A Spaceship Named: 45 Sci-Fi Novels & Stories in One Volume. Randall Garrett

mind."

      "There's only one little trouble," Malone said. "If I called you Cheese, you'd call me Ken. And word would get around."

      "I see what you mean," Manelli said.

      "I don't think either one of us wants his associates to think we're friends," Malone said.

      "I guess not," Manelli said. "It would cause uneasiness."

      "And a certain lack of confidence," Malone said. "So suppose I go on calling you Mr. Manelli?"

      "Fine," Manelli said. "And I'll call you Mr. Malone, like always."

      Malone smiled and stood up. "Well, then," he said, "good-bye, Mr. Manelli."

      Manelli rose, too. "Goodbye, Mr. Malone," he said. "And good luck, if you really mean what you said."

      "Oh, I do," Malone said.

      "Because things are terrible," Manelli said. "And they're getting worse every day. You should only know."

      "Don't worry," Malone said. "Things will be straightened out pretty soon." He hoped, as he went out the door and down the corridor, that he was telling the truth there, at least. He'd sounded fairly confident, he thought, but he didn't feel quite so confident. The secretary was busy on the switchboard when he came out into the anteroom, and he went by without a greeting, his mind busy, churning and confused.

      He felt as if his head were on just a little crooked. Or as if, maybe, he had a small hole in it somewhere and facts were leaking out onto the sidewalk.

      If he only looked at the problem in the right way, he told himself, he would see just what was going on.

      But what was the right way?

      "That," Malone murmured as he hailed a cab for the ride back to 69th Street, "is the big, sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. And how much time do I have for an answer?"

      Chapter 11

       Table of Contents

      "Boyd?" the agent-in-charge said. "He went out to talk to Mike Sand down at the ITU a while ago, and he hasn't come back yet."

      "Fine," Malone said. "I'll be in my office if he wants me."

      The agent-in-charge picked up a small package. "A messenger brought this," he said. "It's from the Psychical Research Society, and if it's ghosts, they're much smaller than last time."

      "Dehydrated," Malone said. "Just add ectoplasm and out they come, shouting boo at everybody and dancing all over the world."

      "Sounds wonderful," the agent-in-charge said. "Can I come to the party?"

      "First," Malone said judiciously, "you'd have to be dead. Of course, I can arrange that--"

      "Thanks," the agent-in-charge said, leaving in a hurry. Malone went on down to his office and opened the package. It contained more facsimiles from Sir Lewis Carter, all dealing with telepathic projection. He spent a few minutes looking them over and trying to make some connected sense out of them, and then he just sat and thought for awhile.

      Finally he picked up the phone. In a few minutes he was talking to Dr. Thomas O'Connor, at Yucca Flats.

      "Telepathic projection?" O'Connor said when Malone asked him the question he'd thought of. "Well, now. I should say that--no. First, Mr. Malone, tell me what evidence you have for this phenomenon."

      Malone felt almost happy, as if he had done all his homework before the instructor called on him. "According to what I've been able to get from the PRS," he said, "ordinary people--people who aren't telepaths--occasionally receive some sort of messages from other people."

      "I assume," O'Connor said frostily, "that you are speaking of telepathic messages?"

      Malone nodded guiltily. "I didn't mean the phone," he said, "or letters or things like that. Telepathic messages, or something very like it."

      "Indeed," O'Connor said. "Mr. Malone, I believe you will find that such occurrences, when accurately reported, are confined to close relatives or loved ones of the person projecting the message."

      Malone thought back. "That's right," he said.

      "And, further," O'Connor went on, "I think you'll find that the--ah-- message so received is one indicating that the projector of such a message is in dire peril. He has, for instance, been badly injured, or is rapidly approaching death, or else he has narrowly escaped death."

      "True," Malone said.

      "Under such circumstances," O'Connor said coldly, "it is possible that the mind of the person projecting the communication might be capable of generating immense psionic power, thereby forcing even a non-telepath to recognize the content of the message."

      "Good," Malone said. "That's wonderful, Doctor, and I--"

      "But," O'Connor said sharply, "the amount of psionic energy necessary for such a feat is tremendous. Usually, it is the final burst of energy, the outpouring of all the remaining psionic force immediately before death. And if death does not occur, the person is at the least greatly weakened; his mind, if it ever does recover, needs time and rest to do so."

      Malone let that sink in slowly. "Then a person couldn't do it very often," he said.

      "Hardly," O'Connor said.

      Malone nodded. "It's like--like giving blood to a blood bank. Giving, say, three quarts of blood. It might not kill you. But if it didn't, you'd be weak for a long time."

      "Exactly," O'Connor said. "A good analogy, Mr. Malone."

      Malone hated himself for it, but he felt pleased when O'Connor praised him. "Well," he said, "that winds up Cartier Taylor's theory pretty thoroughly."

      "I should think so," O'Connor said. "I am surprised, Mr. Malone, that you would put any credence whatever in that man's theories. His factual data, I will admit, is fairly reliable. But his theories are-- well, they are hardly worth the time it takes to read them."

      "I see," Malone said. "It did seem like a good answer, though."

      "It undoubtedly is a good one," O'Connor said. "It is clever and has the advantage of being simple. It is contradicted, Mr. Malone, only by the facts."

      "Sure," Malone said sadly. "But--hey. Wait a minute."

      "Yes?" O'Connor said.

      "One person couldn't do this alone, at least, not very often and not without serious harm to himself. Right?"

      "That is what I said," O'Connor agreed. "Yes, Mr. Malone."

      "But how about several people?" Malone said. "I mean, well, let's look at that blood bank again. You need three quarts of blood. But one person doesn't have to give it. Suppose twelve people gave half a pint each. Suppose twenty-four people gave a quarter of a pint each. Suppose--"

      "There is," O'Connor said, "a point of diminishing returns. But I do see your point, Mr. Malone." He thought for a second. "It might just be possible," he said. "At least theoretically. But it would take a great deal of mental co-ordination among the participants. They would have to be telepathic themselves, for one thing."

      "Why?" Malone said, feeling stupid.

      "Because they would have to mesh their thoughts closely enough to direct them properly and at the correct time." O'Connor nodded. "But, given that, I imagine that it could be done."

      "Wonderful," Malone said.

      "However," O'Connor said, apparently glad to throw even a little cold water on the notion, "it could not be done for very long periods of time, you realize."

      "Sure," Malone said happily.

      "By the way, Mr. Malone," O'Connor said. "Does this have anything to do with the hypothesis you presented to me some time ago? Mass hypnotism, as I recall--"

      "No," Malone