<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/001.png" width-obs="697" height-obs="500" alt="That Sweet Little Old Lady" title="That Sweet Little Old Lady" /></div>
<div class="tease">Usually, the
toughest part of the job is stating the
problem clearly, and the solution is then
easy. This time the FBI could state the
problem easily; solving it, though was
not. How do you catch a telepathic spy?</div>
<h2>BY MARK PHILLIPS</h2>
<p class="illo">Illustrated by Freas</p>
<hr class="hrchp" />
<div class="blockquot"><p><i>"What are we going to call that
sweet little old lady, now that</i>
mother <i>is a dirty word?"</i></p>
<p class="rgt">—Dave Foley</p>
</div>
<h2>I</h2>
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/002.png" style="border: 1px solid black;" width-obs="45" height-obs="45" alt="I" title="I" /></div>
<p><span class="dcap">n</span> 1914, it was enemy
aliens.</p>
<p>In 1930, it was
Wobblies.</p>
<p>In 1957, it was fellow
travelers.</p>
<p>And, in 1971....</p>
<p>"They could be anywhere," Andrew
J. Burris said, with an expression
which bordered on exasperated
horror. "They could be all around
us. Heaven only knows."</p>
<p>He pushed his chair back from his
desk and stood up—a chunky little
man with bright blue eyes and large
hands. He paced to the window and
looked out at Washington, and then
he came back to the desk. A persistent
office rumor held that he had
become head of the FBI purely because
he happened to have an initial
<i>J</i> in his name, but in his case the <i>J</i>
stood for Jeremiah. And, at the moment,
his tone expressed all the hopelessness
of that Old Testament
prophet's lamentations.</p>
<p>"We're helpless," he said, looking
at the young man with the crisp
brown hair who was sitting across
the desk. "That's what it is, we're
helpless."</p>
<p>Kenneth Malone tried to look dependable.
"Just tell me what to do,"
he said.</p>
<p>"You're a good agent, Kenneth,"
Burris said. "You're one of the best.
That's why you've been picked for
this job. And I want to say that I
picked you personally. Believe me,
there's never been anything like it
before."</p>
<p>"I'll do my best," Malone said at
random. He was twenty-eight, and
he had been an FBI agent for three
years. In that time, he had, among
other things, managed to break up
a gang of smugglers, track down a
counterfeiting ring, and capture
three kidnapers. For reasons which
he could neither understand nor explain,
no one seemed willing to attribute
his record to luck.</p>
<p>"I know you will," Burris said.
"And if anybody can crack this case,
Malone, you're the man. It's just that—everything
sounds so <i>impossible</i>.
Even after all the conferences we've
had."</p>
<p>"Conferences?" Malone said
vaguely. He wished the chief would
get to the point. Any point. He
smiled gently across the desk and
tried to look competent and dependable
and reassuring. Burris' expression
didn't change.</p>
<p>"You'll get the conference tapes
later," Burris said. "You can study
them before you leave. I suggest you
study them very carefully, Malone.
Don't be like me. Don't get confused."
He buried his face in his
hands. Malone waited patiently. After
a few seconds, Burris looked up.
"Did you read books when you were
a child?" he asked.</p>
<p>Malone said: "What?"</p>
<p>"Books," Burris said. "When you
were a child. Read them."</p>
<p>"Sure I did," Malone said.
"'Bomba the Jungle Boy,' and 'Doolittle,'
and 'Lucky Starr,' and 'Little
Women'—"</p>
<p>"'Little Women'?"</p>
<p>"When Beth died," Malone said,
"I wanted to cry. But I didn't.
My father said big boys don't
cry."</p>
<p>"And your father was right,"
Burris said. "Why, when I was a
... never mind. Forget about Beth
and your father. Think about 'Lucky
Starr' for a minute. Remember
him?"</p>
<p>"Sure," Malone said. "I liked
those books. You know, it's funny,
but the books you read when you're
a kid, they kind of stay with you.
