<h2>II</h2>
<p>Early the next morning, Malone
awoke on a plane, heading across
the continent toward Nevada. He
had gone home to sleep, and he'd
had to wake up to get on the plane,
and now here he was, waking up
again. It seemed, somehow, like a
vicious circle.</p>
<p>The engines hummed gently as
they pushed the big ship through the
middle stratosphere's thinly distributed
molecules. Malone looked out
at the purple-dark sky and set himself
to think out his problem again.</p>
<p>He was still mulling things over
when the ship lowered its landing
gear and rolled to a stop on the big
field near Yucca Flats. Malone
sighed and climbed slowly out of his
seat. There was a car waiting for him
at the airfield, though, and that
seemed to presage a smooth time;
Malone remembered calling Dr.
O'Connor the night before, and congratulated
himself on his foresight.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, when he reached
the main gate of the high double
fence that surrounded the more than
ninety square miles of United States
Laboratories, he found out that entrance
into that sanctum sanctorum
of Security wasn't as easy as he'd
imagined—not even for an FBI man.
His credentials were checked with
the kind of minute care Malone had
always thought people reserved for
disputed art masterpieces, and it was
with a great show of reluctance that
the Special Security guards passed
him inside as far as the office of the
Chief Security Officer.</p>
<p>There, the Chief Security Officer
himself, a man who could have
doubled for Torquemada, eyed Malone
with ill-concealed suspicion
while he called Burris at FBI headquarters
back in Washington.</p>
<p>Burris identified Malone on the
video screen and the Chief Security
Officer, looking faintly disappointed,
stamped the agent's pass and thanked
the FBI chief. Malone had the
run of the place.</p>
<p>Then he had to find a courier jeep.
The Westinghouse division, it seemed,
was a good two miles away.</p>
<p>As Malone knew perfectly well,
the main portion of the entire Yucca
Flats area was devoted solely to research
on the new space drive which
was expected to make the rocket as
obsolete as the blunderbuss—at least
as far as space travel was concerned.
Not, Malone thought uneasily, that
the blunderbuss had ever been used
for space travel, but—</p>
<p>He got off the subject hurriedly.
The jeep whizzed by buildings, most
of them devoted to aspects of the
non-rocket drive. The other projects
based at Yucca Flats had to share
what space was left—and that included,
of course, the Westinghouse
research project.</p>
<p>It turned out to be a single, rather
small white building with a fence
around it. The fence bothered Malone
a little, but there was no need
to worry; this time he was introduced
at once into Dr. O'Connor's office.
It was paneled in wallpaper manufactured
to look like pine, and the
telepathy expert sat behind a large
black desk bigger than any Malone
had ever seen in the FBI offices.
There wasn't a scrap of paper on the
desk; its surface was smooth and
shiny, and behind it the nearly transparent
Dr. Thomas O'Connor was
close to invisible.</p>
<p>He looked, in person, just about
the same as he'd looked on the FBI
tapes. Malone closed the door of the
office behind him, looked for a chair
and didn't find one. In Dr. O'Connor's
office, it was perfectly obvious,
Dr. O'Connor sat down. You stood,
and were uncomfortable.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Malone took off his hat. He reached
across the desk to shake hands
with the telepathy expert, and Dr.
O'Connor gave him a limp and
fragile paw. "Thanks for giving me
a little time," Malone said. "I really
appreciate it." He smiled across the
desk. His feet were already beginning
to hurt.</p>
<p>"Not at all," Dr. O'Connor said,
returning the smile with one of his
own special quick-frozen brand. "I
realize how important FBI work is
to all of us, Mr. Malone. What can
I do to help you?"</p>
<p>Malone shifted his feet. "I'm
afraid I wasn't very specific on the
phone last night," he said. "It wasn't
anything I wanted to discuss over a
line that might have been tapped.
You see, I'm on the telepathy
case."</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor's eyes widened the
merest trifle. "I see," he said. "Well,
I'll certainly do everything I can to
help you."</p>
<p>"Fine," Malone said. "Let's get
right down to business, then. The
first thing I want to ask you about
is this detector of yours. I understand
it's too big to carry around—but
how about making a smaller
model?"</p>
<p>"Smaller?" Dr. O'Connor permitted
himself a ghostly chuckle. "I'm
afraid that isn't possible, Mr. Malone.
I would be happy to let you
have a small model of the machine
if we had one available—more than
happy. I would like to see such a
machine myself, as a matter of fact.
Unfortunately, Mr. Malone—"</p>
<p>"There just isn't one, right?" Malone
said.</p>
<p>"Correct," Dr. O'Connor said.
"And there are a few other factors.
In the first place, the person being
analyzed has to be in a specially
shielded room, such as is used in
encephalographic analysis. Otherwise,
the mental activity of the other
persons around him would interfere
with the analysis." He frowned a
little. "I wish that we knew a bit
more about psionic machines. The
trouble with the present device,
frankly, is that it is partly psionic
and partly electronic, and we can't
be entirely sure where one part
leaves off and the other begins. Very
trying. Very trying indeed."</p>
<p>"I'll bet it is," Malone said sympathetically,
wishing he understood
what Dr. O'Connor was talking
about.</p>
<p>The telepathy expert sighed.
"However," he said, "we keep
working at it." Then he looked at
Malone expectantly.</p>
<p>Malone shrugged. "Well, if I
can't carry the thing around, I guess
that's that," he said. "But here's the
next question: Do you happen to
know the maximum range of a telepath?
I mean: How far away can he
get from another person and still
read his mind?"</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor frowned again.
"We don't have definite information
on that, I'm afraid," he said.
"Poor little Charlie was rather difficult
to work with. He was mentally
incapable of co-operating in any
way, you see."</p>
<p>"Little Charlie?"</p>
<p>"Charles O'Neill was the name of
the telepath we worked with," Dr.
O'Connor explained.</p>
<p>"I remember," Malone said. The
name had been on one of the tapes,
but he just hadn't associated
"Charles O'Neill" with "Little
Charlie." He felt as if he'd been
caught with his homework undone.
"How did you manage to find him,
anyway?" he said. Maybe, if he knew
how Westinghouse had found their
imbecile-telepath, he'd have some
kind of clue that would enable him
to find one, too. Anyhow, it was
worth a try.</p>
<p>"It wasn't difficult in Charlie's
case," Dr. O'Connor said. He smiled.
"The child babbled all the time, you
see."</p>
<p>"You mean he talked about being
a telepath?"</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor shook his head impatiently.
"No," he said. "Not at
all. I mean that he babbled. Literally.
Here: I've got a sample recording
in my files." He got up from his
chair and went to the tall gray filing
cabinet that hid in a far corner of
the pine-paneled room. From a drawer
he extracted a spool of common
audio tape, and returned to his
desk.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry we didn't get full video
on this," he said, "but we didn't feel
it was necessary." He opened a panel
in the upper surface of the desk, and
slipped the spool in. "If you like,
there are other tapes—"</p>
<p>"Maybe later," Malone said.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Dr. O'Connor nodded and pressed
the playback switch at the side of the
great desk. For a second the room
was silent.</p>
<p>Then there was the hiss of empty
tape, and a brisk masculine voice that
overrode it:</p>
<p>"Westinghouse Laboratories," it
said, "sixteen April nineteen-seventy.
Dr. Walker speaking. The voice you
are about to hear belongs to Charles
O'Neill: chronological age fourteen
years, three months; mental age, approximately
five years. Further data
on this case will be found in the file
<i>O'Neill</i>."</p>
<p>There was a slight pause, filled
with more tape hiss.</p>
<p>Then the voice began.</p>
<p>"... push the switch for record
... in the park last Wednesday ...
and perhaps a different set of ...
poor kid never makes any sense in
... trees and leaves all sunny with
the ... electronic components of the
reducing stage might be ... not as
predictable when others are around
but ... to go with Sally some night
in the...."</p>
<p>It was a childish, alto voice, gabbling
in a monotone. A phrase
would be spoken, the voice would
hesitate for just an instant, and then
another, totally disconnected phrase
would come. The enunciation and
pronunciation would vary from
phrase to phrase, but the tone remained
essentially the same, drained
of all emotional content.</p>
<p>"... in receiving psychocerebral
impulses there isn't any ... nonsense
and nothing but nonsense all
the ... tomorrow or maybe Saturday
with the girl ... tube might be replaceable
only if ... something
ought to be done for the ... Saturday
would be a good time for ...
work on the schematics tonight
if...."</p>
<p>There was a click as the tape was
turned off, and Dr. O'Connor looked
up.</p>
<p>"It doesn't make much sense,"
Malone said. "But the kid sure has
a hell of a vocabulary for an imbecile."</p>
<p>"Vocabulary?" Dr. O'Connor said
softly.</p>
<p>"That's right," Malone said.
"Where'd an imbecile get words like
'psychocerebral'? I don't think I
know what that means, myself."</p>
<p>"Ah," Dr. O'Connor said. "But
that's not <i>his</i> vocabulary, you see.
What Charlie is doing is simply repeating
the thoughts of those around
him. He jumps from mind to mind,
simply repeating whatever he receives."
His face assumed the expression
of a man remembering a
bad taste in his mouth. "That's how
we found him out, Mr. Malone," he
said. "It's rather startling to look at
a blithering idiot and have him suddenly
repeat the very thought that's
in your mind."</p>
<p>Malone nodded unhappily. It
didn't seem as if O'Connor's information
was going to be a lot of help
as far as catching a telepath was concerned.
An imbecile, apparently,
would give himself away if he were
a telepath. But nobody else seemed
to be likely to do that. And imbeciles
didn't look like very good material
for catching spies with.</p>
<p>Then he brightened. "Is it possible
that the spy we're looking for
really isn't a spy?"</p>
<p>"Eh?"</p>
<p>"I mean, suppose he's an imbecile,
too? I doubt whether an imbecile
would really be a spy, if you see what
I mean."</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor appeared to consider
the notion. After a little while he
said: "It is, I suppose, possible. But
the readings on the machine don't
give us the same timing as they did
in Charlie's case—or even the same
sort of timing."</p>
<p>"I don't quite follow you," Malone
said. Truthfully, he felt about
three miles behind. But perhaps
everything would clear up soon. He
hoped so. On top of everything else,
his feet were now hurting a lot
more.</p>
<p>"Perhaps if I describe one of the
tests we ran," Dr. O'Connor said,
"things will be somewhat clearer."
He leaned back in his chair. Malone
shifted his feet again and transferred
his hat from his right hand to his
left hand.</p>
<p>"We put one of our test subjects
in the insulated room," Dr. O'Connor
said, "and connected him to the
detector. He was to read from a book—a
book that was not too common.
This was, of course, to obviate the
chance that some other person nearby
might be reading it, or might have
read it in the past. We picked 'The
Blood is the Death,' by Hieronymus
Melanchthon, which, as you may
know, is a very rare book indeed."</p>
<p>"Sure," Malone said. He had
never heard of the book, but he was,
after all, willing to take Dr. O'Connor's
word for it.</p>
<p>The telepathy expert went on:
"Our test subject read it carefully,
scanning rather than skimming.
Cameras recorded the movements of
his eyes in order for us to tell just
what he was reading at any given
moment, in order to correlate what
was going on in his mind with the
reactions of the machine's indicators,
if you follow me."</p>
<p>Malone nodded helplessly.</p>
<p>"At the same time," Dr. O'Connor
continued blithely, "we had
Charlie in a nearby room, recording
his babblings. Every so often, he
would come out with quotations
from 'The Blood is the Death,' and
these quotations corresponded exactly
with what our test subject was
reading at the time, and also corresponded
with the abnormal fluctuations
of the detector."</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Dr. O'Connor paused. Something,
Malone realized, was expected of
him. He thought of several responses
and chose one. "I see," he said.</p>
<p>"But the important thing here,"
Dr. O'Connor said, "is the timing.
You see, Charlie was incapable of
continued concentration. He could
not keep his mind focused on another
mind for very long, before he
hopped to still another. The actual
amount of time concentrated on any
given mind at any single given period
varied from a minimum of one
point three seconds to a maximum
of two point six. The timing samples,
when plotted graphically over
a period of several months, formed
a skewed bell curve with a mode at
two point oh seconds."</p>
<p>"Ah," Malone said, wondering if
a skewed bell curve was the same
thing as a belled skew curve, and if
not, why not?</p>
<p>"It was, in fact," Dr. O'Connor
continued relentlessly, "a sudden
variation in those timings which
convinced us that there was another
telepath somewhere in the vicinity.
We were conducting a second set of
reading experiments, in precisely the
same manner as the first set, and,
for the first part of the experiment,
our figures were substantially the
same. But—" He stopped.</p>
<p>"Yes?" Malone said, shifting his
feet and trying to take some weight
off his left foot by standing on his
right leg. Then he stood on his left
leg. It didn't seem to do any good.</p>
<p>"I should explain," Dr. O'Connor
said, "that we were conducting
this series with a new set of test subjects:
some of the scientists here at
Yucca Flats. We wanted to see if the
intelligence quotients of the subjects
affected the time of contact which
Charlie was able to maintain. Naturally,
we picked the men here with
the highest IQ's, the two men we
have who are in the top echelon of
the creative genius class." He cleared
his throat. "I did not include myself,
of course, since I wished to remain
an impartial observer, as much
as possible."</p>
<p>"Of course," Malone said without
surprise.</p>
<p>"The other two geniuses," Dr.
O'Connor said, "happen to be connected
with the project known as
Project Isle—an operation whose
function I neither know, nor care to
know, anything at all about."</p>
<p>Malone nodded. Project Isle was
the non-rocket spaceship. Classified.
Top Secret. Ultra-Secret. And, he
thought, just about anything else you
could think of.</p>
<p>"At first," Dr. O'Connor was saying,
"our detector recorded the time
periods of ... ah mental invasion
as being the same as before. Then,
one day, anomalies began to appear.
The detector showed that the minds
of our subjects were being held for
as long as two or three minutes. But
the phrases repeated by Charlie during
these periods showed that his
own contact time remained the
same; that is, they fell within the
same skewed bell curve as before,
and the mode remained constant if
nothing but the phrase length were
recorded."</p>
<p>"Hm-m-m," Malone said, feeling
that he ought to be saying something.</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor didn't notice him.
"At first we thought of errors in the
detector machine," he went on. "That
worried us not somewhat, since our
understanding of the detector is definitely
limited at this time. We do
feel that it would be possible to replace
some of the electronic components
with appropriate symbolization
like that already used in the
purely psionic sections, but we have,
as yet, been unable to determine exactly
which electronic components
must be replaced by what symbolic
components."</p>
<p>Malone nodded, silently this time.
He had the sudden feeling that Dr.
O'Connor's flow of words had broken
itself up into a vast sea of alphabet
soup, and that he, Malone, was
occupied in drowning in it.</p>
<p>"However," Dr. O'Connor said,
breaking what was left of Malone's
train of thought, "young Charlie
died soon thereafter, and we decided
to go on checking the machine. It
was during this period that we found
someone else reading the minds of
our test subjects—sometimes for a
few seconds, sometimes for several
minutes."</p>
<p>"Aha," Malone said. Things were
beginning to make sense again.
