The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ screaming, but he managed to control himself with an effort.

      There was no reason why the plan shouldn't work, Malone told himself. According to all the theory he knew, it was fool proof. Her Majesty had no doubts about it, either. She assured him that he had prescience, and several other powers as well. Unfortunately, Malone wasn't quite as sure as she was.

      Even if the theory seemed to back her up, he thought, there was still a chance that she was wrong, and the theory was wrong, and everything was wrong. His hunch—prescience, if you wanted to call it that, he amended—said definitely that this would be the place the Spooks would hit tonight. Her Majesty was quite sure of it. And Malone couldn't think of a single really good reason why either of them might be wrong. But maybe he'd got the address mixed up. Maybe the Spooks were somewhere else right now, robbing what they pleased, safe from capture—

      It doesn't do much good to know where a teleporter is, Malone thought. But it's extremely handy to know where he's going to be. And if you also know what he plans to do when he gets where he's going, you've got an absolute lead-pipe cinch to work with.

      The Queen and Malone had provided that lead-pipe cinch. They were sure that Mike planned to raid the sporting-goods store with the rest of the Spooks that night.

      But, of course, they might all just be riding for some kind of horrible, unforeseen fall—

      The main part of the sporting-goods store was fairly well lit, even at night, though it was by no means brightly illuminated. There were show-window lights on, and the street lamp from outside cast a nice glow. Malone was grateful for that. But the back room was dark, and the four men there were well-concealed. A curtain closed the room off, and Malone watched the front of the store through a narrow opening in it. He stared until his eyes ached, afraid to blink in case he missed the appearance of the Spooks. Everything had to go off just right, precisely on schedule.

      And it was going to happen any minute, he told himself nervously. In just a few minutes, everything would be over.

      Malone held his breath.

      Then he saw the figure walk slowly by the glass front of the shop, looking in with over-elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint, making sure there was no one left in it.

      Mike Fueyo.

      Malone tried to breathe, and couldn't.

      Seconds ticked by.

      And then—almost magically—they appeared. Eight of them, almost simultaneously, in the center of the room.

      Mike Fueyo spoke in a low, controlled voice. "O.K., now," he said. "Let's move fast. We haven't got much time. We—"

      And that was all he said.

      Malone concentrated on just one thing: holding an image of the room, with the eight Spooks in it.

      There was a long second of silence.

      Malone felt a bead of sweat trickle down his cheek. He held the image.

      "What's wrong?" the tallest boy said suddenly—Ramon Otravez, Malone remembered. "What's wrong, Mike?"

      Mike let out his breath in a ragged sigh. "I ... don't know," he said slowly. "I can't move—"

      "It's a trap!" another boy shouted.

      Malone bore down. He could feel power draining out of him, but he held on, willing the boys to remain in the room, blanking out their own teleportative abilities with his stronger ones.

      The eight boys stood, frozen, in the center of the lit room.

      Malone let another second go by, and then he stepped out from behind the curtains.

      "Hello, boys," he said casually.

      Mike stared at him. "It's Malone," he said.

      "That's right," Malone said. "Hello, Mike. I've been waiting for you."

      Mike gulped. "You found us," he said. "Somebody talked."

      Malone shook his head. "Nobody talked," he said. Concentration was getting easier; the longer the situation remained the same, the less power it took to keep it that way. He wished he had brought a cigar, and compromised by fishing out a cigarette and lighting it.

      Mike said: "But—" and was silent.

      "I knew where you were going to be," Malone said. "You see, I've got a few—powers of my own, Mike."

      Ramon Otravez said: "He's kidding. It's some kind of a trick."

      "Shut up," Mike told him.

      "It's no trick," Malone said. "I've been waiting for you for quite a while, boys." He paused. "And you can't move, can you? I've taken care of that."

      "Some kind of gas," Mike said instantly.

      "Gas?" Malone said. "Nope." He shook his head.

      "Electricity," Mike said. It sounded desperate. "Some gimmick you've got set up back there behind the curtain, to—"

      "No gimmick," Malone said. "It's just that I know a couple of tricks, too—and I'm a little better at them than you are." The next minute was going to be difficult, he knew, but it had to be done. He "froze" the picture of the room in his mind and, at the same time, pictured himself at the other side of the room. He made the effort, and at first nothing happened. Then—

      "You can do the Vanish," Mike said, very slowly and softly.

      "Oh, I can do more than that," Malone said cheerfully from the other side of the room. "I can do the Vanish, and I can also keep you from doing it. Right?"

      It hung in the balance for a second, but Malone was barely worried about the final outcome. He'd beaten the boys, not with scientific gadgetry or trickery, but at their own game. He'd done it simply, easily and completely. And for boys who were sure they were something very special, boys who'd never been beaten on their own grounds before, the shock was considerable.

      Malone knew, even before Mike said: "I guess so," in a defeated voice, that he had won.

      "Now," he said briskly, "you boys are going to come down to the FBI offices with me. And you're not going to try any tricks—because you can't get away with a thing, and you know you can't. I've just proven that to you."

      "I guess you have," Mike said.

      Malone beckoned the three other men out of the back room and then, under his watchful guidance, the procession started for the street.

      XVI

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      "The only thing we had to worry about," Malone said, pouring some more champagne into the hollow-stemmed glasses, "was whether the theory would actually prove out in practice. From all we knew, it seemed logical that I could concentrate on the room with the boys in it, and by that concentration prevent them from teleporting out—but there's a lot we don't know, too. And it didn't damage the kids any."

      Dorothea СКАЧАТЬ