The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  Malone wove through battling hordes to the edge, and came out a few feet away from Mike Fueyo.

  Fueyo didn’t see him. He was looking at Boyd instead—still stumbling back and forth as the teen-ager baiting him winked on and off in front of him and behind him. He was laughing.

  Malone came up silently from behind. The trip seemed to take hours. He was being very quiet, although he was reasonably sure that even if he yelled he wouldn’t be heard. But he didn’t want to take the slightest chance.

  He sprang on Mike, and attached the handcuffs to his wrist and to Mike’s wrist within ten seconds.

  “Ha!” he said involuntarily. “Now come with me!”

  He gave his end of the handcuffs a tremendous yank.

  He started to stagger, trailing an empty cuff behind him, flailing his arms wildly. Ahead of him he could see a big cop with an upraised billy. Malone tried to alter his course, but it was too late. He skidded helplessly into the cop, who jerked round and swung the billy automatically. Malone said: “Ugh,” as he caught the blow on the cheekbone, bounced off the cop and kept going.

  He careened past a blur of figures, trying to avoid hard surfaces and other human beings. But there was—

  Oh, no, Malone thought. Lynch.

  Lynch was ready to swing. His fist was cocked, and he was heading for one of the teen-agers with murder in his eye. Malone knew their paths were going to intersect. “Watch out,” he yelled. “Watch out, it’s me! Stop me! Somebody stop me!” He went completely unheard.

  Lynch swung and missed, hitting a cop who had been hiding behind the teen-ager. The cop went down to join the wounded, and Lynch roared like a bull and swung around, looking for more enemies.

  That was when Malone hit him.

  Long afterward, he remembered Lynch’s hat sailing through the air, and landing in the center of a struggling mass of policemen. He remembered Lynch saying, “So there you are!” and swinging before he looked.

  He remembered the blow on the chin.

  And then he remembered falling, and falling, and falling. Somewhere there was a voice: “Where the hell are they? They’ve disappeared for good.”

  And then, for long seconds, nothing.

  He woke up with a headache, but it wasn’t too bad. Surprisingly, not much time had passed; he got up and dusted off his trousers, looking around at the battlefield. Wounded and groaning cops were lying all over. The room was a shambles; the walking wounded—which comprised the rest of the force—were stumbling around in a slow, hopeless sort of fashion.

  Lynch was standing next to him. “Malone,” he said, “I’m sorry. I hit you, didn’t I?”

  “Uh-huh,” Malone said. “You seemed to be hitting every body.”

  “I was trying for the kids,” Lynch said.

  “So was I,” Malone said. “I got the cuffs on one and yanked him along, but he disappeared and left me with the cuffs.”

  “Great,” Lynch said. “Hell of a raid.”

  “Very jolly,” Malone agreed. “Fun and games were had by all.”

  A cop stumbled up, handed Lynch his cap and disappeared without a word. Lynch stared mournfully at it. The emblem was crushed, and the cap looked rather worn and useless. He put it on his head, where it assumed the rakish tilt of a hobo’s favorite tam-o’-shanter, and said, “I hope you’re not thinking of blaming me for this fiasco.”

  “Not at all,” Malone said nobly. He hurt all over, but on reflection he thought that he would probably live. “It was nobody’s fault.” Except, he thought, his own. If he’d only told Lynch to come in when called for—and under no other circumstances—this wouldn’t have happened. He looked around at the remains of New York’s Finest, and felt guilty.

  The lieutenant from the local precinct limped up, rubbing a well-kicked shin and trying to disentangle pieces of floor lamp from his hair. “Listen, Lynch,” he said, “What’s with these kids? What’s going on here? Look at my men.”

  “Some days,” Lynch said, “it just doesn’t pay to get up.”

  “Sure,” the local man said. “But what do I do now?”

  “Make your reports.”

  “But—”

  “To the Commissioner,” Lynch said, “and to nobody else. If this gets into the papers, heads will roll.”

  “My head is rolling right now,” the local man said. “Know what one of those kids did? Stood in front of a floor lamp. I swung at him and he vanished. Vanished! I hit the lamp, and then the lamp hit me.”

