in finding suchfascinating objects of study.
That Malone certainly hadn't started out to find them made, itappeared, very little difference.
"Well, then," O'Connor said, returning to his normal, serious tone,"what can I do for you, Mr. Malone?"
"If you have the time, doctor," Malone said respectfully, "I'd like totalk to you for a few minutes." He had the absurd feeling thatO'Connor was going to tell him to stop by after class, but thescientist only nodded.
"Your call is timed very well," he said. "As it happens, Mr. Malone, Ido have a few seconds to spare just now."
"Fine," Malone said.
"I should be glad to talk with you," O'Connor said, without lookingany more glad than ever.
"I'll be right there," Malone said. O'Connor nodded again, and blankedout. Malone switched off and took a deep, superheated breath of phonebooth air. For a second he considered starting his trip from outsidethe phone booth, but that was dangerous--if not to Malone, then toinnocent spectators. Psionics was by no means a household word, andthe sight of Malone leaving for Nevada might send several citizensstraight to the wagon. Which was not a place, he thought judiciously,for anybody to be on such a hot day.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. In that time hereconstructed from memory a detailed, three-dimensional, full-colorimage of Dr. O'Connor's office in his mind. It was perfect in detail;he checked it over mentally and then, by a special effort of will, hegave himself the psychic push that made the transition possible.
When he opened his eyes, he was in O'Connor's office, standing infront of the scientist's wide desk. He hoped nobody had been lookinginto the phone booth at the instant he had disappeared; but he wasreasonably sure he'd been unobserved. People didn't go around peeringinto phone booths, after all, a
nd he had seen no one.
O'Connor looked up without surprise. "Ah," he said. "Sit down, Mr.Malone." Malone looked around for the chair, which was anuncomfortably straight-backed affair, and sat down in it gingerly.Remembering past visits to O'Connor, he was grateful for even thesmall amount of relaxation the hard wood afforded him. O'Connor hadonly recently unbent to the point of supplying a spare chair in hisoffice for visitors, and, apparently, especially for Malone. Perhaps,Malone thought, it was more gratitude for the lovely specimens.
Malone still felt uncomfortable, but tried bravely not to show it. Hefelt slightly guilty, too, as he always did when he popped intoO'Connor's office without bothering to stay spacebound. By law, afterall, he knew he should check in and out at the main gate of the