The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  And it was going to happen any minute, he told himself nervously. In just a few minutes, everything would be over.

  Malone held his breath.

  Then he saw the figure walk slowly by the glass front of the shop, looking in with elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint, making sure there were none left in it.

  Mike Fueyo.

  Malone tried to breathe, and couldn’t.

  Seconds ticked by.

  And then—almost magically—they appeared. Eight of them, almost simultaneously, in the center of the room.

  Mike Fueyo spoke in a low, controlled voice. “Okay, now,” he said. “Let’s move fast. We—”

  And that was all he said.

  The odorless anesthetic gas that filled the room had its sudden effect. Fueyo dropped out like a light.

  The other seven followed him within seconds. Ramon Otravez, the tallest of them, stayed on his feet a little longer than the rest, obviously trying with all his strength to teleport himself out of danger, but the effects of the fast-working gas had already been felt. He was, literally, too stunned to move.

  He too slumped to the floor.

  For a second after that, none of the men in the rear room moved.

  Then Malone said, “All right, boys. Let’s get them out of here. They can’t stay too long in this atmosphere.” The men started forward into the front room, toward the still bodies. “Boyd,” Malone said. “Get out front and wave the ambulance over here. I’ll get the air-conditioners working and stop the gas.”

  He reached down and turned off the valve on the gently hissing tank of anesthetic gas that sat on the floor near him. “You guys get the kids,” he said. “And let’s make it fast, okay?”

  CHAPTER 14

  “The one thing we had to worry about,” Malone said, pouring some more champagne into the two hollow-stemmed glasses, “was whether it was possible to give them just enough synthecaine. Too little, and they’d still be able to teleport. Too much, and they’d be too groggy.”

  Dorothea relaxed in her chair and looked around at the hotel room walls with contentment. She looked like the proverbial cat who has swallowed the cream. “It looked to me as if it worked,” she said. “Mike seemed pretty normal—except that he had that awful trapped feeling.”

  Malone handed her one of the filled glasses with an air. He was beginning slowly to feel less like the nervous, uncertain Kenneth J. Malone, and more and more like Sir Kenneth Malone. “I can see why he felt trapped,” he said. “If a guy’s been unhampered by four walls all the time, even only for a year or so, he’s certainly going to feel penned in when he loses the ability to get through them. It might be just a little claustrophobic.” He grinned, proud of himself. “Claustrophobic,” he said again. “My tongue and palate are in excellent condition.”

  “The main thing is,” Dorothea said, “that everybody’s so happy. Commissioner Fernack, even—with Mr. Burris promising to give him a medal.”

  “And Lynch,” Malone said reflectively. “He’ll get a promotion out of this for sure. And good old Kettleman.”

  “Kettleman?” Dorothea said. “Oh, the funny fat man. He’s some kind of social worker or something.”

  “And now he’s getting a scroll from the FBI,” Malone said. “A citation for coming up with the essential clue in this case. Even though he didn’t know it was the essential clue. You know,” he added reflectively, “one thing puzzles me about that man.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well,” Malone said, “he worked in your neighborhood. You knew him.”

  “Of course I did,” Dorothea said. “We all knew Kettleman.”

  “He said he had a lot of success as a social worker,” Malone said. “Now, I’ve met him. And talked with him. And I just can’t picture—”

  “Oh,” Dorothea said. “We keep him around—kept him around, I mean—as a sort of joke. A pet, or a mascot. Of course, he never did catch on. I don’t suppose he has yet.”

  Malone laughed. “Nope,” he said. “He hasn’t.”

  “And even your friend is happy,” Dorothea said.

  “Boyd?” Malone said. “Sure. He called his blonde and she was just thrilled at the adventures of an FBI agent, and he’s with her now.”

  “You sound jealous,” Dorothea said.

  “The hell I am,” Malone said, and proceeded to prove his point. Some minutes later they relaxed.

  “Mike,” Dorothea said. “What?”

