Brain Twister | Page 4

"We're not laughing any more because
there's nothing to laugh about. We have orbital satellites, and we've
landed on the Moon with an atomic rocket. The planets are the next
step, and after that the stars. Man's heritage, Kenneth. The stars. And
the stars, Kenneth, belong to Man--not to the Russians!"
"Yes, sir," Malone said soberly.
"So," Burris said, "we should learn not to laugh any more. But have
we?"
"I don't know, sir."
"We haven't," Burris said with decision. "Can you read my mind?"
"No, sir," Malone said. "Can I read your mind?"
Malone hesitated. At last he said: "Not that I know of, sir."
"Well, I can't," Burris snapped. "And can any of us read each other's

mind?"
Malone shook his head. "No, sir," he said.
Burris nodded. "That's the problem," he said. "That's the case I'm
sending you out to crack."
This time, the silence was a long one.
At last, Malone said: "What problem, sir?"
"Mind reading," Burris said. "There's a spy at work in the Nevada plant,
Kenneth. And the spy is a telepath."
* * * * *
The video tapes were very clear and very complete. There were a great
many of them, and it was long after nine o'clock when Kenneth Malone
decided to take a break and get some fresh air. Washington was a good
city for walking, even at night, and Malone liked to walk. Sometimes
he pretended, even to himself, that he got his best ideas while walking,
but he knew perfectly well that wasn't true. His best ideas just seemed
to come to him, out of nowhere, precisely as the situation demanded
them.
He was just lucky, that was all. He had a talent for being lucky. But
nobody would ever believe that. A record like his was spectacular, even
in the annals of the FBI, and Burris himself believed that the record
showed some kind of superior ability.
Malone knew that wasn't true, but what could he do about it? After all,
he didn't want to resign, did he? It was kind of romantic and exciting to
be an FBI agent, even after three years. A man got a chance to travel
around a lot and see things, and it was interesting. The pay was pretty
good, too.
The only trouble was that, if he didn't quit, he was going to have to find
a telepath.

The notion of telepathic spies just didn't sound right to Malone. It
bothered him in a remote sort of way. Not that the idea of telepathy
itself was alien to him--after all, he was even more aware than the
average citizen that research had been going on in that field for
something over a quarter of a century, and that the research was even
speeding up.
But the cold fact that a telepathy-detecting device had been invented
somehow shocked his sense of propriety, and his notions of privacy. It
wasn't decent, that was all.
There ought to be something sacred, he told himself angrily.
He stopped walking and looked up. He was on Pennsylvania Avenue,
heading toward the White House.
That was no good. He went to the corner and turned off, down the
block. He had, he told himself, nothing at all to see the President about.
Not yet, anyhow.
The streets were dark and very peaceful. I get my best ideas while
walking, Malone said without convincing himself. He thought back to
the video tapes.
The report on the original use of the machine itself had been on one of
the first tapes, and Malone could still see and hear it. That was one
thing he did have, he reflected; his memory was pretty good.
Burris had been the first speaker on the tapes, and he'd given the serial
and reference number in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. His face had been
perfectly blank, and he looked just like the head of the FBI people were
accustomed to seeing on their TV and newsreel screens. Malone
wondered what had happened to him between the time the tapes had
been made and the time he'd sent for Malone.
Maybe the whole notion of telepathy was beginning to get him, Malone
thought.

Burris recited the standard tape-opening in a rapid mumble, like a priest
involved in the formula of the Mass: "Any person or agent
unauthorized for this tape please refrain from viewing further, under
penalties as prescribed by law." Then he looked off, out past the screen
to the left, and said: "Dr. Thomas O'Connor, of Westinghouse
Laboratories. Will you come here, Dr. O'Connor?"
Dr. O'Connor came into the lighted square of screen slowly, looking all
around him. "This is very fascinating," he said, blinking in the
lamplight. "I hadn't realized that you people took so many
precautions--"
He was, Malone thought, somewhere between