The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 02

by Anthology

  Malone sighed. "But you remember the formula," he said. "Don't you?"

  Brubitsch shook his massive head very slowly. "It was not very interesting," he said. "And I do not have a mathematical mind."

  "We know," Malone said. "You are a small child."

  "It was terrible," Brubitsch said. "Garbitsch was not happy about our activities."

  "What did Garbitsch do with the information?" Boyd said.

  "He passed it on," Brubitsch said. "Every week he would send a short-wave message to the homeland, in code. Some weeks he did not send the message."

  "Why not?" Malone said.

  "The radio did not work," Brubitsch said simply. "We received orders by short-wave, but sometimes we did not receive the orders. The radio was of very poor quality, and some weeks it refused to send any messages. On other weeks, it refused to receive any messages."

  "Who was your contact in Russia?" Boyd said.

  "A man named X," Brubitsch said. "Like in the formula."

  "But what was his real name?" Malone said.

  "Who knows?" Brubitsch said. "Does it matter?"

  "What else did you do?" Boyd said.

  "We met twice a week," Brubitsch said. "Sometimes in Garbitsch's home, sometimes in other places. Sometimes we had information. At other times, we were friends, having a social gathering."

  "Friends?" Malone said.

  Brubitsch nodded. "We drank together, talked, played chess. Garbitsch is the best chess player in the group. I am not very good. But once we had some trouble." He paused. "We had been drinking Russian liquors. They are very strong. We decided to uphold the honor of our country."

  "I think," Malone murmured sadly, "I know what's coming."

  "Ah?" Brubitsch said, interested. "At any rate, we decided to honor our country in song. And a policeman came and talked to us. He took us down to the police station."

  "Why?" Boyd said.

  "He was suspicious," Brubitsch said. "We were singing the Internationale, and he was suspicious. It is unreasonable."

  "Oh, I don't know," Boyd said. "What happened then?"

  "He took us to the police station," Brubitsch said, "and then after a little while he let us go. I do not understand this."

  "It's all right," Malone said. "I do." He drew Boyd aside for a second, and whispered to him: "The cops were ready to charge these three clowns with everything in the book. We had a hell of a time springing them so we could go on watching them. I remember the stir-up, though I never did know their names until now."

  Boyd nodded, and they returned to Brubitsch, who was staring up at them with surly eyes.

  "It is a secret you are telling him," Brubitsch said. "That is not right."

  "What do you mean, it's not right?" Malone said.

  "It is wrong," Brubitsch went on. "It is not the American way."

  He went on, with some prodding, to tell about the activities of the spy ring. It did not seem to be a very efficient spy ring; Brubitsch's long sad tale of forgotten messages, mixed orders, misplaced documents and strange mishaps was a marvel and a revelation to the listening officers. "I've never heard anything like it," one of them whispered in a tone of absolute wonder. "They're almost working on our side."

  Over an hour later, Malone turned wearily away from the prisoner. "All right, Brubitsch," he said. "I guess that pretty much covers things for the moment. If we want any more information, though--"

  "Call on me," Brubitsch said sadly. "I am not going anyplace. And I will give you all the information you desire. But I did not commit any murders."

  "Goodbye, small child," Malone said, as two agents led the fat man away. The other two left soon afterward, and Malone and Boyd were alone.

  "Think he was telling the truth?" Boyd said.

  Malone nodded. "Nobody," he said, "could make up a story like that."

  "I suppose so," Boyd said, and the phone rang. Malone picked it up.

  "Well?" he asked.

  "He was telling the truth, all right," Her Majesty said. "There are a few more details, of course, like the girl Brubitsch was involved with, Sir Kenneth. But she doesn't seem to have anything to do with the spy ring, and besides, she isn't a very nice person. She always wants money."

  "Sounds perfectly lovely," Malone said. "As a matter of fact, I think I know her. I know a lot of girls who always want money. It seems to be in fashion."

  "You don't know this one, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, "and besides, she wouldn't be a good influence on you."

  Malone sighed. "How about the static explosions?" he said. "Pick up any more?"

  "No," she said. "Just that one."