  “Mike,” she said. “He’s probably the happiest of all. After Mom and I talked to him for a while, anyhow, and he began to lose that—that trapped feeling. Now he’s all excited about being an FBI man.” She looked worriedly at Malone for a second. “You weren’t kidding about that, were you?” she said.

  She looked very pretty when she was worried. Malone leaned over and kissed her with great care. After a second, the kiss seemed to gain momentum on its own, and all restraint went by the wayside. A long time passed.

  Then, as Malone pulled away and began to recover his breath, he said weakly, “You were saying?”

  “Was I?” Dorothea said. “Oh, yes. I was. About Mike being an FBI man.”

  “Oh,” Malone said. “Well, normally you’ve got to be a lawyer or an accountant, but there are a few special cases. And maybe Mike would fit into the special-case bracket. If he doesn’t—well, he’ll be doing some sort of official work for the Government. You can be sure of that.”

  “That woman in the costume—the one you call Your Majesty—certainly threw a scare into the boys,” Dorothea said.

  “Well,” Malone said, “we had to prove one thing to them. We can pick them up at any time. You see, they’ve got to think about where they’re teleporting, and as soon as they do that one of our telepaths—like the Queen—will know where they’re going to be. And we can crack down.”

  “That’s what she said,” Dorothea said.

  “Right,” Malone said. “After all, we did them quite a favor—getting them out of all the trouble they’d gotten themselves into. If they try to—”

  “That reminds me, Ken,” Dorothea said. “All the things that were stolen. The liquor and all of that, Money. What’s going to happen to that?”

  “Well,” Malone said, “everything that can be returned—and that includes most of the liquor, because they hadn’t had a chance to get rid of it to the bootleggers around this area—will be returned. What can’t be returned—money, stuff that they’ve used, broken, or sold—well, I don’t exactly know about that. It might take a special act of Congress,” he said brightly.

  “All for the boys?” Dorothea said.

  “Well, they’ll be at Yucca Flats, and they’ll be pretty useful,” Malone said. “And, as I was saying, if they try to run away from Yucca Flats, we’ll just have to keep them drugged all the time, little as we want to. They can be of some use that way, too. The Government isn’t doing all this for nothing.”

  “But keeping them drugged—”

  “I said we didn’t want to do it. And I don’t think we’ll have to. They’ll be well taken care of, don’t worry. Some of the best psychiatrists and doctors are out there. And Mike and the others—if they can show they’re trustworthy—can come home every weekend, or even every night if they can teleport that far.” Malone paused. “But it isn’t charity,” he added. “We need people with specialized psionic abilities—and, for a variety of reasons, they’re pretty hard to find.”

  “You know,” Dorothea said, “you’re pretty wonderful, Mr. Malone.”

  Malone didn’t answer her. He just kissed her again, not caring particularly whether or not the kiss went wild.

  Dorothea pushed him gently away. “I’m envious,” she announced. “Everybody gets a reward but me. Do I get left out just because I swiped your notebook?”

  Malone kissed her again. “What kind of a reward do you want?” he asked.

  She sighed. “Oh, well,” she said. “I suppose this is good enough.”

  “Good enough?” Malone sai
d. “Just good enough?”

  His lips met hers for the fifth time. She reached one hand gently out to the light switch and pushed it.

  The lights went out.

  SUPERMIND (1963)

  Written with Laurence M. Janifer

  CHAPTER 1

  In 1914, it was enemy aliens.

  In 1930, it was Wobblies.

  In 1957, it was fellow travelers.

  In 1971, it was insane telepaths.

  And, in 1973:

  “We don’t know what the hell it is,” said Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI. He threw his hands in the air and looked baffled and confused.

  Kenneth J. Malone tried to appear sympathetic. “What what is?” he asked.

  Burris frowned and drummed his fingers on his big desk. “Malone,” he said, “make sense. And don’t stutter.”

  “Stutter?” Malone said. “You said you didn’t know what it was. What the hell it was. And I wanted to know what it was.”

