"I guess so," Malone said.
"And in order to do that, you'd have to be telepathic," Her Majesty said. "Am I correct?"
"Correct," Malone said.
"Well, then," Her Majesty said with satisfaction, and beamed at him.
A second passed.
"Well, then, what?" Malone said in confusion.
"Telepathy," Her Majesty said patiently, "is an extremely complex affair. It involves a sort of meshing with the mind of this other person. It has nothing—absolutely nothing—in common with this simple 'squirting' of thoughts across space, as if they were orange pips you were trying to put into a wastebasket. No, Sir Kenneth, I cannot believe in what Mr. Taylor says."
"But it's still possible," Malone said.
"Oh," Her Majesty said, "it's certainly possible. But I should think that if any telepaths were around, and if they were changing people's minds by 'squirting' at them, I would know it."
Malone frowned. "Maybe you would at that," he said. "I guess you would."
"Not to mention," Boyd put in, "that if you were going to control everything we've come across like that you'd need an awful lot of telepathic operators."
"That's true," Malone admitted. "And the objections seem to make some sense. But what else is there to go on?"
"I don't know," Boyd said. "I haven't the faintest idea. And I'm rapidly approaching the stage where I don't care."
"Well," Malone said, heaving a sigh, "let's keep looking."
He bent down and picked up another sheaf of copies from the Psychical Research Society.
"After all," he said, without much hope, "you never know."
Malone looked around the office of Andrew J. Burris as if he'd never seen it before. He felt tired, and worn out, and depressed; it had been a long night, and here it was morning and the head of the FBI was talking to him about his report. It was, Malone told himself heavily, a hell of a life.
"Now, Malone," Burris said in a kindly voice, "this is a very interesting report."
"Yes, sir," Malone said automatically.
"A very interesting report indeed, Kenneth," Burris went on, positively bursting with good-fellowship.
"Thank you, sir," Malone said dully.
Burris beamed a little more. "You've done a fine job," he said, "a really fine job. Hardly on the job any time at all, and here you've managed to get all three of the culprits responsible."
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said in sudden panic. "That isn't what I said."
"No?" Burris said, looking a little surprised.
"Not at all," Malone said. "I don't think those three spies have anything to do with this at all. Not a thing."
There was a brief silence, during which Burris' surprise seemed to expand like a gas and fill the room. "But they've confessed," he said at last. "Their job was to try and get information, and also to disrupt our own work here."
"I know all that," Malone said. "But—"
Burris held up a pink, patient hand. Malone stared at it, fascinated. It had five pink, patient fingers on it. "Malone," Burris said slowly, "just what's bothering you? Don't you think those menarespies? Is that it?"
"Spies?" Malone said, slightly confused.
"You know," Burris said. "The men you arrested, Malone. The men you wrote this report about."
Malone blinked and focused on the hand again. It still had five fingers. "Sure they are," he said. "They're spies, all right. And they're caught, and that's that. Except I don't think they're causing all the confusion around here."
"Well, of course they're not," Burris said, the beam of kindliness coming back to his face. "Not any more. You caught them."
"I mean," Malone said desperately, "they never were. Even before I caught them."
"Then why," Burris said with great patience, "did you arrest them?"
"Because they're spies," Malone said. "Besides, I didn't."
"Didn't what?" Burris said, looking confused. He seemed to realize he was still holding up his hand, and dropped it to the desk. Malone felt sad as he watched it go. Now he had nothing to concentrate on except the conversation, and he didn't even want to think about what was happening to that.
"Didn't arrest them," he said. "Tom Boyd did."
"Acting," Burris pointed out gently, "under your orders, Kenneth."
It was the second time Burris had called him Kenneth, Malone realized. It started a small warning bell in the back of his mind. When Burris called him by his first name, Burris was feeling paternal and kindly. And that, Malone thought determinedly, boded Kenneth J. Malone very little good indeed.
"He was under my orders to arrest them because they were spies," he said at last. He wondered if the sentence made any real sense, but shrugged his shoulders and plunged on. "But they're not the real spies," he said. "Not the ones everybody's been looking for."
"Kenneth," Burris said, his voice positively dripping with what Malone thought of as the heavy, Grade A, Government-inspected cream of human kindness, "all the confusion with the computer-secretaries has stopped. Everything is running fine in that department."
"But—" Malone began.
"The technicians," Burris said, hypnotized by this poem of beauty, "aren't making any more mistakes. The information is flowing through beautifully. It's a pleasure to see their reports. Believe me, Kenneth—"
"Call me Chief," Malone said wearily.
Burris blinked. "What?" he said. "Oh. Ha. Indeed. Very well, then: Malone, what more proof do you want?"