  Malone nodded at the receiver. "All right," he said. "We're going to bring in the second one now. Keep up the good work."

  He hung up.

  "Who've you got in the observation room?" Boyd asked.

  "Queen Elizabeth I," Malone said. "Her Royal Majesty."

  "Oh," Boyd said without surprise. "Well, was Brubitsch telling the truth?"

  "He wasn't holding back anything important," Malone said, thinking about the girl. It would be nice to meet a bad influence, he thought mournfully. It would be nice to go somewhere with a bad influence (a bad influence, he amended, with a good figure) and forget all about his job, about the spies, about telepathy, teleportation, psionics and everything else. It might be restful.

  Unfortunately, it was impossible.

  "What's this business about a static explosion?" Boyd said.

  "Don't ask silly questions," Malone said. "A static explosion is a contradiction in terms. If something is static, it doesn't move-- whoever heard of a motionless explosion?"

  "If it is a contradiction in terms," Boyd said, "they're your terms."

  "Sure," Malone said. "But I don't know what they mean. I don't even know what I mean."

  "You're in a bad way," Boyd said, looking sympathetic.

  "I'm in a perfectly terrible way," Malone said, "and it's going to get worse. You wait and see."

  "Of course I'll wait and see," Boyd said. "I wouldn't miss the end of the world for anything. It ought to be a great spectacle." He paused. "Want them to bring in the next one?"

  "Sure," Malone said. "What have we got to lose but our minds? And who is the next one?"

  "Borbitsch," Boyd said. "They're saving Garbitsch for a big finish."

  Malone nodded wearily. "Onward," he said, and picked up the phone. He punched a number, spoke a few words and hung up.

  A minute later, the four FBI agents came back, leading a man. This one was tall and thin, with the expression of a gloomy, degenerate and slightly nauseated bloodhound. He was led to the chair and he sat down in it as if he expected the worst to start happening at once.

  "Well," Malone said in a bored, tired voice. "So this is the one who won't talk."

  6

  Midnight.

  Kenneth J. Malone sat at his desk, in his Washington office, surrounded by piles of papers covering the desk, spilling off onto the floor and decorating his lap. He was staring at the papers as if he expected them to leap up, dance round him and shout the solution to all his problems at him in trained choral voices. They did nothing at all.

  Seated cross-legged on the rug in the center of the room, and looking like an impossible combination of the last Henry Tudor and Gautama Buddha, Thomas Boyd did nothing either. He was staring downward, his hands folded on his ample lap, wearing an expression of utter, burning frustration. And on a nearby chair sat the third member of the company, wearing the calm and patient expression of the gently-born under all vicissitudes: Queen Elizabeth I.

  "All right," Malone said into the silence. "Now let's see what we've got."

  "I think we've got cerebral paresis," Boyd said. "It's been coming on for years."

  "Don't be funny," Malone said.

  Boyd gave a short, mirthless bark. "Funny?" he said. "I'm absolutely hysterical with joy and good humor. I'm out of my mind with happiness." He paused. "Anyway," he finished, "I'm out of my mind. Which p
uts me in good company. The entire FBI, Brubitsch, Borbitsch, Garbitsch, Dr. Thomas O'Connor and Sir Lewis Carter--we're all out of our minds. If we weren't, we'd all move away to the moon."

  "And drink to forget," Malone added. "Sure. But let's try and get some work done."

  "By all means, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. Boyd had not included her in his list of insane people, and she looked slightly miffed. It was hard for Malone to tell whether she was miffed by the mention of insanity, or at being left out.

  "Let's review the facts," Malone said. "This whole thing started with some inefficiency in Congress."

  "And some upheavals elsewhere," Boyd said. "Labor unions, gangster organizations."

  "Just about all over," Malone said. "And though we've found three spies, it seems pretty obvious that they aren't causing this."

  "They aren't causing much of anything," Boyd said. "Except a lot of unbelieving laughter further up the FBI line. I don't think anybody is going to believe our reports of those interviews."

  "But they're true," Her Majesty said.

  "Sure they're true," Boyd said. "That's the unbelievable part. They read like farce, and not very good farce at that."

