The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  The office was small but sunny. Dr. Wilson Harman sat behind a blond- wood desk, a little man with crew-cut blond hair and rimless eyeglasses, who looked about thirty-two and couldn’t possibly, Malone thought, have been anywhere near that young. On a second look, Malone noticed a better age indication in the eyes and forehead, and revised his first guess upward between ten and fifteen years.

  “Come in, gentlemen,” Dr. Harman called. His voice was that rarity, a really loud high tenor.

  “Dr. Harman,” Boyd said, “this is my superior, Mr. Malone. We’d like to have a talk with Miss Thompson, if we might.”

  “I anticipated that, sir,” Dr. Harman said. “Miss Thompson is in the next room. Have you explained to Mr. Malone that—”

  “I haven’t explained a thing,” Boyd said quickly, and added in what was obviously intended to be a casual tone: “Mr. Malone wants to get a picture of Miss Thompson directly—without any preconceptions.”

  “I see,” Dr. Harman said. “Very well, gentlemen. Through this door.”

  He opened the door in the right-hand wall of the room, and Malone took one look. It was a long, long look. Standing framed in the doorway, dressed in the starched white of a nurse’s uniform, was the most beautiful blonde he had ever seen.

  She had curves. She definitely had curves. As a matter of fact, Malone didn’t really think he had ever seen curves before. These were something new and different and truly three-dimensional. But it wasn’t the curves, or the long straight lines of her legs, or the quiet beauty of her face, that made her so special. After all, Malone had seen legs and bodies and faces before.

  At least, he thought he had. Offhand, he couldn’t remember where. Looking at the girl, Malone was ready to write brand-new definitions for every anatomical term. Even a term like “hands.” Malone had never seen anything especially arousing in the human hand before—anyway, not when the hand was just lying around, so to speak, attached to its wrist but not doing anything in particular. But these hands, long, slender and tapering, white and cool-looking….

  And yet, it wasn’t just the sheer physical beauty of the girl. She had something else, something more and something different. (Something borrowed, Malone thought in a semidelirious haze, and something blue.) Personality? Character? Soul?

  Whatever it was, Malone decided, this girl had it. She had enough of it to supply the entire human race, and any others that might exist in the Universe. Malone smiled at the girl and she smiled back.

  After seeing the smile, Malone wasn’t sure he could still walk evenly. Somehow, though, he managed to go over to her and extend his hand. The notion that a telepath would turn out to be this mind-searing Epitome had never crossed his mind, but now, somehow, it seemed perfectly fitting and proper.

  “Good morning, Miss Thompson,” he said in what he hoped was a winning voice.

  The smile disappeared. It was like the sun going out.

  The vision appeared to be troubled. Malone was about to volunteer his help—if necessary, for the next seventy years—when she spoke.

  “I’m not Miss Thompson,” she said.

  “This is one of our nurses,” Dr. Harman put in. “Miss Wilson, Mr. Malone. And Mr. Boyd. Miss Thompson, gentlemen, is over there.”

  Malone turned.

  There, in a corner of the room, an old lady sat. She was a small old lady, with apple-red cheeks and twinkling eyes. She held some knitting in her hands, and she smiled up at the FBI men as if they were her grandsons come for tea and cookies, of a Sunday afternoon.

  She had snow-white hair that shone like a crown around her old head in the lights of the room. Malone blinked at her. She didn’t disappear.

  “You’re Miss Thompson?” he said.

  She smiled sweetly. “Oh, my, no,” she said.

  There was a long silence. Malone looked at her. Then he looked at the unbelievably beautiful Miss Wilson. Then he looked at Dr. Harman. And, at last, he looked at Boyd.

  “All right,” he said. “I get it. You’re Miss Thompson.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Malone,” Boyd began.

  “Wait a minute?” Malone said. “There are four people here, not counting me. I know I’m not Miss Thompson. I never was, not even as a child. And Dr. Harman isn’t, and Miss Wilson isn’t, and Whistler’s Great-Grandmother isn’t, either. So you must be. Unless she isn’t here. Or unless she’s invisible. Or unless I’m crazy.”