"Is that proof?" Malone said. "The spies didn't even confess to that. They—"
"Of course they didn't, Malone," Burris said.
"Of course?" Malone said weakly.
"Look at their confessions," Burris said. "Just look at them, in black and white." He reached for a sheaf of papers and pushed them across the desk. Malone looked at them. They were indeed, he told himself, in black and white. There was no arguing with that. None at all.
"Well?" Burris said after a second.
"I don't see anything about computer-secretaries," Malone said.
"The Russians," Burris began slowly, "are not stupid, Malone. You believe that, don't you?"
"Of course I believe it," Malone said. "Otherwise we wouldn't need an FBI."
Burris frowned. "There are still domestic cases," he said. "Like juvenile delinquents stealing cars inter-state, for instance. If you remember." He paused, then went on: "But the fact remains: Russians are not stupid. Not by a long shot."
"All right," Malone said agreeably.
"Do you really think, then," Burris said instantly, "that a spy ring could be as utterly inefficient as the one described in those confessions?"
"Lots of people are inefficient," Malone said.
"Not spies," Burris said with decision. "Do you really believe that the Russians would send over a bunch of operatives as clodheaded as these are pretending to be?"
"People make mistakes," Malone said weakly.
"Russian spies," Burris said, "do not make mistakes. Or, anyhow, we can't depend on it. We have to depend on the fact that they're operating at peak efficiency, Malone. Peak."
Malone nearly asked: "Where?" but controlled himself at the last minute. Instead, he said: "But the confessions are right there. And, according to the confessions—"
"Do you really believe," Burris said, "that a trio of Soviet agents would confess everything as easily as all that if they didn't intend to get something out of it? Such as, for instance, covering up their methods of doing damage? And do you really believe—"
Malone began to feel as if he were involved in the Athanasian Creed. "I don't think the spies are the real spies," he said stubbornly. "I mean the spies we're all looking for."
"Do you mean to stand there and tell me," Burris went on inexorably, "that you take the word of spies when they tell you about their own activities?"
"Their confessions—"
"Spies can lie, Malone," Burris said gently. "As a matter of fact, they usually do. We have come to depend on it as one of the facts of life."
"But Queen Elizabeth," Malone said stubbornly, "told me they weren't lying." As he finished the sentence, he suddenly realized what it sounded like. "You know Queen Elizabeth," he said chummily.
"The Virgin Queen," Burris said helpfully.
"I wouldn't know," Malone said, feeling uncomfortable. "I mean Rose Thompson. She thinks she's Queen Elizabeth and I just said it that way because—"
"It's all right, Malone," Burris said softly. "I know who you mean."
"Well, then," Malone said. "If Queen Elizabeth says the spies aren't lying, then—"
"Then nothing," Burris said flatly. "Miss Rose Thompson is a nice, sweet, little old lady. I admit that."
"And she's been a lot of help," Malone said.
"I admit that, too," Burris said. "But she is also somewhat battier, Malone, than the entire Order Chiroptera, including Count Dracula and all his happy friends."
"She only thinks she's Queen Elizabeth I," Malone said defensively.
"That," Burris said, "is a large sort ofonly. Malone, you've got to look at the facts sensibly. Square in the face."
Malone pictured a lot of facts going by with square faces. He didn't like the picture. "All right," he said.
"Things are going wrong in the Congressional computer-secretaries," Burris said. "So I assign you to the case. You come back to me with three spies, and the trouble stops. And what other information have you got?"
"Plenty," Malone said, and stopped for thought. There was a long pause.
"All this business about mysterious psionic faculties," Burris said, "comes direct from the testimony of that sweet little old twitch. Which she is. Dr. O'Connor, for instance, has told you in so many words that there's no such thing as this mysterious force. And if you don't want to take the word of the nation's foremost authority, there's this character from the Psychical Research Society—Carter, or whatever his name is. Carter told you he'd never heard of such a thing."
"But that doesn't mean there isn't such a thing," Malone said.
"Even your own star witness," Burris said, "even the Queen herself, told you it couldn't be done."
"Nevertheless—" Malone began. But he felt puzzled. There was no way, he decided, to finish a sentence that started withnevertheless. It was the wrong kind of word.
"What are you trying to do?" Burris said. "Beat your head against a stone wall?"
Malone realized that that was just what he felt like. Of course, Burris thought the stone wall was his psionic theory. Malone knew that the stone wall was Andrew J. Burris. But it didn't matter, he thought confusedly. Where there's a stone, there's a way.
"I feel," he said carefully, "like a man with a stone head."
"And I don't blame you," Burris said in an understanding tone. "Here you are trying to make evidence to fit your theories. What real evidence is there, Malone, that these three spies ... these three comic-opera spies—are innocent?"
