The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

he asked.

      "He was telling the truth, all right," Her Majesty said. "There are a few more details, of course, like the girl Brubitsch was involved with, Sir Kenneth. But she doesn't seem to have anything to do with the spy ring, and besides, she isn't a very nice person. She always wants money."

      "Sounds perfectly lovely," Malone said. "As a matter of fact, I think I know her. I know a lot of girls who always want money. It seems to be in fashion."

      "You don't know this one, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, "and besides, she wouldn't be a good influence on you."

      Malone sighed. "How about the static explosions?" he said. "Pick up any more?"

      "No," she said. "Just that one."

      Malone nodded at the receiver. "All right," he said. "We're going to bring in the second one now. Keep up the good work."

      He hung up.

      "Who've you got in the observation room?" Boyd asked.

      "Queen Elizabeth I," Malone said. "Her Royal Majesty."

      "Oh," Boyd said without surprise. "Well, was Brubitsch telling the truth?"

      "He wasn't holding back anything important," Malone said, thinking about the girl. It would be nice to meet a bad influence, he thought mournfully. It would be nice to go somewhere with a bad influence (a bad influence, he amended, with a good figure) and forget all about his job, about the spies, about telepathy, teleportation, psionics and everything else. It might be restful.

      Unfortunately, it was impossible.

      "What's this business about a static explosion?" Boyd said.

      "Don't ask silly questions," Malone said. "A static explosion is a contradiction in terms. If something is static, it doesn't move-- whoever heard of a motionless explosion?"

      "If it is a contradiction in terms," Boyd said, "they're your terms."

      "Sure," Malone said. "But I don't know what they mean. I don't even know what I mean."

      "You're in a bad way," Boyd said, looking sympathetic.

      "I'm in a perfectly terrible way," Malone said, "and it's going to get worse. You wait and see."

      "Of course I'll wait and see," Boyd said. "I wouldn't miss the end of the world for anything. It ought to be a great spectacle." He paused. "Want them to bring in the next one?"

      "Sure," Malone said. "What have we got to lose but our minds? And who is the next one?"

      "Borbitsch," Boyd said. "They're saving Garbitsch for a big finish."

      Malone nodded wearily. "Onward," he said, and picked up the phone. He punched a number, spoke a few words and hung up.

      A minute later, the four FBI agents came back, leading a man. This one was tall and thin, with the expression of a gloomy, degenerate and slightly nauseated bloodhound. He was led to the chair and he sat down in it as if he expected the worst to start happening at once.

      "Well," Malone said in a bored, tired voice. "So this is the one who won't talk."

      Chapter 6

       Table of Contents

      Midnight.

      Kenneth J. Malone sat at his desk, in his Washington office, surrounded by piles of papers covering the desk, spilling off onto the floor and decorating his lap. He was staring at the papers as if he expected them to leap up, dance round him and shout the solution to all his problems at him in trained choral voices. They did nothing at all.

      Seated cross-legged on the rug in the center of the room, and looking like an impossible combination of the last Henry Tudor and Gautama Buddha, Thomas Boyd did nothing either. He was staring downward, his hands folded on his ample lap, wearing an expression of utter, burning frustration. And on a nearby chair sat the third member of the company, wearing the calm and patient expression of the gently-born under all vicissitudes: Queen Elizabeth I.

      "All right," Malone said into the silence. "Now let's see what we've got."

      "I think we've got cerebral paresis," Boyd said. "It's been coming on for years."

      "Don't be funny," Malone said.

      Boyd gave a short, mirthless bark. "Funny?" he said. "I'm absolutely hysterical with joy and good humor. I'm out of my mind with happiness." He paused. "Anyway," he finished, "I'm out of my mind. Which puts me in good company. The entire FBI, Brubitsch, Borbitsch, Garbitsch, Dr. Thomas O'Connor and Sir Lewis Carter--we're all out of our minds. If we weren't, we'd all move away to the moon."

      "And drink to forget," Malone added. "Sure. But let's try and get some work done."

      "By all means, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. Boyd had not included her in his list of insane people, and she looked slightly miffed. It was hard for Malone to tell whether she was miffed by the mention of insanity, or at being left out.

      "Let's review the facts," Malone said. "This whole thing started with some inefficiency in Congress."

      "And some upheavals elsewhere," Boyd said. "Labor unions, gangster organizations."

      "Just about all over," Malone said. "And though we've found three spies, it seems pretty obvious that they aren't causing this."

      "They aren't causing much of anything," Boyd said. "Except a lot of unbelieving laughter further up the FBI line. I don't think anybody is going to believe our reports of those interviews."

      "But they're true," Her Majesty said.

      "Sure they're true," Boyd said. "That's the unbelievable part. They read like farce, and not very good farce at that."

      "Oh, I don't know," Malone said. "I think they're pretty funny."

      "Shall we get back to the business at hand?" Her Majesty said gently.

      "Ah," Malone said. "Anyhow, it isn't the spies. And what we now have is confusion even worse compounded."

      "Confounded," Boyd said. "John Milton. Paradise Lost, I heard it somewhere."

      "I don't mean confounded," Malone said. "I mean confusion. Anyhow, the Russian espionage rings in this country seem to be in as bad a state as the Congress, the labor unions, the syndicates, and all the rest. And all of them seem to have some sort of weird tie-in to these flashes of telepathic interference. Right, Your Majesty?"

      "I believe so, Sir Kenneth," she said. The old woman looked tired and confused. Somehow, a lot of the brightness seemed to have gone out of her life. "That's right," she said. "I didn't realize there was so much of it going on. You see, Sir Kenneth, you're the only one I can pick up at a distance who has been having these flashes. But now that I'm here in Washington, I can feel it going on all around me."

      "It may not have anything to do with everything else," Boyd said.

      Malone shook his head. "If it doesn't," he said, "it's the weirdest coincidence I've ever even dreamed about, and my dreams can be pretty strange. No, it's got to be tied in. There's some kind of mental static that is somehow making all these people goof up."

      "But why?" Boyd said. "What is it being done for? Just fun?"

      "God only knows," Malone said. "But we're going to have to find out."

      "In that case," Boyd said, "I suggest lots and lots of prayers."

      Her Majesty looked up. "That's a fine idea," she said.

      "But God helps those," Malone said, "who help themselves. And we're going to help ourselves. Mostly with facts."

      "All right," Boyd said. "So far, all the facts have been a great help."

      "Well, here's one," Malone said. "We got one flash each from Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch while we were questioning them. And in each case, that