  “It isn’t you, Malone,” Boyd said. “What isn’t me?”

  “That’s crazy,” Boyd said.

  “Okay,” Malone said. “I’m not crazy. Then will somebody please tell me—”

  The little old lady cleared her throat. A silence fell. When it was complete she spoke, and her voice was as sweet and kindly as anything Malone had ever heard.

  “You may call me Miss Thompson,” she said. “For the present, at any rate. They all do here. It’s a pseudonym I have to use.”

  “A pseudonym?” Malone said.

  “You see, Mr. Malone,” Miss Wilson began.

  Malone stopped her. “Don’t talk,” he said. “I have to concentrate and if you talk I can barely think.” He took off his hat suddenly, and began twisting the brim in his hands. “You understand, don’t you?”

  The trace of a smile appeared on her face. “I think I do,” she said.

  “Now,” Malone said. “You’re Miss Thompson, but not really, because you have to use a pseudonym.” He blinked at the little old lady. “Why?”

  “Well,” she said, “otherwise people would find out about my little secret.”

  “Your little secret,” Malone said.

  “That’s right,” the little old lady said. “I’m immortal, you see.”

  Malone said: “Oh.” Then he kept quiet for a long time. It didn’t seem to him that anyone in the room was breathing.

  He said: “Oh,” again, but it didn’t sound any better than it had the first time. He tried another phrase. “You’re immortal,” he said.

  “That’s right,” the little old lady agreed sweetly.

  There was only one other question to ask, and Malone set his teeth grimly and asked it. It came out just a trifle indistinct, but the little old lady nodded.

  “My real name?” she said. “Elizabeth. Elizabeth Tudor, of course. I used to be Queen.”

  “Of England,” Malone said faintly. “Malone, look—” Boyd began.

  “Let me get it all at once,” Malone told him. “I’m strong. I can take it.” He twisted his hat again and turned back to the little old lady.

  “You’re immortal, and you’re not really Miss Thompson, but Queen Elizabeth I?” he said slowly.

  “That’s right,” she said. “How clever of you. Of course, after little Jimmy—cousin Mary’s boy, I mean—said I was dead and claimed the Throne, I decided to change my name and all. And that’s what I did. But I am Elizabeth Regina.” She smiled, and her eyes twinkled merrily. Malone stared at her for a long minute.

  Burris, he thought, is going to love this.

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” the little old lady said. “Do your really think he will? Because I’m sure I’ll like your Mr. Burris, too. All of you FBI men are so charming. Just like poor, poor Essex.”

  Well, Malone told himself, that was that. He’d found himself a telepath.

  And she wasn’t an imbecile.

  Oh, no. That would have been simple.

  Instead, she was battier than a cathedral spire.

  * * * *

  The long silence was broken by the voice of Miss Wilson.

  “Mr. Malone,” she said. “You’ve been thinking.” She stopped. “I mean, you’ve been so quiet.”

  “I like being quiet,” Malone said patiently. “Besides—” He stopped and turned to the little old lady. Can you really read my mind? he thought deliberately. After a second he added: … your Majesty?

  “How sweet of you, Mr. Malone,” she said. “Nobody’s called me that for centuries. But of course I can. Although it’s not reading, really. After all
, that would be like asking if I can read your voice. Of course I can, Mr. Malone.”

  “That does it,” Malone said. “I’m not a hard man to convince. And when I see the truth, I’m the first one to admit it, even if it makes me look like a nut.” He turned back to the little old lady. “Begging your pardon,” he said.

  “Oh, my,” the little old lady said. “I really don’t mind at all. Sticks and stones, you know, can break my bones. But being called nuts, Mr. Malone, can never hurt me. After all, it’s been so many years—so many hundreds of years—”

  “Sure,” Malone said easily.

  Boyd broke in. “Listen, Malone,” he said. “Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

  “It’s very simple,” Malone said. “Miss Thompson here—pardon me; I mean Queen Elizabeth I—really is a telepath. That’s all. I think I want to lie down somewhere until it goes away.”

  “Until what goes away?” Miss Wilson said.

