The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

like this passed away nearly a half-hour, until Malone finally felt that it was the right time to introduce some of his real questions. "Tell me, Sir Lewis," he said. "Have you had many instances of a single man, or a small group of men, controlling the actions of a much larger group? And doing it in such a way that the larger group doesn't even know it is being manipulated?"

      "Of course I have," Sir Lewis said. "And so have you. They call it advertising."

      Malone flicked his cigarette into an ashtray. "I didn't mean exactly that," he said. "Suppose they're doing it in such a way that the larger group doesn't even suspect that manipulation is going on?"

      Sir Lewis removed his pipe and frowned at it. "I may be able to give you a little information," he said slowly, "but not much."

      "Ah?" Malone said, trying to sound only mildly interested.

      "Outside of mob psychology," Sir Lewis said, "and all that sort of thing, I really haven't seen any record of a case of such a thing happening. And I can't quite imagine anyone faking it."

      "But you have got some information?" Malone said.

      "Certainly," Sir Lewis said. "There is always spirit control."

      "Spirit control?" Malone blinked.

      "Demoniac intervention," Sir Lewis said. "'My name is Legion,' you know."

      Sir Lewis Legion, Malone thought confusedly, was a rather unusual name. He took a breath and caught hold of his revolving mind. "How would you go about that?" he said, a little hopelessly.

      "I haven't the foggiest," Sir Lewis admitted cheerfully. "But I will have it looked up for you." He made a note. "Anything else?"

      Malone tried to think. "Yes," he said at last. "Can you give me a condensed report on what is known--and I mean known--on telepathy and teleportation?"

      "What you want," Sir Lewis said, "are those cases proven genuine, not the ones in which we have established fraud, or those still in doubt."

      "Exactly," Malone said. If he got no other use out of the data, it would provide a measuring-stick for the Society. The general public didn't know that the Government was actually using psionic powers, and the Society's theories, checked against actual fact, would provide a rough index of reliability to use on the Society's other data.

      But spirits, somehow, didn't seem very likely. Malone sighed and stood up.

      "I'll have copies made of all the relevant material," Sir Lewis said, "from our library and research files. Where do you want the material sent? I do want to warn you of its bulk; there may be quite a lot of it."

      "FBI Headquarters, on 69th Street," Malone said. "And send a statement of expenses along with it. As long as the bill's within reason, don't worry about itemizing; I'll see that it goes through Accounting myself."

      Sir Lewis nodded. "Fine," he said. "And, if you should have any difficulties with the material, please let me know. I'll always be glad to help."

      "Thanks for your co-operation," Malone said. He went to the door, and walked on out.

      He blundered back into the same big room again, on his way through the corridors. The bulbous-eyed woman, who seemed to have inherited a full set of thirty-two teeth from each of her parents, gave him a friendly if somewhat crowded smile, but Malone pressed on without a word. After awhile, he found the reception room again.

      The girl behind the desk looked up. "How did he react?" she said.

      Malone blinked. "React?" he said.

      "When you sneezed at him," she said. "Because I've been thinking it over, and I've got a new theory. You're doing a survey on how people act when encountering sneezes. Like Kinsey."

      This girl--Lou something, Malone thought, and with difficulty refrained from adding "Gehrig"--had an unusual effect, he decided. He wondered if there were anyone in the world she couldn't reduce to paralyzed silence.

      "Of course," she went on, "Kinsey was dealing with sex, and you aren't. At least, you aren't during business hours." She smiled politely at Malone.

      "No," he said helplessly, "I'm not."

      "It is sneezing, then," she said. "Will I be in the book when it's published?"

      "Book?" Malone said, feeling more and more like a rather low-grade moron.

      "The book on sneezing, when you get it published," she said. "I can see it now: The Case of Miss X, a Receptionist."

      "There isn't going to be any book," Malone said.

      She shook her head. "That's a shame," she said. "I've always wanted to be a Miss X. It sounds exciting."

      "X," Malone said at random, "marks the spot."

      "Why, that's the sweetest thing that's been said to me all day," the girl said. "I thought you could hardly talk, and here you come out with lovely things like that. But I'll bet you say it to all the girls."

      "I have never said it to anybody before," Malone said flatly. "And I never will again."

      The girl sighed. "I'll treasure it," she said. "My one great moment. Goodbye, Mr.--Malone, isn't it?"

      "Ken," Malone said. "Just call me Ken."

      "And I'm Lou," the girl said. "Goodbye."

      An elevator arrived and Malone ducked into it. Louie? he thought. Louise? Luke? Of course, there was Sir Lewis Carter, who might be called Lou. Was he related to the girl?

      No, Malone thought wildly. Relations went by last names. There was no reason for Lou to be related to Sir Lewis. They didn't even look alike. For instance, he had no desire whatever to make a date with Sir Lewis Carter, or to take him to a glittering nightclub, or to make him any whispered propositions. And the very idea of Sir Lewis Carter sitting on the Malone lap was enough to give him indigestion and spots before the eyes.

      Sternly, he told himself to get back to business. The elevator stopped at the lobby and he got out and started down the street, feeling that consideration of the lady known as Lou was much more pleasant. After all, what did he have to work with, as far as his job was concerned?

      So far, two experts had told him that his theory was full of lovely little holes. Worse than that, they had told him that mass control of human beings was impossible, as far as they knew.

      And maybe it was impossible, he told himself sadly. Maybe he should just junk his whole theory and think up a new one. Maybe there was no psionics involved in the thing at all, and Boyd and O'Connor were right.

      Of course, he had a deep-seated conviction that psionics was somewhere at the root of everything, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. A lot of people had deep-seated convictions that they were beetles, or that the world was flat And then again, murderers often suffered as a result of deep-seated convictions of one sort or another.

      On the other hand, maybe he had invented a whole new psionic theory or, at least, observed some new psionic facts. Maybe they would call the results Malonizing, instead of O'Connorizing. He tried to picture a man opening a door and saying: "Come out quick, Mr. Frembits is Malonizing again."

      It didn't sound very plausible. But, after all, he did have a deep-seated conviction. He tried to think of a shallow-seated conviction, and failed. Didn't convictions ever stand up, anyhow, or lie down?

      He shook his head, discovered that he was on 69th Street, and headed for the FBI Headquarters. His convictions, he had found, were sometimes an expression of his precognitive powers; he determined to ride with them, at least for awhile.

      By the time he came to the office of the agent-in-charge, he had figured out the beginnings of a new line of attack.

      "How about the ghosts?" the agent-in-charge asked as he passed.

      "They'll be along," Malone said. "In a big bundle, addressed to me personally. And don't open the bundle."

      "Why not?" the agent-in-charge asked.

      "Because