 Section three of Brain Twister. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Catherine Eastman. Brain Twister by Mark Phillips. Section three. The telephone rang. He alone rolled over on the couch and muttered four words under his breath. Was it absolutely necessary for someone to call him at seven in the morning? He grabbed at the receiver with one hand and picked up his cigar from the ashtray with the other. It was bad enough to be awakened from a sound sleep, but when a man hadn't been sleeping at all it was even worse. He'd been sitting up since before five that morning worrying about the telepathic spy, and at the moment he wanted sleep more than he wanted phone calls. Grr! he said sleepily and angrily, thankful that he'd never had a visa phone installed in his apartment. A taste for blondes was apparently hereditary. At any rate, Malone felt he had inherited it from his father, and he didn't want any visible strangers calling him at odd hours to interfere with his process of collection and research. He blinked at the audio circuit, and a feminine voice said, Mr. Kenneth J. Malone? Who's this? Malone said peevishly, beginning to discover himself capable of semi-rational English speech. Long distance from San Francisco, the voice said. It certainly is, Malone said. Who's calling? San Francisco is calling, the voice said, primly. Malone repressed a desire to tell the voice that he didn't want to talk to St. Francis, not even in Spanish, and said instead, Who in San Francisco? There was a momentary hiatus, and then the voice said, Mr. Thomas Boyd is calling, sir. He says this is a scramble call. Malone took a drag from his cigar, and closed his eyes. Obviously, the call was a scramble. If it had been clear, the man would have dialed direct, instead of going through what Malone now recognized as an operator. Mr. Boyd says he is the agent in charge of the San Francisco office of the FBI, the voice offered. And quite right, too, Malone told her. All right, put him on. One moment. There was a pause, a click, another pause, and then another click. At last the operator said, Your party is ready, sir. Then there was still another pause. Malone stared at the audio receiver. He began to whistle, when Irish eyes are smiling. And the sound of Irish laughter. Hello, Malone? I'm here, Tom. Malone said guiltily. This is me. What's the trouble? Trouble, Boyd said. There isn't any trouble. Well, not really. Or maybe it is. I don't know. Malone scowled at the audio receiver, and for the first time wished he had gone ahead and had a video circuit put in, so that Boyd could see the horrendous expression on his face. Look, he said, it's seven here, and that's too early. Out there it's four, and that's practically ridiculous. What's so important? He knew perfectly well that Boyd wasn't calling him just for the fun of it. The man was a damned good agent. But why a call at this hour? Malone muttered under his breath. Then self-consciously he squashed out his cigar and lit a cigarette while Boyd was saying, Ken, I think we may have found what you've been looking for. It wasn't safe to say too much, even over a scrambled circuit. But Malone got the message without difficulty. Yeah? he said, sitting up on the edge of the couch. You sure? Well, Boyd said, no, not absolutely sure. Not absolutely. But it is worth your taking a personal look, I think. Ah! Malone said cautiously. An imbecile? No, Boyd said flatly. Not an imbecile. Definitely not an imbecile. As a matter of fact, a hell of a fat long way from an imbecile. Malone glanced at his watch and skimmed over the airline timetables in his mind. I'll be there nine o'clock your time, he said, have a car waiting for me at the field. As usual, Malone managed to sleep better on the plane than he'd been able to do at home. He slept so well, in fact, that he was still groggy when he stepped into the waiting car. Good to see you, Ken, Boyd said briskly as he shook Malone's hand. You too, Tom, Malone said sleepily. Now, what's all this about? He looked around apprehensively. No bugs in this car, I hope, he said. Boyd gunned the motor and headed towards the San Francisco freeway. Better not be, he said, or I'll fire me a technician or two. Well then, Malone said, relaxing against the upholstery. Where is this guy and who is he, and how did you find him? Boyd looked uncomfortable. It was somehow both an awe-inspiring and a slightly risible sight. Six feet one and one-half inches tall in his flat feet, Boyd posted around over two hundred and twenty pounds of bone, flesh, and muscle. He swung a potbelly of startling proportions under the silk-shirting he wore, and his face, with its wide nose, small eyes, and high forehead, was half highly mature, half startlingly childlike. In an apparent effort to erase those childlike qualities, Boyd sported a fringe of beard and mustache which reminded Malone of somebody he couldn't quite place. But whoever the somebody was, his hair hadn't been black as Boyd's was. He decided it didn't make any difference. Anyhow, Boyd was speaking. In the first place, he said, it isn't a guy. In the second, I'm not exactly sure who it is. And in the third, I didn't find it. There was a little silence. Don't tell me, Malone said. It's a telepathic horse, isn't it? Tom, I just don't think I could stand a telepathic horse. No, Boyd said hastily. No, not at all. No horse. It's a dame. I mean a lady. He looked away from the road and flashed a glance at Malone. His eyes seemed to be pleading for something. Understanding, possibly, Malone thought. Frankly, Boyd said, I'd rather not tell you anything about her just yet. I'd rather you met her first. Then you could make up your own mind. All right? All right, Malone said wearily. Do it your own way. How far do we have to go? Just about an hour's drive, Boyd said. That's all. Malone slumped back in the seat and pushed his hat over his eyes. Fine, he said. Suppose you wake me up when we get there. But groggy as he was, he couldn't sleep. He wished he'd had some coffee on the plane. Maybe it would have made him feel better. Then again coffee was only coffee. True, he had never acquired his father's taste for gin, and imagined, therefore, that it wasn't hereditary, like a taste for blondes. But there was always bourbon. He thought about bourbon for a few minutes. It was a nice thought. It warmed him and made him feel a lot better. After a while he even felt awake enough to do some talking. He pushed his hat back and struggled to a reasonable sitting position. I don't suppose you have a drink hidden away in the car somewhere, he said tentatively. Or would the technicians have found that, too? Better not have, Boyd said in the same tone as before, or I'll fire a couple of technicians. He grinned without turning. It's in the door compartment, next to the forty-five cartridges in the tommy gun. Malone opened the compartment in the thick door of the car and extracted a bottle. It was Christian Brothers' brandy, instead of the bourbon he had been thinking about, but he discovered that he didn't mind at all. It went down as smoothly as milk. Boyd glanced at it momentarily as Malone screwed the top back on. No, Malone said, in answer to the unspoken question, you're driving. Then he settled back again and tipped his hat forward. He didn't sleep all wink. He was perfectly sure of that. But it wasn't over two seconds later that Boyd said, we're here, Ken, wake up. What do you mean, wake up? Malone said, I wasn't asleep. He thumbed his hat back and sat up rapidly. Where's here? Bayview Neuropsychiatric Hospital, Boyd said. This is where Dr. Harmon works, you know. No, Malone said. As a matter of fact, I don't know. You didn't tell me, remember? And who's Dr. Harmon, anyhow? The car was moving up a long, curving driveway toward a large, long-surrounded building. Boyd spoke without looking away from the road. Well, he said, this Dr. Wilson Harmon is the man who phoned us yesterday. One of my field agents was out here asking around about imbeciles and so on. Found nothing, by the way. And then this Dr. Harmon called later. Said he had someone here I might be interested in. So I came on out myself for a look, yesterday afternoon. After all, we had instructions to follow up every possible lead. I know, Malone said. I wrote them. Oh, Boyd said. Sure, well, anyhow, I talked to this dame, lady. And...? And I talked to her. Boyd said. I'm not entirely sure of anything myself. But, well, hell, you take a look at her. He pulled the car up to a parking space, slid nonchalantly into a slot marked Reserved Executive Director Sutton, and slid out from under the wheel while Malone got out the other side. He marched up the broad steps, threw the doorway, and into the glass-fronted office of the receptionist. Boyd showed her his little golden badge, and got an appropriate gasp. FBI, he said, Dr. Harmon's expecting us. The wait wasn't over fifteen seconds. Boyd and Malone marched down the hall and around a couple of corners, and came to the doctor's office. The door was opaque glass, with nothing but a room number stenciled on it. Without ceremony, Boyd pushed the door open. Malone followed him inside. The office was small, but sunny. Dr. Wilson Harmon sat behind a blonde wood desk, a little man with crew-cut blonde hair and rimless eyeglasses, who looked about thirty-two, and couldn't possibly, Malone thought, have been anywhere near that young. Look, Malone noticed a better age indication in the eyes and forehead, and revised his