  "Oh, I don't know," Malone said. "I think they're pretty funny."

  "Shall we get back to the business at hand?" Her Majesty said gently.

  "Ah," Malone said. "Anyhow, it isn't the spies. And what we now have is confusion even worse compounded."

  "Confounded," Boyd said. "John Milton. Paradise Lost, I heard it somewhere."

  "I don't mean confounded," Malone said. "I mean confusion. Anyhow, the Russian espionage rings in this country seem to be in as bad a state as the Congress, the labor unions, the syndicates, and all the rest. And all of them seem to have some sort of weird tie-in to these flashes of telepathic interference. Right, Your Majesty?"

  "I believe so, Sir Kenneth," she said. The old woman looked tired and confused. Somehow, a lot of the brightness seemed to have gone out of her life. "That's right," she said. "I didn't realize there was so much of it going on. You see, Sir Kenneth, you're the only one I can pick up at a distance who has been having these flashes. But now that I'm here in Washington, I can feel it going on all around me."

  "It may not have anything to do with everything else," Boyd said.

  Malone shook his head. "If it doesn't," he said, "it's the weirdest coincidence I've ever even dreamed about, and my dreams can be pretty strange. No, it's got to be tied in. There's some kind of mental static that is somehow making all these people goof up."

  "But why?" Boyd said. "What is it being done for? Just fun?"

  "God only knows," Malone said. "But we're going to have to find out."

  "In that case," Boyd said, "I suggest lots and lots of prayers."

  Her Majesty looked up. "That's a fine idea," she said.

  "But God helps those," Malone said, "who help themselves. And we're going to help ourselves. Mostly with facts."

  "All right," Boyd said. "So far, all the facts have been a great help."

  "Well, here's one," Malone said. "We got one flash each from Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch while we were questioning them. And in each case, that flash occurred just before they started to blab everything they knew. Before the flash, they weren't talking. They were behaving just like good spies and keeping their mouths shut. After the flash, they couldn't talk fast enough."

  "That's true," Boyd said reflectively. "They did seem to give up pretty fast, even for amateurs."

  Malone nodded. "So the question is this," he said. "Just what happens during those crazy bursts of static?"

  He looked expectantly at Her Majesty, but she shook her head sadly. "I don't know," she said. "I simply don't know. It's just noise to me, meaningless noise." She put her hands slowly over her face. "People shouldn't do things like that to their Sovereign," she said in a muffled voice.

  Malone got up and went over to her. She wasn't crying, but she wasn't far from it. He put an arm around her thin shoulders. "Now, look, Your Majesty," he said in gentle tones, "this will all clear up. We'll find out what's going on, and we'll find a way to put a stop to it."

  "Sure we will," Boyd said. "After all, Your Majesty, Sir Kenneth and I will work hard on this."

  "And the Queen's own FBI," Malone said, "won't stop until we've finished with this whole affair, once and for all."

  Her Majesty brought her hands down from her face, very slowly. She was forcing a smile, but it didn't look too well. "I know you won't fail your Queen," she said. "You two have always been the most loyal of my subjects."

  "We'll work hard," Malone said. "No matter how long it takes."

  "Because, after all," Boyd said in a musing, thoughtful tone, "it is a serious crime, you know."

  The words seemed to have an effect on Her Majesty, like a tonic. For a second her face wore an expression of Royal anger and indignance, and the accustomed strength flowed back into her aged voice. "You're quite correct, Sir Thomas!" she said. "The security of the Throne and the Crown are at stake!"

  Malone blinked. "What?" he said. "Are you two talking about something? What crime is this?"

  "An extremely serious one," Boyd said in a grave voice. He rose unsteadily to his feet, planted them firmly on the carpet, and frowned.

  "Go on," Malone said, fascinated. Her Majesty was watching Boyd with an intent expression.

  "The crime," Boyd said, "the very serious crime involved, is that of Threatening the Welfare of the Queen. The criminal has committed the crime of Causing the Said Sovereign, Baselessly, Reasonlessly and Without Consent or Let, to Be in a State of Apprehension for Her Life or Her Well-Being. And this crime--"

  "Aha," Malone said. "I've got it. The crime is--"

  "High treason," Boyd intoned.