  “That’s just it,” Burris said. “I don’t know.”

  Malone sighed and repressed an impulse to scream. “Now wait a minute, Chief—” he started.

  Burris frowned again. “Don’t call me Chief,” he said.

  Malone nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But if you don’t know what it is, you must have some idea of what you don’t know. I mean, is it larger than a breadbox? Does it perform helpful tasks? Is it self-employed?”

  “Malone,” Burris sighed, “you ought to be on television.”

  “But—”

  “Let me explain,” Burris said. His voice was calmer now, and he spoke as if he were enunciating nothing but the most obvious and eternal truths. “The country,” he said, “is going to hell in a handbasket.”

  Malone nodded again. “Well, after all, Chief—”

  “Don’t call me Chief,” Burris said wearily.

  “Anything you say,” Malone agreed peacefully. He eyed the Director of the FBI warily. “After all, it isn’t anything new,” he went on. “The country’s always been going to hell in a handbasket, one way or another. Look at Rome.”

  “Rome?” Burris said.

  “Sure,” Malone said. “Rome was always going to hell in a handbasket, and finally it—” He paused. “Finally it did, I guess,” he said.

  “Exactly,” Burris said. “And so are we. Finally.” He passed a hand over his forehead and stared past Malone at a spot on the wall. Malone turned and looked at the spot, but saw nothing of interest. “Malone,” Burris said, and the FBI agent whirled around again.

  “Yes, Ch—Yes?” he said.

  “This time,” Burris said, “it isn’t the same old story at all. This time it’s different.”

  “Different?” Malone said.

  Burris nodded. “Look at it this way,” he said. His eyes returned to the agent. “Suppose you’re a congressman,” he went on, “and you find evidence of inefficiency in the government.”

  “All right,” Malone said agreeably. He had the feeling that if he waited around a little while everything would make sense, and he was willing to wait. After all, he wasn’t on assignment at the moment, and there was nothing pressing waiting for him. He was even between romances.

  If he waited long enough, he told himself, Andrew J. Burris might say something worth hearing. He looked attentive and eager. He considered leaning over the desk a little, to look even more eager, but decided against it; Burris might think he looked threatening. There was no telling.

  “You’re a congressman,” Burris said, “and the government is inefficient. You find evidence of it. What do you do?”

  Malone blinked and thought for a second. It didn’t take any longer than that to come up with the old, old answer. “I start an investigation,” he said. “I get a committee and I talk to a lot of newspaper editors and magazine editors and maybe I go on television and talk some more, and my committee has a lot of meetings—”

  “Exactly,” Burris said.

  “And we talk a lot at the meetings,” Malone went on, carried away, “and get a lot of publicity, and we subpoena famous people, just as famous as we can get, except governors or presidents, because you can’t—they tried that back in the Fifties, and it didn’t work very well—and that gives us some more publicity, and then when we have all the publicity we can possibly get—”

  “You stop,” Burris said hurriedly.

  “That’s right,” Malone said. “We stop. And that’s what I’d do.”

  “Of course, the problem of inefficiency is left exactly where it always was,” Burris said. “Nothing’s been done about it.”

  “Naturally,” Malone said. “But think of all the lovely publicity. And all the nice talk. And the subpoenas and committees and everything.”

  “Sure,” Burris said wearily. “It’s happened a thousand times. But, Malone, that’s the difference. It isn’t happening this time.”

  There was a short pause. “What do you mean?” Malone said at last.

  “This time,” Burris said, in a tone that sounded almost awed, “they want to keep it a secret.”

  “A secret?” Malone said, blinking. “But that’s—that’s not the American way.”

  Burris shrugged. “It’s un-congressman-like, anyhow,” he said. “But that’s what they’ve done. Tiptoed over to me and whispered softly that the thing has to be investigated quietly. Naturally, they didn’t give me any orders—but only because they know they can’t make one stick. They suggested it pretty strongly.”