  Malone stared at her almost without seeing her, if not quite. “Everything,” he said. He closed his eyes.

  “My goodness,” the little old lady said after a second. “Everything’s so confused. Poor Mr. Malone is terribly shaken up by everything.” She stood up, still holding her knitting, and went across the room. Before the astonished eyes of the doctor and nurse, and Tom Boyd, she patted the FBI agent on the shoulder. “There, there, Mr. Malone,” she said. “It will all be perfectly all right. You’ll see.” Then she returned to her seat.

  Malone opened his eyes. “My God,” he said. He closed them again but they flew open as if of their own accord. He turned to Dr. Harman. “You called up Boyd here,” he said, “and told him that—er—Miss Thompson was a telepath. How’d you know?”

  “It’s all right,” the little old lady put in from her chair. “I don’t mind your calling me Miss Thompson, not right now, anyhow.”

  “Thanks,” Malone said faintly.

  Dr. Harman was blinking in a kind of befuddled astonishment. “You mean she really is a—” He stopped and brought his tenor voice to a squeaking halt, regained his professional poise, and began again. “I’d rather not discuss the patient in her presence, Mr. Malone,” he said. “If you’ll just come into my office—”

  “Oh, bosh, Dr. Harman,” the little old lady said primly. “I do wish you’d give your own Queen credit for some ability. Goodness knows you think you’re smart enough.”

  “Now, now, Miss Thompson,” he said in what was obviously his best Grade A Choice Government Inspected couchside manner. “Don’t—”

  “—upset yourself,” she finished for him. “Now, really, Doctor. I know what you’re going to tell them.”

  “But Miss Thompson, I—”

  “You didn’t honestly think I was a telepath,” the little old lady said. “Heavens, we know that. And you’re going to tell them how I used to say I could read minds—oh, years and years ago. And because of that you thought it might be worthwhile to tell the FBI about me—which wasn’t very kind of you, Doctor, before you know anything about why they wanted somebody like me.”

  “Now, now, Miss Thompson,” Miss Wilson said, walking across the room to put an arm around the little old lady’s shoulder. Malone wished for one brief second that he were the little old lady. Maybe if he were a patient in the hospital he would get the same treatment.

  He wondered if he could possibly work such a deal.

  Then he wondered if it would be worthwhile, being nuts. But of course it would. He was nuts anyhow, wasn’t he?

  Sure, he told himself. They were all nuts.

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you,” Miss Wilson said. She was talking to the old lady. “You’ll be perfectly all right and you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “Oh, yes, dear, I know that,” the little old lady said. “You only want to help me, dear. You’re so kind. And these FBI men really don’t mean any harm. But Doctor Harman didn’t know that. He just thinks I’m crazy and that’s all.”

  “Please, Miss Thompson—” Dr. Harman began.

  “Just crazy, that’s all,” the little old lady said. She turned away for a second and nobody said anything.

  Then she turned back. “Do you all know what he’s thinking now?” she said. Dr. Harman turned a dull purple, but she ignored him. “He’s wondering why I didn’t take the trouble to prove all this to you years ago. And besides that, he’s thinking about—”

  “Miss Thompson,” Dr. Harman said. His bedside manner had cracked through and his voice was harsh and strained. “Please.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, a little petulantly. “If you want to keep all that private.”

  Malone broke in suddenly, fascinated. “Why didn’t you prove you were telepathic before now?” he said.

  The little old lady smiled at him. “Why, because you wouldn’t have believed me,” she said. She dropped her knitting neatly in her lap and folded her hands over it. “None of you wanted to believe me,” she said, and sniffed. Miss Wilson moved nervously and she looked up. “And don’t tell me it’s going to be all right. I know it’s going to be all right. I’m going to make sure of that.”

  Malone felt a sudden chill. But it was obvious, he told himself, that the little old lady didn’t mean what she was saying. She smiled at him again, and her smile was as sweet and guileless as the smile on the face of his very own sainted grandmother.

  Not that Malone remembered his grandmother; she had died before he’d been born. But if he’d had a grandmother, and if he’d remembered her, he was sure she would have had the same sweet smile.