first guess upward between ten and fifteen years. Come in, gentlemen! Dr. Harmon called. His voice was that rarity, a really loud, high tenor. Dr. Harmon, Boyd said, this is my superior, Mr. Malone. We'd like to have a talk with Miss Thompson if we might. I anticipated that, sir, Dr. Harmon said. Miss Thompson is in the next room. Have you explained to Mr. Malone that— I haven't explained a thing, Boyd said quickly, and added, in what was obviously intended to be a casual tone, Mr. Malone wants to get a picture of Miss Thompson directly, without any preconceptions. I see, Dr. Harmon said, very well, gentlemen, through this door. He opened the door in the right-hand wall of the room, and Malone took one look. It was a long, long look. Standing framed in the doorway, dressed in the starched white of a nurse's uniform, was the most beautiful blonde he had ever seen. She had curves. She definitely had curves. As a matter of fact, Malone didn't really think he had ever seen curves before. These were something new and different and truly three-dimensional. But it wasn't the curves or the long straight lines of her legs or the quiet beauty of her face that made her so special. After all, Malone had seen legs and bodies and faces before. At least he thought he had. Offhand, he couldn't remember where. Looking at the girl, Malone was ready to write brand-new definitions for every anatomical term, even a term like hands. Malone had never seen anything especially arousing in the human hand before. Anyway, not when the hand was just lying around, so to speak, attached to its wrist, but not doing anything in particular. But these hands, long, slender and tapering, white and cool-looking. And yet it wasn't just the sheer physical beauty of the girl. She had something else, something more, and something different. Something borrowed Malone thought in a semi-delirious haze, and something blue. Personality? Character? Soul? Whatever it was, Malone decided this girl had it. She had enough of it to supply the entire human race and any others that might exist in the universe. Malone smiled at the girl, and she smiled back. After seeing the smile, Malone wasn't sure he could still walk evenly. Somehow, though, he managed to go over to her and extend his hand. The notion that a telepath would turn out to be this mind-searing epitome had never crossed his mind, but now somehow it seemed perfectly fitting and proper. Good morning, Miss Thompson, he said, in what he hoped was a winning voice. The smile disappeared. It was like the sun going out. The vision appeared to be troubled. Malone was about to volunteer his help, if necessary, for the next seventy years when she spoke. I'm not Miss Thompson, she said. This is one of our nurses, Dr. Harmon put in. Miss Wilson, Mr. Malone, and Mr. Boyd. Miss Thompson, gentlemen, is over there. Malone turned. There, in a corner of the room, an old lady sat. She was a small old lady, with apple-red cheeks and twinkling eyes. She held some knitting in her hands, and she smiled up at the FBI men as if they were her grandsons come for tea and cookies of a Sunday afternoon. She had snow-white hair that shone like a crown around her old head in the lights of the room. Malone blinked at her. She didn't disappear. You're Miss Thompson, he said. She smiled sweetly. Oh, my, no, she said. There was a long silence. Malone looked at her. Then he looked at the unbelievably beautiful Miss Wilson. Then he looked at Dr. Harmon. And at last he looked at Boyd. All right, he said. I get it. You're Miss Thompson. Now wait a minute, Malone. Boyd began. Wait a minute, Malone said. There are four people here not counting me. I know I'm not Miss Thompson. I never was, not even as a child. And Dr. Harmon isn't. And Miss Wilson isn't. And Whistler's great-grandmother isn't either. So you must be. Unless she isn't here, or unless she's invisible, or unless I'm crazy. It isn't you, Malone, Boyd said. What isn't me? That's crazy, Boyd said. Okay, Malone said. I'm not crazy. Then will somebody please tell me? The little old lady cleared her throat. A silence fell. When it was complete, she spoke, and her voice was as sweet and kindly as anything Malone had ever heard. You may call me Miss Thompson, she said, for the present at any rate. They all do here. It's a pseudonym I have to use. A pseudonym? Malone said. You see, Mr. Malone. Miss Wilson began. Malone stopped her. Don't talk, he said. I have to concentrate, and if you talk, I can barely think. He took off his hat suddenly, and began twisting the brim in his hands. You understand, don't you? The trace of a smile appeared on her face. I think I do, she said. Now, Malone said, you're Miss Thompson, but not really, because you have to use a pseudonym. He blinked at the little old lady. Why? Well, she said, otherwise people would find out about my little secret. Your little secret, Malone said. That's right, the little old lady said. I am immortal, you see. Malone said, oh. Then he kept quiet for a long time. It didn't seem to him that anyone in the room was breathing. He said, oh, again, but it didn't sound any better than it had the first time. He tried another phrase. You're immortal, he said. That's right, the little old lady agreed sweetly. There was only one other question to ask, and Malone set his teeth grimly and asked it. It came out just a trifle indistinct, but the little old lady nodded. My real name, she said. Elizabeth, Elizabeth Tudor, of course, I used to be queen. Of England, Malone said faintly. Malone, look, Boyd began. Let me get it all at once, Malone told him. I'm strong, I can take it. He twisted his hat again and turned back to the little old lady. You're immortal, and you're not really Miss Thompson but Queen Elizabeth I. He said slowly. That's right, she said. How clever of you. Of course, after little Jimmy, cousin Mary's boy, I mean, said I was dead and claimed the throne, I decided to change my name and all. And that's what I did, but I am Elizabeth Regina. She smiled and her eyes twinkled merrily. Malone stared at her for a long minute. Burris, he thought, is going to love this. Oh, I'm so glad, the little old lady said. Do you really think he will? Because I'm sure I'll like your Mr. Burris, too. All you FBI men are so charming, just like poor, poor Essex. Well, Malone told himself that was that. He'd found himself a telepath, and she wasn't an imbecile. Oh, no, that would have been simple. Instead, she was batier than a cathedral spire. The long silence was broken by the voice of Miss Wilson. Mr. Malone, she said, you've been thinking. She stopped. I mean, you've been so quiet. I like being quiet, Malone said patiently. Besides, he stopped and turned to the little old lady. Can you really read my mind? He thought deliberately. After a second he added, Your Majesty. How sweet of you, Mr. Malone. She said, nobody's called me that for centuries, but of course I can. Although it's not reading, really. After all, that would be like asking if I can read your voice. Of course I can, Mr. Malone. That does it, Malone said. I'm not a hard man to convince, and when I see the truth, I'm the first one to admit it, even if it makes me look like a nut. He turned back to the little old lady, begging your pardon, he said. Oh, my. The little old lady said, I really don't mind at all. Sticks and stones, you know, can break my bones. But being called nuts, Mr. Malone can never hurt me. After all, it's been so many years, so many hundreds of years. Sure, Malone said easily. Boyd broke in. Listen, Malone, he said, do you mind telling me what the hell is going on? It's very simple, Malone said. Miss Thompson here, pardon me, I mean Queen Elizabeth I, really is a telepath. That's all. I think I want to lie down somewhere until it goes away. Until what goes away? Miss Wilson said. Malone stared at her, almost without seeing her, if not quite. Everything, he said. He closed his eyes. My goodness! the little old lady said after a second. Everything so confused! Poor Mr. Malone is terribly shaken up by everything. She stood up, still holding her knitting, and went across the room. Before the astonished eyes of the doctor and nurse and Tom Boyd, she padded the FBI agent on the shoulder. There, there, Mr. Malone, she said, it will all be perfectly all right, you'll see. Then she returned to her seat. Malone opened his eyes. My God, he said. He closed them again, but they flew open as if of their own accord. He turned to Dr. Harmon. You called up Boyd here, he said, and told him that Miss Thompson was a telepath. How'd you know? It's all right, the little old lady put in from her chair. I don't mind your calling me Miss Thompson, not right now anyhow. Thanks, Malone said faintly. Dr. Harmon was blinking in a kind of befuddled astonishment. You mean she really is a— He stopped and brought his tenor voice to a squeaking halt, regained his professional poise, and began again. I'd rather not discuss the patient in her presence, Mr. Malone, he said, if you'll just come into my office. Oh, Bosch, Dr. Harmon, the little old lady said primely, I do wish you'd give your own queen credit for some ability. Goodness knows you think you're smart enough. Now, now, Miss Thompson, he said, in what was obviously his best grade A choice government-inspected couchside manner, don't upset yourself, she finished for him. Now, really, Doctor, I know what you're going to tell them. But Miss Thompson, I— You didn't honestly think I was a telepath? The little old lady