"Oog," Malone said, and thought for less than a second. "Miss Garbitsch," he said. "Lou. Got to talk to her. Now."
"Oh, I can't do that, either, Mr. Malone," the toothy girl said. "All of the executive officers, they left already on their vacation. And that includes Miss Garbitsch, too. They just left a skeleton force here at the office."
"They're all gone?" Malone said hollowly.
"That's right," she said cheerfully. "As a matter of fact, I'm in charge now, and that's why I'm staying so late. To sort of catch up on things. You know?"
"It's very important," Malone said tensely. "You don't know where any of them went? You don't have any address?"
"None at all," she said. "I'm sorry, but that's how it is. Maybe it's strange, and maybe you'd ask questions, but I obey orders, and those're my orders. To take over until they get back. They didn't tell me where they went, and I didn't ask."
"Great," Malone said. He wanted to shoot himself.
Lou was one of them. Of course she was; that was obvious now, when he thought about it. Lou was one of the secret group that was sabotaging practically everything.
And now they'd all gone. For two weeks--or for good.
The girl's voice broke in on his thoughts.
"Oh, Mr. Malone," she said, "I'm sorry, but I just remembered. They left a note for you."
"A note?" Malone said.
"Sir Lewis said you might call," the girl said, "and he left a message. If you'll hold on a minute I'll read it to you."
Malone waited tensely. The girl found a slip of paper, blinked at it and read:
"My dear Malone, I'm afraid you are perfectly correct in your deductions; and, as you can see, that leaves us no alternative. Sorry. Miss G. sends her apologies to you, as do I." The girl looked up. "It's signed by Sir Lewis," she said. "Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Malone?"
"I'm afraid it does," Malone said bleakly. "It means entirely too much."
Chapter 12
After the great mass of teeth, vaguely surrounded by a face, had faded from Malone's screen, he just sat there, looking at the dead, grey screen of the visiphone and feeling about twice as dead and at least three times as grey.
Things, he told himself, were terrible. But even that sentence, which was a good deal more cheerful than what he actually felt, didn't do anything to improve his mood. All of the evidence, after all, had been practically living on the tip of his nose for nearly twenty-four hours, and not only had he done nothing about it, but he hadn't even seen it.
Two or three times, for instance, he'd doubted the possibility of teleporting another human being. All his logic had told him it wasn't so. But, he'd thought, he and Her Majesty had teleported Lou, and so, obviously, his logic was wrong.
No, it wasn't, he thought now. There would be too much mental resistance, even if the person were unconscious. Teleportation of another human being would be impossible.
Unless, of course, the other human being was able to teleport on her own.
True, she had been no more than semiconscious. She probably couldn't have teleported on her own. But Malone and Her Majesty had, ever so kindly and ever so mistakenly, helped her, and Lou had managed to teleport to the plane.
And that wasn't all, he thought dismally. That was far from all.
"Let's take another for-instance," he said savagely, in what he thought was a caricature of the Manelli voice. In order for all three to teleport, there had to be perfect synchronization.
Otherwise, they'd have arrived either at different places, or at the same place but at different times.
And perfect synchronization on a psionic level meant telepathy. At least two of the three had to be telepathic. Her Majesty was, of course. Malone wasn't.
So Lou had to be telepathic, too.
Malone told himself bitterly to quit calling the girl Lou. After the way she'd deceived him, she didn't deserve it. Her name was Luba Garbitsch, and from now on he was going to call her Luba Garbitsch. In his own mind, anyway.
Facts came tumbling in on him like the side of a mountain, falling on a hapless traveler during a landslide. And, Malone told himself, he had never had less help in all of his ill-starred life.
Her Majesty had never, never suspected that Luba Garbitsch was anything other than the girl she pretended to be. That was negative evidence, true, and taken alone it meant nothing at all. But when you added the other facts to it, it showed, with perfect plainness, that Luba Garbitsch was the fortunate possessor of a mind shield as tough, as strong and as perfect as any Malone, O'Connor or good old Cartier Taylor had ever even thought of dreaming up.
And then, very suddenly, another fact arrived, and pushed the rest out into the black night of Malone's bitter mind. He punched hard on the intercom button and got the desk of the agent-in-charge.
"Now what's wrong?" the A-in-C said. "Ghosts got loose? Or do you want some help with a beautiful blonde heiress?"
"What would I be doing," Malone snapped, "with a beautiful blonde heiress?"
The agent-in-charge looked thoughtful. It was obvious that he had been saving his one joke up for several hours. "You might be holding her," he suggested, "for ransom, of course."
"That's not funny," Malone said. "Nothing is funny any more."
"Oh, all right," the A-in-C said. "You Washington boys are just too good for the rest of us. What's on your mind?"
"You've got a twenty-four-hour watch on Luba Garbitsch, haven't you?" Malone said.
"Sure we have," the A-in-C said. "Boyd said--"
"Yes, I know what he said," Malone cut in. "Give me a check on those men. I want to find out where she is right now. Right this minute."
The agent-in-charge shrugged. "Sure," he said. "It's none of my business. Hang on a second."
The screen went blank, but it didn't go silent. Each of the agents, on a stakeout job like the Garbitsch one, would be carrying personal communicators, and Malone could hear the voice of the agent-in-charge as he spoke to them.
He couldn't make out all the words, and it wasn't important anyhow. He'd know soon enough, he kept telling himself; just as soon as the A-in-C came back and reported.
It seemed like about twelve years before he did.
"She's all right," he said. "Nothing to worry about; she's probably working late at her office, that's all. She hasn't gone home yet."
"Want to bet?" Malone snapped.
"Don't tempt me," the A-in-C said. "I wouldn't take your money--it's probably counterfeit, printed in Washington."
"I'll give you ten to one," Malone said.
"Ten to one, I'll take," the A-in-C said rapidly. "Ten to one is like taking candy from a traffic cop. I'm no amateur, even if I am stuck away in dull little old New York--and I know the boys I've got on stakeout. I'll check, and--"
"Let me know when you do," Malone said. "I've got some long-distance calls to make."
* * * * *
Forty-five minutes later, he had all the news he needed. Spot checks on PRS offices on the West Coast, where it wasn't closing time yet, showed that all the executive officers had suddenly felt the need of extended vacations to parts unknown.
That, if not exactly cheering news, was still welcome; Malone had more backing for his theory.
An overseas call to New Scotland Yard in London took a little more time,