  “Just see that this doesn’t get out,” Lynch said.

  “It can’t,” the local man said. “Anybody who mentioned this to a reporter would just be laughed out of town. It’s not possible.” He paused thoughtfully, and added, “We’d all be laughed out of town.”

  “And probably replaced with the FBI,” Lynch said morosely. He looked at Malone. “Nothing personal, you understand,” he said.

  “Of course,” Malone said. “We can’t do any more here, can we?”

  “I don’t think we can do any more anywhere,” Lynch said. “Let’s lock the place up and leave and forget all about it.”

  “Fine,” Malone said. “I’ve got work to do.” He looked around, found Dorothea and signaled to her. “Come on, Dorothea. Where’s Boyd?”

  “Here I am,” Boyd said, walking slowly across the big room to Malone. He had one hand held to his chin.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Malone asked.

  Boyd took his hand away. There was a bald spot the size of a quarter on the point of his chin. “One of those kids,” he said sadly, “has a hell of a strong grip. Come on, Miss Fueyo. Come on, Malone. Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Logically,” Malone said, “there has to be some way to catch them.” He looked around the hotel room as though he expected to find an answer painted in big black letters on the wall. “Logically,” he said again, and tried to think of what came next. He liked the sound of the word, but that was as far as it went.

  “That’s fine,” Boyd said. He sat on a chair, staring gloomily at the floor and rubbing the bald spot on his chin with a single, sad, inquisitive forefinger. “There has to be an answer. You’re probably right. But what the hell is it?”

  Malone started to answer, and then wondered what he had been going to say. He sunk himself in thought. There was a knock at the door. “Who’s there?” he called, glad of any relief at all.

  “It’s me,” a small voice said. “Dorothea.”

  “Come in,” Malone said.

  The door opened. Dorothea came in, shut the door behind her, and looked around the room a little awkwardly.

  “Did you get a good night’s sleep?” Malone said.

  She nodded. “I guess so,” she said. “Sure. It was nice of you to get me a room for the night. I mean, I guess I was—well…”

  “Forget it,” Malone said grandly. “You were upset and tired, that’s all. Hell, in the car on the way back here last night, you fainted.”

  “I did not faint,” she said.

  “Well,” Malone said, “you sure looked like—”

  “I was tired,” Dorothea said.

  Malone shrugged. “Okay. You were tired.”

  “You’re not mad, are you,” she said, “because I stole your notebook?”

  “Of course not,” Malone said. “I said forget it, didn’t I? Sit down and help us out.”

  “Help you?” she said.

  “That’s right,” Boyd said. “Help us figure out how to catch this bunch of maniacs before they steal everything in New York.”

  Dorothea said, “Maniacs? I—” and Malone interrupted her in a hurry.

  “Police Commissioner Fernack has called twice this morning already,” he said. “He’s screaming about all the burglaries that have been occurring since midnight last night.”

  “Oh,” Dorothea said. “You mean the Spooks? Mike and the others? They’ve been stealing again?”

  “They sure have, Miss Fueyo,” Boyd said.

&nbs
p; “I guess they’re furnishing their new hideout,” Malone said. “Wherever it is. Only God knows.”

  “And even if He told us,” Boyd said, “it wouldn’t do us any good. Chase ’em out of there, and they’d go somewhere else.”

  Malone stood up, fished for his cigarettes and lit one. “What we need,” he said, blowing out smoke, “is some way to trap ’em and hold ’em. And I don’t see how we can do either.”

  “After last night,” Dorothea said, “I really don’t see—”

  “Wait a minute,” Boyd said. “You said trap, didn’t you?” He looked slowly and speculatively at Dorothea Fueyo.

  A second passed.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” she said. “Oh, no. Not on your life. I’ll help catch him if I can, because I know you don’t mean to hurt him or the others. But I wouldn’t want Mike to know about it. You’re not using me as bait in any trap.”

  Boyd looked at Malone, shook his head slowly, and said disconsolately, “Well, it was an idea.” He returned his gaze to the floor.

  The furtive gleam of the half bottle of bourbon on Malone’s dresser caught his eye. He’d had it sent up the night before, feeling the need of some medicinal refreshment. Now it winked at him. He ignored it resolutely. “Dorothea,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Dorothea, do you have any idea how far one of those kids can go when he teleports?”