Know what I mean? I can still remember
that one about Venus, for
instance. Gee, that was—"</p>
<p>"Never mind about Venus, too,"
Burris said sharply. "Keep your
mind on the problem."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," Malone said. He paused.
"What problem, sir?" he added.</p>
<p>"The problem we're discussing,"
Burris said. He gave Malone a
bright, blank stare. "Just listen to
me."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
<p>"All right, then." Burris took a
deep breath. He seemed nervous.
Once again he stood up and went
to the window. This time, he spoke
without turning. "Remember how
everybody used to laugh about spaceships,
and orbital satellites, and life
on other planets? That was just in
those 'Lucky Starr' books. That was
all just for kids, wasn't it?"</p>
<p>"Well, I don't know," Malone
said slowly.</p>
<p>"Sure it was all for kids," Burris
said. "It was laughable. Nobody took
it seriously."</p>
<p>"Well, <i>somebody</i> must—"</p>
<p>"You just keep quiet and listen,"
Burris said.</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," Malone said.</p>
<p>Burris nodded. His hands were
clasped behind his back. "We're not
laughing any more, are we, Malone?"
he said without moving.</p>
<p>There was silence.</p>
<p>"Well, are we?"</p>
<p>"Did you want me to answer,
sir?"</p>
<p>"Of course I did!" Burris snapped.</p>
<p>"You told me to keep quiet
and—"</p>
<p>"Never mind what I told you,"
Burris said. "Just do what I told
you."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," Malone said. "No,
sir," he added after a second.</p>
<p>"No, sir, what?" Burris asked
softly.</p>
<p>"No, sir, we're not laughing any
more," Malone said.</p>
<p>"Ah," Burris said. "And why
aren't we laughing any more?"</p>
<p>There was a little pause. Malone
said, tentatively: "Because there's
nothing to laugh about, sir?"</p>
<p>Burris whirled. "On the head!"
he said happily. "You've hit the nail
on the head, Kenneth. I knew I could
depend on you." His voice grew serious
again, and thoughtful. "We're
not laughing any more because
there's nothing to laugh about. We
have orbital satellites, and we've
landed on the Moon with an atomic
rocket. The planets are the next step,
and after that the stars. Man's heritage,
Kenneth. The stars. And the
stars, Kenneth, belong to Man—not
to the Soviets!"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," Malone said soberly.</p>
<p>"So," Burris said, "we should
learn not to laugh any more. But
have we?"</p>
<p>"I don't know, sir."</p>
<p>"We haven't," Burris said with
decision. "Can you read my mind?"</p>
<p>"No, sir," Malone said.</p>
<p>"Can I read your mind?"</p>
<p>Malone hesitated. At last he said:
"Not that I know of, sir."</p>
<p>"Well, I can't," Burris snapped.
"And can any of us read each other's
mind?"</p>
<p>Malone shook his head. "No, sir,"
he said.</p>
<p>Burris nodded. "That's the problem,"
he said. "That's the case I'm
sending you out to crack."</p>
<p>This time, the silence was a long
one.</p>
<p>At last, Malone said: "What problem,
sir?"</p>
<p>"Mind reading," Burris said.
"There's a spy at work in the Nevada
plant, Kenneth. And the spy
is a telepath."</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>The video tapes were very clear
and very complete. There were a
great many of them, and it was long
after nine o'clock when Kenneth
Malone decided to take a break and
get some fresh air. Washington was
a good city for walking, even at
night, and Malone liked to walk.
Sometimes he pretended, even to
himself, that he got his best ideas
while walking, but he knew perfectly
well that wasn't true. His best
ideas just seemed to come to him,
out of nowhere, precisely as the situation
demanded them.</p>
<p>He was just lucky, that was all.
