style="font-size:15px;"> Manelli blinked. "You know, Mr. Malone," he said softly, "I heard about government interference in private enterprise, but don't you think this is a little too far out?"
Malone shrugged. "That's what I'm here for," he said. "Take it or leave it."
"Just so it's understood," Manelli said, "that we're talking about imaginary things. Theoretical."
"Sure," Malone said. "Imagine away."
"Well," Manelli said slowly, "you heard about this wrecked night-club in Florida? It happened maybe a month ago, in Miami?"
"I heard about it," Malone said.
"This is just a for-instance, you know," Manelli said. "But suppose there was a roulette wheel in that club. Just a wheel."
"Okay," Malone said.
"And suppose the wheel was rigged a little bit," Manelli said. "Not seriously, just a little bit."
"Fine," Malone said. "This is going to explain a wrecked club?"
"Well, sure," Manelli said. "Because something went wrong with the machinery, or maybe the operator goofed up. And number seven came up eight times in a row."
"Good old lucky seven," Malone said.
"So there was a riot," Manelli said. "Because some people had money on the number, and some people got suspicious, and like that. And there was a riot."
"And the club got wrecked," Malone said. "That's what I call bad luck."
"Luck?" Manelli said. "What does luck have to do with roulette? Somebody goofed, that's all."
"Oh," Malone said. "Sure."
"And that's the way it's been going," Manelli said. He puffed on his cigar, put it in a nearby ashtray, and blew out a great Vesuvian spout of smoke.
"Too bad," Malone said sympathetically.
"It's all over," Manelli said. "Mistakes and people making the mistakes, goofing up here and there and everyplace. There have been guys killed because they made mistakes, and nobody can afford guys being killed all the time."
"It does run into expense," Malone said.
"And time, and hiring guys to do the killing, and then they goof up, too," Manelli said. "It's terrible. Some guys have even been killed without they made any mistakes at all. Just by accident, sort of."
"Well," Malone said carefully, "you can depend on the government to do everything in its power to straighten things out."
Manelli frowned. "You mean that, Mr. Malone?"
"Of course I do," Malone said honestly. He hadn't, he reminded himself, promised to help Manelli. He had only promised to straighten things out. And he could figure out what that might mean later, when he had the time.
"All I say is, it's funny," Manelli said. "It's crazy."
"That's the way it is," Malone said.
Manelli looked at him narrowly. "Mr. Malone," he said at last, "maybe you mean it at that. Maybe you do."
"Sure I do," Malone said. "After all, the government is supposed to help its citizens."
Manelli shook his head. "Mr. Malone," he said, "you can call me Cesare. Everybody does."
"No, they don't," Malone said. "They call you Cheese. I've got a research staff too."
"So call me Cheese," Manelli said. "I don't mind."
"There's only one little trouble," Malone said. "If I called you Cheese, you'd call me Ken. And word would get around."
"I see what you mean," Manelli said.
"I don't think either one of us wants his associates to think we're friends," Malone said.
"I guess not," Manelli said. "It would cause uneasiness."
"And a certain lack of confidence," Malone said. "So suppose I go on calling you Mr. Manelli?"
"Fine," Manelli said. "And I'll call you Mr. Malone, like always."
Malone smiled and stood up. "Well, then," he said, "good-bye, Mr. Manelli."
Manelli rose, too. "Goodbye, Mr. Malone," he said. "And good luck, if you really mean what you said."
"Oh, I do," Malone said.
"Because things are terrible," Manelli said. "And they're getting worse every day. You should only know."
"Don't worry," Malone said. "Things will be straightened out pretty soon." He hoped, as he went out the door and down the corridor, that he was telling the truth there, at least. He'd sounded fairly confident, he thought, but he didn't feel quite so confident. The secretary was busy on the switchboard when he came out into the anteroom, and he went by without a greeting, his mind busy, churning and confused.
He felt as if his head were on just a little crooked. Or as if, maybe, he had a small hole in it somewhere and facts were leaking out onto the sidewalk.
If he only looked at the problem in the right way, he told himself, he would see just what was going on.
But what was the right way?
"That," Malone murmured as he hailed a cab for the ride back to 69th Street, "is the big, sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. And how much time do I have for an answer?"
Chapter 11
"Boyd?" the agent-in-charge said. "He went out to talk to Mike Sand down at the ITU a while ago, and he hasn't come back yet."
"Fine," Malone said. "I'll be in my office if he wants me."
The agent-in-charge picked up a small package. "A messenger brought this," he said. "It's from the Psychical Research Society, and if it's ghosts, they're much smaller than last time."
"Dehydrated," Malone said. "Just add ectoplasm and out they come, shouting boo at everybody and dancing all over the world."
"Sounds wonderful," the agent-in-charge said. "Can I come to the party?"
"First," Malone said judiciously, "you'd have to be dead. Of course, I can arrange that--"
"Thanks," the agent-in-charge said, leaving in a hurry. Malone went on down to his office and opened the package. It contained more facsimiles from Sir Lewis Carter, all dealing with telepathic projection. He spent a few minutes looking them over and trying to make some connected sense out of them, and then he just sat and thought for awhile.
Finally he picked up the phone. In a few minutes he was talking to Dr. Thomas O'Connor, at Yucca Flats.
"Telepathic projection?" O'Connor
