_And then we come to Congress. Senators and representatives are having a terrible time, some of them. There’s a fight going on between Furbisher and Deeks because Deeks has discovered some evidence against Furbisher. Who’s having the terrible time?_
_All of them?_
_Nope. Furbisher is. Deeks isn’t._
_And that’s the way it’s going all over. The useful, necessary legislation is going through Congress now without being cluttered up by stupid dam bills and water bills and other idiocies that simply clog the works._
_And then, of course, there are the gang wars. Now, I feel as sorry for the Sanitation Department as anybody, but at least they’re cleaning the streets for good now. The boys who are dying off and getting sent to hospitals and jails are just the ones who should have been sent away long ago. Everybody knows that, but nobody can prove it._
_Except the PRS._
_And the PRS is busy doing just what it can about that proof._
_And all it takes is a few of you. I don’t know how many—I don’t know how many of you there really are, for that matter. But it must be a fair number to stock all your branches with “top-level” executives and the lower-level men and women who really believe in the PRS blind, and do their best to keep it working._
_There are probably a lot of ways it might work, but the simplest and best way I can think of is this one: there’s a clearing-house sort of set-up, and information comes in from various telepathic spies working for the PRS, about various projected activities of the imbecile contingent._
_And, from this information, you figure out the best time and place for lightning to strike, and you select the kind of lightning it’s going to be. Here it’s a misplaced letter, there some “facts” that aren’t facts, and somewhere else a dropped package of secret records. Somebody goofs—and is exposed._
_Maybe it works on the local-organization level. Maybe there are teams all over the country, all ready to synchronize their minds and jab somebody in the thought processes at just the right time, in just the right way, as soon as they get the word. That’s one way of doing it, maybe the best way._
_There are others, but it doesn’t really matter how that end of it works. The important thing is that it does work._
_And, when it works, it can certainly create quite a mess. Yes-sirree, Bob. Or Lou, as the case may be._
_I sure hope somebody’s picking all this up, because I’d hate to have to explain it again when I get there._
_Are you there, anybody?_
Malone imagined he heard Lou’s voice. “Yes, Ken,” she said. “Yes, I’m here.”
But, of course, there was no way for them to get through to him. They were telepathic, but Kenneth J. Malone wasn’t he told himself sadly.
_Hello, out there_, he thought. _I hope you’ve been listening so far, because there isn’t going to be too much more. But there are a couple of things that still need to be cleared up. I’ve got some answers, but there are others I’m going to need._
_There’s Russia, for instance. It does seem to me as if your teams in Russia, whatever they’re calling themselves, are having a lot more fun than the U. S. teams. For one thing they’ve got an easier job._
_In this country, the teams are looking for ways to get rid of the blockheads, and there are a lot of them. In Russia, you don’t have to get rid of the blockheads. All you have to do is clear the road for them. And you can do that by fouling up the more intelligent people._
“Intelligent people?” he could hear Lou say.
_Intelligence doesn’t mean good sense_, Malone thought. _I don’t doubt that the men who are maintaining Russia’s power are intelligent men— but what they’re doing is bad for the world as a whole, in the long run._
_So you foul them up, and leave the blockheads a clear field to run the country into the ground. And that’s easier than fouling up the blockheads._
_Sure it is._
_There are fewer intelligent, active people around than there are blockheads._
_Always were._
_And maybe there always will be—but not if the PRS can help it._
_Oh, and by the way_, Malone thought. _You do know how I spotted you, don’t you? You were tuned in then, weren’t you?_
_And I don’t mean just Lou. I mean all of you._
_In a world of blind men, the man who can see stands out. In a world of the insane, the sane man stands out._
_And in a world where organizations are regularly being confused and fouled up—either as whole organizations, or through your attempts to get rid of individual members—a smooth-running, efficient organization stands out like a sore thumb._
_Frankly, it took me longer to see it than it should have._
_But I’ve got the answer at last—the main answer. Though, as I say, there are some others I’d like to have._
_Like, for instance, Russia. And exactly what did happen that night in Moscow._
14
At this point Malone suddenly became aware of a sound that was not coming from his own mind. It was coming from somewhere behind his car, and it was a very loud sound. It was, he discovered when he looked back, the siren of a highway patrolman on a motorcycle, coming toward him at imminent risk of life and limb and waving frantically with an unbelievably free hand.
