A sane telepath was pretty much of an unknown quantity. But that, Malone told himself with elation, was exactly what he was looking for. Could a sane telepath do what an insane one couldn't--and project thoughts, or at least mental bursts?
He got out of the cooling tub and grabbed for a terry-cloth robe. Not even bothering about the time, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was in the Yucca Flats apartment of Dr. Thomas O'Connor.
O'Connor wasn't sleeping, exactly. He sat in a chair in his bare-looking living room, a book open on his lap, his head nodding slightly. Malone's entrance made no sounds, and O'Connor didn't move or look around.
"Doctor," Malone said, "is it possible that--"
O'Connor came up off the chair a good foot and a half. He went: "Eee," and came down again, still gripping the book. His head turned.
"It's me," Malone said.
"Indeed," O'Connor said. "Indeed indeed. My goodness." He opened his mouth some more but no words came out of it. "Eee," he said again, at last, in a conversational tone.
Malone took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I startled you," he said, "but this is important and it couldn't wait." O'Connor stared blankly at him. "Dr. O'Connor," Malone said, "it's me. Kenneth J. Malone. I want to talk to you."
* * * * *
At last O'Connor's expression returned almost to normal. "Mr. Malone," he said, "you are undressed."
Malone sighed. "This is important, doctor," he said. "Let's not waste time with all that kind of thing."
"But, Mr. Malone--" O'Connor began frostily.
"I need some information," Malone said, "and maybe you've got it. What do you know about telepathic projection?"
"About what?" O'Connor said. "Do you mean nontelepaths receiving some sort of ... communication from telepaths?"
"Right," Malone said. "Mind-to-mind communication, of course; I'm not interested in the United States mail or the telephone companies. How about it, doctor? Is it possible?"
O'Connor gnawed at his lower lip for a second. "There have been cases reported," he said at last. "Very few have been written up with any accuracy, and those seem to be confined to close relatives or loved ones of the person projecting the message."
"Is that necessary?" Malone said. "Isn't it possible that--"
"Further," O'Connor said, getting back into his lecture-room stride, "I think you'll find that the ... ah ... message so received is one indicating that the projector of such a message is in dire peril. He has, for instance, been badly injured, or is rapidly approaching death, or else he has narrowly escaped death."
"What does that have to do with it?" Malone said. "I mean, why should all those requirements be necessary?"
O'Connor frowned slightly. "Because," he said, "the amount of psionic energy necessary for such a feat is tremendous. Usually, it is the final burst of energy, the outpouring of all the remaining psionic force immediately before death. And if death does not occur, the person is at the least greatly weakened; his mind, if it ever does recover, needs time and rest to do so."
"And he reaches a relative or a loved one," Malone said, "because the linkage is easier; there's some thought of him in that other mind for him to 'tune in' on."
"We assume so," O'Connor said.
"Very well, then," Malone said. "I'll assume so, too. But if the energy is so great, then a person couldn't do this sort of thing very often."
"Hardly," O'Connor said.
Malone nodded. "It's like ... like giving blood to a blood bank," he said. "Giving ... oh, three quarts of blood. It might not kill you. But if it didn't, you'd be weak for a long time."
"Exactly," O'Connor said. "A good analogy, Mr. Malone." Malone looked at him and felt relieved that he'd managed to get the conversation onto pure lecture-room science so quickly. O'Connor, easily at home in that world, had been able to absorb the shock of Malone's sudden appearance while providing the facts in his own inimitable, frozen manner.
"So one telepath couldn't go on doing it all the time," he said. "But--how about several people?"
"Several people?" O'Connor said.
"I mean ... well, let's look at that blood bank again," Malone said. "You need three quarts of blood. But one person doesn't have to give it. Suppose twelve people gave half a pint each."
"Ah," O'Connor said. "I see. Or twenty-four people, giving a quarter-pint each. Or--"
"That's the idea," Malone said hurriedly. "I guess there'd be a point of diminishing returns, but that's the point. Would something like that be possible?"