He had a talent for being lucky. But
nobody would ever believe that. A
record like his was spectacular, even
in the annals of the FBI, and Burris
himself believed that the record
showed some kind of superior ability.</p>
<p>Malone knew that wasn't true, but
what could he do about it? After all,
he didn't want to resign, did he? It
was kind of romantic and exciting
to be an FBI agent, even after three
years. A man got a chance to travel
around a lot and see things, and it
was interesting. The pay was pretty
good, too.</p>
<p>The only trouble was that, if he
didn't quit, he was going to have to
find a telepath.</p>
<p>The notion of telepathic spies just
didn't sound right to Malone. It
bothered him in a remote sort of
way. Not that the idea of telepathy
itself was alien to him—after all, he
was even more aware than the average
citizen that research had been
going on in that field for something
over a quarter of a century, and that
the research was even speeding up.</p>
<p>But the cold fact that a telepathy-detecting
device had been invented
somehow shocked his sense of
propriety, and his notions of privacy.
It wasn't decent, that was all.</p>
<p>There ought to be something sacred,
he told himself angrily.</p>
<p>He stopped walking and looked
up. He was on Pennsylvania Avenue,
heading toward the White House.</p>
<p>That was no good. He went to the
corner and turned off, down the
block. He had, he told himself, nothing
at all to see the President about.</p>
<p>Not yet, anyhow.</p>
<p>The streets were dark and very
peaceful. <i>I get my best ideas while
walking</i>, Malone said without convincing
himself. He thought back to
the video tapes.</p>
<p>The report on the original use of
the machine itself had been on one
of the first tapes, and Malone could
still see and hear it. That was one
thing he did have, he reflected; his
memory was pretty good.</p>
<p>Burris had been the first speaker
on the tapes, and he'd given the
serial and reference number in a cold,
matter-of-fact voice. His face had
been perfectly blank, and he looked
just like the head of the FBI people
were accustomed to seeing on their
TV and newsreel screens. Malone
wondered what had happened to him
between the time the tapes had been
made and the time he'd sent for
Malone.</p>
<p>Maybe the whole notion of telepathy
was beginning to get him, Malone
thought.</p>
<p>Burris recited the standard tape
opening in a rapid mumble: "Any
person or agent unauthorized for this
tape please refrain from viewing
further, under penalties as prescribed
by law." Then he looked off, out
past the screen to the left, and said:
"Dr. Thomas O'Connor, of Westinghouse
Laboratories. Will you
come here, Dr. O'Connor?"</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor came into the lighted
square of screen slowly, looking
all around him. "This is very fascinating,"
he said, blinking in the
lamplight. "I hadn't realized that
you people took so many precautions—"</p>
<p>He was, Malone thought, somewhere
between fifty and sixty, tall
and thin with skin so transparent
that he nearly looked like a living
X ray. He had pale blue eyes and
pale white hair and, Malone thought,
if there ever were a contest for the
best-looking ghost, Dr. Thomas
O'Connor would win it hands—or
phalanges—down.</p>
<p>"This is all necessary for the national
security," Burris said, a little
sternly.</p>
<p>"Oh," Dr. O'Connor said quickly,
"I realize that, of course. Naturally.
I can certainly see that."</p>
<p>"Let's go ahead, shall we?" Burris
said.</p>
<p>O'Connor nodded. "Certainly.
Certainly."</p>
<p>Burris said: "Well, then," and
paused. After a second he started
again: "Now, Dr. O'Connor, would
you please give us a sort of verbal
run-down on this for our records?"</p>
<p>"Of course," Dr. O'Connor said.
He smiled into the video cameras
and cleared his throat. "I take it you
don't want an explanation of how
this machine works. I mean: you
don't want a technical exposition,
do you?"</p>
<p>"No," Burris said, and added:
"Not by any means. Just tell us what
it does."</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Dr. O'Connor suddenly reminded
Malone of a professor he'd had in
college for one of the law courses.
He had, Malone thought, the same
smiling gravity of demeanor, the
same condescending attitude of absolute
authority. It was clear that Dr.
