Chapter 6

Midnight.

Kenneth J. Malone sat at his desk, in his Washington office, surrounded by piles of papers covering the desk, spilling off onto the floor and decorating his lap. He was staring at the papers as if he expected them to leap up, dance round him and shout the solution to all his problems at him in trained choral voices. They did nothing at all.

Seated cross-legged on the rug in the center of the room, and looking like an impossible combination of the last Henry Tudor and Gautama Buddha, Thomas Boyd did nothing either. He was staring downward, his hands folded on his ample lap, wearing an expression of utter, burning frustration. And on a nearby chair sat the third member of the company, wearing the calm and patient expression of the gently-born under all vicissitudes: Queen Elizabeth I.

“All right,” Malone said into the silence. “Now let’s see what we’ve got.”

“I think we’ve got cerebral paresis,” Boyd said. “It’s been coming on for years.”

“Don’t be funny,” Malone said.

Boyd gave a short, mirthless bark. “Funny?” he said. “I’m absolutely hysterical with joy and good humor. I’m out of my mind with happiness.” He paused. “Anyway,” he finished, “I’m out of my mind. Which puts me in good company. The entire FBI, Brubitsch, Borbitsch, Garbitsch, Dr. Thomas O’Connor and Sir Lewis Carter--we’re all out of our minds. If we weren’t, we’d all move away to the moon.”

“And drink to forget,” Malone added. “Sure. But let’s try and get some work done.”

“By all means, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said. Boyd had not included her in his list of insane people, and she looked slightly miffed. It was hard for Malone to tell whether she was miffed by the mention of insanity, or at being left out.

“Let’s review the facts,” Malone said. “This whole thing started with some inefficiency in Congress.”

“And some upheavals elsewhere,” Boyd said. “Labor unions, gangster organizations.”

“Just about all over,” Malone said. “And though we’ve found three spies, it seems pretty obvious that they aren’t causing this.”

“They aren’t causing much of anything,” Boyd said. “Except a lot of unbelieving laughter further up the FBI line. I don’t think anybody is going to believe our reports of those interviews.”

“But they’re true,” Her Majesty said.

“Sure they’re true,” Boyd said. “That’s the unbelievable part. They read like farce, and not very good farce at that.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Malone said. “I think they’re pretty funny.”

“Shall we get back to the business at hand?” Her Majesty said gently.

“Ah,” Malone said. “Anyhow, it isn’t the spies. And what we now have is confusion even worse compounded.”

“Confounded,” Boyd said. “John Milton. Paradise Lost, I heard it somewhere.”

“I don’t mean confounded,” Malone said. “I mean confusion. Anyhow, the Russian espionage rings in this country seem to be in as bad a state as the Congress, the labor unions, the syndicates, and all the rest. And all of them seem to have some sort of weird tie-in to these flashes of telepathic interference. Right, Your Majesty?”

“I believe so, Sir Kenneth,” she said. The old woman looked tired and confused. Somehow, a lot of the brightness seemed to have gone out of her life. “That’s right,” she said. “I didn’t realize there was so much of it going on. You see, Sir Kenneth, you’re the only one I can pick up at a distance who has been having these flashes. But now that I’m here in Washington, I can feel it going on all around me.”

“It may not have anything to do with everything else,” Boyd said.

Malone shook his head. “If it doesn’t,” he said, “it’s the weirdest coincidence I’ve ever even dreamed about, and my dreams can be pretty strange. No, it’s got to be tied in. There’s some kind of mental static that is somehow making all these people goof up.”

“But why?” Boyd said. “What is it being done for? Just fun?”

“God only knows,” Malone said. “But we’re going to have to find out.”

“In that case,” Boyd said, “I suggest lots and lots of prayers.”

Her Majesty looked up. “That’s a fine idea,” she said.

“But God helps those,” Malone said, “who help themselves. And we’re going to help ourselves. Mostly with facts.”

“All right,” Boyd said. “So far, all the facts have been a great help.”

“Well, here’s one,” Malone said. “We got one flash each from Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch while we were questioning them. And in each case, that flash occurred just before they started to blab everything they knew. Before the flash, they weren’t talking. They were behaving just like good spies and keeping their mouths shut. After the flash, they couldn’t talk fast enough.”