"What evidence is there that they're guilty?" Malone said. "Now, listen, Chief—"
"Don't call me Chief," Burris murmured.
"Another five minutes," Malone said in a sudden rage, "and I won't even call you."
"Malone!" Burris said.
Malone swallowed hard. "Sorry," he said at last. "But isn't it just barely possible that these three spies aren't the real criminals? Suppose you were a spy."
"All right," Burris said. "I'm a spy." Something in his tone made Malone look at him with a sudden suspicion. Burris, he thought, was humoring him.
Is it possible, Malone asked himself, thatIam the one who is as a little child?
Little children, he told himself with decision, do not capture Russian spies and then argue about it. They go home, eat supper and go to bed.
He stopped thinking about sleep in a hurry, and got back to the business at hand. "If you were a spy," he said, "and you knew that a lot of other spies had been arrested and charged with the crimes you were committing, what would you do?"
Burris appeared to think deeply. "I would celebrate," he said at last, in a judicious tone.
"I mean, would you just go on with the same crimes?" Malone said.
"What are you talking about, Malone?" Burris said cautiously.
"If you knew we'd arrested Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch," Malone went on doggedly, "you'd lay off for a while, just to make us think we'd caught the right men. Doesn't that make sense?"
"Of course it makes sense," Burris said in what was almost a pitying tone. "But don't push it too far. Malone, I want you to know something."
Malone sighed. "Yes, sir?" he said.
"Contrary to popular opinion," Burris said, "I was not appointed Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation just because I own a Hoover vacuum cleaner."
"Of course not," Malone said, feeling that something of the sort was called for.
"And I think you ought to know by now," Burris went on, "that I wouldn't fall for a trick like that any more than you would. There are obviously more members in this spy ring. Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch are just a start."
"Well, then—" Malone began.
"I'mnot going to be taken in by what these three say," Burris said. "But now, Malone, we know what to look for. All we have to do is pretend to be taken in. Get it?"
"Sure," Malone said. "We pretend to be taken in. And in the meantime I can go on looking for—"
"We don't have to look for anything," Burris said calmly.
Malone took a deep breath. Somehow, he told himself, things were not working out very well. "But the other spies—"
"The next time they try anything," Burris said, "we'll be able to reach out and pick them up as easy as falling off a log."
"It's the wrong log!" Malone said.
Burris folded his hands on the desk and looked at them for a second, frowning slightly like a psychiatrist. "Malone," he said at last, "I want you to listen to me. Calmly. Coolly. Collectedly."
Malone shrugged. "All right," he said. "I'm calm and cool."
"And collected," Burris added.
"That, too," Malone said vaguely.
"Malone," Burris began, "you've got to get rid of this idea that everything the FBI investigates these days is somehow linked with psionics. I know you've done a lot of work in that connection—"
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "There are those errors. How did the technicians feed the wrong data into the machines?"
"Errors do happen," Burris said. "If I slip on a banana peel, do I blame psionics? Do I even blame the United Fruit Growers? I do not, Malone. Instead, I tell myself that errors do happen. All the time."
"Now," Malone said, "you've contradicted yourself."
"I have?" Burris said with a look of complete surprise.
"Sure," Malone said. He leaned forward across the desk. "If the errors were just ordinary accidental errors, then how were the spies responsible? And why did they stop after the spies were arrested? When you slip on a banana peel, does it matter whether or not the United Fruit Growers are out on strike?"
"Oh," Burris said.
"You see?" Malone said. "You've gone and contradicted yourself." He felt victorious, but somewhere in the back of his mind was the horrible sensation that someone was about to come up behind him and hit him on the head with a wet sock full of old sand.
A long second passed. Then Burris said: "Oh. Malone, I forgot to give you the analysis report."
That, Malone realized dimly, was supposed to be the wet sock. Fate, he told himself, was against him. Anyhow, something was against him. It was a few seconds before he came to the conclusion that what he had heard didn't really make any sense. "Analysis report?" he said.
"On the water cooler," Burris explained cheerfully.
"There is an analysis report on a water cooler," Malone said. "Everything now becomes as clear as crystal." He heard his voice begin to rise. "You analyzed a water cooler and discovered that it was a Siberian spy in disguise," he said, trying to make himself sound less hysterical.
"No, no," Burris said, pushing at Malone with his palms. "The water in it, Malone. The water in it."
"No Siberian spy," Malone said with decision, "could disguise himself as the water in a water cooler."
"I didn't say that," Burris went on. "But what do you think was in that water cooler, Malone?"
"Water," Malone said. "Coolwater."
"Congratulations," Burris said, in the hearty tones usually reserved for announcers on programs where housewives win trips to Nome. "You are just a shade less than ninety-nine point nine nine per cent correct."