said, Heavens, we know that, and you're going to tell them how I used to say I could read minds, oh, years and years ago. And because of that, you thought it might be worthwhile to tell the FBI about me, which wasn't very kind of you, Doctor, before you know anything about why they wanted somebody like me. Now, now, Miss Thompson, Miss Wilson said, walking across the room to put an arm around the little old lady's shoulder. Malone wished for one brief second that he were the little old lady. Maybe if he were a patient in the hospital, he would get the same treatment. He wondered if he could possibly work such a deal. Then he wondered if it would be worthwhile being nuts. But of course it would. He was nuts anyhow, wasn't he? Sure, he told himself, they were all nuts. Nobody's going to hurt you, Miss Wilson said. She was talking to the old lady. You'll be perfectly all right, and you don't have to worry about a thing. Oh yes, dear, I know that. The little old lady said, you only want to help me, dear, you're so kind. And these FBI men really don't mean any harm. But Doctor Hyman didn't know that. He just thinks I'm crazy, and that's all. Please, Miss Thompson, Doctor Hyman began. Just crazy, that's all. The little old lady said. She turned away for a second, and nobody said anything. Then she turned back. Do you all know what he's thinking now? She said. Doctor Hyman turned a dull purple, but she ignored him. He is wondering why I didn't take the trouble to prove all this to you years ago. And besides that, he's thinking about Miss Thompson, Doctor Hyman said. His bedside manner had cracked through, and his voice was harsh and strained. Please. Oh, all right, she said a little petulantly, if you want to keep all that private. Malone broke in suddenly, fascinated. Why didn't you prove you were telepathic before now, he said. The little old lady smiled at him. Why, because you wouldn't have believed me, she said. She dropped her knitting neatly in her lap and folded her hands over it. None of you wanted to believe me, she said, and sniffed. Miss Wilson moved nervously, and she looked up. And don't tell me it's going to be all right. I know it's going to be all right. I'm going to make sure of that. Malone felt a sudden chill. But it was obvious, he told himself, that the little old lady didn't mean what she was saying. She smiled at him again, and her smile was as sweet and guileless as the smile on the face of his very own sainted grandmother. Not that Malone remembered his grandmother. She had died before he'd been born. But if he'd had a grandmother, and if he'd remembered her, he was sure she would have had the same sweet smile. So she couldn't have meant what she'd said. Would Malone's own grandmother make things difficult for him? The very idea was ridiculous. Dr. Harmon opened his mouth, apparently changed his mind, and shut it again. The little old lady turned to him. Were you going to ask why I bothered to prove anything to Mr. Malone? She said, Of course you were, and I shall tell you. It's because Mr. Malone wanted to believe me. He wants me. He needs me. I'm a telepath, and that's enough for Mr. Malone, isn't it? Good, Malone said, taken by surprise. After a second he added, I guess so. You see, doctor, the little old lady said. But you, Dr. Harmon began, I read minds, the little old lady said. That's right, doctor. That's what makes me a telepath. Malone's brain was whirling rapidly, like a distant galaxy. Telepath was a nice word, he thought. How do you telepath from a road? Simple, the road is paved. Malone thought that was pretty funny, but he didn't laugh. He thought he would never laugh again. He wanted to cry a little, but he didn't think he'd be able to manage that, either. He twisted his hat, but it didn't make him feel any better. Gradually he became aware that the little old lady was talking to Dr. Harmon again. But, she said, since it will make you feel so much better, doctor, we give you our royal permission to retire and to speak to Mr. Malone alone. Malone alone, Dr. Harmon muttered, hmm, my, well. He turned, and seemed to be surprised that Malone was actually standing near him. Yes, he said, well, 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 a 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. Harmon'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. Harmon. Whatever my mind is, Dr. Harmon said, reading it, oh, my. Dr. Harmon, 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. Harmon'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. Harmon 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's voice said. That's right, yes. Am I talking to one of the patients? Dr. Harmon 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's 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's 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. Well, maybe she was immortal. Stranger things had happened, hadn't they? He looked over at Dr. Harmon. 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, Saint Elizabeth's. Malone sighed, another nut. Straight 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 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 the 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 baddie, and this new one is baddie 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 if it is? Malone said. It's still terrible. Everything is terrible. Look at the situation. I am looking, Burris said, and it's another new frontier. Just like it was when President Kennedy first said those words. A new frontier inhabited entirely by maniacs, Malone said. Perfectly wonderful. What a way to run a world. That, Burris said, is the way the ball bounces, or whatever you're supposed to say. Malone, don't think you haven't got my sympathy. You have. I know how hard the job is you're doing. You couldn't, Malone told him bitterly. Well, anyhow, Burris went on. Don't resign. Stay on the job. Don't give it up, Malone. Don't desert the ship. I want you to promise me you won't do it. Look, Chief, Malone said. These nuts. Malone, you've done a wonderful job so far. Burris said, you'll get a raise and a better job when all this is over. Who else would have thought of looking in the twitch bins for telepads? But you did, Malone, and I'm proud of you, and you're stuck with it. We've got to use them now. We have to find that spy. He took a breath. On to Yucca flats, he said. Malone gave up. Yes, sir, he said. Anything else? Not right now, Burris said. If there is, I'll let you know. Malone hung up unhappily as the image vanished. He looked across at Dr. Harmon. Well, he said, that's that. What do I have to do to get a release for Miss Thompson? Harmon stared at him. But Mr. Malone, he said, that just isn't possible. Really, Miss Thompson is a ward of the state, and we couldn't possibly allow her release without a court order. Malone thought that over. Okay, he said at last. I can see that. He turned to Boyd. Here's a job for you, Tom, he said. Get one of the judges on the phone. You'll know which one will do us the most good, fastest. Mmm, Boyd said. Say Judge Dunning, he said. Good man, fast worker. I don't care who, Malone said. Just get going, and get us a release for Miss Thompson. He turned back to the doctor. By the way, he said, has she got any other name besides Elizabeth Tudor, I mean? He added hurriedly. Her full name, Dr. Harmon said, is Rose Walker Thompson. She is not Queen Elizabeth I, II, or the XXVIII, and she is not immortal. But she is, Malone pointed out, a telepath, and that's why I want her. She may, Dr. Harmon said, be a telepath. It was obvious that he had partly managed to forget the disturbing incidents that had happened a few minutes before. I don't even want to discuss that part of it. Okay, never mind it, Malone said agreeably. Tom, get us a court order for Rose Walker Thompson, effective yesterday, a day before, if possible. Boyd nodded, but before he could get to the phone, Dr. Harmon spoke again. Now wait a moment, gentlemen, he said. Court order, or no court order, Miss Thompson is definitely not a well woman, and I can't see my way clear to. I'm not well myself, Malone said. I need sleep, and I probably have a cold. But I've got to work for the national security, and... This is important, Boyd put in. I don't dispute that, Dr. Harmon said. Nevertheless, I... The door that led into the other room burst suddenly open. The three men turned to stare at Miss Wilson, who stood in the doorway for a long second, and then stepped into the office, closing the door quietly behind her. I'm sorry to interrupt, she said. Not at all, Malone said. It's a pleasure to have you, come again soon. He smiled at her. She didn't smile back. Doctor, she said, you'd really better talk to Miss Thompson. I'm not at all sure what I can do. It's something new. New, he said, the worry lines on his face were increasing, but he spoke softly. The poor dear thinks she's going to get out of the hospital now. Miss Wilson said, for some reason she's convinced that the FBI is going to get her released, and... As she saw the expression on three faces, she stopped. What's wrong? She said. Miss Wilson, Malone said, we... May I call you by your first name? Of course, Mr. Malone. She said, there was a little silence. Miss Wilson, Malone said, what is your first name? She smiled now, very gently. Malone wanted to walk through mountains or climb fire. He felt confused, but wonderful. Barbara, she said. Lovely, he said. Well, Barbara, and please call me Ken, it's