Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Stephen Blundelland the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ September and October 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Subscript characters are shown within {braces}.
That Sweet Little Old Lady]
_Usually, the toughest part of the job is stating the problem clearly, and the solution is then easy. This time the FBI could state the problem easily; solving it, though was not. How do you catch a telepathic spy?_
BY MARK PHILLIPS
Illustrated by Freas
_"What are we going to call that sweet little old lady, now that_ mother _is a dirty word?"_
--_Dave Foley_
I
In 1914, it was enemy aliens.
In 1930, it was Wobblies.
In 1957, it was fellow travelers.
And, in 1971....
"They could be anywhere," Andrew J. Burris said, with an expressionwhich bordered on exasperated horror. "They could be all around us.Heaven only knows."
He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up--a chunky little manwith bright blue eyes and large hands. He paced to the window and lookedout at Washington, and then he came back to the desk. A persistentoffice rumor held that he had become head of the FBI purely because hehappened to have an initial _J_ in his name, but in his case the _J_stood for Jeremiah. And, at the moment, his tone expressed all thehopelessness of that Old Testament prophet's lamentations.
"We're helpless," he said, looking at the young man with the crisp brownhair who was sitting across the desk. "That's what it is, we'rehelpless."
Kenneth Malone tried to look dependable. "Just tell me what to do," hesaid.
"You're a good agent, Kenneth," Burris said. "You're one of the best.That's why you've been picked for this job. And I want to say that Ipicked you personally. Believe me, there's never been anything like itbefore."
"I'll do my best," Malone said at random. He was twenty-eight, and hehad been an FBI agent for three years. In that time, he had, among otherthings, managed to break up a gang of smugglers, track down acounterfeiting ring, and capture three kidnapers. For reasons which hecould neither understand nor explain, no one seemed willing to attributehis record to luck.
"I know you will," Burris said. "And if anybody can crack this case,Malone, you're the man. It's just that--everything sounds so_impossible_. Even after all the conferences we've had."
"Conferences?" Malone said vaguely. He wished the chief would get to thepoint. Any point. He smiled gently across the desk and tried to lookcompetent and dependable and reassuring. Burris' expression didn'tchange.
"You'll get the conference tapes later," Burris said. "You can studythem before you leave. I suggest you study them very carefully, Malone.Don't be like me. Don't get confused." He buried his face in his hands.Malone waited patiently. After a few seconds, Burris looked up. "Did youread books when you were a child?" he asked.
Malone said: "What?"
"Books," Burris said. "When you were a child. Read them."
"Sure I did," Malone said. "'Bomba the Jungle Boy,' and 'Doolittle,' and'Lucky Starr,' and 'Little Women'--"
"'Little Women'?"
"When Beth died," Malone said, "I wanted to cry. But I didn't. My fathersaid big boys don't cry."
"And your father was right," Burris said. "Why, when I was a ... nevermind. Forget about Beth and your father. Think about 'Lucky Starr' for aminute. Remember him?"
"Sure," Malone said. "I liked those books. You know, it's funny, but thebooks you read when you're a kid, they kind of stay with you. Know whatI mean? I can still remember that one about Venus, for instance. Gee,that was--"
"Never mind about Venus, too," Burris said sharply. "Keep your mind onthe problem."
"Yes, sir," Malone said. He paused. "What problem, sir?" he added.
"The problem we're discussing," Burris said. He gave Malone a bright,blank stare. "Just listen to me."
"Yes, sir."
"All right, then." Burris took a deep breath. He seemed nervous. Onceagain he stood up and went to the window. This time, he spoke withoutturning. "Remember how everybody used to laugh about spaceships, andorbital satellites, and life on other planets? That was just in those'Lucky Starr' books. That was all just for kids, wasn't it?"
"Well, I don't know," Malone said slowly.
"Sure it was all for kids," Burris said. "It was laughable. Nobody tookit seriously."
"Well, _somebody_ must--"
"You just keep quiet and listen," Burris said.
