The Second Randall Garrett Megapack

by Randall Garrett

  “Very,” Malone said, thinking back. He shivered again.

  “In Washington,” O’Connor said, “it was noon. Here it is nine o’clock, and hardly as warm. The atmosphere is quite arid, and about twenty degrees below that obtaining in Washington.”

  Malone thought about it, trying to ignore the chills. “Oh,” he said at last. “And all the time I thought it was you.”

  “What?” O’Connor leaned forward.

  “Nothing,” Malone said hastily. “Nothing at all.”

  “My suggestion,” O’Connor said, putting his fingertips together again, “is that you take off your clothes, which are undoubtedly damp, and—”

  Naturally, Malone had not brought any clothes to Yucca Flats to change into. And when he tried to picture himself in a spare suit of Dr. O’Connor’s, the picture just wouldn’t come. Besides, the idea of doing a modified striptease in, or near, the O’Connor office was thoroughly unattractive.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “thanks a lot, Doctor, but no thanks. I really have a better idea.”

  “Better?” O’Connor said.

  “Well, I—” Malone took a deep breath and shut his eyes.

  He heard Dr. O’Connor say: “Well, Mr. Malone, goodbye. And good luck.”

  Then the office in Yucca Flats was gone, and Malone was standing in the bedroom of his own apartment, on the fringes of Washington, D.C.

  CHAPTER 4

  He walked over to the wall control and shut off the air-conditioning in a hurry. He threw open a window and breathed great gulps of the hot, humid air from the streets. In a small corner at the back of his mind, he wondered why he was grateful for the air he had suffered under only a few minutes before. But that, he reflected, was life. And a very silly kind of life, too, he told himself without rancor.

  In a few minutes he left the window, somewhat restored, and headed for the shower. When it was running nicely and he was under it, he started to sing. But his voice didn’t sound as much like the voice of Lauritz Melchior as it usually did, not even when he made a brave, if foolhardy stab at the Melchior accent. Slowly, he began to realize that he was bothered.

  He climbed out of the shower and started drying himself. Up to now, he thought, he had depended on Dr. Thomas O’Connor for edifying, trustworthy and reasonably complete information about psionics and psi phenomena in general. He had looked on O’Connor as a sort of living version of an extremely good edition of the Britannica, always available for reference.

  And now O’Connor had failed him. That, Malone thought, was hardly fair. O’Connor had no business failing him, particularly when there was no place else to go.

  The scientist had been right, of course, Malone knew. There was no other scientist who knew as much about psionics as O’Connor, and if O’Connor said there were no books, then that was that: there were no books.

  He reached for a drawer in his dresser, opened it and pulled out some underclothes, humming tunelessly under his breath as he dressed. If there was no one to ask, he thought, and if there were no books…

  He stopped with a sock in his hand, and stared at it in wonder. O’Connor hadn’t said there were no books. As a matter of fact, Malone realized, he’d said exactly the opposite.

  There were books. But they were “crackpot” books. O’Connor had never read them. He had, he said, probably never even heard of many of them.

  “Crackpot” was a fighting word to O’Connor. But to Malone it had all the sweetness of flattery. After all, he’d found telepaths in insane asylums, and teleports among the juvenile delinquents of New York. “Crackpot” was a word that was rapidly ceasing to have any meaning at all in Malone’s mind.

  He realized that he was still staring at the sock, which was black with a pink clock. Hurriedly, he put it on, and finished dressing. He reached for the phone and made a few fast calls, and then teleported himself to his locked office in FBI Headquarters, on East 69th Street in New York. He let himself out, and strolled down the corridor. The agent-in-charge looked up from his desk as Malone passed, blinked, and said, “Hello, Malone. What’s up now?”

  “I’m going prowling,” Malone said. “But there won’t be any work for you, as far as I can see.”

  “Oh?”

  “Just relax,” Malone said. “Breathe easy.”

  “I’ll try to,” the agent-in-charge said, a little sadly. “But every time you show up, I think about that wave of red Cadillacs you started. I’ll never feel really secure again.”

