The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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      "He thinks," Her Majesty said, "that I may not have the talent for this particular effect--and perhaps I don't. But, talent or not, I know what's possible and what isn't. And the way Mr. Taylor describes it is simply silly, that's all. And unladylike. Imagine any self-respecting lady 'squirting' her thoughts about in space!"

      "Well," Malone said carefully, "aside from its being unladylike--"

      "Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, "you are not telepathic. Neither is Sir Thomas."

      "I'm nothing," Boyd said. "I don't even exist."

      "And it is very difficult to explain to the non-telepath just what Mr. Taylor is implying," Her Majesty went on imperturbably. "Before you could inject any thoughts into anyone else's mind, you'd have to be able to see into that mind. Is that correct?"

      "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 giving him instructions. It was, Malone told himself, a hell of a life.

      "Now, Malone," Burris said, "this is a very ticklish situation. You've got to handle it with great care."

      "I can see that," Malone said apprehensively. "It certainly looks ticklish. And unusual."

      "Well, we don't want any trouble," Burris said. "We have enough trouble now."

      "Sometimes I think we have too much," Malone said.

      "That's our job," Burris said, looking grim.

      Malone blinked. "What is?" he said.

      "Having trouble," Burris said.

      There was a short silence. Malone broke it. "Anyhow," he said, "you feel we have enough trouble, so we're trying to make things easy for everybody."

      Burris nodded. "I've talked with the president," he said, "and he feels this is the best way to handle matters."

      Malone tried to imagine Burris explaining the incredible complexities of the situation to the president, and was torn between relief that he hadn't been there and a curious wish to have heard the scrambled conversation that must have taken place. "The way it seems to me," he said cautiously, "shipping those spies back to Russia is a worse punishment than sending them to the federal pen."

      "Maybe it is," Burris said. "Maybe it is. How would you feel if you were being sent to jail?"

      "Innocent," Malone said instantly.

      "But that isn't the point," Burris went on. "You see, Malone, we don't really have much damaging evidence against those spies, except for their confessions. During all the time we were watching them, we took care that they never did come up with anything dangerous; we weren't fishing for them but for their superiors, for the rest of the network."

      "There doesn't seem to be any more network," Malone said. "Not in this country, anyhow."

      "Sure," Burris said. "We know that now, thanks to the confessions, and to Her Majesty. But we can't prosecute on that sort of evidence. You know what a good defense attorney could do with unsupported confessions--and even if we wanted to take the lid off telepathy for the general public, it would be absolute hell bringing it into court."

      "So," Malone said, "we can't put them in prison, even if we want to."

      "Oh, I didn't say that," Burris said hastily. "We could probably win, even against a good defense. But they wouldn't get much time in prison, and we'd only end up deporting them in any case."

      Malone fished for a cigarette, lit it and blew out smoke. "So we're going to save the taxpayers some money," he said. "That'll be nice for a change."

      "That's right," Burris said, beaming. "We're going to save Federal funds by shipping them back to their motherland now. After all, they did take out their naturalization papers under false names, and their declarations are chockfull of false information. So all it takes is a court order to declare their citizenships null and void, and hand all three of them back to the Soviets."

      "A nice, simple housecleaning," Malone said. "All open and above-board. And the confessions will certainly stand up in a deportation hearing."

      "No question of it," Burris said. "But the reason I called you here, Malone, is that there's still one thing bothering me."

      Malone blew out some more smoke, thought wistfully about cigars, and said: "What? Everything seems simple enough to me."

      Burris frowned and leaned back in his chair. "It's this notion of yours, Malone," he said.

      "Notion?"

      "About going over there," Burris said. "Now, I can understand your wanting some facts on Moscow, current background and all that sort of thing. So far, everything makes sense."

      "Fine," Malone said warily.

      "But, after all, Malone," Burris said, "we do have such a thing as the Central Intelligence Agency. They send us reports. That's what they're for. And why you want to ignore the reports and make a trip over there to walk around and see for yourself--"

      "It's because of everything that's happening," СКАЧАТЬ