"Yes, sir," Malone said.
Burris nodded. His hands were clasped behind his back. "We're notlaughing any more, are we, Malone?" he said without moving.
There was silence.
"Well, are we?"
"Did you want me to answer, sir?"
"Of course I did!" Burris snapped.
"You told me to keep quiet and--"
"Never mind what I told you," Burris said. "Just do what I told you."
"Yes, sir," Malone said. "No, sir," he added after a second.
"No, sir, what?" Burris asked softly.
"No, sir, we're not laughing any more," Malone said.
"Ah," Burris said. "And why aren't we laughing any more?"
There was a little pause. Malone said, tentatively: "Because there'snothing to laugh about, sir?"
Burris whirled. "On the head!" he said happily. "You've hit the nail onthe head, Kenneth. I knew I could depend on you." His voice grew seriousagain, and thoughtful. "We're not laughing any more because there'snothing to laugh about. We have orbital satellites, and we've landed onthe Moon with an atomic rocket. The planets are the next step, and afterthat the stars. Man's heritage, Kenneth. The stars. And the stars,Kenneth, belong to Man--not to the Soviets!"
"Yes, sir," Malone said soberly.
"So," Burris said, "we should learn not to laugh any more. But have we?"
"I don't know, sir."
"We haven't," Burris said with decision. "Can you read my mind?"
"No, sir," Malone said.
"Can I read your mind?"
Malone hesitated. At last he said: "Not that I know of, sir."
"Well, I can't," Burris snapped. "And can any of us read each other'smind?"
Malone shook his head. "No, sir," he said.
Burris nodded. "That's the problem," he said. "That's the case I'msending you out to crack."
This time, the silence was a long one.
At last, Malone said: "What problem, sir?"
"Mind reading," Burris said. "There's a spy at work in the Nevada plant,Kenneth. And the spy is a telepath."
* * * * *
The video tapes were very clear and very complete. There were a greatmany of them, and it was long after nine o'clock when Kenneth Malonedecided to take a break and get some fresh air. Washington was a goodcity for walking, even at night, and Malone liked to walk. Sometimes hepretended, even to himself, that he got his best ideas while walking,but he knew perfectly well that wasn't true. His best ideas just seemedto come to him, out of nowhere, precisely as the situation demandedthem.
He was just lucky, that was all. He had a talent for being lucky. Butnobody would ever believe that. A record like his was spectacular, evenin the annals of the FBI, and Burris himself believed that the recordshowed some kind of superior ability.
Malone knew that wasn't true, but what c
ould he do about it? After all,he didn't want to resign, did he? It was kind of romantic and excitingto be an FBI agent, even after three years. A man got a chance to travelaround a lot and see things, and it was interesting. The pay was prettygood, too.
The only trouble was that, if he didn't quit, he was going to have tofind a telepath.
The notion of telepathic spies just didn't sound right to Malone. Itbothered him in a remote sort of way. Not that the idea of telepathyitself was alien to him--after all, he was even more aware than theaverage citizen that research had been going on in that field forsomething over a quarter of a century, and that the research was evenspeeding up.
But the cold fact that a telepathy-detecting device had been inventedsomehow shocked his sense of propriety, and his notions of privacy. Itwasn't decent, that was all.
There ought to be something sacred, he told himself angrily.
He stopped walking and looked up. He was on Pennsylvania Avenue, headingtoward the White House.
That was no good. He went to the corner and turned off, down the block.He had, he told himself, nothing at all to see the President about.
Not yet, anyhow.
The streets were dark and very peaceful. _I get my best ideas whilewalking_, Malone said without convincing himself. He thought back to thevideo tapes.
The report on the original use of the machine itself had been on one ofthe first tapes, and Malone could still see and hear it. That was onething he did have, he reflected; his memory was pretty good.
Burris had been the first speaker on the tapes, and he'd given theserial and reference number in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. His facehad been perfectly blank, and he looked just like the head of the FBIpeople were accustomed to seeing on their TV and newsreel screens.Malone wondered what had happened to him between the time the tapes hadbeen made and the time he'd sent for Malone.