"The rest of the water," Malone hazarded, "was warm?"
"The rest of the water," Burris said, "wasn't water. Aside from the usual minerals, there was also a trace of one of the psychodrugs."
The word seemed to hang in mid-air, like somebody's sword. Malone knew perfectly well what the psychodrugs were. Over the past twenty years, a great number of them had been developed by confused and anxious researchers. Some were solids, some liquids and a few gaseous at normal temperatures. Some were weak and some were highly potent. Some were relatively innocuous, and quite a few were as deadly as any of the more common poisons. They could be administered by mouth, by injection, by spray, as drops, grains, whiffs or in any other way conceivable to medical science. But they all had one thing in common. They affected the mental functioning—what seemed to be the personality itself—of the person dosed with them.
The effect of the drugs was, in most cases, highly specific. One might make a normally brave man a craven coward; laboratory tests on that one had presented the interesting spectacle of terrified cats running from surprised, but by no means displeased, experimental mice. Another drug reversed this picture, and made the experimental mice mad with power. They attacked cats in battalions or singly, cheering and almost waving large flags as they went over the top, completely foolhardy in the presence of any danger whatever. Others made man abnormally suspicious and still others disassociated judgment to the point where all decisions were made completely at random.
The FBI had a large file on psychodrugs, Malone knew. But he didn't need the file to see what was coming. He asked the question anyhow, just for the record: "What particular psychodrug was this one?"
"One of the judgment-warpers," Burris said. "Haenlingen's Mixture; it's more or less a new development, but the Russians probably know as much about it as we do. In large doses, the drug affects even the automatic nervous system and throws the involuntary functions out of whack; but it isn't usually used in killing amounts."
"And in the water cooler?" Malone asked.
"There wasn't much of it," Burris said, "but there was enough. The technicians could be depended on to make a great many more mistakes than usual—just how many we can't determine, but the order of magnitude seems about right. It would depend on how much water each one of them drank, of course, and we haven't a chance of getting anything like a precise determination of that now."
"Oh," Malone said. "But it comes out about right, doesn't it?" He felt hopeless.
"Just about," Burris said cheerfully. "And since it was Brubitsch's job to change the cooler jug—"
"Wait a minute," Malone said. "I think I see a hole in that."
"Really?" Burris said. He frowned slightly.
Malone nodded. "Sure," he said. "If any of the spies drank the water—their judgment would be warped, too, wouldn't it?"
"So they didn't drink the water," Burris said easily.
"How can we be sure?" Malone asked.
Burris shrugged. "Why do we have to be?" he said. "Malone, you've got to stop pressing so hard on this."
"But a man who didn't drink water all day would be a little conspicuous," Malone said. "After a while, anyhow."
Burris sighed. "The man is a janitor, Kenneth," he said. "Do you know what a janitor is?"
"Don't baby me," Malone snapped.
Burris shrugged. "A janitor doesn't work in the office with the men," he said. "He can drink out of a faucet in the broom closet—or wherever the faucets might be. Nobody would notice. Nobody would think it odd."
Malone said: "But—" and stopped and thought it over. "All right," he went on at last. "But I still insist—"
"Now, Kenneth," Burris said in a voice that dripped oil. "I'll admit that psionics is new and wonderful and you've done a lot of fine work with it. A lot of very fine work indeed. But you can't go around blaming everything on psionics no matter what it is or how much sense it makes."
"I don't," Malone said, injured. "But—"
"But you do," Burris said. "Lately, you've been acting as though magic were loose in the world. As though nothing were dependable any more."
"It's not magic," Malone said.
"But it is," Burris told him, "when you use it as an explanation for anything and everything." He paused, "Kenneth," he said in a more kindly tone, "don't think I blame you. I know how hard you've been working. I know how much time and effort you've put into the gallant fight against this country's enemies."
Malone closed his eyes and turned slightly green. "It was nothing," he said at last. He opened his eyes but nothing had changed. Burris' expression was still kindly and concerned.
"Oh, but it was," Burris said. "Something, I mean. You've been working very hard and you're just not at peak efficiency any more. You need a rest, Kenneth. A nice rest."
"I do not," Malone said indignantly.
"A lovely rest," Burris went on, oblivious. "Somewhere peaceful and quiet, where you can just sit around and think peacefully about peaceful things. Oh, it ought to be wonderful for you, Kenneth. A nice, peaceful, lovely, wonderful vacation."
Through the haze of adjectives, Malone remembered dimly the last time Burris had offered him a vacation in that tone of voice. It had turned out to be one of the toughest cases he'd ever had: the case of the teleporting delinquents.
"Nice?" Malone said. "Peaceful? Lovely? Wonderful? I can see it now."
