The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

wondering where in hell he was going to find a clear, cold intelligence. Or even, for that matter, what one was.

      Chapter 1

       Table of Contents

      "They could be anywhere," Burris said, with an expression which bordered on exasperated horror. "They could be all around us. Heaven only knows."

      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 J in his name, but in his case the J stood for Jeremiah. And, at the moment, his tone expressed all the hopelessness of that Old Testament prophet's lamentations.

      "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."

      Kenneth Malone tried to look dependable. "Just tell me what to do," he said.

      "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."

      "I'll do my best," Malone said at random. He was twenty-six, 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 kidnappers. For reasons which he could neither understand nor explain, no one seemed willing to attribute his record to luck.

      "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 impossible. Even after all the conferences we've had."

      "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.

      "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.

      Malone said: "What?"

      "Books," Burris said. "When you were a child. Read them."

      "Sure I did," Malone said. "Bomba the Jungle Boy, and Doctor Doolittle, and Lucky Starr, and Little Women--"

      "Little Women?"

      "When Beth died," Malone said, "I wanted to cry. But I didn't. My father said big boys don't cry."

      "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?"

      "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--"

      "Never mind about Venus, too," Burris said sharply. "Keep your mind on the problem."

      "Yes, sir," Malone said. He paused. "What problem, sir?" he added.

      "The problem we're discussing," Burris said. He gave Malone a bright, blank stare. "My God," he said. "Just listen to me."

      "Yes, sir."

      "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?"

      "Well, I don't know," Malone said slowly.

      "Sure it was all for kids," Burris said. "It was laughable. Nobody took it seriously."

      "Well, somebody must--"

      "You just keep quiet and listen," Burris said.

      "Yes, sir," Malone said.

      Burris nodded. His hands were clasped behind his back. "We're not laughing any more, are we, Malone?" he said without moving.

      There was silence.

      "Well, are we?"

      "Did you want me to answer, sir?"

      "Of course I did!" Burris snapped.

      "You told me to keep quiet and--"

      "Never mind what I told you," Burris said. "Just do what I told you."

      "Yes, sir," Malone said. "No, sir," he added after a second.

      "No, sir, what?" Burris asked softly.

      "No, sir, we're not laughing any more," Malone said.

      "Ah," Burris said. "And why aren't we laughing any more?"

      There was a little pause. Malone said, tentatively: "Because there's nothing to laugh about, sir?"

      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 Russians!"

      "Yes, sir," Malone said soberly.

      So," Burris said, "we should learn not to laugh any more. But have we?"

      "I don't know, sir."

      "We haven't," Burris said with decision. "Can you read my mind?"

      "No, sir," Malone said. "Can I read your mind?".

      Malone hesitated. At last he said: "Not that I know of, sir."

      "Well, I can't," Burris snapped. "And can any of us read each other's mind?"

      Malone shook his head. "No, sir," he said.

      Burris nodded. "That's the problem," he said. "That's the case I'm sending you out to crack."

      This time, the silence was a long one.

      At last, Malone said: "What problem, sir?"

      "Mind reading," Burris said. "There's a spy at work in the Nevada plant, Kenneth. And the spy is a telepath."

      * * * * *

      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.

      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.

      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.

      The only trouble was that, if he didn't quit, he was going to have to find a telepath.

      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