short for Kenneth. The smile on her face broadened. I thought it might be, she said. Well, Malone said softly. It is, Kenneth, that's my name, and your Barbara. Boyd cleared his throat. Ah, Malone said. Yes, of course. Barbara, well, that's just what we intend to do. Take Miss Thompson away. We need her, badly. Dr. Harmon had said nothing at all, and had barely moved. He was staring at a point on his desk. She couldn't possibly have heard us, he muttered. That's a soundproof door. She couldn't have heard us. But you can't take Miss Thompson away, Miss Wilson said. We have to, Barbara, Malone said gently. Try to understand, it's for the national security. She heard us thinking, Dr. Harmon muttered. That's what she heard us thinking, behind a soundproof door. She can see inside their minds. She can even see inside my mind. She's a sick woman, Barbara said. But you have to understand. Vital necessity, Boyd put in, absolutely vital. Nevertheless, Barbara said. She can read minds, Dr. Harmon whispered in an odd tone. She knows everything. She knows. It's out of the question, Barbara said. Whether you like it or not, Miss Thompson is not going to leave this hospital. Why, what could she do outside these walls? She hasn't left in over forty years, and furthermore, Mr. Malone. Kenneth Malone put in as the door opened again. I mean, can. The little old lady put her hallowed head into the room. Now, now, Barbara, she said, don't you go spoiling things. Just let these nice men take me away, and everything will be fine, believe me. Besides, I've been outside more often than you imagine. Outside, Barbara said. Of course, the little old lady said. In other people's minds, even yours, I remember that nice young man. What was his name? Never mind his name, Barbara said, flushing furiously. Malone felt instantly jealous of every nice young man he had ever even heard of. He wasn't a nice young man. He was an FBI agent, and liked to get drunk, and smoke cigars, and carouse with loose women. Anyway, reasonably loose women. All nice young men, he decided, should be turned into ugly old men as soon as possible. That'll fix them. He noticed the little old lady smiling at him, and tried to change his thoughts rapidly. But the little old lady said nothing at all. At any rate, Barbara said, I'm afraid that we just can't. Dr. Harmon cleared his throat imperiously. It was a most impressive noise, and everyone turned to look at him. His face was a little gray, but he looked otherwise, like a rather pudgy, blonde, crew-cut Roman emperor. Just a moment, he said with dignity. I think you're doing the United States of America a grave injustice, Miss Wilson, and that you're doing an injustice to Miss Thompson, too. What do you mean? she said. I think it would be nice for her to get away from me. I mean from here, the psychiatrist said. Where did you say you were taking her? he asked Malone. Yuck-a-flats, Malone said. Ah! the news seemed to please the psychiatrist. That's a long distance from here, isn't it? It's quite a few hundred miles away, perhaps even a few thousand miles away. I feel sure that will be the best thing for me, I mean of course for Miss Thompson. I shall recommend that the court so order. Dr. But even Barbara saw Malone could tell that it was no good arguing with Dr. Harmon. She tried a last attack. Doctor, who's going to take care of her? A light the size and shape of North America burst in Malone's mind. He almost chortled, but he managed to keep his voice under control. What she needs, he said, is a trained psychiatric nurse. Barbara Wilson gave him a look that had carloads of U-235 stacked away in it, but Malone barely minded. She'd get over it, he told himself. Now wasn't that sweet of you to think of that, the little old lady said. Malone looked at her and was rewarded with another wink. But God, he thought, she reads minds. I'm certainly glad you thought of Barbara, the little old lady went on. You will go with me, won't you, dear? I'll make you a duchess. Wouldn't you like to be a duchess, dear? Barbara looked from Malone to the little old lady, and then she looked at Dr. Harmon. Apparently what she saw failed to make her happy. We'll take good care of her, Barbara, Malone said. She didn't even bother to give him an answer. After a second, Boyd said, Well, I guess that settles it. If you let me use your phone, Dr. Harmon, I'll call Judge Dunning. Go right ahead, Dr. Harmon said. Go right ahead. The little old lady smiled softly without looking at anybody at all. Won't it be wonderful? she whispered. At last I've been recognized. My country is about to pay me for my services, my loyal subjects. She stopped and wiped what Malone thought was a tear from one cornflower blue eye. Now, now, Miss Thompson, Barbara said. I'm not sad, the little old lady said, smiling up at her. I'm just so very happy. I am about to get my reward, my well-deserved reward at last, from all of my loyal subjects. You'll see. She paused, and Malone felt a faint stirring of stark, chill fear. Won't it be wonderful? said the little old lady. End of Chapter 3 of Brain Twister Chapter 4 of Brain Twister by Mark Phillips This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Catherine Eastman. July 2008 Brain Twister by Mark Phillips. Chapter 4 You're where! Andrew J. Burris said. Malone looked at the surprised face on the screen, and wished he hadn't called. He had to report in, of course, but if he'd had any sense he'd have ordered Boyd to do the job for him. Oh well, it was too late for that now. I'm in Las Vegas, he said. I tried to get you last night, but I couldn't, so I... Las Vegas, Burris said. Well, well, Las Vegas. His face darkened, and his voice became very loud. Why aren't you in yuck-a-flats? he screamed. Because she insisted on it, Malone said. The old lady, Miss Thompson, she says there's another telepath here. Burris closed his eyes. Well, that's a relief, he said at last. Somebody in one of the gambling houses, I suppose. Fine, Malone. He went right on without a pause. The boys have uncovered two more in various parts of the nation. Not one of them is even close to saying. He opened his eyes. Where's this one? he said. Malone sighed. In the loony bin, he said. Burris's eyes closed again. Malone waited in silence. At last Burris said, All right, get him out. All right, Malone said. Tell me, Burris said. Why did Miss Thompson insist that you go to Las Vegas? Somebody else could have done the job. You could have sent Boyd, couldn't you? Chief, Malone said slowly, What sort of mental condition are those other telepaths in? Pretty bad, Burris said. As a matter of fact, very bad. Miss Thompson may be off her trolley, but the others haven't even got any tracks. He paused. What's that got to do with it? he said. Well, Malone said, I figured we'd better handle Miss Thompson with kid gloves, at least until we find a better telepath to work with. He didn't mention Barbara Wilson. The chief, he told himself, didn't want to be bothered with details. Dog on right, you'd better. Burris said, You treat that old lady as if she were the queen herself, understand? Don't worry, Malone said unhappily. We are. He hesitated. She says she'll help us find our spy all right, but we've got to do it her way, or else she won't cooperate. Do it her way then. Burris said, That spy. Chief, Are you sure? Burris blinked. Well then, he said, What is her way? Malone took a deep breath. First, he said, We had to come here and pick this guy up, this William Logan, who's in a private sanitarium just outside of Las Vegas. That's number one. Miss Thompson wants to get all the telepaths together so they can hold mental conversations or something. And all of them batty, Burris said. Sure, Malone said, A convention of nuts and me in the middle. Listen chief. Later, Burris said, When all this is over we can all resign or go fishing or just plain shoot ourselves. But right now the national security is primary Malone. Remember that. Okay, Malone said. Okay, but she wants all the nuts here. Go along with her, Burris snapped. Keep her happy. So far Malone, she's the only lead we have on the guy who's swiping information from Yucca Flats. If she wants something Malone, you do it. But chief, Don't interrupt me. Burris said, If she wants to be treated like a queen, you treat her like one. Malone, that's an order. Yes, sir. Malone said sadly. But chief, she wants us to buy her some new clothes. My God. Burris exploded. Is that all? New clothes. Get them. Put them on the expense account. New clothes are a drop in the bucket. Well, she thinks we need new clothes, too. Maybe you do, Burris said. Put the whole thing on the expense account. You don't think I'm going to quibble about a few dollars, do you? Well, get the clothes. Just don't bother me with details like this. Handle the job yourself, Malone. You're in charge out there. And get to Yucca Flats as soon as possible. Malone gave up. Yes, sir, he said. All right, then. Burris said, Call me tomorrow. Meanwhile, good luck, Malone. Chin up. Malone said, Yes, sir. And reached for the switch. But Burris's voice stopped him. Just one thing, he said. Yes, chief, Malone said. Burris frowned. Don't spend any more for the clothes than you have to, he said. Malone nodded and cut off. When the director's image had vanished, he got up and went to the window of the hotel room. Outside a huge sign told the world, and Malone, that this was the Thunderbird Hilton Zekendorf Hotel. But Malone ignored it. He didn't need