"What do you mean, Malone?" Burris said.
"What am I going to get?" Malone said. "A nice easy job like arresting all the suspected nose-pickers in Mobile, Alabama?"
Burris choked and recovered quickly. "No," he said. "No, no, no. I mean it. You've earned a vacation, Kenneth, a real vacation. A nice, peaceful—"
"Lovely, wonderful vacation," Malone said. "But—"
"You're one of my best agents," Burris said. "I might almost say you're my top man. My very top man. And because of that I've been overworking you."
"But—"
"Now, now," Burris said, waving a hand vaguely. "I have been overworking you, Kenneth, and I'm sorry. I want to make amends."
"A what?" Malone said, feeling confused again.
"Amends," Burris said. "I want to do something for you."
Malone thought about that for a second. Burris was well-meaning, all right, but from the way the conversation was going it looked very much as if "vacation" weren't going to be the right word.
The right word, he thought dismally, was going to be "rest home." Or possibly even "insane asylum."
"I don't want to stop work," he said grimly. "Really, I don't."
"You'll have lots of time to yourself," Burns said in a wheedling tone.
Malone nodded. "Sure I will," he said. "Until they come and put me in a wet pack."
Burris blinked, but recovered gamely. "You don't have to go swimming," he said, "if you don't want to go swimming. Up in the mountains, for instance—"
"Where there are nice big guards to watch everything," Malone said. "And nuts."
"Guides," Burris said. "But you could just sit around and take things easy."
"All locked up," Malone said. "Sure. I'll love it."
"If you want to go out," Burris said, "you can go out. Anywhere. Just do whatever you feel like doing."
Malone sighed. "O.K.," he said. "When do the men in the white coats arrive?"
"White coats?" Burris said. There was a short silence. "Kenneth," he said, "don't suspect me of trying to do anything to you. This is my way of doing you a favor. It would just be a vacation—going anywhere you want to go, doing anything you want to do."
"Avacado," Malone muttered at random.
Burris stared. "What?"
"Nothing," Malone said shamefacedly. "An old song. It runs through my mind. And when you said that about going where I want to go—"
"An old song with avacados in it?" Burris said.
Malone cleared his throat and burst into shy and slightly hoarse song.
"Avacado go where you go," he piped feebly, "do what you do—"
"Oh," Burris said. "Oh, my."
"Sorry," Malone muttered. He took a breath and waited. A second passed.
"Well, Kenneth," Burris said at last, with an attempt at heartiness, "you can do anything you like. The mountains. The seashore. Hawaii. The Riviera. Just go and forget all about gangsters, spies, counter-espionage, kidnapings, mad telepaths, juvenile teleports and anything else like that."
"You forgot water coolers," Malone said.
Burris nodded. "And water coolers," he said, "by all means. Forget about FBI business. Forget about me. Just relax."
It did sound appealing, Malone told himself. But there was a case to finish, and he was sure Burris was finishing it wrong. He wanted to argue about it some more, but he was fresh out of arguments.
And besides, the idea of being able to forget all about Andrew J. Burris for a little while was almost insidious. Malone liked it more the more he thought about it. Burris went on naming vacation spots and drawing magnificent travel-agency pictures of how wonderful life could be, and after a while Malone left. There just wasn't anything else to say. Burris had given him an order for his vacation pay and another guaranteeing travel expenses. Not, he thought glumly, that he would be expected to buy return tickets. Oh, no. Once he'd been to a place he could teleport back, so there would be no point in taking a plane or a train back from wherever he went.
"And suppose I like planes and trains?" he muttered, going on down the hall. But there was nothing he could do about it. He did think of looking for some sympathy, at least, but he couldn't even get much of that. Tom Boyd had apparently already talked to Burris, and was in full agreement with him.
"After all," Boyd said, "there's the drug in the water—and it looks like pretty solid proof to me, Ken."
"It's not proof of anything," Malone said sourly.
"Sure it is," Boyd said. "Why would anybody put it there otherwise?"
Malone shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "But I'm not surprised you like Burris' theory. Psionics never did make you very happy, did it?"
"Not very," Boyd admitted. "This way, anyhow, I've got something I can cope with. And it makes nice, simple sense. No reason to go and complicate it, Ken. None at all."
Glumly, Malone made his farewells and then teleported himself from the Justice Department Building back to his own apartment. There, slowly and sadly, he began to pack. He hadn't yet decided just where hewasgoing, but that was a minor detail. The important thing was that he was going. If the Director of the FBI tells you that you need a rest cure, Malone thought, you do not argue with him. Argument may result in your vacation being extended indefinitely. And that is not a good thing.