  “No,” Dorothea said. “I really haven’t any idea about any of it. Mike tried to teach me once, but I guess I just don’t have the talent.”

  “Oh,” Malone said.

  “I wish I could help,” Dorothea said.

  Silence fell, and gloom followed it.

  Time ticked by. The bourbon bottle resumed its seductive winking.

  “There is one thing,” Dorothea said suddenly. “He did say one thing about it.”

  “What?” Malone said eagerly.

  “He said you couldn’t teleport to some place you haven’t been before. You’ve got to be able to visualize where you’re going.”

  Malone said, “Hmm.” It seemed like the right answer. Dorothea’s statement was a fact, certainly, but he didn’t see how the fact fit in anywhere.

  “He didn’t mention anything about distance, and I don’t think any of the Spooks ever tested it for that,” Dorothea said.

  “There probably is a distance limit,” Malone said. “At least if Dr. O’Connor’s theories are right. I just wish I knew what the limit was.”

  Silence fell again. Malone sighed. Dorothea sighed. Boyd sighed, looked around at the others and muttered, “Damn thing’s catching.” He got up and walked over to the dresser and picked up the bottle of bourbon.

  “You, too?” Malone murmured, but Boyd didn’t hear him.

  “I don’t care if it is early in the morning,” he said, resolutely. “I need a drink. I need something to take the fog out of my head, anyhow.” He poured himself a shot, held the bottle aloft, and said, “Dorothea? Malone?”

  The girl shook her head.

  Malone was tempted but he put Satan behind him with decision. “No,” he said firmly. “The way I feel now, one drink would probably immobilize me.”

  Dorothea chuckled. “You sound just like Mike,” she said.

  “Mike doesn’t drink in the morning either?” Malone said.

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Boyd said. “Mike is a nice kid. A swell kid.”

  “You keep quiet,” Dorothea shot at him. She turned back to Malone. “Mike never drinks at all,” she said. “He says it immobilizes him—just what you said.”

  Somewhere in the black galactic depths of Malone’s mind, a very small hot star gulped, took a deep breath and became a supernova.

  The light was tremendous! It shed beams over everything, beams of a positively supernal brilliance. And in the all-pervasive brightness of that single inner light, bits of data began to fall into place with all the precision of aerial bombs, each falling neatly and exactly into its own little predetermined bomb crater.

  It was beautiful. It was magnificent. Malone felt all choked up.

  None of the Silent Spooks drank. He remembered Kettleman telling him that. And the Queen never touched the stuff either.

  “What’s wrong?” Boyd said.

  “Malone, you look green.”

  “I feel green,” Malone said. “I feel like newly sprung grass. I feel as if I had just hatched out of something. I feel wonderful.”

  “It’s the strain,” Boyd said. “That’s what it is, strain. You’ve cracked at last.”

  Malone ignored him. “Tell me,” he said to Dorothea with elaborate casualness, “when your brother says that, what does he mean?”

  “What?” she said. “Oh, I don’t know. I—” She stopped and her eyes widened. “You don’t think that—”

  “I don’t know,” Malone said. “But we can sure as hell find out.”

  Dorothea blinked. “What can you do?” she said. “I mean, to find out. You can’t force them to drink or anything, can you?”

  “No,” Malone said. “I can’t do that. But it does give me an idea.”

  Boyd held his untasted drink in his hand, staring at Malone and the girl. “What are you two talking about?” he said. “Or is this the special Captain Midnight code? I left my code ring home this week.”

  “Boyd,” Malone snapped, “get on the phone.”

  “Are you sure it will hold me?” Boyd said.

  “I want you to call Dr. O’Connor at Yucca Flats,” Malone said. “Shut up and listen.”

  There was silence.

  Finally Boyd said, “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Never mind,” Malone said. “I mean listen to me. I know it’s pretty early out where O’Connor is, but that doesn’t matter now. Wake him up. Wake everybody up, for all I care.”

  “Malone,” Boyd said carefully, “are you sure you haven’t gone nuts?”