a sign. He knew where he was. In hot water, he thought, that's where he was. Behind him the door opened. Malone turned as Boyd came in. I found a costume shop, Ken, he said. Great, Malone said. The chief authorized it. He did. Boyd's round face fell at the news. He said to buy her whatever she wants. He says to treat her like a queen. That, Boyd said, we're doing now. I know it, Malone said. I know it all together too well. Anyhow, Boyd said, brightening, the costume shop doesn't do us any good. They've only got cowboy stuff and bullfighter's costumes and Mexican stuff. You know, for their hell Dorado week here. You didn't give up, did you? Malone said. Boyd shook his head. Of course not, he said. Ken, this is on the expense account, isn't it? Expense account, Malone said. Sure it is. Boyd looked relieved. Good, he said, because I had the proprietor phone her size in to New York. Better get two of them, Malone said. The chief said anything she wanted she was supposed to have. I'll go back right away. I told him we wanted the stuff on the afternoon plane, so... and give him bar Miss Wilson's size and yours and mine. Tell him to dig up something appropriate. For us, Boyd blanched visibly. For us, Malone said grimly. Boyd said his jaw. No, he said. Listen, Tom. Malone said, I don't like this any better than you do. But if I can't resign, you can't either. Costumes for everybody. But Boyd said and stopped. After a second, he went on. Malone, Ken. FBI agents are supposed to be inconspicuous, aren't they? Malone nodded. Well, how inconspicuous are we going to be in this stuff? It's an idea, Malone said. But it isn't a very good one. Our first job is to keep Miss Thompson happy. And that means costumes. Boyd said, my God. And what's more, Malone added, from now on she's your Majesty. Got that? Ken, Boyd said, you've got nuts. Malone shook his head. No, I haven't, he said. I just wish I had. It would be a relief. Me too, Boyd said. He started for the door and turned. I wish I could have stayed in San Francisco, he said. Why should she insist on taking me along? The beard, Malone said. My beard? Boyd recoiled. Right, Malone said. She says it reminds her of someone she knows. Frankly, it reminds me of someone too, only I don't know who. Boyd gulped. I'll shave it off, he said. With the air of a man who can do no more to propitiate the gods. You will not, Malone said firmly. Touch but a hair of young black chin and I'll peel off your entire skin. Boyd winced. Now, Malone said, go back to that costume shop and arrange things. Here. He fished in his pockets and came out with a crumpled slip of paper and handed it to Boyd. That's a list of my clothing sizes. Get another list from Miss Wilson. Boyd nodded. Malone thought he detected a strange glint in the other man's eye. Don't measure her yourself, he said, just ask her. Boyd scratched his bearded chin and nodded slowly. All right, Ken, he said. But if we just don't get anywhere, don't blame me. If you get anywhere, Malone said, I'll snatch you bald-headed and I'll leave the beard. I didn't mean with Miss Wilson, Ken, Boyd said. I meant in general. He left with the air of a man whose world has betrayed him. His back looked to Malone like the back of a man on his way to the scaffold or guillotine. The door closed. Now Malone thought, who does that beard remind me of? Who do I know who knows Miss Thompson? And what difference does it make? Nevertheless, he told himself, Boyd's beard, Beards Boyd, was really an admirable fact of nature. Ever since beards had become popular again in the mid-sixties and FBI agents had been permitted to wear them, Malone had thought about going one. But somehow it didn't seem right. Now, looking at Boyd, he began to think about the prospect again. He shrugged the notion away. There were things to do. He picked up the phone and called information. Can you give me, he said, the number of the desert edge sanatorium? The crimson blob of the setting sun was already painting the desert sky with its customary purples and oranges by the time the little caravan arrived at the desert edge sanatorium, a square white building several miles out of Las Vegas. Malone, in the first car, wondered briefly about the kind of patients they catered to. People driven mad by vanthea or poker dice? Neurotic chorus ponies? Gambling zars with delusions of non-persecution? Sitting in the front seat next to Boyd, he watched the unhappy San Francisco agent manipulating the wheel. In the back seat, Queen Elizabeth Thompson and Lady Barbara, the nurse, were located, and her majesty was chattering away like a magpie. Malone eyed the rearview mirror to get a look at the car following them and the two local FBI agents in it. They were, he thought, unbelievably lucky. He had to sit and listen to the royal personage in the back seat. Of course, as soon as Parliament convenes and recognizes me, she was saying, I shall confer personages on all of you. Right now the best I could do was to knight you all, and of course that's hardly enough. But I think I shall make Sir Kenneth the Duke of Columbia. Sir Kenneth, Malone realized, was himself. He wondered how he'd like being Duke of Columbia, and wouldn't the President be surprised? And Sir Thomas, the Queen continued, will be Duke of—what? Sir Thomas? Yes, Your Majesty? Boyd said, trying to sound both eager and properly respectful. What would you like to be Duke of? She said. Oh! Boyd said, after a second's thought, anything that pleases Your Majesty. But apparently his thoughts gave him away. You're from upstate New York, the Queen said. How very nice! Then you must be made the Duke of Pukipsy. Thank you, Your Majesty! Boyd said. Malone thought he detected a note of pride in the man's voice and shot a glance at Boyd, but the agent was driving with a serene face and an economy of motion. Duke of Pukipsy Malone thought, ha! He leaned back and adjusted his fur-trimmed coat. The plume that fell from his cap kept tickling his neck, and he brushed at it without success. All four of the inhabitants of the car were dressed in late sixteenth-century costumes, complete with ruffs and velvet and lace filigree. Her Majesty and Lady Barbara were wearing the full skirts and small skull-caps of the era, and on Barbara Malone thought privately. The low-cut gowns didn't look at all disappointing. And Sir Thomas and Malone—Sir Kenneth, he thought sourly—were clad in doublet, hose, and long coats with fur-trimmed and slashed sleeves, and all of them were loaded down, weighted down, staggeringly, with gems. Naturally the gems were fake, but then Malone thought the Queen was mad. It all balanced out in the end. As they approached the sanitarium, Malone breathed a thankful prayer that he'd called up to tell the head physician how they'd all be dressed. If he hadn't, he didn't want to think about that. He didn't even want to pass it by hurriedly on a dark night. The head physician, Dr. Frederick Dawson, was waiting for them on the steps of the building. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man with almost no hair and very deep, sunken eyes. He had the kind of face that a gushing female would probably describe Malone thought as craggy, but it didn't look in the least attractive to Malone. Instead it looked tough and forbidding. He didn't turn a hair as the magnificently robed void slid from the front seat, opened the rear door, doffed his plume tat, and in one low sweep made a great bow. We are here, Your Majesty," Boyd said. Her Majesty got out, clutching at her voluminous skirts in a worried manner, to keep from catching them on the door-jam. You know, Sir Thomas, she said, when she was standing free of the car, I think we must be related. Ah! Boyd said, worriedly, I am certain of it, in fact," Her Majesty went on. You look just exactly like my poor father, just exactly. I daresay you come from one of the sinister branches of the family. Perhaps you are a half-brother of mine. It removed, of course. Malone grinned, and tried to hide the expression. Boyd was looking puzzled, then distantly angered. Nobody had ever called him illegitimate in just that way before. But Her Majesty was absolutely right, Malone thought. The agent had always reminded him of someone, and now, at last, he knew exactly who. The hair hadn't been black, either, but red. Boyd was, in Elizabethan costume, the deadest of dead ringers for Henry VIII. Malone went up the steps to where Dr. Dowson was standing. I'm Malone, he said, checking a tendency to bow. I called earlier today. Is this William Logan of yours ready to go? We can take him back with us in the second car. Dr. Dowson compressed his lips and looked worried. Come in, Mr. Malone, he said. He turned just as the second carload of FBI agents began emptying itself over the hospital grounds. The entire procession filed into the hospital office, the two local agents following up the rear. Since they were not a part of Her Majesty's personal retinue, they had not been required to wear court costumes. In a way, Malone was beginning to feel sorry for them. He himself cut a nice figure in the outfit, he thought, rather like Errol Flynn in the old black-and-white print of The Prince and the Popper. But there was no denying that the procession looked strange. File clerks and receptionists stopped their work to gape at the four bedisand walkers and their plainly dressed satellites. Malone needed no telepathic talent to tell what they were thinking. A whole roundup of nuts, they were thinking, and those