The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ sir, we're not laughing any more," Malone said.

      "Ah," Burris said. "And why aren't we laughing any more?"

      There was a little pause. Malone said, tentatively: "Because there's nothing to laugh about, sir?"

      Burris whirled. "On the head!" he said happily. "You've hit the nail on the head, Kenneth. I knew I could depend on you." His voice grew serious again, and thoughtful. "We're not laughing any more because there's nothing to laugh about. We have orbital satellites, and we've landed on the Moon with an atomic rocket. The planets are the next step, and after that the stars. Man's heritage, Kenneth. The stars. And the stars, Kenneth, belong to Man--not to the Russians!"

      "Yes, sir," Malone said soberly.

      So," Burris said, "we should learn not to laugh any more. But have we?"

      "I don't know, sir."

      "We haven't," Burris said with decision. "Can you read my mind?"

      "No, sir," Malone said. "Can I read your mind?".

      Malone hesitated. At last he said: "Not that I know of, sir."

      "Well, I can't," Burris snapped. "And can any of us read each other's mind?"

      Malone shook his head. "No, sir," he said.

      Burris nodded. "That's the problem," he said. "That's the case I'm sending you out to crack."

      This time, the silence was a long one.

      At last, Malone said: "What problem, sir?"

      "Mind reading," Burris said. "There's a spy at work in the Nevada plant, Kenneth. And the spy is a telepath."

      * * * * *

      The video tapes were very clear and very complete. There were a great many of them, and it was long after nine o'clock when Kenneth Malone decided to take a break and get some fresh air. Washington was a good city for walking, even at night, and Malone liked to walk. Sometimes he pretended, even to himself, that he got his best ideas while walking, but he knew perfectly well that wasn't true. His best ideas just seemed to come to him, out of nowhere, precisely as the situation demanded them.

      He was just lucky, that was all. He had a talent for being lucky. But nobody would ever believe that. A record like his was spectacular, even in the annals of the FBI, and Burris himself believed that the record showed some kind of superior ability.

      Malone knew that wasn't true, but what could he do about it? After all, he didn't want to resign, did he? It was kind of romantic and exciting to be an FBI agent, even after three years. A man got a chance to travel around a lot and see things, and it was interesting. The pay was pretty good, too.

      The only trouble was that, if he didn't quit, he was going to have to find a telepath.

      The notion of telepathic spies just didn't sound right to Malone. It bothered him in a remote sort of way. Not that the idea of telepathy itself was alien to him--after all, he was even more aware than the average citizen that research had been going on in that field for something over a quarter of a century, and that the research was even speeding up.

      But the cold fact that a telepathy-detecting device had been invented somehow shocked his sense of propriety, and his notions of privacy. It wasn't decent, that was all.

      There ought to be something sacred, he told himself angrily.

      He stopped walking and looked up. He was on Pennsylvania Avenue, heading toward the White House.

      That was no good. He went to the corner and turned off, down the block. He had, he told himself, nothing at all to see the President about.

      Not yet, anyhow.

      The streets were dark and very peaceful. I get my best ideas while walking, Malone said without convincing himself. He thought back to the video tapes.

      The report on the original use of the machine itself had been on one of the first tapes, and Malone could still see and hear it. That was one thing he did have, he reflected; his memory was pretty good.

      Burris had been the first speaker on the tapes, and he'd given the serial and reference number in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. His face had been perfectly blank, and he looked just like the head of the FBI people were accustomed to seeing on their TV and newsreel screens. Malone wondered what had happened to him between the time the tapes had been made and the time he'd sent for Malone

      Maybe the whole notion of telepathy was beginning to get him, Malone thought.

      Burris recited the standard tape-opening in a rapid mumble, like a priest involved in the formula of the Mass: "Any person or agent unauthorized for this tape please refrain from viewing further, under penalties as prescribed by law." Then he looked off, out past the screen to the left, and said: "Dr. Thomas O'Connor, of Westinghouse Laboratories. Will you come here, Dr. O'Connor?"

      Dr. O'Connor came into the lighted square of screen slowly, looking all around him. "This is very fascinating," he said, blinking in the lamplight. "I hadn't realized that you people took so many precautions--"

      He was, Malone thought, somewhere between fifty and sixty, tall and thin with skin so transparent that he nearly looked like a living X- ray. He had pale blue eyes and pale white hair, and, Malone thought, if there ever were a contest for the best-looking ghost, Dr. Thomas O'Connor would win it hands (or phalanges) down.

      "This is all necessary for the national security," Burris said, a little sternly.

      "Oh," Dr. O'Connor said quickly. "I realize that, of course. Naturally. I can certainly see that."

      "Let's go ahead, shall we?" Burris said.

      O'Connor nodded. "Certainly. Certainly."

      Burris said: "Well, then," and paused. After a second he started again: "Now, Dr. O'Connor, would you please give us a sort of verbal rundown on this for our records?"

      "Of course," Dr. O'Connor said. He smiled into the video cameras and cleared his throat. "I take it you don't want an explanation of how this machine works. I mean: you don't want a technical exposition, do you?"

      "No," Burris said, and added: "Not by any means. Just tell us what it does."

      Dr. O'Connor suddenly reminded Malone of a professor he'd had in college for one of the law courses. He had, Malone thought, the same smiling gravity of demeanor, the same condescending attitude of absolute authority. It was clear that Dr. O'Connor lived in a world of his own, a world that was not even touched by the common run of men.

      "Well," he began, "to put it very simply, the device indicates whether or not a man's mental--ah--processes are being influenced by outside-- by outside influences." He gave the cameras another little smile. "If you will allow me, I will demonstrate on the machine itself."

      He took two steps that carried him out of camera range, and returned wheeling a large heavy-looking box. Dangling from the metal covering were a number of wires and attachments. A long cord led from the box to the floor and snaked out of sight to the left.

      "Now," Dr. O'Connor said. He selected a single lead, apparently, Malone thought, at random. "This electrode--"

      "Just СКАЧАТЬ