  “Relax,” Malone said. “Next time it won’t be Cadillacs. But it might be spirits, blowing on ear-trumpets. Or whatever it is they do.”

  “Spirits, Malone?” the agent-in-charge said.

  “No, thanks,” Malone said sternly. “I never drink on duty.” He gave the agent a cheery wave of his hand and went on out to the street.

  The Psychical Research Society had offices in the Ravell Building, a large structure composed mostly of plate glass and anodized aluminum that looked just a little like a bright blue transparent crackerbox that had been stood on end for purposes unknown. Having walked all the way down to this box on 56th Street, Malone had recovered his former sensitivity range to temperature and felt pathetically grateful for the coolish sea breeze that made New York somewhat less of an unbearable Summer Festival than was normal.

  The lobby of the building was glittering and polished, as if human beings could not possibly exist in it. Malone took an elevator to the sixth floor, stepped out into a small, equally polished hall, and hurriedly looked off to his right. A small door stood there, with a legend engraved in elegantly small letters. It said:

  The Psychical Research Society Push

  Malone obeyed instructions. The door swung noiselessly open, and then closed behind him.

  He was in a large square-looking room which had a couch and chair set at one corner, and a desk at the far end. Behind the desk was a brass plate, on which was engraved:

  The Psychical Research Society Main Offices

  To Malone’s left was a hall that angled off into invisibility, and to the left of the desk was another one, going straight back past doors and two radiators until it ran into a right-angled turn and also disappeared.

  Malone took in the details of his surroundings almost automatically, filing them in his memory just in case he ever needed to use them.

  One detail, however, required more than automatic attention. Sitting behind the desk, her head just below the brass plaque, was a redhead. She was, Malone thought, positively beautiful. Of course, he could not see the lower two-thirds of her body, but if they were half as interesting as the upper third and the face and head, he was willing to spend days, weeks or even months on their investigation. Some jobs, he told himself, feeling a strong sense of duty, were definitely worth taking time over.

  She was turned slightly away from Malone, and had obviously not heard him come in. Malone wondered how best to announce himself, and regretfully gave up the idea of tiptoeing up to the girl, placing his hands over her eyes, kissing the back of her neck and crying: “Surprise!” It was elegant, he felt, but it just wasn’t right.

  He compromised at last on the old established method of throat-clearing to attract her attention. He was sure he could take it from there, to an eminently satisfying conclusion.

  He tiptoed on the deep-pile rug right up to her desk. He took a deep breath.

  And the expected happened.

  He sneezed.

  The sneeze was loud and long, and it echoed through the room and throughout the corridors. It sounded to Malone like the blast of a small bomb, or possibly a grenade. Startled himself by the volume of sound he had managed to generate, he jumped back.

  The girl had jumped, too, but her leap had been straight upward, about an inch and a half. She came down on her chair and reached up a hand. The hand wiped the back of her neck with a slow, lingering motion of complete loathing. Then, equally slowly, she turned.

  “That,” she said in a low, sweet voice, “was a hell of a di
rty trick.”

  “It was an accident,” Malone said. “The Will of God.”

  “God has an exceedingly nasty mind,” the girl said. “Something, by the way, which I have often suspected.” She regarded Malone darkly. “Do you always do that to strangers? Is it some new sort of perversion?”

  “I have never done such a thing before,” Malone said sternly.

  “Oh,” the girl said. “An experimenter. Avid for new sensations. Probably a jaded scion of a rich New York family.” She paused. “Tell me,” she said, “is it fun?”

  Malone opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He shut it, thought for a second and then tried again. He got as far as: “I—” before Nemesis overtook him. The second sneeze was even louder and more powerful than the first had been.

  “It must be fun,” the girl said acidly, producing a handkerchief from somewhere and going to work on her face. “You just can’t seem to wait to do it again. Would it do any good to tell you that the fascination with this form of greeting is not universal? Or don’t you care?”

  “Damn it,” Malone said, goaded, “I’ve got a cold.”

  “And you feel you should share it with the world,” the girl said. “I quite understand. Tell me, is there anything I can do for you? Or has your mission been accomplished?”