O'Connor lived in a world of his
own, a world that was not even
touched by the common run of
men.</p>
<p>"Well," he began, "to put it very
simply, the device indicates whether
or not a man's mental ... ah ...
processes are being influenced by
outside ... by outside influences."
He gave the cameras another little
smile. "If you will allow me, I will
demonstrate on the machine itself."</p>
<p>He took two steps that carried him
out of camera range, and returned
wheeling a large heavy-looking box.
Dangling from the metal covering
were a number of wires and attachments.
A long cord led from the box
to the floor, and snaked out of sight
to the left.</p>
<p>"Now," Dr. O'Connor said. He
selected a single lead, apparently,
Malone thought, at random. "This
electrode—"</p>
<p>"Just a moment, doctor," Burris
said. He was eying the machine with
a combination of suspicion and awe.
"A while back you mentioned something
about 'outside influences.'
Just what, specifically, does that
mean?"</p>
<p>With some regret, Dr. O'Connor
dropped the lead. "Telepathy," he
said. "By outside influences, I meant
influences on the mind, such as
telepathy or mind reading of some
nature."</p>
<p>"I see," Burris said. "You can detect
a telepath with this machine."</p>
<p>"I'm afraid—"</p>
<p>"Well, some kind of a mind reader
anyhow," Burris said. "We won't
quarrel about terms."</p>
<p>"Certainly not," Dr. O'Connor
said. The smile he turned on Burris
was as cold and empty as the inside
of Orbital Station One. "What I
meant was ... if you will permit
me to continue ... that we cannot
detect any sort of telepath or mind
reader with this device. To be frank,
I very much wish that we could; it
would make everything a great deal
simpler. However, the laws of
psionics don't seem to operate that
way."</p>
<p>"Well, then," Burris said, "what
does the thing do?" His face wore
a mask of confusion. Momentarily,
Malone felt sorry for his chief. He
could remember how he'd felt, himself,
when that law professor had
come up with a particularly baffling
question in class.</p>
<p>"This machine," Dr. O'Connor
said with authority, "detects the
slight variations in mental activity
that occur when a person's mind is
<i>being</i> read."</p>
<p>"You mean, if my mind were being
read right now—"</p>
<p>"Not right now," Dr. O'Connor
said. "You see, the bulk of this machine
is in Nevada; the structure is
both too heavy and too delicate for
transport. And there are other qualifications—"</p>
<p>"I meant theoretically," Burris
said.</p>
<p>"Theoretically," Dr. O'Connor began,
and smiled again, "if your mind
were being read, this machine would
detect it, supposing that the machine
were in operating condition and all
of the other qualifications had been
met. You see, Mr. Burris, no matter
how poor a telepath a man may be,
he has some slight ability—even if
only very slight—to detect the fact
that his mind is being read."</p>
<p>"You mean, if somebody were
reading my mind, I'd know it?" Burris
said. His face showed, Malone
realized, that he plainly disbelieved
this statement.</p>
<p>"You would know it," Dr. O'Connor
said, "but you would never
know you knew it. To elucidate: in
a normal person—like you, for instance,
or even like myself—the state
of having one's mind read merely
results in a vague, almost subconscious
feeling of irritation, something
that could easily be attributed to
minor worries, or fluctuations in
one's hormonal balance. The hormonal
balance, Mr. Burris, is—"</p>
<p>"Thank you," Burris said with a
trace of irritation. "I know what
hormones are."</p>
<p>"Ah. Good," Dr. O'Connor said
equably. "In any case, to continue:
this machine interprets those specific
feelings as indications that the mind
is being ... ah ... 'eavesdropped'
upon."</p>
<p>You could almost see the quotation
marks around what Dr. O'Connor
considered slang dropping into
place, Malone thought.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>"I see," Burris said with a disappointed
air. "But what do you
mean, it won't detect a telepath?
