Malone shrugged. "I didn't mean to be--" he paused. "Anyhow, I didn't
mean to be funny," he went on. "But I would like to have another idea
of what's causing all this."
"Scientific theories," O'Connor said sternly, "are not invented on the
spur of the moment. Only after long, careful thought--"
"You mean you can't think of anything," Malone said.
"There must be some other explanation," O'Connor said. "Naturally,
since the facts have only now been presented to me, it is impossible
for me to display at once a fully constructed theory."
Malone nodded slowly. "O.K.," he said. "Have you got any hints, then?
Any ideas at all?"
O'Connor shook his head. "I have not," he said. "But I strongly
suggest, Mr. Malone, that you recheck your data. The fault may very
well lie in your own interpretations of the actual facts."
"I don't think so," Malone said.
O'Connor grimaced. "I do," he said firmly.
Malone sighed, very faintly. He shifted in the chair and began to
realize, for the first time, just how uncomfortable it really was. He
also felt a little chilly, and the chill was growing. That, he told
himself, was the effect of Dr. O'Connor. He no longer regretted
wearing his hat. As a matter of fact, he thought wistfully for a
second of a small, light overcoat.
O'Connor, he told himself, was definitely not the warm, friendly type.
"Well, then," he said, conquering the chilly feeling for a second,
"maybe there's somebody else. Somebody who knows something more about
psionics, and who might have some other ideas about--"
"Please, Mr. Malone," O'Connor said. "The United States Government
would hardly have chosen me had I not been uniquely qualified in my
field."
Malone sighed again. "I mean ... maybe there are some books on the
subject," he said quietly, hoping he sounded tactful. "Maybe there's
something I could look up."
"Mr. Malone." The temperature of the office, Malone realized, was
definitely lowering. O'Connor's built-in freezer coils were working
overtime, he told himself. "The field of psionics is so young that I
can say, without qualification, that I am acquainted with everything
written on the subject. By that, of course, I mean scientific works. I
do not doubt that the American Society for Psychical Research, for
instance, has hundreds of crackpot books which I have never read, or
even heard of. But in the strictly scientific field, I must say
that--"
He broke off, looking narrowly at Malone with what might have been
concern, but looked more like discouragement and boredom.
"Mr. Malone," he said, "are you ill?"
Malone thought about it. He wasn't quite sure, he discovered. The
chill in the office was bothering him more and more, and as it grew he
began to doubt that it was all due to the O'Connor influence. Suddenly
a distinct shudder started somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulders
and rippled its way down his body.
Another one followed it, and then a third.
"Me?" Malone said. "I'm ... I'm all right."
"You seem to have contracted a chill," O'Connor said.
A fourth shudder followed the other three.
"I ... guess so," Malone said. "I d-d ... I do s-seem to be r-r-rather
chilly."
O'Connor nodded. "Ah," he said. "I thought so. Although a chill is
certainly odd at seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit." He looked at the
thermometer just outside the window of his office, then turned back to
Malone. "Pardon me," he said. "Seventy-one point six."
"Is ... is that all it is?" Malone said. Seventy-one point six
degrees, or even seventy-two, hardly sounded like the broiling Nevada
desert he'd expected.
"Of course," O'Connor said. "At nine o'clock in the morning, one would
hardly expect great temperatures. The desert becomes quite hot during
the day, but cools off rapidly; I assume you are familiar with the
laws covering the system."
"Sure," Malone said. "S-sure."
The chills were not getting any better. They continued to travel up
and down his body with the dignified regularity of Pennsylvania
Railroad commuter trains.
O'Connor frowned for a second. It was obvious that his keen scientific
eye was sizing up the phenomenon, and reporting events to his keen
scientific brain. In a second or less, the keen scientific brain had
come up with an answer, and Dr. O'Connor spoke in his very keenest
scientific voice.
"I should have warned you," he said, without an audible trace of
regret. "The answer is childishly simple, Mr. Malone. You left
Washington at noon."
"Just a little before noon," Malone said. Remembering the burning sun,
he added: "High noon. Very high."
"Just so," O'Connor said. "And not only the heat was intense; the
humidity, I assume, was also high."
"Very," Malone said, thinking back. He shivered again.
"In Washington," O'Connor said, "it was noon. Here it is nine o'clock,
and hardly as warm. The atmosphere is quite arid, and about twenty
degrees below that obtaining in Washington."
Malone thought about it, trying to ignore the chills. "Oh," he said at
last. "And all the time I thought it was you."
"What?" O'Connor leaned forward.
"Nothing," Malone said hastily.
"My suggestion," O'Connor said, putting his fingertips together again,
"is that you take off your clothes, which are undoubtedly damp, and--"
Naturally, Malone had not brought any clothes to Yucca Flats to change
into. And when he tried to picture himself in a spare suit of Dr.
O'Connor's, the picture just wouldn't come. Besides, the idea of doing
a modified strip-tease in, or near, the O'Connor office was thoroughly
unattractive.
"Well," he said slowly, "thanks a lot, doctor, but no thanks. I really
have a better idea."
"Better?" O'Connor said.
"Well, I--" Malone took a deep breath and shut his eyes.