<i>Someone else.</i> That, of course, was
the spy.</p>
<p>"I found," Dr. O'Connor said,
"on interrogating the subjects more
closely, that they were, in effect,
thinking on two levels. They were
reading the book mechanically, noting
the words and sense, but simply
shuttling the material directly into
their memories without actually
thinking about it. The actual thinking
portions of their minds were
concentrating on aspects of Project
Isle."</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>"In other words," Malone said,
"someone was spying on them for
information about Project Isle?"</p>
<p>"Precisely," Dr. O'Connor said
with a frosty, teacher-to-student
smile. "And whoever it was had a
much higher concentration time than
Charlie had ever attained. He seems
to be able to retain contact as long
as he can find useful information
flowing in the mind being read."</p>
<p>"Wait a minute," Malone said.
"Wait a minute. If this spy is so
clever, how come he didn't read
<i>your</i> mind?"</p>
<p>"It is very likely that he has,"
O'Connor said. "What does that
have to do with it?"</p>
<p>"Well," Malone said, "if he
knows you and your group are working
on telepathy and can detect what
he's doing, why didn't he just hold
off on the minds of those geniuses
when they were being tested in your
machine?"</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor frowned. "I'm
afraid that I can't be sure," he said,
and it was clear from his tone that,
if Dr. Thomas O'Connor wasn't
sure, no one in the entire world was,
had been, or ever would be. "I do
have a theory, however," he said,
brightening up a trifle.</p>
<p>Malone waited patiently.</p>
<p>"He must know our limitations,"
Dr. O'Connor said at last. "He must
be perfectly well aware that there's
not a single thing we can <i>do</i> about
him. He must know that we can neither
find nor stop him. Why should
he worry? He can afford to ignore
us—or even bait us. We're helpless,
and he knows it."</p>
<p>That, Malone thought, was about
the most cheerless thought he had
heard in some time.</p>
<p>"You mentioned that you had an
insulated room," the FBI agent said
after a while. "Couldn't you let your
men think in there?"</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor sighed. "The room
is shielded against magnetic fields
and electromagnetic radiation. It is
perfectly transparent to psionic
phenomena, just as it is to gravitational
fields."</p>
<p>"Oh," Malone said. He realized
rapidly that his question had been a
little silly to begin with, since the
insulated room had been the place
where all the tests had been conducted
in the first place. "I don't want
to take up too much of your time,
doctor," he said after a pause, "but
there are a couple of other questions."</p>
<p>"Go right ahead," Dr. O'Connor
said. "I'm sure I'll be able to help
you."</p>
<p>Malone thought of mentioning
how little help the doctor had been
to date, but decided against it. Why
antagonize a perfectly good scientist
without any reason? Instead, he selected
his first question, and asked it.
"Have you got any idea how we
might lay our hands on another telepath?
Preferably one that's not an
imbecile, of course."</p>
<p>Dr. O Connor's expression changed
from patient wisdom to irritation.
"I wish we could, Mr. Malone. I
wish we could. We certainly need
one here to help us with our work—and
I'm sure that <i>your</i> work is important,
too. But I'm afraid we have
no ideas at all about finding another
telepath. Finding little Charlie was
purely fortuitous—purely, Mr. Malone,
fortuitous."</p>
<p>"Ah," Malone said. "Sure. Of
course." He thought rapidly and discovered
that he couldn't come up
with one more question. As a matter
of fact, he'd asked a couple of
questions already, and he could barely
remember the answers. "Well," he
said, "I guess that's about it, then,
doctor. If you come across anything
else, be sure and let me
know."</p>
<p>He leaned across the desk, extending
a hand. "And thanks for your
time," he added.</p>
<p>Dr. O'Connor stood up and shook
his hand. "No trouble, I assure you,"
he said. "And I'll certainly give you
all the information I can."</p>
<p>Malone turned and walked out.
