“Aha,” said Sir Kenneth.
“Her Majesty,” Malone said, “found us only the crazy telepaths, the weak ones, the nuts.”
“Fine,” said Sir Kenneth. “And this, Mr. Malone, leaves us with only one question. Her Majesty—may God bless her—stated that she first spotted these flashes of telepathic static by listening in on our minds.”
“Our mind,” Malone said. “I hope.”
“Very well,” Sir Kenneth said. “This means that some force is being directed in this way, toward us. And how do we know that all the deduction, all the careful case-building we have done, hasn’t been influenced by this group? That might mean, of course, that we are miles, or even light-years, from the solution.”
Malone said: “Yeep.” The sound was echoed by Sir Kenneth, and the two halves of the coruscating mind of Kenneth J. Malone were once more one.
_Your Majesty_, the minds thought, _I’d like to talk to you._
Nothing happened. Evidently, Her Majesty was temporarily out of mental contact with him.
“Hell,” Malone said. “Not to mention od’s blood.” He flipped on the visiphone and dialed Yucca Flats.
The figure that appeared on the screen was that of a tall, solidly-built man with a red face and the uniform of a Beefeater. This Tower Warder had the British royal crest embroidered on his chest, and the letters: “E. R.”
“Good evening, Sir Kenneth,” he said politely.
Malone had sometimes wondered what it would be like to be on the Queen’s permanent, personal staff. Evidently, it soaked in so thoroughly that one began to stay in character all the time. The little old lady’s delusion was such a pleasant one that it was painlessly infectious.
“I’d like to speak to Her Majesty, Colonel Fairfax,” Malone said.
“Her Majesty,” Colonel Fairfax said with regret, “is asleep, sir. I understand that she has had rather a trying time, of late.”
“Then I must ask you to wake her,” Malone said. “I don’t want to disturb her any more than you do, Colonel, but this is important.”
“Her Majesty’s rest,” Colonel Fairfax said gently, “is also important, Sir Kenneth.”
“This is more important,” Malone said. “I know how you feel, but it’s necessary to wake her.”
The screen blanked out.
Malone sighed and began to sing softly to himself while he waited:
“The soldiers of the Queen are linked in friendly tether— And if she’s off her bean, we’ll all go nuts together....”
Her Majesty appeared at this point, dressed in a silken robe bearing her crest and initials (E. R., rather than R. T., of course), and wearing a silken Mother Hubbard cap on her head. “Oh, dear,” she said instantly. “Are you still worried about them?”
“The flashes?” Malone said. “That’s right. You tuned in on my mind right away, didn’t you?”
“As soon as I got your message,” she said. “I like your little song, at least, I think I do.”
Malone blushed faintly. “Sorry,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said. “After all, I do allow my subjects a good deal of liberty; it is theirs to make use of.” She smiled at him. “Actually, I should have told you, Sir Kenneth. But it seemed so natural that I—that I forgot it.”
_Oh, no_, Malone thought.
“I’m afraid so,” Her Majesty said. “When I told you about the interference, your mind quite automatically began to build what I think of as a—as a defense against it. A shield, so to speak.”
_Me?_ Malone thought.
“Most certainly,” Her Majesty said. “You know, Sir Kenneth, you have a very strong mind.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Malone said aloud. “Sometimes I don’t feel so bright.”
“I’m not talking about intelligence,” Her Majesty said. “The two properties are interconnected, of course, but they are not identical. After all ... well, never mind. But you have strength of will, Sir Kenneth, and strength of purpose. As a matter of fact, you have been building your strength in the last few days.”
“Really?” Malone said, surprised.
“It’s become more and more difficult,” Her Majesty said, “to see into the depths of your mind, during the past few days. The surface of your mind is as easy to read as ever, but it’s hard to see what’s going on in the depths.”
“I’m not doing it deliberately,” Malone said.
“In any case,” Her Majesty said, “this process has been going on ever since you knew that telepathy was possible, two years ago. But in the past forty-eight hours matters have accelerated tremendously.”
“That sounds good,” Malone said. “Does it mean these mind-changers I’ve been thinking about can’t get through to me?”