  “Any reasons?” Malone said. The whole idea interested him strangely. It was odd—and he found himself almost liking odd cases, lately. That is, he amended hurriedly, if they didn’t get too odd.

  “Oh, they had reasons, all right,” Burris said. “It took a little coaxing, but I managed to pry some loose. You see, every one of them found inefficiency in his own department. And every one knows that other men are investigating inefficiency.”

  “Oh,” Malone said.

  “That’s right,” Burris said. “Every one of them came to me to get me to prove that the goof-ups in his particular department weren’t his fault. That covers them in case one of the others happens to light into the department.”

  “Well, it must be somebody’s fault,” Malone said.

  “It isn’t theirs,” Burris said wearily, “I ought to know. They told me. At great length, Malone.”

  Malone felt a stab of honest pity. “How many so far?” he asked.

  “Six,” Burris said. “Four representatives, and two senators.”

  “Only two?” Malone said.

  “Well,” Burris said, “the Senate is so much smaller. And, besides, we may get more. As a matter of fact, Senator Lefferts is worth any six representatives all by himself.”

  “He is?” Malone said, puzzled. Senator Lefferts was not one of his favorite people. Nor, as far as he knew, did the somewhat excitable senator hold any place of honor in the heart of Andrew J. Burris.

  “I mean his story,” Burris said. “I’ve never heard anything like it—at least, not since the Bilbo days. And I’ve only heard about those,” he added hurriedly.

  “What story?” Malone said. “He talked about inefficiency—”

  “Not exactly,” Burris said carefully. “He said that somebody was out to get him—him, personally. He said somebody was trying to discredit him by sabotaging all his legislative plans.”

  “Well,” Malone said, feeling that some comment was called for, “three cheers.”

  “That isn’t the point,” Burris snapped. “No matter how we feel about Senator Lefferts or his legislative plans, we’re sworn to protect him. And he says ‘they’ are out to get him.”

  “They?” Malone said.

  “You know,” Burris said, shrugging. “The great ‘they.’ The invisible enemies all around, working against him.”

  “Oh,” Malone said. “Paranoid?” He had always thought Senator Lefferts was slightly on the batty side, and the idea of real paranoia didn’t come as too much of a surpris
e. After all, when a man was batty to start out with … and he even looked like a vampire, Malone thought confusedly.

  “As far as paranoia is concerned,” Burris said, “I checked with one of our own psych men, and he’ll back it up. Lefferts has definite paranoid tendencies, he says.”

  “Well, then,” Malone said, “that’s that.”

  Burris shook his head. “It isn’t that simple,” he said. “You see, Malone, there’s some evidence that somebody is working against him.”

  “The American public, with any luck at all,” Malone said.

  “No,” Burris said. “An enemy. Somebody sabotaging his plans. Really.”

  Malone shook his head. “You’re crazy,” he said.

  Burris looked shocked. “Malone, I’m the Director of the FBI,” he said. “And if you insist on being disrespectful—”

  “Sorry,” Malone murmured. “But—”

  “I am perfectly sane,” Burris said slowly. “It’s Senator Lefferts who’s crazy. The only trouble is, he has evidence to show he’s not.”

  Malone thought about odd cases, and suddenly wished he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. This one showed sudden signs of developing into something positively bizarre. “I see,” he said, wondering if he did.

  “After all,” Burris said, in a voice that attempted to sound reasonable, “a paranoid has just as much right to be persecuted as anybody else, doesn’t he?”

  “Sure,” Malone said. “Everybody has rights. But what do you want me to do about that?”

  “About their rights?” Burris said. “Nothing, Malone. Nothing.”

  “I mean,” Malone said patiently, “about whatever it is that’s going on.”

  Burris took a deep breath. His hands clasped behind his head, and he looked up at the ceiling. He seemed perfectly relaxed. That, Malone knew, was a bad sign. It meant that there was a dirty job coming, a job nobody wanted to do, and one Burris was determined to pass off on him. He sighed and tried to get resigned.