Have you ever actually worked with
a telepath?"</p>
<p>"Certainly we have," Dr. O'Connor
said. "If we hadn't, how would
we be able to tell that the machine
was, in fact, indicating the presence
of telepathy? The theoretical state of
the art is not, at present, sufficiently
developed to enable us to—"</p>
<p>"I see," Burris said hurriedly.
"Only wait a minute."</p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>"You mean you've actually got a
real mind reader? You've found one?
One that works?"</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor shook his head sadly.
"I'm afraid I should have said,
Mr. Burris, that we did once have
one," he admitted. "He was, unfortunately,
an imbecile, with a mental
age between five and six, as nearly
as we were able to judge."</p>
<p>"An imbecile?" Burris said. "But
how were you able to—"</p>
<p>"He could repeat a person's
thoughts word for word," Dr.
O'Connor said. "Of course, he was
utterly incapable of understanding
the meaning behind them. That
didn't matter; he simply repeated
whatever you were thinking. Rather
disconcerting."</p>
<p>"I'm sure," Burris said. "But he
was really an imbecile? There wasn't
any chance of—"</p>
<p>"Of curing him?" Dr. O'Connor
said. "None, I'm afraid. We did at
one time feel that there had been a
mental breakdown early in the boy's
life, and, indeed, it's perfectly possible
that he was normal for the first
year or so. The records we did manage
to get on that period, however,
were very much confused, and there
was never any way of telling anything
at all, for certain. It's easy to
see what caused the confusion, of
course: telepathy in an imbecile is
rather an oddity—and any normal
adult would probably be rather hesitant
about admitting that he was capable
of it. That's why we have not
found another subject; we must
merely sit back and wait for lightning
to strike."</p>
<p>Burris sighed. "I see your problem,"
he said. "But what happened
to this imbecile boy of yours?"</p>
<p>"Very sad," Dr. O'Connor said.
"Six months ago, at the age of fifteen,
the boy simply died. He simply—gave
up, and died."</p>
<p>"Gave up?"</p>
<p>"That was as good an explanation
as our medical department was able
to provide, Mr. Burris. There was
some malfunction, but—we like to
say that he simply gave up. Living
became too difficult for him."</p>
<p>"All right," Burris said after a
pause. "This telepath of yours is
dead, and there aren't any more
where he came from. Or if there are,
you don't know how to look for
them. All right. But to get back to
this machine of yours: it couldn't
detect the boy's ability?"</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor shook his head.
"No, I'm afraid not. We've worked
hard on that problem at Westinghouse,
Mr. Burris, but we haven't
yet been able to find a method of actually
detecting telepaths."</p>
<p>"But you can detect—"</p>
<p>"That's right," Dr. O'Connor said.
"We can detect the fact that a man's
mind is being read." He stopped,
and his face became suddenly
morose. When he spoke again, he
sounded guilty, as if he were making
an admission that pained him. "Of
course, Mr. Burris, there's nothing
we can <i>do</i> about a man's mind being
read. Nothing whatever." He essayed
a grin that didn't look very healthy.
"But at least," he said, "you know
you're being spied on."</p>
<p>Burris grimaced. There was a little
silence while Dr. O'Connor stroked
the metal box meditatively, as if it
were the head of his beloved.</p>
<p>At last, Burris said: "Dr. O'Connor,
how sure can you be of all
this?"</p>
<p>The look he received made all the
previous conversation seem as warm
and friendly as a Christmas party by
comparison. It was a look that froze
the air of the room into a solid
chunk, Malone thought, a chunk you
could have chipped pieces from, for
souvenirs, later, when Dr. O'Connor
had gone and you could get into the
room without any danger of being
quick-frozen by the man's unfriendly
eye.</p>
<p>"Mr. Burris," Dr. O'Connor said
in a voice that matched the temperature
of his gaze, "please. Remember
our slogan."</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Malone sighed. He fished in his
pocket for a pack of cigarettes, found
one, and extracted a single cigarette.
