The Queen's Own FBI Trilogy: Brain Twister; The Impossibles; Supermind

by Mark Phillips

  "All right,” Lou's voice said helpfully. “And what is it all about?"

  Malone settled back in the driver's seat as the car continued to spin along the road. It seems to me, he thought carefully, that any telepath has to go one of two ways. Either, like Her Majesty or the others we found when we discovered her two years ago, the telepath ends up insane-or perhaps commits suicide, which is simply one step further in retreat-or else he learns to understand and control his own powers, and to understand other human beings so well that, if he actually did control the world, everyone would benefit in the long run.

  The difference between the two kinds is the difference between Her Majesty and the PRS.

  "That's good thinking,” he could hear Lou say.

  No, it isn't, he thought; it's no more than guessing, and it could be just as wild as you please. But there is one thing I do know: the way to get a better world, or anyhow the first step, is to clear the road ahead. And that means getting rid of the fools, idiots, maniacs, blockheads, morons, psychopaths, paranoids, timidity-ridden, fear-worshipers, fanatics, thieves, criminals and a whole lot more.

  "Get rid of them?” Lou's voice said.

  Well, Malone thought, I don't mean they've got to be killed or driven out of the civilized world. You've just got to get them out of any place where their influence is heavily felt on society as a whole.

  "All right,” Lou's voice said pleasantly. “And how could we go about that? Do we write nasty letters to the editor?"

  There's a much more effective way, Malone thought. There's no trouble in getting rid of a man if you can make him expose himself. And you've managed that pretty well. You've thwarted their idiotic plans, made them stumble over their own fumble-mindedness, played on their neuroses, concocted errors for them to fight and, in general, rigged things in any possible way so that they'd quit, or get fired, or lose elections, or get arrested, or just generally get put out of circulation somehow.

  It's extremely effective-and it works very well.

  Sometimes, you've only had to put the blocks to individuals. Sometimes whole nations have had to go. And sometimes it's been in-between, and you've managed to foul up whole organizations with misplaced papers missent messages, error, and changed minds and everything else you can think of.

  As a matter of fact, it sounds like fun.

  "Well,” he imagined Lou saying, “it is fun, in away. But it's a deadly serious business, too."

  Sure it is, Malone thought. I think the first time that came home to me was when I saw what was happening in Russia, and compared it to what had been going on over here. Tom Boyd saw that, too, when I pointed it out to him-as you probably know if you were spying on my mind at the time.

  Not that I mind that in the least.

  Come more often, by all means.

  But Tom, in case you weren't listening, said: “Over here there are a lot of confused jerks and idiots ... And in Russia there's a lot of confusion."

  Now, that's perfectly true, and it spells out the difference. Over here, you've been confusing the jerks and the idiots, getting rid of them so the system can work properly. Over in Russia, on the other hand, you've left the jerks and the idiots all alone to do their dirty work, and you've just added to the confusion where necessary, so that the system will break down of its own weight.

  "But, after all,” Lou said, “things look pretty bad over here, too. Look at the papers."

  Everybody, Malone thought, has been telling me to go and look at the newspapers. And when I do look at them I find all sorts of evidence of confusion. Teachers resigning, senators and representatives goofing up bills on Congress, gang wars cluttering up the streets with cadavers and making things tough for the Sanitation Department, factional fights in various organizations. Now, all of that looks pretty horrible in the papers, but do you know something? It isn't horrible at all.

  It's pretty damn good, as a matter of fact.

  The teachers who are resigning, for instance, are the nincompoops who've got to be pruned out so that competent teachers can come in. And, with the higher salaries, more and more competent men and women are going to be attracted to the job. The universities are going to be freer and better places to work in; they won't be monopolies any more.

  "Monopolies?” Lou said.

  In restraint of knowledge, Malone thought. The old monopoly was in restraint of trade, and legal action helped to kill that kind. The monopoly in restraint of knowledge took a little more killing, but you're doing the job quite nicely. And not only in the schools.

  The factional fights are having the same result. Look at the AAAM, for instance. That organization is a monopoly, pure and simple. Simple, anyhow. And what the factional fights are doing to it is just breaking up the monopoly and letting knowledge free again.

  And then we come to Congress. Senators and representatives are having a terrible time, some of them. There's a fight going on between Furbisher and Deeks because Deeks has discovered some evidence against Furbisher. Who's having the terrible time?

  All of them?

  Nope. Furbisher is. Deeks isn't.

  And that's the way it's going all over. The useful, necessary legislation is going through Congress now without being cluttered up by stupid dam bills and water bills and other idiocies that simply clog the works.

  And then, of course, there are the gang wars. Now, I feel as sorry for the Sanitation Department as anybody, but at least they're cleaning the streets for good now. The boys who are dying off and getting sent to hospitals and jails are just the ones who should have been sent away long ago. Everybody knows that, but nobody can prove it.

  Except the PRS.

  And the PRS is busy doing just what it can about that proof.

  And all it takes is a few of you. I don't know how many-I don't know how many of you there really are, for that matter. But it must be a fair number to stock all your branches with “top-level” executives and the lower-level men and women who really believe in the PRS blind, and do their best to keep it working.

  There are probably a lot of ways it might work, but the simplest and best way I can think of is this one: there's a clearing-house sort of set-up, and information comes in from various telepathic spies working for the PRS, about various projected activities of the imbecile contingent.

  And, from this information, you figure out the best time and place for lightning to strike, and you select the kind of lightning it's going to be. Here it's a misplaced letter, there some “facts” that aren't facts, and somewhere else a dropped package of secret records. Somebody goofs-and is exposed.

  Maybe it works on the local-organization level. Maybe there are teams all over the country, all ready to synchronize their minds and jab somebody in the thought processes at just the right time, in just the right way, as soon as they get the word. That's one way of doing it, maybe the best way.

  There are others, but it doesn't really matter how that end of it works. The important thing is that it does work.

  And, when it works, it can certainly create quite a mess. Yes-sirree, Bob. Or Lou, as the case may be.

  I sure hope somebody's picking all this up, because I'd hate to have to explain it again when I get there.

  Are you there, anybody?

  Malone imagined he heard Lou's voice. “Yes, Ken,” she said. “Yes, I'm here."

  But, of course, there was no way for them to get through to him. They were telepathic, but Kenneth J. Malone wasn't he told himself sadly.

  Hello, out there, he thought. I hope you've been listening so far, because there isn't going to be too much more. But there are a couple of things that still need to be cleared up. I've got some answers, but there are others I'm going to need.

  There's Russia, for instance. It does seem to me as if your teams in Russia, whatever they're calling themselves, an having a lot more fun than the U. S. teams. For one thing they've got an easier job.

  In this country, the teams are looking for ways to get rid of the blockheads, and there are a
lot of them. In Russia, you don't have to get rid of the blockheads. All you have to do is clear the road for them. And you can do that by fouling up the more intelligent people.

  "Intelligent people?” he could hear Lou say.

  Intelligence doesn't mean good sense, Malone thought. I don't doubt that the men who are maintaining Russia's power are intelligent men-but what they're doing is bad for the world as a whole, in the long run.

  So you foul them up, and leave the blockheads a clear field to run the country into the ground. And that's easier than fouling up the blockheads.

  Sure it is.

  There are fewer intelligent, active people around than there are blockheads.

  Always were.

  And maybe there always will be-but not if the PRS can help it.

  Oh, and by the way, Malone thought. You do know how I spotted you, don't you? You were tuned in then, weren't you?

  And I don't mean just Lou. I mean all of you.

  In a world of blind men, the man who can see stands out. In a world of the insane, the sane man stands out.

  And in a world where organizations are regularly being confused and fouled up-either as whole organizations, or through your attempts to get rid of individual members-a smooth-running, efficient organization stands out like a sore thumb.

  Frankly, it took me longer to see it than it should have.

  But I've got the answer at last-the main answer. Though, as I say, there are some others I'd like to have.

  Like, for instance, Russia. And exactly what did happen that night in Moscow.

  CHAPTER 14

  At this point Malone suddenly became aware of a sound that was not coming from his own mind. It was coming from somewhere behind his car, and it was a very loud sound. It was, he discovered when he looked back, the siren of a highway patrolman on a motorcycle, coming toward him at imminent risk of life and limb and waving frantically with an unbelievably free hand.

  Malone glanced down at the speedometer. With a sigh, he realized that his reflexes had allowed him a little leeway, and that he was going slightly over the legal speed limit for this Virginia highway. He shook his head, eased up on the accelerator, and began to apply the brakes.

  By the time he had pulled over to the side of the road, the highway patrolman was coming to a halt behind the big Lincoln. Malone watched him check the number on the rear plate and then walk slowly around to the window on the driver's side. “Can't you hurry?” Malone muttered under his breath. “All this Virginian ease is okay in its place, but—” In the meanwhile he was getting out his identification, and by the time the patrolman reached him he had it in his hand.

  "I'm sorry,” he said.

  "Sorry?” the patrolman said, frowning. He had an open, boyish face with freckles and a pug nose. He looked like somebody's kid brother, very dependable but just a little cute. “What for?” he said.

  Malone shrugged. “What else?” he said. “Speeding."

  "Oh, that,” the patrolman said. “Why, don't you worry about that."

  "Don't worry about it?” Malone said. This particular kid brother was obviously a little nuts, and should have been put away years ago. He ground his teeth silently, but he didn't make any complaints. It was never wise, he knew, to irritate a traffic cop of any sort.

  "Sure not,” the patrolman said. “Why, we don't pay any attention out here until a fella hits ten miles over the posted limit. That's okay."

  "Fine,” Malone said cheerily. “Then I can drive on?"

  "Now, just hold it a second there,” the patrolman said. “Let's see your identification if you don't mind."

  Malone held it out wordlessly. The patrolman, obviously intent on finding out just what kind of paper the card was made of, who had printed it and whether there were any germs on it, gave it a long, careful scrutiny. Malone shifted slightly in his seat, counted to ten and managed to say nothing.

  Then the patrolman started reading the card aloud. “Kenneth J. Malone,” he said in a tone of some surprise. “Special Agent of the FBI.” He looked up. “That right?” he said. “What it says here?"

  "That's right,” Malone said. “And you can have my autograph later.” He regretted the last sentence as soon as it was out of his mouth, but the patrolman didn't seem to notice.

  "Then you're the man, all right,” he said happily. “I caught your plate number as you went on by me, back there."

  "Plate number?” Malone said. “What am I supposed to have done?” He'd overslept, he knew, but that was the only violation of even his personal code that he could think of. And it didn't seem likely that the Virginia Highway Patrol was sending out its men to arrest people who overslept.

  "Why, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said with honest surprise written all over his Norman Rockwell face, “as far as I know you didn't do a thing wrong."

  "But—"

  "They just told us to be on the watch for a black 1973 Lincoln with your number, and see if you were driving it. They did say you'd probably be driving it."

  "Good,” Malone said. “And I am. And I'd like to continue doing so.” He paused and then added, “But what happened?"

  "Well,” the patrolman said, in exactly the manner of a man starting out to tell a long, interesting story about the Wars of the Spanish Succession, “well, sir, it seems FBI Headquarters in Washington, they got in touch with the Highway Patrol Headquarters, down in Richmond, and Highway Patrol Headquarters—"

  "Down in Richmond,” Malone muttered resignedly.

  "That's right,” the patrolman said in a pleased voice. “Well, they called all the local barracks, and then we got the message on our radios.” He stopped, exactly as if he thought he had finished.

  Malone counted to ten again, made it twenty and then found that he was capable of speech. “What?” he said in a calm, patient voice, “was the message about?"

  "Well,” the patrolman said, “it seems some fella down in Washington, fella name of Thomas Boyd, they said it was, wants to talk to you pretty bad."

  "He could have called me on the car phone,” Malone said in what he thought was a reasonable tone of voice. “He didn't have to—"

  "There's no call for yelling at me, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said reproachfully. “I only obeyed my orders, which were to locate your black 1973 Lincoln and see if you were driving it, and give you a message. That's all."

  "It's enough,” Malone muttered. “He didn't have to send out the militia to round me up."

  "Oh, no, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said. “Not the militia. Highway Patrol. We don't rightly have any connection with the militia at all."

  "Glad to hear it,” Malone said. He picked up the receiver of the car phone and waited for the buzz that would show that he was connected with Communications Central in Washington.

  It didn't come.

  "Oh, yes,” the patrolman said suddenly. “I suppose that's why this Mr. Boyd, he couldn't call you on the car telephone, Mr. Malone. The message we got, it also says that the fella at the FBI garage in Washington just forgot to plug in that phone there."

  "Oh,” Malone said. “Well, thanks for telling me."

  "You're right welcome, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said “You can plug it in now."

  "I intend to,” Malone said through his teeth. He closed his eyes for a long second, and then opened them again. He saw the interested face of the patrolman looking down at him. Hurriedly, he turned away, felt underneath the dashboard until he found the dangling plug, and inserted it into its socket.

  The buzz now arrived.

  Malone heaved a great sigh and punched for Boyd's office. Then he looked around.

  The patrolman was still standing at the car window. He was looking down at Malone with an interested, slightly blank expression.

  Malone thought of several things to say, and chose the most harmless. “Thanks a lot,” he told the patrolman. “I appreciate your stopping off to let me know."

  "Oh, that's all right, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said. “That was my
orders, to do that. And even if they weren't, it was no trouble at all. Any time. I'd always be glad to do anything for the FBI."

  "Boyd here,” a tinny voice from the phone said.

  Malone eyed the patrolman sourly. “Malone here,” he said. “What's the trouble, Tom? I-No, wait a minute."

  "Ken!” Boyd's voice said. “I've been trying to—"

  "Hold it a second,” Malone said. He opened his mouth, and then he saw a car go by. The patrolman hadn't seen it. Malone felt sorry for the driver, but not too sorry. “Say!” he said to the patrolman.

  "Yes, sir?” the patrolman said.

  "That boy was really going, wasn't he?” Malone said. “He must have been doing at least ninety."

  The patrolman jerked his head around to stare at the disappearing car. “Well—” he said, and then: “Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Malone. Thanks. I'll see you later.” He raced for his machine, swung aboard and roared down the road, guiding with one hand and manipulating the controls of his radar set with the other.

  Malone waved him a cheery farewell, and got back to the phone.

  "Okay, Tom,” he said. “Go ahead."

  "Who was that you were talking to?” Boyd asked.

  "Oh, just a motorcycle patrolman,” Malone said. “He wanted to be helpful, so I told him to go chase a Buick."

  "Why a Buick?” Boyd said, interestedly.

  "Why not?” Malone said. “There happened to be one handy at the time. Now, what's on your mind?"

  "I've been searching all over hell for you,” Boyd said. “I wish you'd just leave some word where you were going, and then I wouldn't have to—"

  "Damn it,” Malone cut in. “Tom, just tell me what you want. In straightforward, simple language. It just took me ten minutes to pry a few idiotic facts out of a highway patrolman. Don't make me go through it all over again with you."

  "Okay, okay,” Boyd said. “Keep your pants on. But here's the dope: I just flew in from New York, and I brought all the files on the case—the stuff you left in your office in New York, remember?"