  So she couldn’t have meant what she’d said. Would Malone’s own grandmother make things difficult for him? The very idea was ridiculous.

  Dr. Harman opened his mouth, apparently changed his mind, and shut it again. The little old lady turned to him.

  “Were you going to ask why I bothered to prove anything to Mr. Malone?” she said. “Of course you were, and I shall tell you. It’s because Mr. Malone wanted to believe me. He wants me. He needs me. I’m a telepath, and that’s enough for Mr. Malone. Isn’t it?”

  “Gur,” Malone said, taken by surprise. After a second he added: “I guess so.”

  “You see, Doctor?” the little old lady said.

  “But you—” Dr. Harman began.

  “I read minds,” the little old lady said. “That’s right, Doctor. That’s what makes me a telepath.”

  Malone’s brain was whirling rapidly, like a distant galaxy. Telepath was a nice word, he thought. How do you telepath from a road?

  Simple.

  The road is paved.

  Malone thought that was pretty funny, but he didn’t laugh. He thought he would never laugh again. He wanted to cry, a little, but he didn’t think he’d be able to manage that either.

  He twisted his hat, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Gradually, he became aware that the little old lady was talking to Dr. Harman again.

  “But,” she said, “since it will make you feel so much better, Doctor, we give you our Royal permission to retire, and to speak to Mr. Malone alone.”

  “Malone alone,” Dr. Harman muttered. “Hmm. My. Well.” He turned and seemed to be surprised that Malone was actually standing near him. “Yes,” he said. “Well. Mr. Alone—Mr. Malone—please, whoever you are, just come into my office, please?”

  Malone looked at the little old lady. One of her eyes closed and opened. It was an unmistakable wink.

  Malone grinned at her in what he hoped was a cheerful manner. “All right,” he said to the psychiatrist, “let’s go.” He turned with the barest trace of regret, and Boyd followed him.

  Leaving the little old lady and, unfortunately, the startling Miss Wilson, behind, the procession filed back into Dr. Harman’s office.

  The doctor closed the door, and leaned against it for a second. He looked as though someone had suddenly revealed to him that the world was square. But when he spoke his voice was almost even.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” he sa
id, and indicated chairs. “I really—well, I don’t know what to say. All this time, all these years, she’s been reading my mind! My mind. She’s been reading … looking right into my mind, or whatever it is.”

  “Whatever what is?” Malone asked, sincerely interested. He had dropped gratefully into a chair near Boyd’s, across the desk from Dr. Harman.

  “Whatever my mind is,” Dr. Harmon said. “Reading it. Oh, my.”

  “Dr. Harman,” Malone began, but the psychiatrist gave him a bright blank stare.

  “Don’t you understand?” he said. “She’s a telepath.”

  “We—”

  The phone on Dr. Harman’s desk chimed gently. He glanced at it and said: “Excuse me. The phone.” He picked up the receiver and said: “Hello?”

  There was no image on the screen.

  But the voice was image enough. “This is Andrew J. Burris,” it said. “Is Kenneth J. Malone there?”

  “Mr. Malone?” the psychiatrist said. “I mean, Mr. Burris? Mr. Malone is here. Yes. Oh, my. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “No, you idiot,” the voice said. “I just want to know if he’s all tucked in.”

  “Tucked in?” Dr. Harman gave the phone a sudden smile. “A joke,” he said. “It is a joke, isn’t it? The way things have been happening, you never know whether—”

  “A joke,” Burris’ voice said. “That’s right. Yes. Am I talking to one of the patients?”

  Dr. Harman gulped, got mad, and thought better of it. At last he said, very gently; “I’m not at all sure,” and handed the phone to Malone.

  The FBI agent said: “Hello, Chief. Things are a little confused.”

  Burris’ face appeared on the screen. “Confused, sure,” he said. “I feel confused already.” He took a breath. “I called the San Francisco office, and they told me you and Boyd were out there. What’s going on?”

  Malone said cautiously: “We’ve found a telepath.”

  Burris’ eyes widened slightly. “Another one?”

  “What are you talking about, another one?” Malone said. “We have one. Does anybody else have any more?”