Occasion ... for Disaster 12 – Janifer · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Occasion ... for Disaster 12Part 3 · Chapter 12
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Occasion ... for Disaster 12
Part 3 · Chapter 12
JaniferEnglish
That made it eight-thirty in Las Vegas. Malone opened his eyes again in his hotel room there. He had half an hour to spare until his dinner date with Luba. That gave him plenty of time to shower, shave and dress, and he felt pleased to have managed the timing so neatly.
Two minutes later, he was soaking in the luxury of a hot tub allowing the warmth to relax his body while his mind turned over the facts he had collected. There were a lot of them, but they didn't seem to mean anything special.
The world, he told himself, was going to hell in a handbasket. That was all very well and good, but just what was the handbasket made of? Burris' theory, the more he thought about it, was a pure case of mental soapsuds, with perhaps a dash of old cotton-candy to make confusion even worse confounded.
And there wasn't any other theory, was there?
Well, Malone reflected, there was one, or at least a part of one. Her Majesty had said that everything was somehow tied up with the mental bursts--and that sounded a lot more probable. Assuming that the bursts and the rest of the mixups were not connected made, as a matter of fact, very little sense; it was multiplying hypotheses without reason. When two unusual things happen, they have at least one definite connection: they're both unusual. The sensible thing to do, Malone thought, was to look for more connections.
Which meant asking who was causing the bursts, and why. Her Majesty had said that she didn't know, and couldn't do it herself. Obviously, though, some telepath or a team of telepaths was doing the job. And the only trouble with that, Malone reflected sadly, was that all telepaths were in the Yucca Flats laboratory.
It was at this point that he sat upright in the tub, splashing water over the floor and gripping the soap with a strange excitement. Who'd ever said that all the telepaths were in Yucca Flats? All the ones so far discovered were--but that, obviously, was an entirely different matter.
Her majesty didn't know about any others, true. But Malone thought of his own mind-shield. If he could make himself telepathically "invisible," why couldn't someone else? Dr. Marshall's theories seemed to point the other way--but they only went for telepaths like Her Majesty, who were psychotic. A sane telepath, Malone thought, might conceivably develop such a mind-shield.
All known telepaths were nuts, he told himself. Now, he began to see why. He'd started out, two years before, hunting for nuts, and for idiots. But they wouldn't even know anything about sane telepaths--the sane ones probably wouldn't even want to communicate with them.
A sane telepath was pretty much of an unknown quantity. But that, Malone told himself with elation, was exactly what he was looking for. Could a sane telepath do what an insane one couldn't--and project thoughts, or at least mental bursts?
He got out of the cooling tub and grabbed for a terry-cloth robe. Not even bothering about the time, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was in the Yucca Flats apartment of Dr. Thomas O'Connor.
O'Connor wasn't sleeping, exactly. He sat in a chair in his bare-looking living room, a book open on his lap, his head nodding slightly. Malone's entrance made no sounds, and O'Connor didn't move or look around.
"Doctor," Malone said, "is it possible that--"
O'Connor came up off the chair a good foot and a half. He went: "Eee," and came down again, still gripping the book. His head turned.
"It's me," Malone said.
"Indeed," O'Connor said. "Indeed indeed. My goodness." He opened his mouth some more but no words came out of it. "Eee," he said again, at last, in a conversational tone.
Malone took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I startled you," he said, "but this is important and it couldn't wait." O'Connor stared blankly at him. "Dr. O'Connor," Malone said, "it's me. Kenneth J. Malone. I want to talk to you."
At last O'Connor's expression returned almost to normal. "Mr. Malone," he said, "you are undressed."
Malone sighed. "This is important, doctor," he said. "Let's not waste time with all that kind of thing."
"But, Mr. Malone--" O'Connor began frostily.
"I need some information," Malone said, "and maybe you've got it. What do you know about telepathic projection?"
"About what?" O'Connor said. "Do you mean nontelepaths receiving some sort of ... communication from telepaths?"
"Right," Malone said. "Mind-to-mind communication, of course; I'm not interested in the United States mail or the telephone companies. How about it, doctor? Is it possible?"
O'Connor gnawed at his lower lip for a second. "There have been cases reported," he said at last. "Very few have been written up with any accuracy, and those seem to be confined to close relatives or loved ones of the person projecting the message."
"Is that necessary?" Malone said. "Isn't it possible that--"
"Further," O'Connor said, getting back into his lecture-room stride, "I think you'll find that the ... ah ... message so received is one indicating that the projector of such a message is in dire peril. He has, for instance, been badly injured, or is rapidly approaching death, or else he has narrowly escaped death."
"What does that have to do with it?" Malone said. "I mean, why should all those requirements be necessary?"
O'Connor frowned slightly. "Because," he said, "the amount of psionic energy necessary for such a feat is tremendous. Usually, it is the final burst of energy, the outpouring of all the remaining psionic force immediately before death. And if death does not occur, the person is at the least greatly weakened; his mind, if it ever does recover, needs time and rest to do so."
"And he reaches a relative or a loved one," Malone said, "because the linkage is easier; there's some thought of him in that other mind for him to 'tune in' on."
"We assume so," O'Connor said.
"Very well, then," Malone said. "I'll assume so, too. But if the energy is so great, then a person couldn't do this sort of thing very often."
"Hardly," O'Connor said.
Malone nodded. "It's like ... like giving blood to a blood bank," he said. "Giving ... oh, three quarts of blood. It might not kill you. But if it didn't, you'd be weak for a long time."
"Exactly," O'Connor said. "A good analogy, Mr. Malone." Malone looked at him and felt relieved that he'd managed to get the conversation onto pure lecture-room science so quickly. O'Connor, easily at home in that world, had been able to absorb the shock of Malone's sudden appearance while providing the facts in his own inimitable, frozen manner.
"So one telepath couldn't go on doing it all the time," he said. "But--how about several people?"
"Several people?" O'Connor said.
"I mean ... well, let's look at that blood bank again," Malone said. "You need three quarts of blood. But one person doesn't have to give it. Suppose twelve people gave half a pint each."
"Ah," O'Connor said. "I see. Or twenty-four people, giving a quarter-pint each. Or--"
"That's the idea," Malone said hurriedly. "I guess there'd be a point of diminishing returns, but that's the point. Would something like that be possible?"
O'Connor thought for what seemed like a long time. "It might," he said at last. "At least theoretically. But it would take a great deal of mental co-ordination among the participants. They would all have to be telepaths, of course."
"In order to mesh their thoughts right on the button, and direct them properly and at the correct time," Malone said. "Right?"
"Ah ... correct," O'Connor said. "Given that, Mr. Malone, I imagine that it might possibly be done."
"Wonderful," Malone said.
"However," O'Connor said, apparently glad to throw even a little cold water on the notion, "it could not be done for very long periods of time, you understand. It would happen in rather short bursts."
"That's right," Malone said, enjoying the crestfallen look on O'Connor's face. "That's exactly what I was looking for."
"I'm ... ah ... glad to have been of service," O'Connor said. "However, Mr. Malone, I should like to request--"
"Oh, don't worry," Malone said. "I won't slam the door." He vanished.
It was eight-fifty. Hurriedly, he rinsed himself off, shaved and put on his evening clothes. But he was still late--it was two minutes after nine when he showed up at the door that led off the lobby to the Universal Joint. Luba was, surprisingly, waiting for him there.
"Ready for a vast feast?" she asked pleasantly.
"In about a minute and a half," Malone said. "Do you mind waiting that long?"
"Frankly," Luba said, "in five minutes I will be gnawing holes in the gold paneling around here. And I do want to catch the first floor show, too. I understand they've got a girl who has--"
"That," Malone said sternly, "should interest me more than it does you."
"I'm always interested in what the competition is doing," Luba said.
"Nevertheless," Malone began, and stopped. After a second he started again: "Anyhow, this is important."
"All right," she said instantly. "What is it?"
He led her away from the door to an alcove in the lobby where they could talk without being overheard. "Can you get hold of Sir Lewis at this time of night?" he asked.
"Sir Lewis?" she said. "If ... if it's urgent, I suppose I could."
"It's urgent," Malone said. "I need all the data on telepathic projection I can get. The scientists have given me some of it--maybe Psychical Research has some more. I imagine it's all mixed up with ghosts and ectoplasm, but--"
"Telepathic projection," Luba said. "Is that where a person projects a thought into somebody else's mind?"
"That's it," Malone said. "Can Sir Lewis get me all the data on that tonight?"
"Tonight?" Luba said. "It's pretty late and what with sending them from New York to Nevada--"
"Don't bother about that," Malone said. "Just send 'em to the FBI Offices in New York. I'll have the boys there make copies and send the copies on." Instead, he thought, he would teleport to New York himself. But Luba definitely didn't have to know that.
"He'd have to send the originals," Luba said.
"I'll guarantee their safety," Malone said. "But I need the data right now."
Luba hesitated.
"Tell him to bill the FBI," Malone said. "Call him collect and he can bill the phone call, too."
"All right, Ken," Luba said at last. "I'll try."
She went off to make the call, and came back in a few minutes.
"O.K.?" Malone said.
She smiled at him, very gently. "O.K.," she said. "Now let's go in to dinner, before I get any hungrier and the Great Universal loses some of its paneling."
Dinner, Malone told himself, was going to be wonderful. He was alone with Luba, and he was in a fancy, fine, expensive place. He was happy, and Luba was happy, and everything was going to be perfectly frabjous.
It was. He had no desire whatever, when dinner and the floor show were over, to leave Luba. Unfortunately, he did have work to do--work that was more important than anything else he could imagine. He made a tentative date for the next day, went to his room, and from there teleported himself to FBI Headquarters, New York.
The agent-in-charge looked up at him. "Hey," he said. "I thought you were on vacation, Malone."
"How come everybody knows about me being on vacation?" Malone said sourly.
The agent-in-charge shrugged. "The only leave not canceled?" he said. "Hell, it was all over the place in five minutes."
"O.K., O.K.," Malone said. "Don't remind me. Is there a package for me?"
The agent-in-charge produced a large box. "A messenger brought it," he said. "From the Psychical Research Society," he said. "What is it, ghosts?"
"Dehydrated," Malone said. "Just add ectoplasm and out they come, shouting Boo! at everybody."
"Sounds wonderful," the agent-in-charge said. "Can I come to the party?"
"First," Malone said judiciously, "you'd have to be dead. Of course I can arrange that--"
"Thanks," the agent-in-charge said, leaving in a hurry. Malone went on down to his office and opened the box. It contained books, pamphlets and reports from Sir Lewis, all dealing with some area of telepathic projection. He spent a few minutes looking them over and trying to make some connected sense out of them, but finally he gave up and just sat and thought. The material seemed to be no help at all; it told him even less than Dr. O'Connor had.
What he needed, he decided, was somebody to talk to. But who? He couldn't talk to the FBI, and nobody else knew much about what he was trying to investigate. He thought of Her Majesty and rejected the notion with a sigh. No, what he needed was somebody smart and quick, somebody who could be depended on, somebody with training and knowledge.
And then, very suddenly, he knew who he wanted.
"Well, now, Sir Kenneth," he said. "Let's put everything together and see what happens."
"Indeed," said Sir Kenneth Malone, "it is high time we did so, Sirrah. Proceed: I shall attend."
"Let's start from the beginning," Malone said. "We know there's confusion in all parts of the country--in all parts of the world, I guess. And we know that confusion is being caused by carefully timed accidents and errors. We also know that these errors appear to be accompanied by violent bursts of psionic static--violent energy. And we know, further, that on three specific occasions, these bursts of energy were immediately followed by a reversal of policy in the mind of the person on the receiving end."
"You mean," Sir Kenneth put in, "that these gentlemen changed their opinions."
"Correct," Malone said. "I refer, of course, to the firm of Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch, Spying Done Cheap."
"Indeed," Sir Kenneth said. "Then the operators of this strange force, whatever it may prove to be, must have some interest in allowing the spies' confession?"
"Maybe," Malone said. "Let's leave that for later. To get back to the beginning of all this: it seems to me to follow that the accidents and errors which have caused all the confusion throughout the world happen because somebody's mind is changed just the right amount at the right time. A man does something he didn't intend to do--or else he forgets to do it at all."
"Ah," Sir Kenneth said. "We have done those things we ought not to have done; we have left undone those things we ought to have done. And you feel, Sirrah, that a telepathic command is the cause of this confusion?"
"A series of them," Malone said. "But we also know, from Dr. O'Connor, that it takes a great deal of psychic energy to perform this particular trick--more than a person can normally afford to expend."
"Marry, now," Sir Kenneth said. "Meseemeth this is not reasonable. Changing the mind of a man indeed seems a small thing in comparison to teleportation, or psychokinesis, or levitation or any such witchery. And yet it take more power than any of these?"
Malone thought for a second. "Sure it does," he said. "I'd say it was a matter of resistance. Moving an inanimate object is pretty simple--comparatively, anyhow--because inert matter has no mental resistance."
"And moving oneself?" Sir Kenneth said.
"There's some resistance there, probably," Malone said. "But you'll remember that the Fueyo system of training for teleportation involved overcoming your own mental resistance to the idea."
"True," Sir Kenneth said. "'Tis true. Then let us agree that it takes great power to effect this change. Where does our course point from that agreement, Sirrah?"
"Next," Malone said, "we have to do a little supposing. This project must be handled by a fairly large group, since no individual can do it alone. This large group has to be telepathic--and not only for the reasons Dr. O'Connor and I specified."
"And why else?" Sir Kenneth demanded.
"They've also got to know exactly when to make this victim of theirs change his mind," Malone said. "Right?"
"Correct," Sir Kenneth said.