  Malone grinned cheerfully. “No,” he said. “Are you? Now listen: find out what effect drugs have on psionic abilities.”

  “Drugs?” Boyd said, and then his eyes lit up. “My God!” he said. “We might have something, at that!”

  “Get the Queen up too,” Malone said. “Ask her the same question. I hope we do have something.”

  “So do I,” Dorothea said.

  “And if we get the information we’re hoping to get, I want Her Majesty on the first plane to New York,” Malone said. “I don’t care what strings you have to pull to get that done. Call Burris if you have to. It’ll be worth it.” Malone paused. “Hell,” he said, “call him anyway and tell him what’s happened. But get the Queen here!”

  “Right!” Boyd said. He dove for the phone and started dialing. Suddenly he looked around. “Hey!” he yelled. “Where are you going?”

  Malone, one hand on the door, turned. “Down to see Fernack,” he said. “I’ve got to make some arrangements. I’m betting we’re right, Tom!” He charged out the door, slamming it. A second passed and it opened again. Malone’s head popped back in. “Dorothea,” he said. “When Tom gets off the phone call your mother. Tell her you’re going to be away for a day or two—two at the most—and she’s not to worry. We’ll need you, and her, too, to talk to Mike when the time comes. So stick around.”

  Then he was gone.

  * * * *

  Twelve hours later, Kenneth J. Malone was sitting quietly in a small room at the rear of a sporting-goods store on upper Madison Avenue, trying to remain calm and hoping that the finest, most beautiful hunch he had ever had in his life was going to pay off. With him were Boyd and two agents from the 69th Street office. They were sitting quietly too, but there was a sense of enormous excitement in the air. Malone wanted to get up and walk around, but he didn’t dare. He clamped his hands in his lap and sat tight.

  They waited in silence, not daring to talk. There was no sound except for the faint whoosh of their breathing through the gas masks they were wearing, and the muffled hiss from a tank nearby.

  There was no rea
son why the plan shouldn’t work. Malone told himself.

  It looked foolproof. But he didn’t believe it would work. This was the time, he assured himself, that his luck ran out. He’d been lucky for too long, and now the wheel was going to turn and he’d be lost. All he could do was wait for it, and hope.

  Her Majesty had said definitely that this would be the place the Spooks would hit tonight. She had no doubts about it. And Malone couldn’t think of a single reason why she might be wrong. But maybe he’d got the address mixed up. Maybe the Spooks were somewhere else right now, robbing what they pleased, safe from capture….

  His hunch about drugs had been correct, or at least everybody had said it was correct. Dr. O’Connor had assured Boyd that the deleterious effects of drugs on psionic abilities had been known ever since the early days of Dr. Rhine’s pioneering work, more than twenty years before. And Good Queen Bess had admitted the same thing. She never drank, she said, because on the one occasion when she’d tried it, she’d lost her telepathic ability, and “My goodness, it was just like going blind.”

  Burris had had to put on the pressure, but it had worked. The Queen had been flown to New York, under psychiatric guard just as soon as possible after Boyd’s phone call, and she’d been able to pick up Mike Fueyo without any trouble at all as soon as she was within the same city, and close enough to him.

  It doesn’t do much good to know where a teleporter is, Malone thought. But it’s extremely handy to know where he’s going to be. And if you also know what he plans to do when he gets where he’s going, you’ve got an absolute lead-pipe cinch to work with.

  The Queen had provided that lead-pipe cinch. Reading Mike’s mind, she’d told Malone that he planned to raid the sporting-goods store with the rest of the Spooks that night. Lucky again, Malone thought; he might have had to wait two or three days before the Spooks set up a robbery.

  But, of course, he might just be riding for some kind of horrible, unforeseen fall.

  The main part of the sporting-goods store was fairly well lit, even at night, though it was by no means brightly illuminated. There were show-window lights on, and the street lamp from outside cast a nice glow. But the back room was dark, and the four men there were well concealed. A curtain closed the room off, and Malone watched the front of the store through a narrow opening in it. He stared through it until his eyes ached, afraid to blink in case he missed the appearance of the Spooks. Everything had to go off just right, precisely on schedule.