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

have to use the shotgun very much, after the first few lessons; soon he was on his way to the top.

There was nowhere for Cesare “Big Cheese” Antonio Manelli to go, except up.

Straight up.

Now, in 1973, he occupied a modestly opulent office on Madison Avenue, where he did his modest best to pretend to the world at large that he was only a small cog—indeed, an almost invisible cog—in a large advertising machine. His best was, for all practical purposes, good enough.

Though it was common knowledge among the spoil-sport law enforcement officers who cared to look into the matter that Manelli was the real owner of the agency, there was no way to prove this. He didn’t even have a phone under his own name. The only way to reach him was by going through his front man in the agency, a blank-faced, truculent Arab named Atif Abdullah Aoud.

According to the agent-in-charge of the New York office, Malone had his choice of two separate methods of getting to Manelli. One, more direct, was to walk in, announce that he was an agent of the FBI, and insist on seeing Manelli. If he had a search warrant, the A-in-C told him, he might even get in. But, even if he did, he would probably not get anything out of Manelli.

The second and more diplomatic way was to call up Atif Abdullah Aoud and arrange for an appointment.

Malone made his decision in a flash. He flipped on the phone and punched for a PLaza exchange.

The face that appeared on the screen was that of a fairly pretty, if somewhat vapid, brunette. “Rodger, Willcoe, O’Vurr and Aoud, good afternoon,” she said.

Malone blinked.

“Who is calling, please?” the girl said. She snapped gum at the screen and Malone winced and drew away.

“This is Kenneth J. Malone,” he said from what he considered a safe distance. “I want to talk to Mr. Aoud.”

“Mr. Aoud?” she said in a high, unhelpful whine.

“That’s right,” Malone said patiently. “You can tell him that there may be some government business coming his way.”

“Oh,” she said. “But Mr. Aoud isn’t in.”

Mr. Aoud wasn’t in. Mr. Aoud was out. Malone turned that over in his mind a few times, and decided to try and forget it just as quickly as possible. “Then,” he said, “let me talk to one of the other partners.”

“Partners?” the girl said. She popped her gum again. Malone moved back another inch.

“You know,” he said. “The other people he works with. Rodger, or Willcoe, or O’Vurr.”

“Oh,” the girl said. “Them.”

“That’s right,” Malone said patiently.

“How about Mr. Willcoe?” the girl said after a second of deep and earnest thought. “Would he do?”

“Why not let’s try him and see?” Malone said.

“Okay,” the girl said brightly. “Let’s.” She flashed Malone a dazzling smile, only slightly impeded by the gum, and flipped off. Malone stared at the blank screen for a few seconds, and then the girl’s voice said, invisibly: “Mr. Willcoe will speak to you now, Mr. Melon. Thank you for waiting.”

“I’m not—” Malone started to say, and then the face of Frederick Willcoe appeared on the screen.

Willcoe was a thin, wrinkle-faced man with very pale skin. He seemed to be in his sixties, and he looked as if he had just lost an all-night bout with Count Dracula. Malone looked interestedly for puncture marks, but failed to find any.

“Ah,” Willcoe said, in a voice that sounded like crinkled paper. “Mr. Melon. Good afternoon.”

“I’m not Mr. Melon,” Malone said testily.

Willcoe looked gently surprised, like a man who has discovered that his evening sherry contains cholesterol. “Really?” he said. “Then I must be on the wrong line. I beg your pardon.”

“You’re not on the wrong line,” Malone said. “I am Mr. Melon in a way.” That didn’t sound very clear when he got it out, so he added: “Your secretary got my name wrong. She thinks I’m Mr. Melon—Kenneth J. Melon.”

“But you’re not,” Willcoe said.

Malone resisted an impulse to announce that he was really Lamont Cranston. “I’m Kenneth J. Malone,” he said.

“Ah,” Willcoe said. “Quite amusing. Imagine my mistaking you for a Mr. Melon, when you’re really Mr. Malone.” He paused, and his face got even more wrinkled. “But I don’t know you under either name,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to Mr. Manelli,” Malone said.

