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

alone," Dr. Harman muttered. "Hmm. My. Well." He turned and seemed to be surprised that Malone was actually standing near him. "Yes," he said. "Well. Mr. Alone--Mr. Malone--please, whoever you are, just come into my office, please?"

      Malone looked at the little old lady. One of her eyes closed and opened. It was an unmistakable wink.

      Malone grinned at her in what he hoped was a cheerful manner. "All right," he said to the psychiatrist, "let's go." He turned with the barest trace of regret, and Boyd followed him.

      Leaving the little old lady and, unfortunately, the startling Miss Wilson, behind, the procession filed back into Dr. Harman's office.

      The doctor closed the door, and leaned against it for a second. He looked as though someone had suddenly revealed to him that the world was square. But when he spoke his voice was almost even.

      "Sit down, gentlemen," he said, and indicated chairs. "I really--well, I don't know what to say. All this time, all these years, she's been reading my mind! My mind. She's been reading ... looking right into my mind, or whatever it is."

      "Whatever what is?" Malone asked, sincerely interested. He had dropped gratefully into a chair near Boyd's, across the desk from Dr. Harman.

      "Whatever my mind is," Dr. Harmon said. "Reading it. Oh, my."

      "Dr. Harman," Malone began, but the psychiatrist gave him a bright blank stare.

      "Don't you understand?" he said. "She's a telepath."

      "We--"

      The phone on Dr. Harman's desk chimed gently. He glanced at it and said: "Excuse me. The phone." He picked up the receiver and said: "Hello?"

      There was no image on the screen.

      But the voice was image enough. "This is Andrew J. Burris," it said. "Is Kenneth J. Malone there?"

      "Mr. Malone?" the psychiatrist said. "I mean, Mr. Burris? Mr. Malone is here. Yes. Oh, my. Do you want to talk to him?"

      "No, you idiot," the voice said. "I just want to know if he's all tucked in."

      "Tucked in?" Dr. Harman gave the phone a sudden smile. "A joke," he said. "It is a joke, isn't it? The way things have been happening, you never know whether--"

      "A joke," Burris' voice said. "That's right. Yes. Am I talking to one of the patients?"

      Dr. Harman gulped, got mad, and thought better of it. At last he said, very gently; "I'm not at all sure," and handed the phone to Malone.

      The FBI agent said: "Hello, Chief. Things are a little confused."

      Burris' face appeared on the screen. "Confused, sure," he said. "I feel confused already." He took a breath. "I called the San Francisco office, and they told me you and Boyd were out there. What's going on?"

      Malone said cautiously: "We've found a telepath."

      Burris' eyes widened slightly. "Another one?"

      "What are you talking about, another one?" Malone said. "We have one. Does anybody else have any more?"

      "Well," Burris said, "we just got a report on another one--maybe. Besides yours, I mean."

      "I hope the one you've got is in better shape than the one I've got," Malone said. He took a deep breath, and then spat it all out at once: "The one we've found is a little old lady. She thinks she's Queen Elizabeth I. She's a telepath, sure, but she's nuts."

      "Queen Elizabeth?" Burris said. "Of England?"

      "That's right," Malone said. He held his breath.

      "Damn it," Burris exploded, "they've already got one!"

      Malone sighed. "This is another one," he said. "Or, rather, the original one. She also claims she's immortal."

      "Lives forever?" Burris said. "You mean like that?"

      "Immortal," Malone said. "Right."

      Burris nodded. Then he looked worried. "Tell me, Malone," he said. "She isn't, is she?"

      "Isn't immortal, you mean?" Malone said. Burris nodded. Malone said confidently: "Of course not."

      There was a little pause. Malone thought things over.

      Hell, maybe she was immortal. Stranger things had happened, hadn't they?

      He looked over at Dr. Harman. "How about that?" he said. "Could she be immortal?"

      The psychiatrist shook his head decisively. "She's been here for over forty years, Mr. Malone, ever since her late teens. Her records show all that, and her birth certificate is in perfect order. Not a chance."

      Malone sighed and turned back to the phone. "Of course she isn't immortal, Chief," he said. "She couldn't be. Nobody is. Just a nut."

      "I was afraid of that," Burris said. "Afraid?" Malone said.

      Burris nodded. "We've got another one, or anyhow we think we have," he said. "If he checks out, that is. Right here in Washington."

      "Not at--Rice Pavilion?" Malone asked.

      "No," Burris said absently. "St. Elizabeths."

      Malone sighed. "Another nut?"

      "Strait-jacket case," Burris said. "Delusions of persecution, they tell me, and paranoia, and a whole lot of other things that sound nasty as hell. I can't pronounce any of them, and that's always a bad sign."

      "Can he talk?" Malone said.

      "Who knows?" Burris told him, and shrugged. "I'm sending him on out to Yucca Flats anyhow, under guard. You might find a use for him."

      "Oh, sure," Malone said. "We can use him as a horrible example. Suppose he can't talk, or do anything? Suppose he turns violent? Suppose--"

      "We can't afford to overlook a thing," Burris said, looking stern.

      Once again, Malone sighed deeply. "I know," he said. "But all the same--"

      "Don't worry about a thing, Malone," Burris said with a palpably false air of confidence. "Everything is going to be perfectly all right." He looked like a man trying very hard to sell the Brooklyn Bridge to a born New Yorker. "You get this Queen Elizabeth of yours out of there and take her to Yucca Flats, too," he added.

      Malone considered the possibilities that were opening up. Maybe, after all, they were going to find more telepaths. And maybe all the telepaths would be nuts. When he thought about it, that didn't seem at all unlikely. He imagined himself with a talent nobody would believe he had.

      A thing like that, he told himself glumly, could drive you buggy in short order--and then where were you?

      In a loony bin, that's where you were.

      Or, possibly, in Yucca Flats. Malone pictured the scene: there they would be, just one big happy family. Kenneth J. Malone, and a convention of bats straight out of the nation's foremost loony bins.

      Fun!

      Malone began to wonder why he had gone into FBI work in the first place.

      "Listen, Chief," he said. "I--"

      "Sure, I understand," Burris said quickly. "She's batty. And this new one is batty, too. But what else can we do? Malone, don't do anything you'll regret."

      "Regret?" Malone said. "Like what?"

      "I mean, don't resign."

      "Chief, how did you know--you're not telepathic too, are you?"

      "Of course not," Burris said. "But that's what I'd do in your place."

      "Well--"

      "Remember, Malone," Burris said. His face took on a stern, stuffed expression. "Do not ask what your country can do for you," he quoted the youngest living ex-President. "Ask rather what you can do for your country."

      "Sure," Malone said sadly.

      "Well, it's true, isn't it?" Burris asked.

      "What