Maybe the whole notion of telepathy was beginning to get him, Malonethought.
Burris recited the standard tape opening in a rapid mumble: "Any personor agent unauthorized for this tape please refrain from viewing further,under penalties as prescribed by law." Then he looked off, out past thescreen to the left, and said: "Dr. Thomas O'Connor, of WestinghouseLaboratories. Will you come here, Dr. O'Connor?"
Dr. O'Connor came into the lighted square of screen slowly, looking allaround him. "This is very fascinating," he said, blinking in thelamplight. "I hadn't realized that you people took so manyprecautions--"
He was, Malone thought, somewhere between fifty and sixty, tall and thinwith skin so transparent that he nearly looked like a living X ray. Hehad pale blue eyes and pale white hair and, Malone thought, if thereever were a contest for the best-looking ghost, Dr. Thomas O'Connorwould win it hands--or phalanges--down.
"This is all necessary for the national security," Burris said, a littlesternly.
"Oh," Dr. O'Connor said quickly, "I realize that, of course. Naturally.I can certainly see that."
"Let's go ahead, shall we?" Burris said.
O'Connor nodded. "Certainly. Certainly."
Burris said: "Well, then," and paused. After a second he started again:"Now, Dr. O'Connor, would you please give us a sort of verbal run-downon this for our records?"
"Of course," Dr. O'Connor said. He smiled into the video cameras andcleared his throat. "I take it you don't want an explanation of howthis machine works. I mean: you don't want a technical exposition, doyou?"
"No," Burris said, and added: "Not by any means. Just tell us what itdoes."
* * * * *
Dr. O'Connor suddenly reminded Malone of a professor he'd had in collegefor one of the law courses. He had, Malone thought, the same smilinggravity of demeanor, the same condescending attitude of absoluteauthority. It was clear that Dr. O'Connor lived in a world of his own, aworld that was not even touched by the common run of men.
"Well," he began, "to put it very simply, the device indicates whetheror not a man's mental ... ah ... processes are being influenced byoutside ... by outside influences." He gave the cameras another littlesmile. "If you will allow me, I will demonstrate on the machine itself."
He took two steps that carried him out of camera range, and returnedwheeling a large heavy-looking box. Dangling from the metal coveringwere a number of wires and attachments. A long cord led from the box tothe floor, and snaked out of sight to the left.
"Now," Dr. O'Connor said. He selected a single lead, apparently, Malonethought, at random. "This electrode--"
"Just a moment, doctor," Burris said. He was eying the machine with acombination of suspicion and awe. "A while back you mentioned somethingabout 'outside influences.' Just what, specifically, does that mean?"
With some regret, Dr. O'Connor dropped the lead. "Telepathy," he said."By outside influences, I meant influences on the mind, such astelepathy or mind reading of some nature."
"I see," Burris said. "You can detect a telepath with this machine."
"I'm afraid--"
"Well, some kind of a mind reader anyhow," Burris said. "We won'tquarrel about terms."
"Certainly not," Dr. O'Connor said. The smile he turned on Burris was ascold and empty as the inside of Orbital Station One. "What I meant was... if you will permit me to continue ... that we cannot detect any sortof telepath or mind reader with this device. To be frank, I very muchwish that we could; it would make everything a great deal simpler.However, the laws of psionics don't seem to operate that way."
"Well, then," Burris said, "what does the thing do?" His face wore amask of confusion. Momentarily, Malone felt sorry for his chief. Hecould remember how he'd felt, himself, when that law professor had comeup with a particularly baffling question in class.
"This machine," Dr. O'Connor said with authority, "detects the slightvariations in mental activity that occur when a person's mind is _being_read."
"You mean, if my mind were being read right now--"
"Not right now," Dr. O'Connor said. "You see, the bulk of this machineis in Nevada; the structure is both too heavy and too delicate fortransport. And there are other qualifications--"
"I meant theoretically," Burris said.