Of course, such a "vacation" wouldn't be the end of the world. Not quite. He could even beat Burris to the gun, hand in his resignation and go into private practice as a lawyer. The name of Malone, he told himself proudly, had not been entirely forgotten in Chicago, by any means. But he didn't feel happy about the idea. He knew, perfectly well, that he didn't want to live by trading on his father's reputation. And besides, helikedbeing an FBI agent. It had glamour. It had standing.
It had everything. It even had trouble.
Malone caught his whirling mind and forced it back to a landing. Where, he asked himself, was he going?
He thought about that for a second. Perhaps, as Burris had apparently suspected, he was going nuts. When he considered it, it even sounded like a good possibility.
After all, what evidencedidhe have for his psionic theory? Her Majesty had told him about those peculiar bursts of metal energy, true. But there wasn't anything else. And, come to think of it, wasn't it possible that Her Majesty had slipped just a little off the trolley of her one-track psychosis?
At that thought a quick wave of guilt swept through him. Her Majesty, after all, might be reading his mind from Yucca Flats, where she had returned the previous night, right at that moment. He felt as if he had committed high, middle and low treason all in one great big package, not to mention Jack and the Game, he added disconsolately.
"Nevertheless," he muttered, and stopped. He blinked and started over again. In spite of all that, he told himself, the Burris Theory certainly looked a lot sounder when you considered it objectively.
The big question was whether or not hewantedto consider it objectively. But he put this aside for the future, and continued packing slowly and carefully. When at last he snapped shut the last suitcase, he still hadn't made up his mind as to the best spot for a vacation. Images tumbled through his brain: mountains, seacoasts, beaches, beautiful native girls and even a few insane asylums. But nothing definite appeared. He sat down in his favorite easychair, found a cigar and lit it, and luxuriated in the soothing fumes while his mind began to wander.
Her Majesty, he was quite certain, wouldn't lie purposely. Granted, she had misled him now and again, but even when she felt misleading necessary she hadn't lied; she had merely juggled the truth a little. And Malone was sure she would continue to tell him the truth as she knew it.
Of course, that was the stopper:as she knew it. And she might have developed another delusion. In which case, he thought sadly, Burris was very probably right.
But she might also be telling the actual truth. And that meant, Malone thought, that little pops of energy were occasionally bursting in various minds. These little pops had an effect, or an apparent effect: they made people change their minds about doing one thing or another.
And that meant—Malone stopped, his cigar halfway to his mouth.
Wasn't it possible that just such a burst of energy had made Burris call him off the case?
It seemed like a long time before the cigar reached his mouth. Malone felt slightly appalled. The flashes that had been going on in his own mind had already been bothering him, and he'd decided that he'd have to check every decision he made to be sure that it was not capricious; now he made a resolve that he'd kept his mental faculties on a perpetual watch for that sort of interference. Of course, it was more than barely possible that he wouldn't notice it if anything happened. But it would be pretty stupid to succumb to that sort of defeatism now, he told himself grimly.
Now that everything was narrowing down so nicely, anyhow, he thought. There were only two real possibilities. Malone numbered them in his mind:
1. Her Majesty has developed a new delusion. In this case, he thought, Burris was perfectly right. I can enjoy a month of free vacation.
2. Her Majesty is no nuttier than before. If this is the case, he thought, then there's more to the case than has appeared, and Kenneth J. Malone, with or without the FBI, is going to get to the bottom of it.
Therefore, he summed up, everything now hinged on whether or not Her Majesty was unhinged.
That was confusing, but he managed to straighten it out after a second. He put his half-smoked cigar carefully in an ashtray and stood up. He went over to the phone and dialed the special unlisted number of the FBI.
The face that appeared was faintly sallow and looked sad. "Pelham here," it said in the tones of a discouraged horse.
"Hello, Pelham," Malone said. "Kenneth Malone here."
"Trouble?" Pelham said. It was obvious that he expected trouble, and always had, and probably always would.
"Nope," Malone said. Pelham looked even sadder. "Just checking out for vacation. You can tell the Chief I'm going to take off for Las Vegas. I'm taking his advice, tell him; I'm going to carouse and throw my money away and look at dancing girls and smoke and drink and stay out late. I'll let the local office know where I'm staying when I get there, just in case something comes up."
"O.K.," Pelham said unhappily. "I'll check you out." He tried a smile, but it looked more like the blank expression on the face of a local corpse. "Have fun," he said.
"Thanks," Malone said. "I'll try."
But his precognitive sense suddenly rose up on its hind legs as he broke the connection. The attempt to have fun, it told him in no uncertain terms, was going to be a morbid failure.
"Nevertheless," Malone muttered, heaved a great sigh, and started for the suitcase and the door.