  “My mission?” Malone said.

  “Having sneezed twice at me,” the girl said, “do you feel satisfied? Will you vanish softly and silently away? Or do you want to sneeze at somebody else?”

  “I want the president of the Society,” Malone said. “According to my information, his name is Sir Lewis Carter.”

  “And if you sneeze at him,” the girl said, “yours is going to be mud. He isn’t much on novelty.”

  “I—”

  “Besides which,” she said, “he’s extremely busy. And I don’t think he’ll see you at all. Why don’t you go and sneeze at somebody else? There must be lots of people who would consider themselves honored to be noticed, especially in such a startling way. Why don’t you try and find one somewhere? Somewhere very far away.”

  Malone was beyond speech. He fumbled for his wallet, flipped it open and showed the girl his identification.

  “My, my,” she said. “And hasn’t the FBI anything better to do? I mean, can’t you go and sneeze at counterfeiters in their lairs, or wherever they might be?”

  “I want to see Sir Lewis Carter,” Malone said doggedly.

  The girl shrugged and picked up the phone on the desk. It was a blank-vision device, of course; many office intercoms were. She dialed, waited and then said, “Sir Lewis, please.” Another second went by. Then she spoke again. “Sir Lewis,” she said, “this is Lou, at the front desk. There’s a man here named Malone, who wants to see you.”

  She waited a second. “I don’t know what he wants,” she told the phone. “But he’s from the FBI.” A second’s pause. “That’s right, the FBI,” she said. “All right, Sir Lewis. Right away.” She hung up the phone and turned to watch Malone warily.

  “Sir Lewis,” she said, “will see you. I couldn’t say why. But take the side corridor to the rear of the suite. His office has his name on it, and I won’t tell you you can’t miss it because I have every faith that you will. Good luck.”

  Malone blinked. “Look,” he said. “I know I startled you, but I didn’t mean to. I—” He started to sneeze, but this time he got his own handkerchief out in time and muffled the explosion slightly.

  “Good work,” the girl said approvingly. “Tell me, Mr. Malone, have you been toilet-trained, too?”

  There was nothing at all to say to that remark, Malone reflected as he wended his way down the side corridor. It seemed endless, and kept branching off unexpectedly. Once he blundered into a large open room filled with people at desks. A woman who seemed to have a great many teeth and rather bulbous eyes looked up at him. “Can I help you?” she said in a fervent whine.

  “I sincerely hope not,” Malone said, backing away and managing to find the corridor once more. After what seemed like a long time, and two more sneezes, he found a small door which was labeled in capital letters:

  THE PSYCHICAL RESEARCH SOCIETY SIR LEWIS CARTER PRESIDENT

  Malone sighed. “Well,” he muttered, “they certainly aren’t hiding anything.” He pushed at the door, and it swung open.

  Sir Lewis was a tall, solidly-built man with a kindly expression. He wore grey flannel trousers and a brown tweed jacket, which made an interesting color contrast with his iron-grey hair. His teeth were clenched so firmly on the bit of a calabash pipe with a meerschaum bowl that Malone wondered if he could ever get loose. Malone shut the door behind him, and Sir Lewis rose and extended a hand.

  Malone went to the desk and reached across to take the hand. It was firm and dry. “I’m Kenneth Malone,” Malone said.

  “Ah, yes,” Sir Lewis said. “Pleased to meet you. Always happy, of course, to do whatever I can for your FBI. Not only a duty, so to speak, but a pleasure. Sit down. Please do sit down.”

  Malone found a chair at the side of the desk, and sank into it. It was soft and comfortable. It provided such a contrast to O’Connor’s furnishings that Malone began to wish it was Sir Lewis who was employed at Yucca Flats. Then he could tell Sir Lewis everything about the case.

  Now, of course, he could only hedge and try to make do without stating very many facts. “Sir Lewis,” he said, “I trust you’ll keep this conversation confidential.”

  “Naturally,” Sir Lewis said. He removed the pipe, stared at it, and replaced it.