“What mind-changers?” the Queen said. “Oh. I see.” She paused. “Well, I can’t be positive about this, Sir Kenneth; it’s all so new, you know. All I can tell you is that there haven’t been any flashes of telepathic energy in your mind in the last forty-eight hours.”
“Well,” Malone said doubtfully, “that’s something. And I am sorry I had to wake you, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, that’s perfectly all right,” she said. “I know you’re working hard to restore order to the realm, and it is the duty of any Sovereign to give such aid as she can to her Royal subjects.”
Malone cleared his throat. “I trust,” he said, “Your Majesty will ever find me a faithful servant.”
Her Majesty smiled. “I’m sure I shall,” she said. “Good night, Sir Kenneth.”
“Good night,” he said, and flipped off. At once, the phone chimed again.
He flipped the switch on. “Malone here,” he said.
Boyd’s face appeared on the screen. “Ken,” he said fervently, “I am very glad you’re still in town.”
“Thanks,” Malone said politely. “But what about Mike Sand? Any information?”
“Plenty,” Boyd said. “I damn near didn’t believe it.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t believe it?” Malone said. “Isn’t the information any good?”
“It’s good, all right,” Boyd said. “It’s great. He practically talked his head off to me. Gave me all his books, including secret sets. And I’ve put him under arrest as a material witness—at his own request.”
“It sounds,” Malone said, “as if Mike Sand has had a sudden and surprising change of heart.”
“Doesn’t it, though,” Boyd said. “We can crack the ITU wide open now, and I mean really wide open.”
“Same pattern?” Malone said.
“Of course it is,” Boyd said. “What does it sound like? Same pattern.”
“Good,” Malone said. “Get on up here. I’ll talk to you later.”
He cut off in a hurry, leaned back in his chair and started to think. At first, he thought of a cigar. Boyd, he figured, couldn’t be back in the office for some time, and nobody else would come in. He locked the door, drew out the cigar-laden box he kept in his desk in New York, and lit up with great satisfaction.
When the cloud of smoke around his head was dense enough to cut with a knife, he went back to more serious subjects. He didn’t have to worry too much about his mind being spied on; if Her Majesty couldn’t read his deepest thoughts, and the mind-changers weren’t throwing any bolts of static in his direction, he was safe.
Now, then, he told himself—and sneezed.
He shook his head, cursed slightly, and went on.
Now, then....
There was an organization, spread all over the Western world, and with secret branches, evidently, in the Soviet Union. The organization had to be an old one, because it had to have trained telepaths of such a high degree of efficiency that they could evade Her Majesty’s probing without her even being aware of the evasion. And training took time.
There was something else to consider, too. In order to organize to such a degree that they could wreak the efficient, complete havoc they were wreaking, the organization couldn’t be completely secret; there are always leaks, always suspicious events, and a secret society that covered all of those up would have no time for anything else.
So the organization had to be a known one, a known group, masquerading as something else.
So far, everything made sense. Malone took another deep, grateful puff on the cigar, and frowned. Where, he wondered, did he go from here?
He reached for a pencil and a piece of paper. He headed the paper: _Organization._ Then he started putting down what he knew about it, and what he’d figured out.
1. Large 2. Old 3. Disguised
It sounded just a little like Frankenstein’s Monster, so far. But what else did he know about it?
After a second’s thought, he murmured: “Nothing,” and took another puff.
But that wasn’t quite true.
He knew one more thing about the organization. He knew they’d probably be immune to the confusion everybody else was suffering from. The organization would be—had to be—efficient. It would be composed of intelligent, superbly cooperative people, who could work together as a unit without in the least impairing their own individuality.
He reached for the list again, put down:
4. Efficient
And looked at it. Now it didn’t remind him quite so much of the Monster. But it didn’t look familiar, either. Who did he know, he thought, who was large, old, disguised and efficient?
It sounded like an improbable combination. He set the list down again, clearing off some of the papers the PRS had sent him to make room for it.
Then he stopped.
The papers the PRS had sent him....
And he’d gotten them so quickly, so efficiently....
They were a large organization....