The Great Universal was not the tops in every field. Not by a long shot. As Las Vegas resorts went, as a matter of fact, almost any of them could outdo the Great Universal in one respect or another. The Golden Palace, for instance, had much gaudier gaming rooms. The Moonbeam had a louder orchestra. The Barbary Coast and the Ringing Welkin both had more slot machines, and it was undeniable that the Flower of the West had fatter and pinker dancing girls. The Red Hot, the Last Fling and the Double Star all boasted more waiters and more famous guests per square foot of breathable air.
But the Great Universal, in sheer size, volume of business and elegance of surroundings, outdid any three of the others combined. It stood grandly alone at the edge of the Strip, the grandiloquent Las Vegas version of Broadway or Hollywood Boulevard. It had a central Tower that climbed thirty stories into the clean desert air, and the Tower was surrounded by a quarter of a square mile of single-level structures. At the base, the building spread out for five hundred feet in every direction, and beyond that were the clusters of individual cabins interlaced by walks, small parks, an occasional pool, and a few little groves of trees "for privacy and the feeling of oneness with Nature," the brochure said. But the brochure didn't even do justice to the place. Nothing could have except the popping eyes of the thousand of tourists who saw the Great Universal every month. And they were usually in no condition to sit down and talk calmly about it.
Around the entire collection of buildings rose a wall that fitted the architectural style of the place perfectly. A Hollywood writer out for a three-day bender had called it "Futuristic Mediaeval," since it seemed to be a set-designer's notion of Camelot combined with a Twenty-fifth Century city as imagined by Frank R. Paul. It had Egyptian designs on it, but no one knew exactly why. On the other hand, of course, there was no real reason why not.
That was not the only decoration. Emblazoned on the Tower, in huge letters of evershifting color, was a glowing sign larger than the eye could believe. The sign proclaimed through daylight and the darkest night: Great Universal Hotel. Malone had no doubts about it.
There was a running argument as to whether or not the Great Universal was actually on the Strip. Certainly the original extent of the Strip didn't include it. But the Strip itself had been spreading Westward at a slow but steady pace for two decades, and the only imaginable stopping-point was the California border.
Malone had taken a taxi from the airfield, and had supplied himself with silver dollars there. He gave the cabbie one of them and added another when the man's expression showed real pain. Still unhappy but looking a little less like a figure out of the Great Depression, the cabbie gunned his machine away, leaving Malone standing in the carport surrounded by suitcases and bags of all sizes and weights.
A robot redcap came gliding along. Inevitably, it was gilded, and looked absolutely brand new. Behind it, a chunky little man with bright eyes waved at Malone. "Reserved here?" he said.
"That's right," Malone said. "The name is Malone."
The redcap's escort shrugged. "I don't care if the name is Jack the Ripper," he said. "Just reservations, that's all I care."
Malone watched the luggage being stowed away, and followed after the redcap and its escort with mixed feelings. Las Vegas glittered like mad, but the two inhabitants he had met so far seemed a little dim. However, he told himself, better things might turn up.
Better things did, almost immediately. In the great lobby of the Tower, guests were lounging about in little groups. Many of the guests were dressed in tuxedos, others in sport shirts and slacks. Quite a number were wearing dresses, skirt-and-blouse combinations or evening gowns, and Malone paid most of his attention to these.
New York, Washington and even Chicago had nothing to match them, he thought dazedly. They were magnificent, and almost frightening in their absolute beauty. Malone however, was not easily daunted. He followed a snappily-dressed bellman to the registration desk while his robot purred gently after him. First things first, he thought—but making friends with the other guests definitely came up number two. Or three, anyhow, he amended sadly.
He signed his own name to the register, but didn't add: "Federal Bureau of Investigation" after it. After all, he thought, he was there unofficially. And even though gambling was perfectly legal in Nevada, the thought of the FBI still made many of the club owners just the least little bit nervous. Instead, Malone gave a Chicago firm as his business address—one which the FBI used as a cover for just such purposes.
The clerk looked at him politely and blankly. "A room in the Tower, sir?" he said.
Malone shook his head. "Ground floor," he said. "But not too far from the Tower. I get airsick easily."
The clerk gave Malone a large laugh, which made him uncomfortable and a little angry. The joke hadn't been all that good, he thought. If he'd ordered a top-price room he could understand the hospitality, but the most expensive rooms were in the Tower, with the outside cabins running a close second. The other rooms dropped in price as they approached the periphery of the main building.
"A humorist, sir?" the clerk said.
"Not at all," Malone said pleasantly, wishing he'd signed with his full occupation and address. "I'm a gravedigger. Business has been very good this year."
The clerk, apparently undecided as to whether or not to offer congratulations, settled for consulting his registry and then stabbing at a button on a huge and complex board at his right. A key slid out of a slot and the clerk handed it to Malone with a rather strained smile. "10-Q," he said.
