Brain Twister Page 6

arrived in Washington, told himabout the interview with Dr. O'Connor, and explained what had come toseem a rather feeble brainstorm.

  "It doesn't seem too productive," Burris said, with a shade ofdisappointment in his voice, "but we'll try it."

  At that, it was a better verdict than Malone had tried for. Though, ofcourse, 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 probeand pry and poke their noses into the files and data sheets of everymental institution in the fifty states--as far, at any rate, as theywere able.

  And Kenneth J. Malone was in the lead.

  There had been some talk of his staying in Washington to collate thereports as they came in, but that had sounded even worse than havingto visit hospitals. "You don't need me to do a job like that," he'dtold Burris. "Let's face it, Chief: if we find a telepath the agentwho finds him will say so. If we don't, he'll say that, too. You couldget a chimpanzee to collate reports like that."

  Burris looked at him speculatively, and for one horrible second Malonecould almost hear him sending out an order to find, and hire, achimpanzee (after Security clearance, of course, for whateverorganizations a chimpanzee could join). But all he said, in what wasalmost a mild voice, was: "All right, Malone. And don't call meChief."

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

  "I find my duty hard to do today," he murmured under his breath. Itwas all right to tell himself that he had to find a telepath. But howdid you go about it? Did you just knock on hospital doors and ask themif they had anybody who could read minds?

  "You know," Malone told himself in a surprised tone, "that isn't sucha bad idea." It would, at any rate, let him know whether the hospitalhad any patients who _thought_ they could read minds. From them on, itwould probably be simple to apply a test, and separate the telepathicsheep 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 firsthospital, a small place situated in the shrinking countryside West ofWashington.

  It was called, he knew, the Rice Pavilion.

  * * * * *

  The place was small, and white. It bore a faint resemblance toMonticello, but then that was true, Malone reflected, of eight out often public buildings of all sorts. The front door was large andopaque, and Malone went up the winding driveway, climbed a shortflight of marble steps, and rapped sharply.

  The door opened instantly. "Yes?" said the man inside, a tall, baldingfellow wearing doctor's whites and 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." Therewas a brief pause. "Is there anything we can do for you?" the doctorwent 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," hesaid. "I understand perfectly."

  "Good," Malone told him. "You see, I thought I'd have a little troublefinding--"

  "Oh, no trouble at all, I assure you," Blake went on, just asmournfully 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 thejackpot this early--I mean, you were the first on my list--"

  The doctor seemed suddenly to realize that the two of them werestanding out on the portico. "Won't you come inside?" he said, with afriendly gesture. He stepped aside and Malone walked through thedoorway.

  Just inside it, three men grabbed him.

  Malone, surprised by this sudden reception, fought with every ounce ofhis FBI training. But the three men had his surprise on their side,and three against one was heavy odds for any man, trained or not.

  His neck placed firmly between one upper and lower arm, his legspinioned and his arms flailing wildly, Malone managed to shout: "Whatthe hell is this? What's going on?"

  Dr. Blake was watching the entire operation from a standpoint a fewfeet away. He didn't look as if his expression were ever going tochange.

  "It's all for your own good, Mr. Malone," he said calmly. "Pleasebelieve me."

  "My God!" Malone said. He caught somebody's face with one hand andthen somebody else grabbed the hand and folded it back withirresistible force. He had one arm free, and he tried to use it--butnot for long. "You think I'm nuts!" he shouted, as the three menproduced a strait-jacket from somewhere and began to cram him into it."Wait!" he cried, as the canvas began to cramp him. "You're wrong!You're making a terrible mistake!"

  "Of course," Dr. Blake said. "But if you'll just relax we'll soon beable to help you--"

  The strait-jacket was on. Malone sagged inside it like a rather largeand sweaty butterfly rewrapped in a cocoon. Dimly, he realized that hesounded like every other nut in the world. All of them would be sureto tell the doctor and the attendants that they were making a mistake.All of them would claim they were sane.

  There was, of course, a slight difference. But how could Malone manageto prove it? The three men held him up.

  "Now, now," Dr. Blake said. "You can walk, Mr. Malone. Suppose youjust follow me to your room--"

  "My room?" Malone said. "Now, you listen to me, Doctor. If you don'ttake this stuff off me at once I promise you the President will hearof it. And I don't know how he'll take interference in a vitalmission--"

  "The President?" Blake asked quietly. "What President, Mr. Malone?"

  "The President of the United States, damn it!" Malone shouted.

  "Hmm," Blake said.

  That was no good, either, Malone realized. Every nut would have somesort of direct pipeline to the President, or God, or somebody high up.Nuts were like that.

  But he was an FBI Agent. A special agent on a vital mission.

  He said so.

  "Now, now, Mr. Malone," Blake told him. "Let's get to your room, shallwe, and then we can talk things over."

  "I can prove it!" Malone told him. The three men picked him up. "Myidentification is in my pocket--"

  "Really?" Blake said.

  They started moving down the long front hall.

  "All you have to do is take this thing off so I can get at mypockets--"

  Malone began.

  But even he could see that this new plan wasn't going to work, either.

  "Take it off?" Blake said. "Oh, certainly, Mr. Malone. Certainly. Justas soon as we have you comfortably settled."

  It was ridiculous, Malone told himself as the men carried him away. Itcouldn't happen: an FBI agent mistaken for a nut, wrapped in a strait-jacket and carried to a padded cell.

  Unfortunately, ridiculous or not, it was happening.

  And there was absolutely nothing to do about it.

  Malone thought with real longing of his nice, safe desk in Washington.Suddenly he discovered in himself a great desire to sit around andcollate reports. But no--he had to be a hero. He had to go and gethimself involved.

  This, he thought, will teach me a great lesson. The next time I getoffered a job a chimpanzee can do, I'll start eating bananas.

  It was at this point in his reflections that he reached a small door.Dr. Blake opened it and the three men carried Malone inside. He wasdumped carefully on the floor. Then the door clanged shut.

  Alone, Malone told himself bitterly, at last.

  * * * * *

  After a minute or so had gone by he began to think about getting out.He could, it occurred to him, scream for help. But that would onlybring more attendants, and very possibly Dr. Blake again, and somehowMalone felt that further conversation with Dr. Blake was not likely tolead to any very rational end.

&
nbsp; Sooner or later, he knew, they would have to let him loose.

  After all, he was an FBI agent, wasn't he?

  Alone, in a single cheerless cell, caught up in the toils of a strait-jacket, he began to doubt the fact. Maybe Blake was right; maybe theywere all right. Maybe he, Kenneth J. Malone, was totally mad.

  He told himself firmly that the idea was ridiculous.

  But, then, what wasn't?

  The minutes ticked slowly by. After a while the three guards cameback, opening the door and filing into the room carefully. Malone,feeling more than ever like something in a cocoon, watched them