two fellows in the back must be bringing them in, along with Dr. Dowson. Malone straightened his spine. Really, he didn't see why Elizabethan costumes had ever gone out of style. Elizabeth was back, wasn't she? Either Elizabeth II on the throne, or Elizabeth I right behind him. Either way you looked at it. When they were all inside the waiting room, Dr. Dowson said, Now Mr. Malone, just what is all this about? He rubbed his long hands together. I failed to see the humor of the situation. Humor, Malone said. Dr. Barbara Wilson began. Let me explain. You see... These ridiculous costumes, Dr. Dowson said, waving a hand at them. You may feel that poking fun at insanity is humorous, Mr. Malone, but let me tell you... It wasn't like that at all, Boyd said. And, Dr. Dowson continued in a somewhat louder voice, wanting to take Mr. Logan away from us. Mr. Logan is a very sick man, Mr. Malone, he should be properly cared for. I promise we'll take good care of him, Malone said earnestly. The Elizabethan clothes were fine outdoors, but in a heated room one had a tendency to sweat. I take leave to doubt that, Dr. Dowson said, eyeing their costumes pointedly. Miss Wilson here, Malone volunteered, is a trained psychiatric nurse. Barbara, in her gown, stepped forward. Dr. Dowson, she said, let me assure you that these costumes have their purpose, we... Not only that, Malone said, there are a group of trained men from St. Elizabeth's Hospital in Washington who are going to take the best of care of him. He said nothing whatever about Yucca Flats or about telepathy, why spread around information unnecessarily. But I don't understand, Dr. Dowson said, what interest could the FBI have in an insane man? That's none of your business, Malone said. He reached inside his fur-trimmed robe and, again suppressing a tendency to bow deeply, withdrew an impressive-looking legal document. This, he said, is a court order instructing you to hand over to us the person of one William Logan, herein identified and described. He waved it at the doctor. That's your William Logan, he said, only now he's ours. Dr. Dowson took the papers and put in some time frowning at them. Then he looked up again at Malone. I assume that I have some discretion in this matter, he said, and I wonder if you realize just how ill Mr. Logan is. We have his case histories here and we have worked with him for some time. Barbara Wilson said, but... I might say that we are beginning to understand his illness, Dr. Dowson said. I honestly don't think it would be proper to transfer this work to another group of therapists. It might set his illness back, cause, as it were, a relapse. All our work could easily be nullified. Please, doctor. Barbara Wilson began. I'm afraid the court orders got to stand, Malone said. Privately he felt sorry for Dr. Dowson, who was, obviously enough, a conscientious man trying to do the best he could for his patient. But... I'm sorry, Dr. Dowson, he said. We'll expect that you send all of your data to the government psychiatrists, and, naturally, any concern for the patient's welfare will be our concern also. The FBI isn't anxious for its workers to get the reputation of careless men. He paused, wondering what other bone he could throw the man. I have no doubt that the St. Elizabeth's men will be happy to accept your cooperation, he said at last. But I'm afraid that our duty is clear. William Logan goes with us. Dr. Dowson looked at them sourly. Does he have to get dressed up like a masquerade, too? Before Malone could answer, the psychiatrist added, Anyhow, I don't even know your FBI men. After all, why should I comply with orders from a group of men dressed insanely whom I don't even know? Malone didn't say anything. He just got up and walked to a phone on a small table near the wall. Next to it was a door, and Malone wondered uncomfortably what was behind it. Maybe Dr. Dowson had a small arsenal there to protect his patients and prevent people from pirating them. He looked back at the set and dialed Burris's private number in Washington. When the director's face appeared on the screen, Malone said, Mr. Burris, will you please identify me to Dr. Dowson? He looked over at Dowson. You recognize Mr. Andrew J. Burris, I suppose, he said. Dowson nodded. His grim face showed a faint shock. He walked to the phone, and Malone stepped back to let him talk with Burris. My name is Dowson, he said. I'm psychiatric director here at Desert Edge Sanatorium, and you're men. My men have orders to take William Logan from your care, Burris said. That's right, Dowson said, but... While they were talking, Queen Elizabeth I sidled quietly up to Malone and tapped him on the shoulder. Sir Kenneth, she whispered in the faintest of voices, I know where your telepathic spy is, and I know who he is. Who? Malone said. What? Why? Where? He blinked into world. It couldn't be true. They couldn't solve the case so easily. But the Queen's face was full of a majestic assurance. He's right there, she said, and she pointed. Malone followed her finger. It was aimed directly at the glowing image of Andrew J. Burris, director of the FBI, and of Chapter 4 of Brain Twister. Chapter 5 of Brain Twister. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Catherine Eastman. August 2008. Brain Twister by Mark Phillips. Chapter 5. Malone opened his mouth, but nothing came out, not even air. He wasn't breathing. He stared at Burris for a long moment, then took a breath and looked again at her majesty. The spy? He whispered. That's right, she said. But that's... he had to fight for control. That's the head of the FBI, he managed to say. Do you mean to say he's a spy? Burris was saying, I'm afraid this is a matter of importance, Dr. Dawson. We cannot tolerate delay. You have the court order, obey it. Very well, Mr. Burris, Dawson said, with an obvious lack of grace. I'll release him to Mr. Malone immediately, since you insist. Malone stared, fascinated. Then he turned back to the little old lady. Do you mean to tell me, he said, that Andrew J. Burris is a telepathic spy? Oh dear me, her majesty said, obviously aghast. My goodness gracious, is that Mr. Burris on the screen? It is, Malone assured her. A look out of the corner of his eye told him that neither Burris, in Washington, nor Dawson, or any others in the room, had heard any of the conversation. Malone lowered his whisper some more, just in case. That's the head of the FBI, he said. Well then, her majesty said, Mr. Burris couldn't possibly be a spy then could he? Not if he's the head of the FBI, of course not. Mr. Burris simply isn't a spy, he isn't the type. Forget all about Mr. Burris. I can't, Malone said at random. I work for him. He closed his eyes. The room, he had discovered, was spinning slightly. Now, he said, you're sure he's not a spy? Certainly I'm sure, she said, with her most regal tones. Do you doubt the word of your sovereign? Not exactly, Malone said. Truthfully he wasn't at all sure, not at all. But I tell that to the queen. Shame on you, she said. You shouldn't even think such things. After all I am the queen, aren't I? But there was a sweet gentle smile on her face when she spoke. She didn't seem to be really irritated. Sure you are, Malone said, but Malone. It was Burris' voice from the phone. Malone spun around. Take Mr. Logan, Burris said, and get going, there's been enough delay as it is. Yes, sir, Malone said. Right away, sir. Anything else? That's all, Burris said. Good night. The screen blanked. There was a little silence. All right, doctor, Boyd said. He looked every inch a king, and Malone knew exactly what king. Bring him out. Dr. Dawson heaved a great sigh. Very well, he said heavily, but I want it known that I resent this high-handed treatment, and I shall write a letter complaining of it. He pressed a button on an instrument panel in his desk. Bring Mr. Logan in, he said. Malone wasn't in the least worried about the letter. Burris, he knew, would take care of anything like that. And besides, he had other things to think about. The door to the next room had opened almost immediately, and two husky, white-clad men were bringing in a straight-jacketed figure whose arms were wrapped against his chest while the jacket's extra long sleeves were tied behind his back. He walked where the attendants led him, but his eyes weren't looking at anything in the room. They stared at something far away and invisible, an impalpable shifting nothingness somewhere in the infinite distances beyond the world. For the first time Malone felt the chill of panic. Here, he thought, was insanity of a very real and frightening kind. Queen Elizabeth Thompson was one thing, and she was almost funny and likable after all. But William Logan was something else, and something that sent a wave of cold shivering into the room. What made it worse was that Logan wasn't a man, but a boy, barely nineteen. Malone had known that, of course, but seeing it was something different. The lanky, awkward figure wrapped in a hospital straight jacket was horrible, and the smooth, unconcerned face was somehow worse. There was no threat in that face, no terror or anger or fear. It was merely a blank. It was not a human face. Its complete lack of emotion or expression could have belonged to a sleeping child of ten, or to a member of a different race. Malone looked at the boy and looked away. Was it possible that Logan knew what he was thinking? Answer me, he thought, directly at the still boy. There was no reply, none at all. Malone forced