"Theoretically," Dr. O'Connor began, and smiled again, "if your mindwere being read, this machine would detect it, supposing that themachine were in operating condition and all of the other qualificationshad been met. You see, Mr. Burris, no matter how poor a telepath a manmay be, he has some slight ability--even if only very slight--to detectthe fact that his mind is being read."
"You mean, if somebody were reading my mind, I'd know it?" Burris said.His face showed, Malone realized, that he plainly disbelieved thisstatement.
"You would know it," Dr. O'Connor said, "but you would never know youknew it. To elucidate: in a normal person--like you, for instance, oreven like myself--the state of having one's mind read merely results ina vague, almost subconscious feeling of irritation, something that couldeasily be attributed to minor worries, or fluctuations in one's hormonalbalance. The hormonal balance, Mr. Burris, is--"
"Thank you," Burris said with a trace of irritation. "I know whathormones are."
"Ah. Good," Dr. O'Connor said equably. "In any case, to continue: thismachine interprets those specific feelings as indications that the mindis being ... ah ... 'eavesdropped' upon."
You could almost see the quotation marks around what Dr. O'Connorconsidered slang dropping into place, Malone thought.
* * * * *
"I see," Burris said with a disappointed air. "But what do you mean, itwon't detect a telepath? Have you ever actually worked with a telepath?"
"Certainly we have," Dr. O'Connor said. "If we hadn't, how would we beable to tell that the machine was, in fact, indicating the presence oftelepathy? The theoretical state of the art is not, at present,sufficiently developed to enable us to--"
"I see," Burris said hurriedly. "Only wait a minute."
"Yes?"
"You mean you've actually got a real m
ind reader? You've found one? Onethat works?"
Dr. O'Connor shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid I should have said, Mr.Burris, that we did once have one," he admitted. "He was, unfortunately,an imbecile, with a mental age between five and six, as nearly as wewere able to judge."
"An imbecile?" Burris said. "But how were you able to--"
"He could repeat a person's thoughts word for word," Dr. O'Connor said."Of course, he was utterly incapable of understanding the meaning behindthem. That didn't matter; he simply repeated whatever you werethinking. Rather disconcerting."
"I'm sure," Burris said. "But he was really an imbecile? There wasn'tany chance of--"
"Of curing him?" Dr. O'Connor said. "None, I'm afraid. We did at onetime feel that there had been a mental breakdown early in the boy'slife, and, indeed, it's perfectly possible that he was normal for thefirst year or so. The records we did manage to get on that period,however, were very much confused, and there was never any way of tellinganything at all, for certain. It's easy to see what caused theconfusion, of course: telepathy in an imbecile is rather an oddity--andany normal adult would probably be rather hesitant about admitting thathe was capable of it. That's why we have not found another subject; wemust merely sit back and wait for lightning to strike."
Burris sighed. "I see your problem," he said. "But what happened to thisimbecile boy of yours?"
"Very sad," Dr. O'Connor said. "Six months ago, at the age of fifteen,the boy simply died. He simply--gave up, and died."
"Gave up?"
"That was as good an explanation as our medical department was able toprovide, Mr. Burris. There was some malfunction, but--we like to saythat he simply gave up. Living became too difficult for him."
"All right," Burris said after a pause. "This telepath of yours is dead,and there aren't any more where he came from. Or if there are, you don'tknow how to look for them. All right. But to get back to this machine ofyours: it couldn't detect the boy's ability?"
Dr. O'Connor shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. We've worked hard onthat problem at Westinghouse, Mr. Burris, but we haven't yet been ableto find a method of actually detecting telepaths."
"But you can detect--"
"That's right," Dr. O'Connor said. "We can detect the fact that a man'smind is being read." He stopped, and his face became suddenly morose.When he spoke again, he sounded guilty, as if he were making anadmission that pained him. "Of course, Mr. Burris, there's nothing wecan _do_ about a man's mind being read. Nothing whatever." He essayed agrin that didn't look very healthy. "But at least," he said, "you knowyou're being spied on."