"We've got to look for a widespread organization of telepaths," Malone said, "with enough mental discipline to hold onto a tough mental shield. Strong, trained, sane men."
"A difficult assignment," Sir Kenneth commented.
"Well," Malone said, "suppose you hold on for a second--don't go away--and let me figure something out."
"I shall wait," sir Kenneth said, "without."
"Without what?" Malone murmured. But there was no time for games. Now, then, he told himself--and sneezed.
He shook his head, cursed softly and went on.
Now, then....
There was an organization, spread all over the Western world, and with what were undoubtedly secret branches in the Soviet Union. The organization had to be an old one--because it had to have trained telepaths, of a high degree of efficiency. And training took time.
There was something else to consider, too. In order to organize to such a degree that they could wreak the complete havoc they were wreaking, the organization couldn't be completely secret; there are always leaks, always suspicious events, and a society that spent time covering all of those up would have no time for anything else.
So the organization had to be a known one, in the Western world at least--a known group, masquerading as something else.
So far, everything made sense. Malone frowned and tried to think. Where, he wondered, did he go from here?
Maybe this time a list would help. He found a pencil and a piece of paper, and headed the paper: Organization. Then he started putting down what he knew about it, and what he'd figured out:
1. Large
2. Old
3. Disguised
It sounded, so far, just a little like Frankenstein's Monster wearing a red wig. But what else did he know about it?
After a second's thought, he murmured: "Nothing," and put the pencil down.
But that, he realized, wasn't quite true. He knew one more thing about the organization. He knew they'd probably be immune to the confusion everybody else was suffering from. The organization would be--had to be--efficient. It would be composed of intelligent, superbly co-operative people, who could work together as a unit without in the least impairing their own individuality.
He reached for the pencil again, and put down:
4. Efficient
He looked at it. Now it didn't remind him so much of the Monster. But it didn't look terribly familiar, either. Who did he know, he thought, who was large, old, disguised and efficient?
It sounded like an improbable combination. He set the paper down, clearing off some of the PRS books to make room for it. And then he stopped.
The papers the PRS had sent him....
And he'd gotten them so quickly, so efficiently....
They were a large organization....
And an old one....
He looked for a desk phone, found one and grabbed at it frantically.
The girl who answered the phone looked familiar. Malone suddenly remembered to check the time--it was just after nine. The girl stared at him. She did not look terribly old, but she was large and she had to be disguised. There seemed to be a lot of teeth running around in this case, Malone thought, between the burlesque stripper in Las Vegas and Miss Dental Display here in New York. Nobody, he told himself, could have collected that many teeth honestly.
"Psychical Research Society," she said. "Oh, Mr. Malone. Good morning."
"Sir Lewis," Malone said in a rush. "Sir Lewis Carter. I want to talk to him. Hurry."
"Sir Lewis Carter?" the girl said very slowly. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Malone, but he won't be in at all today."
"Home number," Malone said desperately. "I've got to."
"Well, I can give you that, Mr. Malone," she said, "but it wouldn't do you any good, really. Because he went away on his vacation and when he does that he never tells us where. You know? He won't be back for two or three weeks," she added as an afterthought.
Malone said: "Oog," and thought for less than a second. "Somebody official," he said. "Got to talk to somebody official. Now."
"Oh, I can't do that either, Mr. Malone," the toothy girl said. "All of the executives already left on their vacation. They just left a skeleton force here at the office."
"They're all gone?" Malone said hollowly.
"That's right," the girl said with great cheer. "As a matter of fact, I'm in charge now. You know?"
"I'm afraid I do," Malone said. "It's very important, though. You don't have any idea where any of them went?"
"None at all," she said. "I'm sorry, but that's how it is. Maybe if you were me you'd ask questions, but I just follow orders and those were my orders. To take over until they get back. You know? They didn't tell me where and I just didn't ask."
"Great," Malone said. He wanted to shoot himself. Everything was obvious now--about twenty-four hours too late. And now, they'd all gone--for two weeks--or for good.
The girl's rancid voice broke in on his thoughts.
"Oh, Mr. Malone," she said. "I'm sorry, but I just remembered they left a note for you."
"A note?" Malone said. "For me?"
"Sir Lewis said you might call," the girl said, "and he left a message. If you'll hold on a minute I'll read it."
Malone waited tensely. The girl found a slip of paper, blinked at it and read:
"My dear Malone, I'm afraid that what you have deduced is quite correct; and, as you can see, that leaves us no alternative. Sorry. Miss Luba A. sends her apologies to you, since she is joining us; my apologies are also tendered." The girl looked up. "It's signed by Sir Lewis," she said. "Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Malone?"
"I'm afraid it does," Malone said blankly. "It means entirely too much."
