Mark Phillips: Brain Twister

Dr. O’Connor frowned. “I’m afraid that I can’t be sure,” he said, and it was clear from his tone that, if Dr. Thomas O’Connor wasn’t sure, no one in the entire world was, had been, or ever would be. “I do have a theory, however,” he said, brightening up a trifle.

Malone waited patiently.

“He must know our limitations,” Dr. O’Connor said at last. “He must be perfectly well aware that there’s not a single thing we can do about him. He must know that we can neither find nor stop him. Why should he worry? He can afford to ignore us — or even bait us. We’re helpless, and he knows it.”

That, Malone thought, was about the most cheerless thought he had heard in some time.

“You mentioned that you had an insulated room,” the FBI agent said after a while. “Couldn’t you let your men think in there?”

Dr. O’Connor sighed. “The room is shielded against magnetic fields and electro-magnetic radiation. It is perfectly transparent to psionic phenomena, just as it is to gravitational fields.”

“Oh,” Malone said. He realized rapidly that his question had been a little silly to begin with, since the insulated room had been the place where all the tests had been conducted in the first place. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Doctor,” he said after a pause, “but there are a couple of other questions.”

“Go right ahead,” Dr. O’Connor said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to help you.”

Malone thought of mentioning how little help the Doctor had been to date, but decided against it. Why antagonize a perfectly good scientist without any reason? Instead, he selected his first question, and asked it. “Have you got any idea how we might lay our hands on another telepath? Preferably one that’s not an imbecile, of course.”

Dr. O’Connor’s expression changed from patient wisdom to irritation. “I wish we could, Mr. Malone. I wish we could. We certainly need one here to help us here with our work — and I’m sure that your work is important, too. But I’m afraid we have no ideas at all about finding another telepath. Finding little Charlie was purely fortuitous — purely, Mr. Malone, fortuitous.”

“Ah,” Malone said. “Sure. Of course.” He thought rapidly and discovered that he couldn’t come up with one more question. As a matter of fact, he’d asked a couple of questions already, and he could barely remember the answers. “Well,” he said, “I guess that’s about it, then, Doctor. If you come across anything else, be sure and let me know.”

He leaned across the desk, extending a hand. “And thanks for your time,” he added.

Dr. O’Connor stood up and shook his hand. “No trouble, I assure you,” he said. “And I’ll certainly give you all the information I can.”

Malone turned and walked out. Surprisingly, he discovered that his feet and legs still worked. He had thought they’d turned to stone in the office long before.

It was on the plane back to Washington that Malone got his first inkling of an idea.

The only telepath that the Westinghouse boys had been able to turn up was Charles O’Neill, the youthful imbecile.

All right, then. Suppose there were another like him. Imbeciles weren’t very difficult to locate. Most of them would be in institutions, and the others would certainly be on record. It might be possible to find someone, anyway, who could be handled and used as a tool to find a telepathic spy.

And — happy thought! — maybe one of them would turn out to be a high-grade imbecile, or even a moron.

Even if they only turned up another imbecile, he thought wearily, at least Dr. O’Connor would have something to work with.

He reported back to Burris when he arrived in Washington, told him about the interview with Dr. O’Connor, and explained what had come to seem a rather feeble brainstorm.

“It doesn’t seem too productive,” Burris said, with a shade of disappointment in his voice, “but we’ll try it.”

At that, it was a better verdict than Malone had tried for. Though, of course, it meant extra work for him.

Orders went out to field agents all over the United States, and, quietly but efficiently, the FBI went to work. Agents began to probe and pry and poke their noses into the files and data sheets of every mental institution in the fifty states — as far, at any rate, as they were able.

And Kenneth J. Malone was in the lead.

There had been some talk of his staying in Washington to collate the reports as they came in, but that had sounded even worse than having to visit hospitals. “You don’t need me to do a job like that,” he’d told Burris. “Let’s face it, Chief: if we find a telepath the agent who finds him will say so. If we don’t, he’ll say that, too. You could get a chimpanzee to collate reports like that.”

Burris looked at him speculatively, and for one horrible second Malone could almost hear him sending out an order to find, and hire, a chimpanzee (after Security clearance, of course, for whatever organizations a chimpanzee could join). But all he said, in what was almost a mild voice, was: “All right, Malone. And don’t call me Chief.”

The very mildness of his tone showed how worried the man was, Malone realized, and he set out for the first hospital on his own list with grim determination written all over his face and a heartbeat that seemed to hammer at him that his country expected every man to do his duty.

“I find my duty hard to do today,” he murmured under his breath. It was all right to tell himself that he had to find a telepath. But how did you go about it? Did you just knock on hospital doors and ask them if they had anybody who could read minds?

“You know,” Malone told himself in a surprised tone, “that isn’t such a bad idea.” It would, at any rate, let him know whether the hospital had any patients who thought they could read minds. From them on, it would probably be simple to apply a test, and separate the telepathic sheep from the psychotic goats.

The image that created in his mind was so odd that Malone, in self-defense, stopped thinking altogether until he’d reached the first hospital, a small place situated in the shrinking countryside West of Washington.

It was called, he knew, the Rice Pavilion.

The place was small, and white. It bore a faint resemblance to Monticello, but then that was true, Malone reflected, of eight out of ten public buildings of all sorts. The front door was large and opaque, and Malone went up the winding driveway, climbed a short flight of marble steps, and rapped sharply.

The door opened instantly.

“Yes?” said the man inside, a tall, balding fellow wearing doctor’s whites amd a sad, bloodhound-like expression.

“Yes,” Malone said automatically. “I mean — my name is Kenneth J. Malone.”

“Mine,” said the bloodhound, “is Blake. Doctor Andrew Blake.” There was a brief pause. “Is there anything we cam do for you?” the doctor went on.

“Well,” Malone said, “I’m looking for people who can read minds.”

Blake didn’t seem at all surprised. He nodded quietly. “Of course,” he said. “I understand perfectly.”

“Good,” Malone told him. “You see, I thought I’d have a little trouble finding—”

“Oh, no trouble at all, I assure you,” Blake went on, just as mournfully as ever. “You’ve come to the right place, believe me, Mr. — ah—”

“Malone,” Malone said. “Kenneth J. Frankly, I didn’t think I’d hit the jackpot this early — I mean, you were the first on my list—”

The doctor seemed suddenly to realize that the two of them were standing out on the portico. “Won’t you come inside?” he said, with a friendly gesture. He stepped aside and Malone walked through the doorway.