“That’s true,” Boyd said reflectively. “They did seem to give up pretty fast, even for amateurs.”

Malone nodded. “So the question is this,” he said. “Just what happens during those crazy bursts of static?”

He looked expectantly at Her Majesty, but she shook her head sadly. “I don’t know,” she said. “I simply don’t know. It’s just noise to me, meaningless noise.” She put her hands slowly over her face. “People shouldn’t do things like that to their Sovereign,” she said in a muffled voice.

Malone got up and went over to her. She wasn’t crying, but she wasn’t far from it. He put an arm around her thin shoulders. “Now, look, Your Majesty,” he said in gentle tones, “this will all clear up. We’ll find out what’s going on, and we’ll find a way to put a stop to it.”

“Sure we will,” Boyd said. “After all, Your Majesty, Sir Kenneth and I will work hard on this.”

“And the Queen’s own FBI,” Malone said, “won’t stop until we’ve finished with this whole affair, once and for all.”

Her Majesty brought her hands down from her face, very slowly. She was forcing a smile, but it didn’t look too well. “I know you won’t fail your Queen,” she said. “You two have always been the most loyal of my subjects.”

“We’ll work hard,” Malone said. “No matter how long it takes.”

“Because, after all,” Boyd said in a musing, thoughtful tone, “it is a serious crime, you know.”

The words seemed to have an effect on Her Majesty, like a tonic. For a second her face wore an expression of Royal anger and indignance, and the accustomed strength flowed back into her aged voice. “You’re quite correct, Sir Thomas!” she said. “The security of the Throne and the Crown are at stake!”

Malone blinked. “What?” he said. “Are you two talking about something? What crime is this?”

“An extremely serious one,” Boyd said in a grave voice. He rose unsteadily to his feet, planted them firmly on the carpet, and frowned.

“Go on,” Malone said, fascinated. Her Majesty was watching Boyd with an intent expression.

“The crime,” Boyd said, “the very serious crime involved, is that of Threatening the Welfare of the Queen. The criminal has committed the crime of Causing the Said Sovereign, Baselessly, Reasonlessly and Without Consent or Let, to Be in a State of Apprehension for Her Life or Her Well-Being. And this crime--”

“Aha,” Malone said. “I’ve got it. The crime is--”

“High treason,” Boyd intoned.

“High treason,” Her Majesty said with satisfaction and fire in her voice.

“Very high treason,” Malone said. “Extremely high.”

“Stratospheric,” Boyd agreed. “That is, of course,” he added, “if the perpetrators of this dastardly crime are Her Majesty’s subjects.”

“My goodness,” the Queen said. “I never thought of that. Suppose they’re not?”

“Then,” Malone said in his most vibrant voice, “it is an Act of War.”

“Steps,” Boyd said, “must be taken.”

“We must do our utmost,” Malone said. “Sir Thomas--”

“Yes, Sir Kenneth?” Boyd said.

“This task requires our most fervent dedication,” Malone said. “Please come with me.”

He went to the desk. Boyd followed him, walking straight-backed and tall. Malone bent and removed from a drawer of the desk a bottle of bourbon. He closed the drawer, poured some bourbon into two handy water-glasses from the desk, and capped the bottle. He handed one of the water-glasses to Boyd, and raised the other one aloft.

“Sir Thomas,” Malone said, “I give you Her Majesty, the Queen!”

“To the Queen!” Boyd echoed.

They downed their drinks and turned, as one man, to hurl the glasses into the wastebasket.

In thinking it over later, Malone realized that he hadn’t considered anything about that moment silly at all. Of course, an outsider might have been slightly surprised at the sequence of events, but Malone was no outsider. And, after all, it was the proper way to treat a Queen, wasn’t it?

And...

When Malone had first met Her Majesty, he had wondered why, although she could obviously read minds, and so knew perfectly well that neither Malone nor Boyd believed she was Queen Elizabeth I, she insisted on an outward show of respect and dedication. He’d asked her about it at last, and her reply had been simple, reasonable and to the point.

According to her--and Malone didn’t doubt it for an instant--most people simply didn’t think their superiors were all they claimed to be. But they acted as if they did, at least while in the presence of those superiors. It was a common fiction, a sort of handy oil on the wheels of social intercourse.

