Supermind by Randall Garrett and Laurence M. Janifer (well read books .TXT) 📕

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.

“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,” Malone said.

Burris looked puzzled. “What?” he said.

“Because of all the confusion,” Malone said. “Frankly, I can’t trust the CIA, or any other branch of the government. I’ve got to see for myself.”

Burris considered this for a second. “It’s going to look very peculiar,” he said.

Malone shrugged. “Everything looks peculiar,” he said. “A little more won’t hurt anything. And if I do turn up anything we can use, the whole trip will be worth it.”

“But sending an FBI man along with Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch is a little strange,” Burris said. “Not to mention Her Majesty.”

“There is that,” Malone said. “I wonder what our Red friends are going to think of the Queen.”

“God knows,” Burris said. “If they take her seriously, they’re liable to call her some sort of capitalist deviationist.”

“And if they don’t take her seriously?” Malone said.

“Then they’re going to wonder why she’s pretending to be a capitalist deviationist,” Burris said.

Malone flicked his cigarette at an ashtray. “You can’t win,” he said.

“Frankly,” Burris said, “I wouldn’t allow Her Majesty to go along under any circumstances—except that there is an excuse for having an older woman around.”

“There is?” Malone said.

Burris nodded. “As a chaperone,” he said.

“Now, wait a minute,” Malone said. “Brubitsch, Borbitsch and what’s his name don’t need a chaperone.”

“I didn’t say it was for them,” Burris said.

“Me?” Malone asked in a tone of absolute wonder. “Now, Chief, I don’t need a chaperone. I’m a grown man. I know my way around. And the idea of having Her Majesty along to chaperone me is going to make everything look even stranger. After all, Chief—”

“Malone,” Burris said, in a voice of steel.

“Sorry,” Malone mumbled. “But, really, I’m not some young, innocent girl in a Victorian novel.”

“No,” Burris said, a trifle sadly, “you’re not. But there is one going along on the trip with the rest of you.”

“There is?” Malone said. “Who is she? Rebecca?”

“Her name’s Luba,” Burris said. “Luba Garbitsch.”

“Garbitsch’s wife?” Malone said.

Burris shook his head. “His daughter,” he said. “And don’t tell me there isn’t any such name as Luba. I know there isn’t. But what would you pick to go with Garbitsch?”

“Wastepaper basket,” Malone said instantly. “Grapefruit rinds. Lemon peels. Coffee grounds.”

“Damn it, Malone,” Burris said, “this is serious.”

“Well,” Malone said, “it doesn’t sound serious. What are we doing, deporting the entire family?”

“I suppose we could,” Burris said, “if we really wanted to get complicated about it. What with Garbitsch’s false declaration, I haven’t the faintest idea what his daughter’s status would be—but she was born here, Malone, and as far as we can tell she’s perfectly loyal to the United States.”

“Fine,” Malone said. “So you’re sending her to Russia. This is making less and less sense, you know.”

Burris rubbed a hand over his face. “Malone,” he said in a quiet, patient voice, “why don’t you wait for me to finish? Then everything will make sense. I promise.”

“Well, all right,” Malone said doubtfully. “Luba Garbitsch is going along to Russia, in spite of the fact that she’s perfectly loyal.”

“True,” Burris said. “You see, Malone, she loves her traitorous old daddy just the same. Family affection. Very touching.”

“And if he’s going to Moscow—”

“She wants to go along,” Burris said. “That’s right.”

“And you’re going to send her along,” Malone said, “out of the goodness of your kindly old heart. Just like Santa Claus. Or the Easter bunny.”

Burris looked acutely uncomfortable. “Now, Malone,” he said. “It’s not exactly that, and you know it.”

“It isn’t?” Malone said, trying to look surprised.

Burris shook his head. “If we send Luba Garbitsch along,” he said, “that gives us a good excuse for Her Majesty. As a chaperone.”

“Are you sure,” Malone asked slowly, “that anybody with a name like Luba Garbitsch could plausibly need a chaperone? Even in a den of vice? Because somehow it doesn’t sound right: Luba Garbitsch, chaperoned by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I.”

“Well,” Burris said, “it won’t be the Queen. I mean, she won’t be known as the Queen.”

“Incognito?” Malone said.

Burris shrugged. “In away,” he said. “What do you think would be a good name for her to travel under?”

Malone considered. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “But no more Lubas.”

“I was thinking,” Burris said carefully. “How about Rose Thompson?”

There was a long silence.

“I don’t know whether she’ll go for the idea,” Malone said. “But I’ll try it.”

“You can do it, Malone,” Burris said instantly. “I know you can. I just know it.”

“Your faith,” Malone said with a sigh, “is going to be too much for me one of these days.”

Burris shrugged. “Just take it easy, Malone,” he said. “You said you wanted to have Her Majesty over there to read a few minds, and you’ve got her. But remember, don’t get involved in anything complicated. Don’t start any fireworks.”

“I hope not,” Malone said.

“Stay out of political arguments,” Burris said.

Malone blinked. “What do you think I’m going to do?” he said. “Bring along a soapbox?”

“You never know,” Burris said. “Just keep quiet, and don’t go prowling around where you’re not wanted.”

“That,” Malone said decisively, “would keep me out of Russia entirely.”

“Damn it,” Burris said, “you know what I mean. We don’t want any international incidents, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Malone said.

Burris nodded. “All right, then,” he said. “Your plane leaves from the airport in an hour. You’d better go and talk to Her Majesty first.”

“Right,” Malone said.

“And I hope you