“Oh, bosh, Dr. Harman,” the little old lady said primly. “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 Harman didn’t know that. He just thinks I’m crazy and that’s all.”
“Please, Miss Thompson—” Dr. Harman 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. Dr. Harman turned a dull purple, but she ignored him. “He’s 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,” Dr. Harman 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. Harman 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?”
“Gur,” Malone said, taken by surprise. After a second he added: “I guess so.”
“You see, Doctor?” the little old lady said.
“But you—” Dr. Harman 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. Harman 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. Harman muttered. “Hmm. My. Well.” He turned and seemed to be surprised that Malone was actually standing near him. “Yes,” he said. “Well. Mr. Alone — 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 the 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. Harman’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. Harman.
“Whatever my mind is,” Dr. Harmon said. “Reading it. Oh, my.”
“Dr. Harman,” 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. Harman’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. Harman 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’ voice said. “That’s right. Yes. Am I talking to one of the patients?”
Dr. Harman 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’ 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’ eyes widened slightly. “Another one?”
“What are you talking about, another one?” Malone said. “We have one. Does anybody else have any more?”