Malone glanced down at the speedometer. With a sigh, he realized that his reflexes had allowed him a little leeway, and that he was going slightly over the legal speed limit for this Virginia highway. He shook his head, eased up on the accelerator, and began to apply the brakes.
By the time he had pulled over to the side of the road, the highway patrolman was coming to a halt behind the big Lincoln. Malone watched him check the number on the rear plate and then walk slowly around to the window on the driver’s side. “Can’t you hurry?” Malone muttered under his breath. “All this Virginian ease is okay in its place, but—” In the meanwhile he was getting out his identification, and by the time the patrolman reached him he had it in his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry?” the patrolman said, frowning. He had an open, boyish face with freckles and a pug nose. He looked like somebody’s kid brother, very dependable but just a little cute. “What for?” he said.
Malone shrugged. “What else?” he said. “Speeding.”
“Oh, that,” the patrolman said. “Why, don’t you worry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it?” Malone said. This particular kid brother was obviously a little nuts, and should have been put away years ago. He ground his teeth silently, but he didn’t make any complaints. It was never wise, he knew, to irritate a traffic cop of any sort.
“Sure not,” the patrolman said. “Why, we don’t pay any attention out here until a fella hits ten miles over the posted limit. That’s okay.”
“Fine,” Malone said cheerily. “Then I can drive on?”
“Now, just hold it a second there,” the patrolman said. “Let’s see your identification if you don’t mind.”
Malone held it out wordlessly. The patrolman, obviously intent on finding out just what kind of paper the card was made of, who had printed it and whether there were any germs on it, gave it a long, careful scrutiny. Malone shifted slightly in his seat, counted to ten and managed to say nothing.
Then the patrolman started reading the card aloud. “Kenneth J. Malone,” he said in a tone of some surprise. “Special Agent of the FBI.” He looked up. “That right?” he said. “What it says here?”
“That’s right,” Malone said. “And you can have my autograph later.” He regretted the last sentence as soon as it was out of his mouth, but the patrolman didn’t seem to notice.
“Then you’re the man, all right,” he said happily. “I caught your plate number as you went on by me, back there.”
“Plate number?” Malone said. “What am I supposed to have done?” He’d overslept, he knew, but that was the only violation of even his personal code that he could think of. And it didn’t seem likely that the Virginia Highway Patrol was sending out its men to arrest people who overslept.
“Why, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said with honest surprise written all over his Norman Rockwell face, “as far as I know you didn’t do a thing wrong.”
“But—”
“They just told us to be on the watch for a black 1973 Lincoln with your number, and see if you were driving it. They did say you’d probably be driving it.”
“Good,” Malone said. “And I am. And I’d like to continue doing so.” He paused and then added, “But what happened?”
“Well,” the patrolman said, in exactly the manner of a man starting out to tell a long, interesting story about the Wars of the Spanish Succession, “well, sir, it seems FBI Headquarters in Washington, they got in touch with the Highway Patrol Headquarters, down in Richmond, and Highway Patrol Headquarters—”
“Down in Richmond,” Malone muttered resignedly.
“That’s right,” the patrolman said in a pleased voice. “Well, they called all the local barracks, and then we got the message on our radios.” He stopped, exactly as if he thought he had finished.
Malone counted to ten again, made it twenty and then found that he was capable of speech. “What?” he said in a calm, patient voice, “was the message about?”
“Well,” the patrolman said, “it seems some fella down in Washington, fella name of Thomas Boyd, they said it was, wants to talk to you pretty bad.”