And all Her Majesty had ever insisted on was the same sort of treatment.

“Bless you,” she’d said, “I can’t help the way you think, but, as Queen, I do have some control over the way you act.”

The funny thing, as far as Malone was concerned, was that the two parts of his personality were becoming more and more alike. He didn’t actually believe that Her Majesty was Queen Elizabeth I, and he hoped fervently that he never would. But he did have a great deal of respect for her, and more affection than he had believed possible at first. She was the grandmother Malone had never known; she was good, and kind, and he wanted to keep her happy and contented. There had been nothing at all phony in the solemn toast he had proposed, nor in the righteous indignation he had felt against anyone who was giving Her Majesty even a minute’s worth of discomfort.

And Boyd, surprisingly enough, seemed to feel the same way. Malone felt good about that; Her Majesty needed all the loyal supporters she could get.

But all of this was later. At the time, Malone was doing nothing except what came naturally. Nor, apparently, was Boyd. After the glasses had been thrown, with a terrifying crash, into the metal wastebasket, and the reverberations of that second had stopped ringing in their ears, a moment of silence had followed.

Then Boyd turned, briskly rubbing his hands. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get back to work.”

Malone looked at the proud, happy look on Her Majesty’s face; he saw the glimmer of a tear in the corner of each eye. But he gave no indication that he had noticed anything at all out of the ordinary.

“Fine,” he said. “Now, getting on back to the facts, we’ve established something, anyhow. Some agency is causing flashes of telepathic static all over the place. And those flashes are somehow connected with the confusion that’s going on all around us. Somehow, these flashes have an effect on the minds of people.”

“And we know at least one manifestation of that effect,” Boyd said. “It makes spies blab all their secrets when they’re exposed to it.”

“These three spies, anyhow,” Malone said.

“If spies is the right word,” Boyd said.

“Okay,” Malone said. “And now we’ve got another obvious question.”

“It seems to me we’ve got about twelve,” Boyd said.

“I mean, who’s doing it?” Malone said. “Who is causing these telepathic flashes?”

“Maybe it’s just happening,” Boyd said. “Out of thin air.”

“Maybe,” Malone said. “But let’s go on the assumption that there’s a human cause. The other way, we can’t do a thing except sit back and watch the world go to hell.”

Boyd nodded. “It doesn’t seem to be the Russians,” he said. “Although, of course, it might be a Red herring.”

“What do you mean?” Malone said.

“Well,” Boyd said, “they might have known we were on to Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch--” He stopped. “You know,” he said, “every time I say that name I have to reassure myself that we’re not all walking around in the world of Florenz Ziegfeld.”

“Likewise,” Malone said. “But go on.”

“Sure,” Boyd said. “Anyhow, they might have set the three of them up as patsies, just in case we stumbled on to this mess. We can’t overlook this possibility.”

“Right,” Malone said. “It’s faint, but it is a possibility. In other words, the agency behind the flashes might be Russian, and it might not be Russian.”

“That clears that up nicely,” Boyd said. “Next question?”

“The next one,” Malone said grimly, “is, what’s behind the flashes? Some sort of psionic power is causing them, that much is obvious.”

“I’ll go along with that,” Boyd said. “I have to go along with it. But don’t think I like it.”

“Nobody likes it,” Malone said. “But let’s go on. O’Connor isn’t any help; he washes his hands of the whole business.”

“Lucky man,” Boyd said.

“He says that it can’t be happening,” Malone said, “and if it is we’re all screwy. Now, right or wrong, that isn’t an opinion that gives us any handle to work with.”

“No,” Boyd said reflectively. “A certain amount of comfort, to be sure, but no handles.”

“Sir Lewis Carter, on the other hand--” Malone said. He fumbled through some of the piles of paper until he had located the ones the president of the Psychical Research Society had sent. “Sir Lewis Carter,” he went on, “does seem to be doing some pretty good work. At least, some of the more modern stuff he sent over looks pretty solid. They’ve been doing quite a bit of research into the subject, and their theories seem to be all right, or nearly all right, to me. Of course, I’m not an expert.”

“Who is?” Boyd said. “Except for O’Connor, of course.”

“Well, somebody is,” Malone said. “Whoever’s doing all this, for instance. And the theories do seem okay. In most cases, for instance, they agree with O’Connor’s work, though they’re not in complete agreement.”