"You're very welcome," Malone said in his most unctuous tones. He took the key.
The clerk blinked. "The bellman will take you to your rooms, sir," he said in a good imitation of his original voice. "There are maps of the building at intervals along the halls, and if you find that you have become lost you have only to ask one of the hall guides to show you the proper directions."
"My, my," Malone said.
The clerk cleared his throat. "If you wish to use one of the cars," he went on in a slightly more unsteady voice, "simply insert your key in the slot beneath one of the wall maps, and a car will be at your service."
Malone shook his head and gave a deep sigh. "What," he said, "will they think of next?"
Satisfied with that for an exit line, he turned and found that the bellman had already taken his luggage from the robot redcap and put it aboard a small electric car. Malone got in beside him and the bellman started the vehicle down the hallway. It rolled along on soft, silent tires. It, too, was gilded. It didn't move very fast, Malone thought, but it certainly beat walking.
Each hallway which radiated out from the central section beneath the Tower was built like a small-edition city street. The little cars scooted up and down the two center lanes while pedestrians, poor benighted souls, kept to the side walkways. Every so often Malone saw one, walking along the raised walkway and holding the rail along the outside that was meant to keep guests of every stage of drunkenness from falling into the road. At the intersections, small, Japanese-style bridges crossed over the roadway. On these, Malone saw uniformed men standing motionless, one to a bridge. They all looked identical, and each one had a small gold stripe sewn to the chest of the red uniform. Malone read the letters on the stripe as they passed the third man. It said:Guide.
"Now, you live in Q-wing, sir," the bellman was saying in a nasal, but rather pleasant voice as Malone looked away. "You're not far from the Tower Lobby, so you won't have a lot to remember. It's not like living along, say, the D-E Passageway out near 20 or 23."
"I'm sure it isn't," Malone said politely.
"No," the bellman said, "you got it simple. This here is Q-Yellow—see the yellow stripe on the wall?"
Malone looked. There was a yellow stripe on the wall. "I see it," he said.
"So all you got to do," the bellman said, "is follow Q-Yellow to the Tower Lobby." He acted as if he had demonstrated a Euclidean proposition flawlessly. "Got it?" he asked.
"Very simple," Malone said.
"O.K.," the bellman said. "Now, the gaming rooms—"
Malone listened with about a fifth of an ear while the bellman went on spinning out incredibly complex directions for getting around in the quasi-city that was the Great Universal. At one point he thought he caught the man saying that an elephant ramp took guests past the resplendent glass rest rooms to the roots of the roulette wheel, but that didn't sound even remotely plausible when he considered it. At last the bellman announced:
"Here we are, sir. Right to your door. A courtesy of the friendly Great Universal Hotel."
He pulled over to the side, pushed a button on the sidewalk, and the little car's body elevated itself on hydraulic pistons until it was even with the elevated sidewalk. The bellman pushed a stud on the walkway rail and a gate swung open. Malone stepped out and waited while luggage was unloaded. The courtesy of the Great Universal Hotel was not free, of course; Malone got rid of some more silver dollars. He fished in his pockets, found one lone crumpled ten-dollar bill and arranged it neatly and visibly in his right hand.
"I notice you've got a lot of guides in the halls," he said as the bellman eyed the ten-spot. "Do that many people get lost in here?"
"Well, not really, sir," the bellman said. "Not really. That's for the—what they call the protection of our guests. A courtesy."
"Protection?" Malone said. He had noticed, he recalled, odd bulges beneath the left armpits of the guides. "Protection from what?" he asked, keeping a firm, loving grip on the bill. "There are a lot more guides than you'd expect, aren't there?"
The bellman shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "Well, sir," he said at last in an uneasy manner, "I guess it's because of the politics around here. I mean, it's sort of confused."
"Confused how?" Malone said, waving the bill ever so slightly.
The bellman appeared to be hypnotized by its green color. "It's the governor shooting himself," he said at last. "And the Legislature wants to impeach the Lieutenant-governor, and the City Council of Las Vegas is having trouble with the Mayor, and the County Sheriff is having a feud with the State Police, and—Sir, it's all sort of confused right now. But it isn't serious." He grinned hopefully.
Malone sighed and let go of the ten. It stayed fluttering in the air for perhaps a tenth of a second, and disappeared. "I'm sure it isn't," Malone said. "Just forget I asked you."
The bellman's hand went to his pocket and came out again empty. "Asked me, sir?" he said. "Asked me what?"
The next fifteen minutes were busy ones. Malone made himself quickly at home, keeping his eyes open for hidden TV cameras or other forms of bugging. Satisfied at last that he was entirely alone, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and teleported himself to Yucca Flats.