  "High treason," Her Majesty said with satisfaction and fire in her voice.

  "Very high treason," Malone said. "Extremely high."

  "Stratospheric," Boyd agreed. "That is, of course," he added, "if the perpetrators of this dastardly crime are Her Majesty's subjects."

  "My goodness," the Queen said. "I never thought of that. Suppose they're not?"

  "Then," Malone said in his most vibrant voice, "it is an Act of War."

  "Steps," Boyd said, "must be taken."

  "We must do our utmost," Malone said. "Sir Thomas--"

  "Yes, Sir Kenneth?" Boyd said.

  "This task requires our most fervent dedication," Malone said. "Please come with me."

  He went to the desk. Boyd followed him, walking straight-backed and tall. Malone bent and removed from a drawer of the desk a bottle of bourbon. He closed the drawer, poured some bourbon into two handy water-glasses from the desk, and capped the bottle. He handed one of the water-glasses to Boyd, and raised the other one aloft.

  "Sir Thomas," Malone said, "I give you Her Majesty, the Queen!"

  "To the Queen!" Boyd echoed.

  They downed their drinks and turned, as one man, to hurl the glasses into the wastebasket.

  In thinking it over later, Malone realized that he hadn't considered anything about that moment silly at all. Of course, an outsider might have been slightly surprised at the sequence of events, but Malone was no outsider. And, after all, it was the proper way to treat a Queen, wasn't it?

  And...

  When Malone had first met Her Majesty, he had wondered why, although she could obviously read minds, and so knew perfectly well that neither Malone nor Boyd believed she was Queen Elizabeth I, she insisted on an outward show of respect and dedication. He'd asked her about it at last, and her reply had been simple, reasonable and to the point.

  According to her--and Malone didn't doubt it for an instant--most people simply didn't think their superiors were all they claimed to be. But they acted as if they did, at least while in the presence of those superiors. It was a common fiction, a sort of handy oil on the wheels of social intercourse.

  And all Her Majesty had ever insisted on was the same sort of treatment.

 
"Bless you," she'd said, "I can't help the way you think, but, as Queen, I do have some control over the way you act."

  The funny thing, as far as Malone was concerned, was that the two parts of his personality were becoming more and more alike. He didn't actually believe that Her Majesty was Queen Elizabeth I, and he hoped fervently that he never would. But he did have a great deal of respect for her, and more affection than he had believed possible at first. She was the grandmother Malone had never known; she was good, and kind, and he wanted to keep her happy and contented. There had been nothing at all phony in the solemn toast he had proposed, nor in the righteous indignation he had felt against anyone who was giving Her Majesty even a minute's worth of discomfort.

  And Boyd, surprisingly enough, seemed to feel the same way. Malone felt good about that; Her Majesty needed all the loyal supporters she could get.

  But all of this was later. At the time, Malone was doing nothing except what came naturally. Nor, apparently, was Boyd. After the glasses had been thrown, with a terrifying crash, into the metal wastebasket, and the reverberations of that second had stopped ringing in their ears, a moment of silence had followed.

  Then Boyd turned, briskly rubbing his hands. "All right," he said. "Let's get back to work."

  Malone looked at the proud, happy look on Her Majesty's face; he saw the glimmer of a tear in the corner of each eye. But he gave no indication that he had noticed anything at all out of the ordinary.

  "Fine," he said. "Now, getting on back to the facts, we've established something, anyhow. Some agency is causing flashes of telepathic static all over the place. And those flashes are somehow connected with the confusion that's going on all around us. Somehow, these flashes have an effect on the minds of people."

  "And we know at least one manifestation of that effect," Boyd said. "It makes spies blab all their secrets when they're exposed to it."

  "These three spies, anyhow," Malone said.

  "If spies is the right word," Boyd said.

  "Okay," Malone said. "And now we've got another obvious question."

  "It seems to me we've got about twelve," Boyd said.

  "I mean, who's doing it?" Malone said. "Who is causing these telepathic flashes?"