O'Connor thought for what seemed like a long time. "It might," he said at last. "At least theoretically. But it would take a great deal of mental co-ordination among the participants. They would all have to be telepaths, of course."
"In order to mesh their thoughts right on the button, and direct them properly and at the correct time," Malone said. "Right?"
"Ah ... correct," O'Connor said. "Given that, Mr. Malone, I imagine that it might possibly be done."
"Wonderful," Malone said.
"However," O'Connor said, apparently glad to throw even a little cold water on the notion, "it could not be done for very long periods of time, you understand. It would happen in rather short bursts."
"That's right," Malone said, enjoying the crestfallen look on O'Connor's face. "That's exactly what I was looking for."
"I'm ... ah ... glad to have been of service," O'Connor said. "However, Mr. Malone, I should like to request--"
"Oh, don't worry," Malone said. "I won't slam the door." He vanished.
* * * * *
It was eight-fifty. Hurriedly, he rinsed himself off, shaved and put on his evening clothes. But he was still late--it was two minutes after nine when he showed up at the door that led off the lobby to the Universal Joint. Luba was, surprisingly, waiting for him there.
"Ready for a vast feast?" she asked pleasantly.
"In about a minute and a half," Malone said. "Do you mind waiting that long?"
"Frankly," Luba said, "in five minutes I will be gnawing holes in the gold paneling around here. And I do want to catch the first floor show, too. I understand they've got a girl who has--"
"That," Malone said sternly, "should interest me more than it does you."
"I'm always interested in what the competition is doing," Luba said.
"Nevertheless," Malone began, and stopped. After a second he started again: "Anyhow, this is important."
[Illustration]
"All right," she said instantly. "What is it?"
He led her away from the door to an alcove in the lobby where they could talk without being overheard. "Can you get hold of Sir Lewis at this time of night?" he asked.
"Sir Lewis?" she said. "If ... if it's urgent, I suppose I could."
"It's urgent," Malone said. "I need all the data on telepathic projection I can get. The scientists have given me some of it--maybe Psychical Research has some more. I imagine it's all mixed up with ghosts and ectoplasm, but--"
"Telepathic projection," Luba said. "Is that where a person projects a thought into somebody else's mind?"
"That's it," Malone said. "Can Sir Lewis get me all the data on that tonight?"
"Tonight?" Luba said. "It's pretty late and what with sending them from New York to Nevada--"
"Don't bother about that," Malone said. "Just send 'em to the FBI Offices in New York. I'll have the boys there make copies and send the copies on." Instead, he thought, he would teleport to New York himself. But Luba definitely didn't have to know that.
"He'd have to send the originals," Luba said.
"I'll guarantee their safety," Malone said. "But I need the data right now."
Luba hesitated.
"Tell him to bill the FBI," Malone said. "Call him collect and he can bill the phone call, too."
"All right, Ken," Luba said at last. "I'll try."
She went off to make the call, and came back in a few minutes.
"O.K.?" Malone said.
She smiled at him, very gently. "O.K.," she said. "Now let's go in to dinner, before I get any hungrier and the Great Universal loses some of its paneling."
Dinner, Malone told himself, was going to be wonderful. He was alone with Luba, and he was in a fancy, fine, expensive place. He was happy, and Luba was happy, and everything was going to be perfectly frabjous.
It was. He had no desire whatever, when dinner and the floor show were over, to leave Luba. Unfortunately, he did have work to do--work that was more important than anything else he could imagine. He made a tentative date for the next day, went to his room, and from there teleported himself to FBI Headquarters, New York.
The agent-in-charge looked up at him. "Hey," he said. "I thought you were on vacation, Malone."
"How come everybody knows about me being on vacation?" Malone said sourly.
The agent-in-charge shrugged. "The only leave not canceled?" he said. "Hell, it was all over the place in five minutes."
"O.K., O.K.," Malone said. "Don't remind me. Is there a package for me?"
The agent-in-charge produced a large box. "A messenger brought it," he said. "From the Psychical Research Society," he said. "What is it, ghosts?"
"Dehydrated," Malone said. "Just add ectoplasm and out they come, shouting _Boo!_ at everybody."