  “I can’t give you the full details,” Malone went on, “but the FBI is presently engaged in an investigation which requires the specialized knowledge your organization seems to have.”

  “FBI?” Sir Lewis said. “Specialized investigation?” He seemed pleased, but a trifle puzzled. “Dear boy, anything we have is at your disposal, of course. But I quite fail to see how you can consider us—”

  “It’s rather an unusual problem,” Malone said, feeling that that was the understatement of the year. “But I understand that your records go back nearly a century.”

  “Quite true,” Sir Lewis murmured.

  “During that time,” Malone said, “the Society investigated a great many supposedly supernatural or supernormal incidents.”

  “Many of them,” Sir Lewis said, “were discovered to be fraudulent, I’m afraid. The great majority, in fact.”

  “That’s what I’d assume,” Malone said. He fished in his pockets, found a cigarette and lit it. Sir Lewis went on chewing at his unlit pipe. “What we’re interested in,” Malone said, “is some description of the various methods by which these frauds were perpetrated.”

  “Ah,” Sir Lewis said. “The tricks of the trade, so to speak?”

  “Exactly,” Malone said.

  “Well, then,” Sir Lewis said. “The luminous gauze, for instance, that passes for ectoplasm; the various methods of table-lifting; control of the Ouija board—things like that?”

  “Not quite that elementary,” Malone said. He puffed on the cigarette, wishing it was a cigar. “We’re pretty much up to that kind of thing. But had it ever occurred to you that many of the methods used by phony mind-reading acts, for instance, might be used as communication methods by spies?”

  “Why, I believe some have been,” Sir Lewis said. “Though I don’t know much about that, of course; there was a case during the First World War—”

  “Exactly,” Malone said. He took a deep breath. “It’s things like that we’re interested in,” he said, and spent the next twenty minutes slowly approaching his subject. Sir Lewis, apparently fascinated, was perfectly willing to unbend in any direction, and jotted down notes on some of Malone’s more interesting cases, murmuring: “Most unusual, most unusual,” as he wrote.

  The various types of phenomena that the Society had investigated came into the discussion, and Malone heard quite a lot about the Beyond, the Great Summerland, Spirit Mediums and the hypothetical existence of fa
iries, goblins and elves.

  “But, Sir Lewis—” he said.

  “I make no claims personally,” Sir Lewis said. “But I understand that there is a large and somewhat vocal group which does make rather solid-sounding claims in that direction. They say that they have seen fairies, talked with goblins, danced with the elves.”

  “They must be very unusual people,” Malone said, understating heavily.

  “Oh,” Sir Lewis said, without a trace of irony, “they certainly are.”

  Talk like this passed away nearly a half-hour, until Malone finally felt that it was the right time to introduce some of his real questions. “Tell me, Sir Lewis,” he said. “Have you had many instances of a single man, or a small group of men, controlling the actions of a much larger group? And doing it in such a way that the larger group doesn’t even know it is being manipulated?”

  “Of course I have,” Sir Lewis said. “And so have you. They call it advertising.”

  Malone flicked his cigarette into an ashtray. “I didn’t mean exactly that,” he said. “Suppose they’re doing it in such a way that the larger group doesn’t even suspect that manipulation is going on?”

  Sir Lewis removed his pipe and frowned at it. “I may be able to give you a little information,” he said slowly, “but not much.”

  “Ah?” Malone said, trying to sound only mildly interested.

  “Outside of mob psychology,” Sir Lewis said, “and all that sort of thing, I really haven’t seen any record of a case of such a thing happening. And I can’t quite imagine anyone faking it.”

  “But you have got some information?” Malone said.

  “Certainly,” Sir Lewis said. “There is always spirit control.”

  “Spirit control?” Malone blinked.

  “Demoniac intervention,” Sir Lewis said. “‘My name is Legion,’ you know.”

  Sir Lewis Legion, Malone thought confusedly, was a rather unusual name. He took a breath and caught hold of his revolving mind. “How would you go about that?” he said, a little hopelessly.

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” Sir Lewis admitted cheerfully. “But I will have it looked up for you.” He made a note. “Anything else?”