“But Mr. Aoud—”

“Mr. Aoud,” Malone said, wondering if it sounded as silly to Willcoe as it did to him, “isn’t in. So I thought you might be able to arrange an appointment for this afternoon.”

Willcoe bit his lip. “Mr. Manelli isn’t in just now,” he said.

“Yes,” Malone said. “I didn’t think he would be. That’s why I want to arrange an appointment for later, when he will be in.”

“Does Mr. Manelli know you?” Willcoe said suspiciously, the wrinkles deepening again.

“He knows my boss,” Malone said carefully. “You just tell him that this is something that ought to be worth time and money to him. His time, and his money.”

“Hmm,” Willcoe said. “I see. Would you wait a moment, Mr. Mel—Mr. Malone?”

The screen blanked out immediately. The wait this time was slightly longer.

And the next face that appeared on the screen was that of Cesare “Big Cheese” Antonio Manelli, the nearly invisible cog.

For a cog, the face was not a bad one. It was strong and well-muscled, and it had dark, wavy hair running along the top. At the sides of the face, the hair was greying slightly, and behind the grey two large ears stuck out. Manelli’s nose was a long, faintly aquiline affair and his eyes were very pleasant and candid. They were light grey.

“Aha,” Manelli said. “You are Mr. Malone, right?” His voice was guttural, but it was obvious that he was trying for control. “I regret announcing that I was out, Mr. Malone,” he said. “But a man in my position—I like privacy, Mr. Malone, and I try to keep privacy for myself. Let me request you to answer a question, Mr. Malone: do I know you, Mr. Malone?”

“Not personally,” Malone said. “I—”

“But I’m supposed to know your boss,” Manelli said. “I don’t know him, either, so far.”

Malone shrugged. “I’m sure you do,” he said, and dropped the name almost casually: “Andrew J. Burris.”

Manelli raised his eyebrows. “So that’s who you are,” he said. “I ought to have known, Mr. Malone. And you want to talk to me a little bit, right?”

“That’s right,” Malone said.

“But this is no way to act, Mr. Malone,” Manelli said reproachfully. “After all, we understand each other, you and me. What you should do, you should come in through channels, in the correct way, so everything it would be open and above the board.”

“Through channels?” Malone said.

Manelli regarded him with a pitying glance. “You must be new on your job, Mr. Malone,” he said. “Because there is an entire system built up, and you don’t know about it. The way things work, we sit around and we don’t see people. And then somebody comes and presents his credentials, you might say—search warrants, for instance, or subpoenas. And then we know where we are.”

Malone shook his head. “This isn’t that kind of call,” he said. “It’s more a friendly type of call.”

“Mr. Malone,” Manelli said. The reproach was stronger in his voice. “You must be very new at your job.”

“Nevertheless,” Malone said.

Manelli hesitated only a second. “Because I like you,” he said, “and to teach you how things operate around here, I could do you a favor.”

“Good,” Malone said patiently.

“In an hour,” Manelli said. “My place. Here.”

The screen blanked out before Malone could even say goodbye.

Malone got up, went out to the corridor, and decided that, since he had time to kill, he might as well walk on down to Manelli’s office. That, he told himself, would give him time to decide what he wanted to say.

He toyed at first with the idea of a nice bourbon and soda in a Madison Avenue bar, but he discarded that idea in a hurry. It was always possible for him to get into a tight spot and have to teleport his way out, and he didn’t want to be fuzzy around the edges in case that happened. Trotkin’s had showed him that, under enough stress, he could manage the job with quite a lot of vodka in him. But there was absolutely no sense, he told himself sadly, in taking chances.

He started off downtown along Fifth. Soon he was standing in front of the blue-and-crystal tower of the Ravell Building.

That made up his mind for him. He checked his watch, mentally flipped a coin and then cheated a little to make the answer come out right. He went inside and stepped into an elevator.

“Six,” he said with decision.

Lou was sitting at the Psychical Research Society desk, talking to the tweedy Sir Lewis Carter. Malone waved at Carter, decided that conversation with Lou was out, and started to walk away. Then he realized that he couldn’t have Carter thinking he was crazy. He had to figure out something to tell the man—and in a hurry, too.

Carter smiled and gestured to him. “Ah, Mr. Malone,” he said. “I’m glad you brought our Lou home safely. I’ve heard a little about your— ah—escapade. Astounding, really.”

“Not for the FBI,” Malone said modestly. “We’ve been through too much.”

“But—”

“No, really,” Malone said. “We never call anything astounding any more.”

“I can well imagine,” Carter said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Malone thought fast. He had to have something, and he didn’t have much time. “Why—uh—” he said, and then it came to him. “Yes, as a matter of fact you can,” he said.

“Glad to be of service,” Carter said. “I’m sure we can do anything you request.”

“Have you got any more data on telepathic projection?” Malone said.

Sir Lewis Carter frowned. “Telepathic projection?” he said.

“The stuff—the phenomenon Cartier Taylor mentioned,” Malone said, “in Minds and Morons. I think it was page eighty-four.”

“Oh,” Carter said. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, Mr. Malone, we’ll see what we can do for you.”

Malone sighed. “Thanks,” he said mournfully. “I guess—I guess that’s all, then.” He smiled at Lou, and turned the smile into a terrifying scowl when his eye caught Carter’s. “Oh,” Malone said. “So long. So long, everybody.”

“Ken—”

This was not, he told himself sadly, either the time or the place. “Goodbye, Sir Lewis,” he said. “Goodbye, Lou.”

The elevator opened its doors and received him.

Exactly fifty-nine minutes after Cesare Manelli had hung up on him, Malone showed up in the stately and sumptuous suite that belonged, for a stiff fee every month, to the firm of Rodger, Willcoe, O’Vurr and Aoud. The girl at the desk was his old Spearmint friend.

“Mr. Manelli,” Malone said. “I’ve got an appointment. My name is Malone and his is Manelli. He works here.” That, he told himself, was an understatement; but at least he had a chance of getting his point across.

“Oh,” the girl said. Her gum popped. “Certainly. Right away, Mr. Maloney.”

Malone opened his mouth, then shut it again. It just wasn’t worth the trouble, he thought.

The girl did things with a switchboard, then turned to him again. “Mr. Manelli’s office is right down there in back,” she said, pointing vaguely. “Think you can find it, Mr. Maloney?”

“I’ll try,” Malone promised. He went down the long corridor and stopped at an unmarked door. It was at least an even chance, he told himself, and opened the door.

The room inside appeared to be mostly desk. The gigantic slab of wood sat against the far wall of the room, in the right-hand corner and spreading over toward the center. It appeared, in the soft half-light of the room, to be waiting for somebody to walk into its lair. Malone was sure, at first sight, that this desk ate people; it was just the type: big and dark and glowering and massive.

There wasn’t anybody seated behind it, which reinforced his belief. The desk had eaten its master. Now it was out of control and they would have to have it shot. Malone took a deep breath and tried not to veer.

Then he heard a voice.

“Sit down, Mr. Malone,” the voice said. “How about you having a drink while we talk? If this is going to be so friendly.”

The voice didn’t belong to the desk. It belonged, unmistakably, to Big Cheese himself. Malone turned and saw him, sitting in the left-hand corner of the room behind a low table. There was another empty chair facing Manelli, and Malone went over and sat in it.

“A drink?” he said. “Okay. Sure.”

“Bourbon and soda, isn’t it?” Manelli said. He stood up.

“Your research department gets fast answers,” Malone said. “Bourbon and soda it is.”

“After all,” Manelli said, shrugging slightly, “a person in my position, he has to make sure he knows what is what, and all the time. It’s routine, what you call S. O.