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...
And an old one...
He tossed the cigar in the general direction of the ashtray, grabbed the phone and jabbed at buttons.
The girl who answered the phone looked familiar. She did not look very old, but she was large and she had to be disguised, Malone thought. Nobody could naturally have that many teeth.
"Psychical Research Society," she said. "Oh, Mr. Malone, good evening."
"Sir Lewis," Malone said. "Sir Lewis Carter. President. I want to talk to him. Hurry."
"Sir Lewis?" the girl said slowly. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Malone, but the office is closed now for the day. And Sir Lewis has gone already. It's after six o'clock, Mr. Malone, and the office is closed."
"Home number," Malone said desperately. "I've got to."
"Well, I can do that, Mr. Malone," she said, "but it wouldn't do you any good, really. Because he went away on his vacation, and when he goes on his vacation he never tells us where. You know? He won't be back for two or three weeks."