He stuck it in his mouth and started
fishing in various pockets for his
lighter.</p>
<p>He sighed again. He preferred
cigars, a habit he'd acquired from
the days when he'd filched them
from his father's cigar case, but his
mental picture of the fearless and
alert young FBI agent didn't include
a cigar. Somehow, remembering his
father as neither fearless nor, exactly,
alert—anyway, not the way the
movies and the TV screens liked to
picture the words—he had the impression
that cigars looked out of
place on FBI agents.</p>
<p>And it was, in any case, a small
sacrifice to make. He found his lighter
and shielded it from the brisk
wind. He looked out over water at
the Jefferson Memorial, and was surprised
that he'd managed to walk as
far as he had. Then he stopped
thinking about walking, and took a
puff of his cigarette, and forced himself
to think about the job in hand.</p>
<p>Naturally, the Westinghouse gadget
had been declared Ultra Top
Secret as soon as it had been worked
out. Virtually everything was, these
days. And the whole group involved
in the machine and its workings had
been transferred without delay to the
United States Laboratories out in
Yucca Flats, Nevada.</p>
<p>Out there in the desert, there just
wasn't much to do, Malone supposed,
except to play with the machine.
And, of course, look at the scenery.
But when you've seen one desert,
Malone thought confusedly, you've
seen them all.</p>
<p>So, the scientists ran experiments
on the machine, and they made a
discovery of a kind they hadn't been
looking for.</p>
<p>Somebody, they discovered, was
picking the brains of the scientists
there.</p>
<p>Not the brains of the people
working with the telepathy machine.</p>
<p>And not the brains of the people
working on the several other Earth-limited
projects at Yucca Flats.</p>
<p>They'd been reading the minds of
some of the scientists working on
the new and highly classified non-rocket
space drive.</p>
<p>In other words, the Yucca Flats
plant was infested with a telepathic
spy. And how do you go about finding
a telepath? Malone sighed.
Spies that got information in any of
the usual ways were tough enough
to locate. A telepathic spy was a lot
tougher proposition.</p>
<p>Well, one thing about Andrew J.
Burris—he had an answer for
everything. Malone thought of what
his chief had said: "It takes a thief
to catch a thief. And if the Westinghouse
machine won't locate a telepathic
spy, I know what will."</p>
<p>"What?" Malone had asked.</p>
<p>"It's simple," Burris had said.
"Another telepath. There has to be
one around somewhere. Westinghouse
<i>did</i> have one, after all, and
the Russians <i>still</i> have one. Malone,
that's your job: go out and find me
a telepath."</p>
<p>Burris had an answer for everything,
all right, Malone thought. But
he couldn't see where the answer did
him very much good. After all, if it
takes a telepath to catch a telepath,
how do you catch the telepath you're
going to use to catch the first telepath?</p>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/003.png" width-obs="450" height-obs="500" alt="" title="" /></div>
<p>Malone ran that through his mind
again, and then gave it up. It sounded
as if it should have made sense,
somehow, but it just didn't, and that
was all there was to that.</p>
<p>He dropped his cigarette to the
ground and mashed it out with the
toe of his shoe. Then he looked up.</p>
<p>Out there, over the water, was the
Jefferson Memorial. It stood, white
in the floodlights, beautiful and untouchable
in the darkness. Malone
stared at it. What would Thomas
Jefferson have done in a crisis like
this?</p>
<p>Jefferson, he told himself without
much conviction, would have been
just as confused as he was.</p>
<p>But he'd have had to find a telepath,
Malone thought. Malone determined
that he would do likewise.
If Thomas Jefferson could do it, the
least he, Malone, could do was to
give it a good try.</p>
<p>There was only one little problem:</p>
<p><i>Where</i>, Malone thought, <i>do I
start looking?</i></p>
<hr class="hrchp" />
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />