Brain Twister

  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from the 1962 book publication of the story.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright onthis publication was renewed.

  Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected withoutnote.

  * * * * *

  "Mark Phillips" is, or are, two writers: Randall Garrett and LaurenceM. Janifer. Their joint pen-name, derived from their middle names(Philip and Mark), was coined soon after their original meeting, at ascience-fiction convention. Both men were drunk at the time, whichexplains a good deal, and only one has ever sobered up. A matter forconstant contention between the collaborators is which one.

  They have been collaborating for some time now, and have devised aninteresting method of work: Mr. Garrett handles the verbs, theadverbs and the interjections, Mr. Janifer the nouns, pronouns, andadjectives. Conjunctions are a matter of joint decision, and in thecase of a tie, the entire game is replayed at Fenway Park, Boston,early in the following year.

  BRAIN TWISTER was fifteen years in the making, of which time threedays were spent in the actual writing. When the book was finished,both authors relaxed in the mutual pleasure of nervous breakdowns,from which it is not certain that either has ever recovered.

  Mr. Garrett is a large, roundish fellow with a beard. He wearsflowered vests and always carries a small talisman which no one hasever seen. Mr. Janifer is a somewhat shorter and thinner type, with ashorter and thinner beard. His vests are in solid colors, he wearshorn-rimmed glasses because he has always done so, and he is neverfound without a souvenir subway token from the City of New York.

  The personal lives of the authors differ widely. Mr. Garrett'shobbies, for instance, include such sports as close-order drill andriver pollution. Mr. Janifer, a less active type, prefers sedentarygames such as humming or blinking.

  Mr. Garrett is engaged to an exotically beautiful creature, and thetwo plan to be married as soon as they run out of excuses. Mr.Janifer, on the other hand, is fascinated by women, and hopes some dayto meet one.

  Brain Twister

  Mark Phillips

  A shorter version of this work appeared in _Astounding Science Fiction_ under the title of _That Sweet Little Old Lady_.

  Prologue

  In nineteen-fourteen, it was enemy aliens.

  In nineteen-thirty, it was Wobblies.

  In nineteen-fifty-seven, it was fellow-travelers.

  And, in nineteen seventy-one, Kenneth J. Malone rolled wearily out ofbed wondering what the hell it was going to be now.

  One thing, he told himself, was absolutely certain: it was going to beterrible. It always was.

  He managed to stand up, although he was swaying slightly when hewalked across the room to the mirror for his usual morning look athimself. He didn't much like staring at his own face, first thing inthe morning, but then, he told himself, it was part of the toughening-up process every FBI agent had to go through. You had to learn tostand up and take it when things got rough, he reminded himself. Heblinked and looked into the mirror.

  His image blinked back.

  He tried a smile. It looked pretty horrible, he thought--but, then,the mirror had a slight ripple in it, and the ripple distortedeverything. Malone's face looked as if it had been gently patted witha waffle-iron.

  And, of course, it was still early morning, and that meant he washaving a little difficulty in focusing his eyes.

  Vaguely, he tried to remember the night before. He was just ending hisvacation, and he thought he recalled having a final farewell party fortwo or three lovely female types he had chanced to meet in what wasstill the world's finest City of Opportunity, Washington, D.C. (latestfemale-to-male ratio, five-and-a-half to one). The party had been aclassic of its kind, complete with hot and cold running ideas of allsorts, and lots and lots of nice powerful liquor.

  Malone decided sadly that the ripple wasn't in the mirror, but in hishead. He stared at his unshaven face blearily.

  Blink. Ripple.

  Quite impossible, he told himself. Nobody could conceivably look ashorrible as Kenneth J. Malone thought he did. Things just couldn't beas bad as all that.

  Ignoring a still, small voice which asked persistently: "Why not?" heturned away from the mirror and set about finding his clothes. Hedetermined to take his time about getting ready for work: after all,nobody could really complain if he arrived late on his first day aftervacation. Everybody knew how tired vacations made a person.

  And, besides, there was probably nothing happening anyway. Things had,he recalled with faint pleasure, been pretty quiet lately. Ever sincethe counterfeiting gang he'd caught had been put away, crime seemed tohave dropped to the nice, simple levels of the 1950's and '60's.Maybe, he hoped suddenly, he'd be able to spend some time catching upon his scientific techniques, or his math, or pistol practice....

  The thought of pistol practice made his head begin to throb with theauthority of a true hangover. There were fifty or sixty small gnomesinside his skull, he realized, all of them with tiny little hammers.They were mining for lead.

  "The lead," Malone said aloud, "is farther down. Not in the skull."

  The gnomes paid him no attention. He shut his eyes and tried to relax.The gnomes went right ahead with their work, and microscopic regimentsof Eagle Scouts began marching steadily along his nerves.

  There were people, Malone had always understood, who bounced out oftheir beds and greeted each new day with a smile. It didn't soundpossible, but then again there were some pretty strange people. Thehead of that counterfeiting ring, for instance: where had he got theidea of picking an alias like Andre Gide?

  Clutching at his whirling thoughts, Malone opened his eyes, winced,and began to get dressed. At least, he thought, it was going to be apeaceful day.

  It was at this second that his private intercom buzzed.

  Malone winced again. "To hell with you," he called at the thing, butthe buzz went on, ignoring the code shut-off. That meant, he knew, anemergency call, maybe from his Chief of Section. Maybe even fromhigher up.

  "I'm not even late for work yet," he complained. "I will be, but I'mnot yet. What are they screaming about?"

  There was, of course, only one way to find out. He shuffled painfullyacross the room, flipped the switch and said:

  "Malone here." Vaguely, he wondered if it were true. He certainlydidn't feel as if he were here. Or there. Or anywhere at all, in fact.

  A familiar voice came tinnily out of the receiver. "Malone, get downhere right away!"

  The voice belonged to Andrew J. Burris. Malone sighed deeply and feltgrateful, for the fiftieth time, that he had never had a TV pickupinstalled in the intercom. He didn't want the FBI chief to see himlooking as horrible as he did now, all rippled and everything. Itwasn't--well, it wasn't professional, that was all.

  "I'll get dressed right away," he assured the intercom. "I should bethere in--"

  "Don't bother to get dressed," Burris snapped. "This is an emergency!"

  "But, Chief--"

  "And don't call me Chief!"

  "Okay," Malone said. "Sure. You want me to come down in my pyjamas.Right?"

  "I want you to--" Burris stopped. "All right, Malone. If you want towaste time while our country's life is at stake, you go ahead. Getdressed. After all, Malone, when I say something is an emergency--"

  "I won't get dressed, then," Malone said. "Whatever you say."

  "Just do something!" Burris told him desperately. "Your country needsyou. Pyjamas and all. Malone, it's a crisis!"

  Conversations with Burris, Malone told himself, were bound to be alittle confusing. "I'll be right down," he said.

&
nbsp; "Fine," Burris said, and hesitated. Then he added: "Malone, do youwear the tops or the bottoms?"

  "The what?"

  "Of your pyjamas," Burris explained hurriedly. "The top part or thebottom part?"

  "Oh," Malone said. "As a matter of fact, I wear both."

  "Good," Burris said with satisfaction. "I wouldn't want an agent ofmine arrested for indecent exposure." He rang off.

  Malone blinked at the intercom for a minute, shut it off and then,ignoring the trip-hammers in his skull and the Eagle Scouts on hisnerves, began to get dressed. Somehow, in spite of Burris' feelings ofcrisis, he couldn't see himself trying to flag a taxi on the streetsof Washington in his pyjamas. Anyhow, not while he was awake. Idreamed I was an FBI agent, he thought sadly, in my drafty BVDs.

  Besides, it was probably nothing important. These things, he toldhimself severely, have a way of evaporating as soon as a clear, coldintelligence got hold of them.

  Then he began wondering where in hell he was going to find a clear,cold intelligence. Or even, for that matter, what one was.

  1

  "They could be anywhere," Burris said, with an expression whichbordered on exasperated horror. "They could be all around us. Heavenonly knows."

  He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up, a chunky littleman with bright blue eyes and large hands. He paced to the window andlooked out at Washington, and then he came back to the desk. Apersistent office rumor held that he had become head of the FBI purelybecause he happened to have an initial _J_ in his name, but in hiscase the J stood for Jeremiah. And, at the moment, his tone expressedall the hopelessness of that Old Testament prophet's lamentations.

  "We're helpless," he said, looking at the young man with the crispbrown hair who was sitting across the desk. "That's what it is, we'rehelpless."

  Kenneth Malone tried to look dependable. "Just tell me what to do," hesaid.

  "You're a good agent, Kenneth," Burris said. "You're one of the best.That's why you've been picked for this job. And I want to say that Ipicked you personally. Believe me, there's never been anything like itbefore."

  "I'll do my best," Malone said at random. He was twenty-six, and hehad been an FBI agent for three years. In that time, he had, amongother things, managed to break up a gang of smugglers, track down acounterfeiting ring, and capture three kidnappers. For reasons whichhe could neither understand nor explain, no one seemed willing toattribute his record to luck.

  "I know you will," Burris said. "And if anybody can crack this case,Malone, you're the man. It's just that--everything sounds so_impossible_. Even after all the conferences we've had."

  "Conferences?" Malone said vaguely. He wished the Chief would get tothe point. Any point. He smiled gently across the desk and tried tolook competent and dependable and reassuring. Burris' expressiondidn't change.

  "You'll get the conference tapes later," Burris said. "You can studythem before you leave. I suggest you study them very carefully,Malone. Don't be like me. Don't get confused." He buried his face inhis hands. Malone waited patiently. After a few seconds, Burris lookedup. "Did you read books when you were a child?" he asked.

  Malone said: "What?"

  "Books," Burris said. "When you were a child. Read them."

  "Sure I did," Malone said. _"Bomba the Jungle Boy_, and _DoctorDoolittle_, and _Lucky Starr_, and _Little Women_--"

  _"Little Women?"_

  "When Beth died," Malone said, "I wanted to cry. But I didn't. Myfather said big boys don't cry."

  "And your father was right," Burris said. "Why, when I was a--nevermind. Forget about Beth and your father. Think about Lucky Starr for aminute. Remember him?"

  "Sure," Malone said. "I liked those books. You know it's funny, butthe books you read when you're a kid, they kind of stay with you. Knowwhat I mean? I can still remember that one about Venus, for instance.Gee, that was--"

  "Never mind about Venus, too," Burris said sharply. "Keep your mind onthe problem."

  "Yes, sir," Malone said. He paused. "What problem, sir?" he added.

  "The problem we're discussing," Burris said. He gave Malone a bright,blank stare. "My God," he said. "Just listen to me."

  "Yes, sir."

  "All right, then." Burris took a deep breath. He seemed nervous. Onceagain he stood up and went to the window. This time, he spoke withoutturning. "Remember how everybody used to laugh about spaceships, andorbital satellites, and life on other planets? That was just in thoseLucky Starr books. That was all just for kids, wasn't it?"

  "Well, I don't know," Malone said slowly.

  "Sure it was all for kids," Burris said. "It was laughable. Nobodytook it seriously."

  "Well, _somebody_ must--"

  "You just keep quiet and listen," Burris said.

  "Yes, sir," Malone said.

  Burris nodded. His hands were clasped behind his back. "We're notlaughing any more, are we, Malone?" he said without moving.

  There was silence.

  "Well, are we?"

  "Did you want me to answer, sir?"

  "Of course I did!" Burris snapped.

  "You told me to keep quiet and--"

  "Never mind what I told you," Burris said. "Just do what I told you."

  "Yes, sir," Malone said. "No, sir," he added after a second.

  "No, sir, what?" Burris asked softly.

  "No, sir, we're not laughing any more," Malone said.

  "Ah," Burris said. "And why aren't we laughing any more?"

  There was a little pause. Malone said, tentatively: "Because there'snothing to laugh about, sir?"

  Burris whirled. "On the head!" he said happily. "You've hit the nailon the head, Kenneth. I knew I could depend on you." His voice grewserious again, and thoughtful. "We're not laughing any more becausethere's nothing to laugh about. We have orbital satellites, and we'velanded on the Moon with an atomic rocket. The planets are the nextstep, 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 havewe?"

  "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'smind?"

  Malone shook his head. "No, sir," he said.

  Burris nodded. "That's the problem," he said. "That's the case I'msending 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 Nevadaplant, Kenneth. And the spy is a telepath."

  * * * * *

  The video tapes were very clear and very complete. There were a greatmany of them, and it was long after nine o'clock when Kenneth Malonedecided to take a break and get some fresh air. Washington was a goodcity for walking, even at night, and Malone liked to walk. Sometimeshe pretended, even to himself, that he got his best ideas whilewalking, but he knew perfectly well that wasn't true. His best ideasjust seemed to come to him, out of nowhere, precisely as the situationdemanded them.

  He was just lucky, that was all. He had a talent for being lucky. Butnobody would ever believe that. A record like his was spectacular,even in the annals of the FBI, and Burris himself believed that therecord showed some kind of superior ability.

  Malone knew that wasn't true, but what could he do about it? Afterall, he didn't want to resign, did he? It was kind of romantic andexciting to be an FBI agent, even after three years. A man got achance 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 tofind a telepath.

  The
notion of telepathic spies just didn't sound right to Malone. Itbothered him in a remote sort of way. Not that the idea of telepathyitself was alien to him--after all, he was even more aware than theaverage citizen that research had been going on in that field forsomething over a quarter of a century, and that the research was evenspeeding up.

  But the cold fact that a telepathy-detecting device had been inventedsomehow shocked his sense of propriety, and his notions of privacy. Itwasn'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 theblock. He had, he told himself, nothing at all to see the Presidentabout.

  Not yet, anyhow.

  The streets were dark and very peaceful. _I get my best ideas whilewalking_, Malone said without convincing himself. He thought back tothe video tapes.

  The report on the original use of the machine itself had been on oneof the first tapes, and Malone could still see and hear it. That wasone thing he did