himself to look away, but the air in the room seemed to have become much colder. The attendance stood on either side of him, waiting. For one long second no one moved, and then Dr. Dawson reached into his desk drawer and produced a sheaf of papers. If you'll sign these for the government," he said, you may have, Mr. Logan. There seems little else that I can do, Mr. Malone, in spite of my earnest pleas. I'm sorry, Malone said. After all, he needed Logan, didn't he? After a look at the boy he wasn't sure any more, but the queen had said she wanted him and the queen's word was law, or what passed for law anyhow, at least for the moment. Malone took the papers and looked them over. There was nothing special about them. They were merely standard release forms, absolving the staff and management of Desert Edge Sanatorium from every conceivable responsibility under any conceivable circumstances, as far as William Logan was concerned. Dr. Dawson gave Malone a look that said, Very well, Mr. Malone, I will play pilot and wash my hands of the matter, but you needn't think I like it. It was a lot for one look to say, but Dr. Dawson's dark and sunken eyes got the message across with no loss in transmission. As a matter of fact, there seemed to be more coming. A much less printable message was apparently on the way through those glittering, sad and angry eyes. Malone avoided them nervously and went over the papers again instead. At last he signed them and handed them back. Thanks for your cooperation, Dr. Dawson, he said briskly, feeling ten kinds of a traitor. Not at all, Dawson said bitterly. Mr. Logan is now in your custody. I must trust you to take good care of him. The best care we can, Malone said. It didn't seem sufficient. He added, The best possible care, doctor, and tried to look dependable and trustworthy like a boy scout. He was aware that the effort failed miserably. At his signal the two plainclothes FBI men took over from the attendance. They marched Logan out to their car and Malone led the procession back to Boyd's automobile. A procession that consisted, in order, of Sir Kenneth Malone, prospective Duke of Columbia, Queen Elizabeth I, Lady Barbara, prospective Duchess of an unspecified county, and Sir Thomas Boyd, prospective Duke of Poughkepsie. Malone hummed a little of the first pomp and circumstance march as they walked. Somehow he thought it was called for. They piled into the car, Boyd at the wheel, with Malone next to him, and the two ladies in back, with Queen Elizabeth sitting directly behind Sir Thomas. Boyd started the engine and they turned and roared off. Well, said Her Majesty, with an air of great complacence. That's that. That makes six of us. Malone looked around the car. He counted the people. There were four. He said puzzled, Six. That's right, Sir Kenneth, Her Majesty said. You have it exactly. Six. You mean six telepaths? Sir Thomas asked in a deference tone of voice. Certainly I do, Her Majesty replied. We telepaths, you know, must stick together. That's the reason I got poor little Willie out of that sanatorium of his, you know, and of course the others will be joining us. Don't you think it's time for your nap, dear? Lady Barbara put in suddenly. By what? It was obvious that Queen Elizabeth was not amused. Your nap, dear, Lady Barbara said. Don't call me dear, Her Majesty snapped. I am sorry, Your Majesty, Barbara murmured. But really. My dear girl, Her Majesty said. I am not a child. I am your sovereign. Do try to have a little respect. Why, I remember when Shakespeare used to say to me, but that's no matter, not now. About those telepaths, Boyd began. Telepaths, Her Majesty said. Ah, yes, we must all stick together. In the hospital, you know, we had a little joke. The patients for insulin shock therapy used to say, if we don't stick together, we'll all be stuck separately. Do you see, Sir Thomas? But Sir Kenneth Malone said, trying desperately to return to the point. Six? He had counted them up in his mind. Burris had mentioned one found in St. Elizabeth's, and two more picked up later, with Queen Elizabeth and now William Logan, that made five. Unless the Queen was counting him in, there didn't seem any good reason why not. Oh, no! Her Majesty said, with a little trill of laughter. Not you, Sir Kenneth. I meant Mr. Miles. Sir Thomas Boyd asked. Mr. Miles? That's right! Her Majesty said. His name is Barry Miles, and your FBI men found him an hour ago in New Orleans. They're bringing him to Yucca Flats to meet the rest of us. Isn't that nice? Lady Barbara cleared her throat. It really isn't necessary for you to try to get my attention, dear, the Queen said. After all, I do know what you're thinking. Lady Barbara blinked. I still want to suggest, respectfully, about that nap. She began. My dear girl, the Queen said, with the faintest trace of impatience. I do not feel the least bit tired, and this is such an exciting day that I just don't want to miss any of it. Besides, I've already told you I don't want a nap. It isn't polite to be insistent to your Queen, no matter how strongly you feel about a matter. I'm sure you'll learn to understand that, dear. Lady Barbara opened her mouth, shut it again, and opened it once more. My goodness, she said. That's the idea, Her Majesty said approvingly. Think before you speak, and then don't speak. It really isn't necessary since I know what you're thinking. Malone said grimly. About this new telepath, this Barry Miles, did they find him? In a nut-house, Her Majesty said sweetly. Why, of course, Sir Kenneth, you were quite right when you thought that telepaths went insane because they had a sense they couldn't effectively use, and because no one believed them. How would you feel if nobody believed you could see? Strange, Malone admitted. There, Her Majesty said, you see, telepaths do go insane. It's sort of an occupational disease. Of course, not all of them are insane. Not all of them? Malone felt the faint stirrings of hope. Perhaps they would turn up a telepath yet who was completely sane and rational. There's me, of course, Her Majesty said. Lady Barbara gulped audibly. Boyd said nothing, but gripped the wheel of the car more tightly. And Malone thought to himself, that's right, there's Queen Elizabeth, who says she isn't crazy. And then he thought of one more sane telepath. But the knowledge didn't make him feel any better. It was, of course, the spy. How many more are going to turn up? Malone wondered. Oh, that's about all of us, the Queen said. There is one more, but she's in a hospital in Honolulu, and your men won't find her until tomorrow. Boyd turned. Do you mean you can foretell the future too? He asked in a strained voice. Lady Barbara screamed, keep your eyes on the wheel and your hands on the road. What? Boyd said. There was a terrific blast of noise, and a truck went by in the opposite direction. The driver, a big ugly man with no hair on his head, leaned out to curse at the quartet, but his mouth remained open. He stared at the four Elizabethans and said nothing at all as he whizzed by. What was that? Boyd asked faintly. That, Malone snapped, was a truck, and it was due entirely to the mercy of God that we didn't hit it. Barbara's right, keep your eyes on the wheel and your hands on the road. He paused and thought that over. Then he said, does that mean anything at all? Lady Barbara was confused by the excitement, the Queen said calmly. It's all right now, dear. Lady Barbara blinked across the street. I was afraid, she said. It's all right, the Queen said. I'll take care of you. This, Malone announced to no one in particular, is ridiculous. Boyd swept the car around a curve and concentrated grimly on the road. After a second, the Queen said, since you're still thinking about the question, I'll answer you. What question, Malone said, thoroughly baffled. Sir Thomas asked me if I could foretell the future, the Queen said equably. Of course I can't, that's silly. Just because I'm immortal and I'm a telepath, don't go hog-wild. Then how did you know the FBI agents were going to find the girl in Honolulu tomorrow? Boyd said. Because, the Queen said, they're thinking about looking in the hospital tomorrow, and when they look they'll certainly find her. Boyd said, oh, and was silent. But Malone had a grim question. Why didn't you tell me about these other telepaths before, he said, you could have saved us a lot of work. Oh, heavens to Betsy, Sir Kenneth, Her Majesty exclaimed, how could I? After all, the proper precautions had to be taken first, didn't they? I told you all the others were crazy, really crazy, I mean, and they just wouldn't be safe without the proper precautions. Perhaps you ought to go back to the hospital, too, Barbara said, and added, Your Majesty, just in time. But if I did, dear, Her Majesty said, you'd lose your chance to become a duchess, and that wouldn't be at all nice. Besides, I'm having so much fun. She trilled a laugh again, riding around like this is just wonderful, she said. And you're important for national security, Malone said to himself. That's right, Sir Kenneth, the Queen said, the country needs me, and I'm happy to serve, that is the job of a sovereign. Fine, Malone said, hoping it was. Well, then, said Her Majesty, that settles that. We have a whole night ahead of us, Sir Kenneth. What do you say we make a night of it? Night who? Malone said. He felt confused again. It seemed as if he was always feeling confused lately. Don't be silly, Sir Kenneth, Her Majesty said. There