“I should think so,” Boyd said. “O’Connor wouldn’t recognize an astral plane if TWA were putting them into service.”

“I don’t mean that sort of thing,” Malone said. “There’s lots about astral bodies and ghosts, ectoplasm, Transcendental Yoga, theosophy, deros, the Great Pyramid, Atlantis, Mu, norns, and other such ridiculous pets. That’s just silly, as far as I can see. But what they have to say about parapsychology and psionics as such does seem to be reasonably accurate.”

“I suppose so,” Boyd said tiredly.

“Okay, then,” Malone said. “Did anybody notice anything in that pile of stuff that might conceivably have any bearing whatever on our problems?”

“I did,” Boyd said. “Or I think I did.”

“You both did,” Her Majesty said. “And so did I, when I looked through it. But I didn’t bother with it. I dismissed it.”

“Why?” Malone said.

“Because I don’t think it’s true,” she said. “However, my opinion is really only an opinion.” She smiled around at the others.

Malone picked up a thick sheaf of papers from one of the piles of his desk. “Let’s get straight what it is we’re talking about,” he said. “All right?”

“Anything’s all right with me,” Boyd said. “I’m easy to please.”

Malone nodded. “Now, this writer--what’s his name?” he said. He glanced at the copy of the cover page. “Minds and Morons,” he read. “By Cartier Taylor.”

“Great title,” Boyd said. “Does he say which is which?”

“Let’s get back to serious business,” Malone said, giving Boyd a single look. There was silence for a second, and then Malone said, “He mentions something, in the book, that he calls ‘telepathic projection.’ As far as I understand what he’s talking about, that’s some method of forcing your thoughts on another person.” He glanced over at the Queen. “Now, Your Majesty,” he said, “you don’t think it’s true--and that may only be an opinion, but it’s a pretty informed one. It seems to me as if Taylor makes a good case for this ‘telepathic projection’ of his. Why don’t you think so?”

“Because,” Her Majesty said flatly, “it doesn’t work.”

“You’ve tried it?” Boyd put in.

“I have,” she said. “And I have had no success with it at all. It’s a complete failure.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Boyd said. “Just a minute.”

“What’s the matter?” Malone said. “Have you tried it, and made it work?”

Boyd snorted. “Fat chance,” he said. “I just want to look at the thing, that’s all.” He held out his hand, and Malone gave him the sheaf of papers. Boyd leafed through them slowly, stopping every now and again to consult a page, until he found what he was looking for. “There,” he said.

“There what?” Malone said.

“Listen to this,” Boyd said. “‘For those who draw the line at demonic possession, I suggest trying telepathic projection. Apparently, it is possible to project one’s own thoughts directly into the mind of another--even to the point of taking control of the other’s mind. Hypnotism? You tell me, and we’ll both know. Ever since the orthodox scientists have come around to accepting hypnotism, I’m been chary of it. Maybe there really is an astral body or a soul that a person has stashed about him somewhere--something that he can send out to take control of another human being. But I, personally, prefer the telepathic projection theory. All you have to do is squirt your thoughts across space and spray them all over the other fellow’s brain. Presto-bingo, he does pretty much what you want him to do.’”

“That’s the quote I was thinking of,” Malone said.

“Of course it is,” Her Majesty said. “But it really doesn’t work. I’ve tried it.”

“How have you tried it?” Malone said.

“There were many times, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said, “when I wanted someone to do something particular for me or for some other person. After all, you must remember that I was in a hospital for a long time. Of course, that represents only a short segment of my life-span, but it seemed long to me.”

Malone, who was trying to view the years from age fifteen to age sixty-odd as a short segment of anybody’s lifetime, remembered with a shock that this was not Rose Thompson speaking. It was Queen Elizabeth I, who had never died.

“That’s right, Sir Kenneth,” she said kindly. “And in that hospital, there were a number of times when I wanted one of the doctors or nurses to do what I wanted them to. I tried many times, but I never succeeded.”

Boyd nodded his head. “Well--” he began.

“Oh, yes, Sir Thomas,” Her Majesty said. “What you’re thinking is certainly possible. It may even be true.”

“What is he thinking?” Malone said.

“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.