Burris grimaced. There was a little silence while Dr. O'Connor strokedthe metal box meditatively, as if it were the head of his beloved.
At last, Burris said: "Dr. O'Connor, how sure can you be of all this?"
The look he received made all the previous conversation seem as warm andfriendly as a Christmas party by comparison. It was a look that frozethe air of the room into a solid chunk, Malone thought, a chunk youcould have chipped pieces from, for souvenirs, later, when Dr. O'Connorhad gone and you could get into the room without any danger of beingquick-frozen by the man's unfriendly eye.
"Mr. Burris," Dr. O'Connor said in a voice that matched the temperatureof his gaze, "please. Remember our slogan."
* * * * *
Malone sighed. He fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, foundone, and extracted a single cigarette. He stuck it in his mouth andstarted fishing in various pockets for his lighter.
He sighed again. He preferred cigars, a habit he'd acquired from thedays when he'd filched them from his father's cigar case, but his mentalpicture of the fearless and alert young FBI agent didn't include acigar. Somehow, remembering his father as neither fearless nor, exactly,alert--anyway, not the way the movies and the TV screens liked topicture the words--he had the impression that cigars looked out of placeon FBI agents.
And it was, in any case, a small sacrifice to make. He found his lighterand shielded it from the brisk wind. He looked out over water at theJefferson Memorial, and was surprised that he'd managed to walk as faras he had. Then he stopped thinking about walking, and took a puff ofhis cigarette, and forced himself to think about the job in hand.
Naturally, the Westinghouse gadget had been declared Ultra Top Secret assoon as it had been worked out. Virtually everything was, these days.And the whole group involved in the machine and its workings had beentransferred without delay to the United States Laboratories out in YuccaFlats, Nevada.
Out there in the desert, there just wasn't much to do, Malone supposed,except to play with the machine. And, of course, look at the scenery.But when you've seen one desert, Malone thought confusedly, you've seenthem all.
So, the scientists ran experiments on the machine, and they made adiscovery of a kind they hadn't been looking for.
Somebody, they discovered, was picking the brains of the scientiststhere.
Not the brains of the people working with the telepathy machine.
And not the brains of the people working on the several otherEarth-limited projects at Yucca Flats.
They'd been reading the minds of some of the scientists working on thenew and highly classified non-rocket space drive.
In other words, the Yucca Flats plant was infested with a telepathicspy. And how do you go about finding a telepath? Malone sighed. Spiesthat got information in any of the usual ways were tough enough tolocate. A telepathic spy was a lot tougher proposition.
Well, one thing about Andrew J. Burris--he had an answer for everything.Malone thought of what his chief had said: "It takes a thief to catch athief. And if the Westinghouse machine won't locate a telepathic spy, Iknow what will."
"What?" Malone had asked.
"It's simple," Burris had said. "Another telepath. There has to be onearound somewhere. Westinghouse _did_ have one, after all, and theRussians _still_ have one. Malone, that's your job: go out and find me atelepath."
Burris had an answer for everything, all right, Malone thought. But hecouldn't see where the answer did him very much good. After all, if ittakes a telepath to catch a telepath, how do you catch the telepathyou're going to use to catch the first telepath?
Malone ran that through his mind again, and then gave it up. It soundedas if it should have made sense, somehow, but it just didn't, and thatwas all there was to that.
He dropped his cigarette to the ground and mashed it out with the toeof his shoe. Then he looked up.
Out there, over the water, was the Jefferson Memorial. It stood, whitein the floodlights, beautiful and untouchable in the darkness. Malonestared at it. What would Thomas Jefferson have done in a crisis likethis?
Jefferson, he told himself without much conviction, would have been justas confused as he was.
But he'd have had to find a telepath, Malone thought. Malone determinedthat he would do likewise. If Thomas Jefferson could do it, the leasthe, Malone, could do was to give it a good try.
There was only one little problem:
_Where_, Malone thought, _do I start looking?_