Surprisingly, he discovered that his
feet and legs still worked. He had
thought they'd turned to stone in the
office long before.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>It was on the plane back to Washington
that Malone got his first inkling
of an idea.</p>
<p>The only telepath that the Westinghouse
boys had been able to turn
up was Charles O'Neill, the youthful
imbecile.</p>
<p>All right, then. Suppose there
were another one like him. Imbeciles
weren't very difficult to locate. Most
of them would be in institutions,
and the others would certainly be on
record. It might be possible to find
someone, anyway, who could be handled
and used as a tool to find a telepathic spy.</p>
<p>And—happy thought!—maybe
one of them would turn out to be a
high-grade imbecile, or even a
moron.</p>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/004.png" width-obs="449" height-obs="500" alt="" title="" /></div>
<p>Even if they only turned up another
imbecile, he thought wearily,
at least Dr. O'Connor would have
something to work with.</p>
<p>He reported back to Burris when
he arrived in Washington, told him
about the interview with Dr. O'Connor,
and explained what had come
to seem a rather feeble brainstorm.</p>
<p>"It doesn't seem too productive,"
Burris said, with a shade of disappointment
in his voice, "but we'll
try it."</p>
<p>At that, it was a better verdict than
Malone had hoped for. He had nothing
to do but wait, while orders went
out to field agents all over the United
States, and quietly, but efficiently, the
FBI went to work. Agents probed
and pried and poked their noses into
the files and data sheets of every
mental institution in the fifty states—as
far, at any rate, as they were
able.</p>
<p>It was not an easy job. The inalienable
right of a physician to
refuse to disclose confidences respecting
a patient applied even to idiots,
imbeciles, and morons. Not even the
FBI could open the private files of
a licensed and registered psychiatrist.</p>
<p>But the field agents did the best
they could and, considering the circumstances,
their best was pretty
good.</p>
<p>Malone, meanwhile, put in two
weeks sitting glumly at his Washington
desk and checking reports as
they arrived. They were uniformly
depressing. The United States of
America contained more subnormal
minds than Malone cared to think
about. There seemed to be enough
of them to explain the results of any
election you were unhappy over. Unfortunately,
subnormal was all you
could call them. Not one of them
appeared to possess any abnormal
psionic abilities whatever.</p>
<p>There were a couple who were reputed
to be poltergeists—but in
neither case was there a single shred
of evidence to substantiate the
claim.</p>
<p>At the end of the second week,
Malone was just about convinced
that his idea had been a total washout.
A full fortnight had been spent
on digging up imbeciles, while the
spy at Yucca Flats had been going
right on his merry way, scooping information
out of the men at Project
Isle as though he were scooping
beans out of a pot. And, very likely,
laughing himself silly at the feeble
efforts of the FBI.</p>
<p>Who could he be?</p>
<p><i>Anyone</i>, Malone told himself unhappily.
<i>Anyone at all.</i> He could be
the janitor that swept out the buildings,
one of the guards at the gate,
one of the minor technicians on another
project, or even some old
prospector wandering around the
desert with a scintillation counter.</p>
<p>Is there any limit to telepathic
range?</p>
<p>The spy could even be sitting
quietly in an armchair in the Kremlin,
probing through several thousand
miles of solid earth to peep into
the brains of the men on Project
Isle.</p>
<p>That was, to say the very least, a
depressing idea.</p>
<p>Malone found he had to assume
that the spy was in the United States—that,
in other words, there was
some effective range to telepathic
communication. Otherwise, there
was no point in bothering to continue
the search.</p>
<p>Therefore, he found one other
thing to do. He alerted every agent
to the job of discovering how the
spy was getting his information out
of the country.</p>
<p>He doubted that it would turn up
anything, but it was a chance. And
Malone hoped desperately for it, because
he was beginning to be sure
that the field agents were never going
to turn up any telepathic imbeciles.</p>
<p>He was right.</p>
<p>They never did.</p>
<hr class="hrchp" />
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />