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

by Mark Phillips

  There was silence.

  "Well?” Malone said.

  "You said not to tell you,” Lou said instantly.

  "All right,” Malone said. “I rescind the order. Am I a telepath, or am I not?"

  Lou's lips didn't move. But then, they didn't have to.

  The message came, unbidden, into Malone's mind.

  Of course you are. That was the whole reason for Andrew's assigning you to this type of case.

  "My God,” Malone said softly.

  Sir Lewis laid down his pipe in a handy ashtray. “Of course,” he said, “you will find it difficult to pick up anyone but Lou, at first. The rapport between you two is really quite strong."

  "Very strong indeed,” Lou murmured. Malone found himself beginning to blush.

  "It will be some time yet,” Sir Lewis went on, “before you can really call yourself a telepath, my boy."

  "I'll bet it will,” Malone said. “Before I can call myself a telepath I'm going to have to get thoroughly used to the idea. And that's going to take a long, long time indeed."

  "You only think that,” Sir Lewis said. “Actually, you're used to the idea now. That was Andrew's big job."

  "His big job?” Malone said. “Now, wait a minute—"

  "You don't think I picked you for our first psionics case out of thin air, do you?” Burris said. “Before anything else, you had to be forced to accept the fact that such things as telepaths really existed."

  "Oh, they do,” Malone said. “They certainly do."

  "There's me, for instance,” Burris said. “But you had to be convinced. So I ordered you to go out and find one."

  "Like the Bluebird of Happiness,” Malone said.

  Burris frowned. “What's like the Bluebird of Happiness?” he said.

  "You are,” Malone said.

  "I am not,” Burris said indignantly. “Bluebirds eat worms. My God, Malone."

  "But the Bluebird,” Malone said doggedly, “was right at home all the time, while everyone searched for it far away. And I had to go far away to find a telepath, when you were the one who ordered me to do it."

  "Right,” Burris said. “So you went and found Her Majesty. And, when you did find her, she forced acceptance on you simply by being Her Majesty and proving to you, once and for all, that she could read minds."

  "Great,” Malone said. “Of course, I could have got myself killed taking these lessons—"

  "We were watching you,” Burris said. “If anything had happened, we'd have been right on the spot."

  "In time to bury the body,” Malone said. “I think that's very thoughtful of you."

  "We would have arrived in time to save you,” Burris said. “Don't quibble. You're alive, aren't you?"

  "Well,” Malone said slowly, “if you're not sure, I don't know how I can convince you."

  "There,” Burris said triumphantly. “You see?"

  Malone sighed wearily. “Okay,” he said. “So you sent me out to find a telepath and to prove to me that there were such things. And I did. And then what happened?"

  "You had a year,” Burris said, “to get used to the idea of somebody reading your mind."

  "Thanks,” Malone said. “Of course, I didn't know it was you."

  "It was Her Majesty too,” Burris said. “Everybody."

  "Good old Malone,” Malone said. “The human peep-show."

  "Now, that's what we mean,” Sir Lewis broke in. “Subconsciously, you disliked the idea of leaving your thoughts bare to anyone, even a sweet little old lady. To some extent, you still do. But that will pass."

  "Goody,” Malone said.

  "The residue is simply not important,” Sir Lewis went on. “Your telepathic talents prove that."

  "Oh, fine,” Malone said. “Here I am reading minds and teleporting and all sorts of things. What will the boys back at Headquarters think now?"

  "We'll get to that,” Burris said. “But that first case did one more thing for you. Because you didn't like the idea of leaving your mind open, you began to develop a shield. That allowed you some sort of mental privacy."

  "And then,” Malone said, “I met Mike Fueyo and his little gang of teleporting juvenile delinquents."

  "So that you could develop a psionic ability of your own,” Burris said. “That completed your acceptance. But it took a threat to solidify that shield. That was step three. When you discovered your mind was being tampered with—"

  "The shield started growing stronger,” Malone said. “Sure. Her Majesty told me that, though she didn't know why."

  "Right,” Burris said.

  "But, wait a minute,” Malone said. “How could I do all that without knowing it? How would I know that some of my thoughts were safe behind a shield if I didn't know the shield existed and couldn't even tell if my mind were being read?” He paused. “Does that make sense?” he asked.

  "It does,” Burris said, “but it shouldn't."

  "What?” Malone said.

  "Two years ago, you had the answer to that one,” Burris said. “Dr. O'Connor's machine. Remember why it did detect when a person's mind was being read?"

  "Oh,” Malone said. “Oh, sure. He said that any human being would know, subconsciously, whether his mind was being read."

  "He did, indeed,” Burris said. “And then we came to the fourth step: to put you in rapport with some psionicist who could teach you how to control the shield, how to raise and lower it, you might say. To learn to accept other thoughts, as well as reject them. To learn to accept your full telepathic talent. That was Lou's job."

  "Lou's ... job?” Malone said. He felt his own shield go up. The thoughts behind it weren't pleasant. Lou had been ... well, hired to stay with him. She had pretended to like him; it was part of her job.

  That was perfectly clear now.

  Horribly clear.

  "You are now on your way,” Sir Lewis said, “to being a real psionicist."

  "Fine,” Malone said dully. “But why me? Why not, oh, Wolfe Wolf? I'd think he'd have a better chance than I would."

  "My secretary,” Burris said, “has talents enough of his own. But you, you're something brand-new. It's wonderful, Malone. It's exciting."

  "It's a new taste thrill,” Malone murmured. “Try Bon-Ton B-Complex Bolsters. Learn to eat your blanket as well as sleep with it."

  "What?” Burris said.

  "Never mind,” Malone said. “You wouldn't understand."

  "But I—"

  "I know you wouldn't,” Malone said, “because I don't."

  Sir Lewis cleared his throat “My dear boy,” he said, “you represent a breakthrough. You are an adult."

  "That,” Malone said testily, “is not news."

  "But you are a telepathic adult,” Sir Lewis said. “Many of them are capable of developing it into a useful ability. Children who have the talent may accidentally develop the ability to use it, but that almost invariably results in insanity. Without proper guidance, a child is no more capable of handling the variety of impressions it receives from adult minds than it is capable of understanding a complex piece of modern music. The effort to make a coherent whole out of the impression overstrains the mind, so to speak, and the damage is permanent."

  "So here I am,” Malone said, “and I'm not nuts. At least I don't think I'm nuts."

  "Because you are an adult,” Sir Lewis went on. “Telepathy seems to be almost impossible to develop in an adult, even difficult to test for it. A child may be tested comparatively simply; an adult, seldom or never."

  He paused to relight his pipe.

  "However,” he went on, “the Psychical Research Society's executive board discovered a method of bringing out the ability in a talented child as far back as 1931. All of us who are sane telepaths today owe our ability to that process, which was applied to us, in each case, before the age of sixteen."

  "How about me?” Malone said.

  "You,” Sir Lewis said, “are the first adult ever to learn the use of psionic powers from scratch."

  "O
h,” Malone said. “And that's why Mike Fueyo, for instance, could learn to teleport, though his older sister couldn't."

  "Mike was an experiment,” Sir Lewis said. “We decided to teach him teleportation without teaching him telepathy. You saw what happened."

  "Sure I did,” Malone said. “I had to stop it."

  "We were forced to make you stop him,” Sir Lewis said. “But we also let him teach you his abilities."

  "So I'm an experiment,” Malone said.

  "A successful experiment,” Sir Lewis added.

  "Well,” Malone said dully, “bully for me."

  "Don't feel that way,” Sir Lewis said. “We have—"

  He stopped suddenly, and glanced at the others. Burris and Lou stood up, and Sir Lewis followed them.

  "Sorry,” Sir Lewis said in a different tone. “There's something important that we must take care of. Something quite urgent, I'm afraid."

  "You can go on home, Malone,” Burris said. “We'll talk later, but right now there's a crisis coming and we've got to help. Leave the car. I'll take care of it."

  "Sure,” Malone said, without moving.

  Lou said, “Ken—” and stopped. Then the three of them turned and started up the long, curving staircase that led to the upstairs rooms.

  Malone sat in the Morris chair for several long minutes, wishing that he were dead. Nobody made a sound. He rubbed his hands over the soft leather and tried to tell himself that he was lucky, and talented, and successful.

  But he didn't care.

  He closed his eyes at last, and took a deep breath.

  Then he vanished.

  CHAPTER 16

  Two hours passed, somehow. Bourbon and soda helped them pass, Malone discovered; he drank two highballs slowly, trying not to think about anything, and kept staring around at the walls of his apartment without really seeing anything. He felt terrible.

  He made himself a third bourbon and soda and started in on it. Maybe this one would make him feel better. Maybe, he thought, he ought to break out the cigars and celebrate.

  But there didn't seem to be very much to celebrate, somehow.

  He felt like a guinea pig being congratulated on having successfully resisted a germ during an experiment.

  He drank some more of the bourbon and soda. Guinea pigs didn't drink bourbon and soda, he told himself. He was better off than a guinea pig. He was happier than a guinea pig. But he couldn't imagine any guinea pig in the world, no matter how heartbroken, feeling any worse than Kenneth J. Malone.

  He looked up. There was another guinea pig in the room.

  Then he frowned. She wasn't a guinea pig. She was one off the experimenters. She was the one the guinea pig was supposed to fall in love with, so the guinea pig could be nice and telepathic and all the other experimenters could congratulate themselves. But whoever heard of a scientist falling in love with a guinea pig? It was fate. And fate was awful. Malone had often suspected it, but now he was sure. Now he saw things from the guinea pig's side, and fate was terrible.

  "But Ken,” the experimenter said. “It isn't like that at all."

  "It is, too,” Malone said. “It's even worse, but that'll have to wait. When I have some more to drink it will get worse. Watch and see."

  "But Ken—” Lou hesitated, and then went on. “Don't feel sad about being an experiment. We're all experiments."

  "I'm the guinea pig,” Malone said. “I'm the only guinea pig. You said so."

  "No, Ken,” she said. “Remember, all of us in the PRS got early training when it was new and untried. Some of those methods weren't as good as we now have them; that's why a man like your boss sometimes tends to have a little trouble."

  "Sure,” Malone said. “But I'm your guinea pig. You made me dance through hoops and do tricks and everything just for an experiment. That's what.” He took another swallow of his drink. “See?” he said. “It's getting worse already."

  "No, it's not,” Lou said. “It's getting better, if you'll only listen. I wasn't given this job, Ken. I volunteered for it."

  "That isn't any better,” Malone said morosely.

  "I volunteered because I-because I liked you,” Lou said. “Because I wanted to work with you, wanted to be with you."

  "It's more experimenting,” Malone said flatly. “More guinea-pigging around."

  "It isn't, Ken,” Lou said. “Believe me. Look into my mind. Believe me."

  Malone tried. A second passed...

  And then a long time passed, without any words at all.

  "Well, well,” Malone said at last. “If this is the life of a guinea pig, I'm all for it."

  "I'm all for guinea pigs’ rights,” Lou said. “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Me."

  "Agreed,” Malone said. “How about that crisis, by the way? Are you going to have to leave suddenly again?"

  Lou stretched lazily on the couch. “That's all over with, thank God,” she said. “We had to get our agent out of Miami Beach, and cover his tracks at the same time."

  "Tricky,” Malone said.

  "Very,” Lou said.

  "But—” Malone blinked. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Your agent? You mean you had Governor Flarion killed?"

  Lou nodded soberly. “We had to,” she said. “That paranoid mind of his had built up a shield we simply couldn't get through. He had plans for making himself president, you know-and all the terrifying potentialities of an embryonic Hitler.” She grimaced. “We don't like being forced to kill,” she said, “but sometimes we've got to."

  Malone thought of his own .44 Magnum, and the times he had used it, and nodded very slowly.

  "There are still a couple of questions, though,” he said. “For instance, there's that trip to Russia. Why did you make it? Was it your father?"

  "Of course it was,” Lou said. “We had to get him back in and make sure he was safe."

  "You mean that Vasili Garbitsch is a PSR member?” Malone said, stunned.

  "Well, really,” Lou said. “Did you think my father would really be a spy? We had to get him back to Russia; he was needed for work in the Kremlin. That's why we nudged Boyd into making the arrest."

  "And the others?” Malone said. “Brubitsch and Borbitsch?"

  "Real spies,” Lou said. “Bad ones, but real. Any more questions?"

  "Some,” Malone said. “Were you kidding about that drink in Moscow?"

  She shook her head. “I wish I had been,” she said. “But I was concentrating on Petkoff, who didn't know a thing about the drugged drink. I didn't catch anything else until after I'd swallowed it. And then it was too late."

  "Good old Petkoff,” Malone said. “Always helpful But he was right about one thing, anyway."

  "What?” Lou said.

  "The FBI,” Malone said. “He told us it was a secret police organization. And, by God, in a way it is!"

  Lou grinned. Malone started to laugh outright. They found themselves very close and the laughter stopped, and there was some more time without words. When Malone broke free, he had a suddenly sobered expression on his face.

  "Hey,” he said. “What about Tom Boyd? He knows a lot but he hasn't got any talents, as far as I know, and—"

  "He'll be all right,” Lou said. “Andrew and the others have thought of that."

  "But he knows an awful lot about the evidence I dug up."

  "Andrew will give him a cover-up explanation they're working out,” Lou said. “That will convince Boyd there's nothing more to worry about. Of course, we may have to change his mind about a few things, but we can do that, probably through you, since you know him best. There's nothing for you to worry over, Ken. Nothing at all."

  "Good,” Malone said. He leaned over and kissed her. “Because I'm not in the least worried."

  Lou sighed deeply, looking off into space.

  "Luba Malone,” she said. “It sounds nice. And, after all, my mother was Irish. At least it sounds better than Garbitsch."

  "What doesn't?” Malone said automatically. Then he blinked. “Hey,
I'm Malone!” he said. “How could you be Malone?"

  "Me?” Lou said. She caroled happily. “I'm Malone because I love you, love you with all my heart."

  "That,” Malone said, “does it. A woman after my own heart."

  Lou made a low curtsy.

  "And a woman of grace and breeding,” Malone said. “Eftsoons, if that means anything."

  "You know,” Lou said, “I like you even better when you're being Sir Kenneth. Especially when you're talking to yourself."

  "My innate gallantry and all my good qualities come out,” Malone said.

  "Yes,” Lou said. “Indeed they do. All over the place. It's nice to go back to Elizabethan times, anyhow, in the middle of all these troubles."

  "Oh, I don't know,” Malone said. “There's always been trouble. In the Middle Ages, it was witches. In the Seventeenth Century, it was demons. In the Nineteenth it was revolutions. In—"

  Lou cut him off with a kiss. When she broke away Malone raised his eyebrows.

  "I prithee,” he said, “interrupt me not. I am developing a scheme of philosophy. There have always been troubles. In the 1890's there was a Depression and panic, and the Spanish-American War—"

  "All right, Sirrah,” Lou said. “And then what?"

  "Let's see,” Malone said, reverting to 1973 for a second. “In 1903 there was the airplane, and troubles abroad."

  "Yes?” Lou said. “Do go on, Sirrah. Your liege awaits your slightest word."

  "Hmm,” Malone said.

  "That, Milord, was a very slight word indeed,” Lou said. “What's after 1903?"

  Malone smiled and went back to the days of the First Elizabeth happily.

  "In 1914, it was enemy aliens,” said Sir Kenneth Malone.

  THE END

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