are times, and times. Sure, Malone said at random, and time and a half, he thought, possibly for overtime. What is Your Majesty thinking of? he asked with trepidation. I want to take a tour of Las Vegas, Her Majesty said primly. Lady Barbara shook her head. I'm afraid that's not possible, Your Majesty, she said. And why not pray? Her Majesty said. No, I can see what you're thinking. It's not safe to let me go wandering around in a strange city, and particularly if that city is Las Vegas. Well, dear, I can assure you that it's perfectly safe. We've got work to do, Boyd contributed. Malone said nothing. He stared bleakly at the hood ornament on the car. I have made my wishes known, the Queen said. Lady Barbara said, but... Boyd however knew when to give in. Yes, Your Majesty, he said. She smiled graciously at him, and answered Lady Barbara only by a slight lift of her regal eyebrow. Malone had been thinking about something else. When he was sure he had a firm grip on himself, he turned. Your Majesty, tell me something, he said. You can read my mind, right? Well, of course, Sir Kenneth, Her Majesty said. I thought I'd proved that to you, and as for what you're about to ask. No, Malone said. Please, let me ask the questions before you answer them. It's less confusing that way. I'll cheerfully admit that it shouldn't be, but it is. Please? Certainly, Sir Kenneth, if you wish, the Queen said. She folded her hands in her lap and waited quietly. Okay, Malone said. Now, if you can read my mind, then you must know that I don't really believe that you are Queen Elizabeth of England, the first, I mean. Mr. Malone, Barbara Wilson said suddenly, I— It's all right, child, the Queen said. He doesn't disturb me, and I do wish you'd call him Sir Kenneth. That's his title, you know. Now, that's what I mean, Malone said. Why do you want us to act as if we believe you when you know we don't? Because that's the way people do act, the Queen said calmly. Very few people really believe that their so-called superiors are superior. Almost none of them do, in fact. Now, wait a minute. Boyd began. No, no, it's quite true, the Queen said. And, unpleasant as it may be, we must learn to face the truth. That's the path of sanity. Lady Barbara made a strangled noise, but Her Majesty continued, unruffled. Nearly everybody suffers from the silly delusion that he's possibly equal to, but very probably superior to everybody else. My goodness, where would we be if that were true? Malone felt that a comment was called for, and he made one. Who knows, he said. All the things people do towards their superiors, the Queen said, are done for social reasons. For instance, Sir Kenneth, you don't realize fully how you feel about Mr. Burris. He's a hell of a fine guy, Malone said. I work for him. He's a good director of the FBI. Of course, the Queen said, but you believe you could do the job just as well, or perhaps a little better. I do not, Malone said angrily. Her Majesty reserved a dignified silence. After a while Malone said, and what if I do? Why nothing, Her Majesty said. You don't think Mr. Burris is any smarter or better than you are, but you treat him as if you did. All I am insisting on is the same treatment. But if we don't believe, Boyd began. Bless you, Her Majesty said. I can't help the way you think, but as Queen I do have some control over the way you act. Malone thought it over. You have a point there, he said at last. Barbara said, but... Yes, Sir Kenneth, the Queen said, I do. She seemed to be ignoring Lady Barbara. Perhaps Malone thought she was still angry over the nap affair. It's not that, the Queen said. Not what, Boyd said, thoroughly confused. Not the naps, the Queen said. What naps, Boyd said. Malone said, I was thinking. Good, Boyd said, keep it up, I'm driving, everything's going to hell around me, but I'm driving. A red light appeared ahead. Boyd jammed on the brakes with somewhat more than the necessary force, and Malone was thrown forward with a grunt. Behind him there were two lady-like squeals. Malone struggled upright. Barbara, he called, are you all right? Then he remembered the Queen. It's all right, Her Majesty said. I can understand your concern for Lady Barbara. She smiled at Malone as he turned. Malone gaped at her. Of course she knew what he thought about Barbara, she'd been reading his mind, and apparently she was on his side. That was good, even though it made him slightly nervous to think about. Thou, the Queen said suddenly, what about tonight? Tonight? Yes, of course, the Queen said. She smiled and put up a hand to pat at her white hair under the Elizabethan skull cap. I think I should like to go to the palace, she said. After all, isn't that where a Queen should be? Boyd said in a kind of explosion. London? England? England? Oh, dear me! the Queen began, and Barbara said, I'm afraid that I simply can't allow anything like that overseas. I didn't mean overseas, dear, Her Majesty said. Sir Kenneth, please explain to these people. The palace, Malone knew, was more properly known as the Golden Palace. It was right in Las Vegas, convenient to all sources of money. As a matter of fact, it was one of the biggest gambling houses along the Las Vegas Strip, a veritable chaos of wheels, cards, dice, chips, and other such devices. Malone explained all this to the others, wondering meanwhile why Miss Thompson wanted to go there. Not Miss Thompson, please, Sir Kenneth, Her Majesty said. Not Miss Thompson, what? Boyd said. What's going on, anyhow? She's reading my mind, Malone said. Well then, Boyd snapped, tell her to keep it to herself. The car started up again with a roar, and Malone and the others were thrown around again, this time toward the back. There was a chorus of groans and squeals, and they were on their way once more. To reply to your question, Sir Kenneth, the Queen said. Lady Barbara said with some composure, What question, Your Majesty? The Queen nodded regally at her. Sir Kenneth was wondering why I wished to go to the Golden Palace, she said. And my reply is this. It is none of your business why I want to go there. After all, is my word law, or isn't it? There didn't seem to be a good enough answer to that, Malone thought sadly. He kept quiet, and was relieved to note that the others did the same. However, after a second he thought of something else. Your Majesty! he began carefully. We've got to go to Yucca Flats tomorrow, remember? Certainly! the Queen said. My memory is quite good, thank you. But that is tomorrow morning. We have the rest of the night left. It's only a little after nine, you know. Heavens, Barbara said. Is it that late? It's even later, Boyd said sourly. It's much later than you think. And it's getting later all the time, Malone added. Pretty soon the sun will go out and all life on earth will end. Won't that be nice and peaceful? I'm looking forward to it, Boyd said. I'm not, Barbara said, but I've got to get some sleep tonight if I'm going to be any good at all tomorrow. You're pretty good right now, Malone thought, but he didn't say a word. He felt the Queen's eye on him, but didn't turn around. After all she was on his side, wasn't she? At any rate, she didn't say anything. Perhaps it would be best, Barbara said. If you and I, your Majesty, just went home and rested up some other time then, when there's nothing vital to do we could. No, the Queen said. We couldn't. Really, Lady Barbara, how often will I have to remind you of the duties you owe your sovereign, not the least of which is obedience, as dear old Ben used to say? Ben, Malone said, and immediately wished he hadn't. Johnson, dear boy, the Queen said, really a remarkable man and such a good friend to poor Will. Why, did you ever hear the story of how he actually paid Will's rent in London once upon a time? That was while Will and that Anne of his were having one of their arguments, of course. I didn't tell you that story, did I? No, Malone said truthfully, but his voice was full of foreboding. If I might remind your Majesty of the subject, he added tentatively, I should like to say, Remind me of the subject, the Queen said, obviously delighted. What a lovely pun, and how much better because purely unconscious. My, my, Sir Kenneth, I never suspected you of a pointed sense of humour. Could you be a descendant of Sir Richard Green, I wonder? I doubt it, Malone said. My ancestors were all poor, but Irish, he paused. Or, if you prefer, Irish but poor. Another pause, and then he added, if that means anything at all, which I doubt. In any case, the Queen said, her eyes twinkling, you were about to enter a new objection to our little visit to the palace, were you not? Malone admitted as much. I really think that her eyes grew suddenly cold. If I hear any more objections, Sir Kenneth, I shall not only rescind your knighthood, and, when I regain my rightful kingdom, deny you your dukedom, but I shall refuse to co-operate any further in the business of Project Isle. Malone turned cold. His face, he knew, without glancing in the mirror, was white and pale. He thought of what Burris would do to him if he didn't follow through on his assigned job. Even if he wasn't as good as Burris thought he was, he really liked being an FBI agent. He didn't want to be fired. And Burris had said, give her anything she wants. He gulped, and tried to make his face look normal. All right, he said, fine, we'll go to the palace. He tried to ignore the pall of apprehension that fell over the car. End of Chapter 5 of Brain Twister