Malone looked around the office of Andrew J. Burris as if he'd never
seen it before. He felt tired, and worn out, and depressed; it had
been a long night, and here it was morning and the head of the FBI was
talking to him about his report. It was, Malone told himself heavily,
a hell of a life.
"Now, Malone," Burris said in a kindly voice, "this is a very
interesting report."
"Yes, sir," Malone said automatically.
"A very interesting report indeed, Kenneth," Burris went on,
positively bursting with good-fellowship.
"Thank you, sir," Malone said dully.
Burris beamed a little more. "You've done a fine job," he said, "a
really fine job. Hardly on the job any time at all, and here you've
managed to get all three of the culprits responsible."
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said in sudden panic. "That isn't what I
said."
"No?" Burris said, looking a little surprised.
"Not at all," Malone said. "I don't think those three spies have
anything to do with this at all. Not a thing."
There was a brief silence, during which Burris' surprise seemed to
expand like a gas and fill the room. "But they've confessed," he said
at last. "Their job was to try and get information, and also to
disrupt our own work here."
"I know all that," Malone said. "But--"
Burris held up a pink, patient hand. Malone stared at it, fascinated.
It had five pink, patient fingers on it. "Malone," Burris said slowly,
"just what's bothering you? Don't you think those men _are_ spies? Is
that it?"
"Spies?" Malone said, slightly confused.
"You know," Burris said. "The men you arrested, Malone. The men you
wrote this report about."
Malone blinked and focused on the hand again. It still had five
fingers. "Sure they are," he said. "They're spies, all right. And
they're caught, and that's that. Except I don't think they're causing
all the confusion around here."
"Well, of course they're not," Burris said, the beam of kindliness
coming back to his face. "Not any more. You caught them."
"I mean," Malone said desperately, "they never were. Even before I
caught them."
"Then why," Burris said with great patience, "did you arrest them?"
"Because they're spies," Malone said. "Besides, I didn't."
"Didn't what?" Burris said, looking confused. He seemed to realize he
was still holding up his hand, and dropped it to the desk. Malone felt
sad as he watched it go. Now he had nothing to concentrate on except
the conversation, and he didn't even want to think about what was
happening to that.
"Didn't arrest them," he said. "Tom Boyd did."
"Acting," Burris pointed out gently, "under your orders, Kenneth."
It was the second time Burris had called him Kenneth, Malone realized.
It started a small warning bell in the back of his mind. When Burris
called him by his first name, Burris was feeling paternal and kindly.
And that, Malone thought determinedly, boded Kenneth J. Malone very
little good indeed.
"He was under my orders to arrest them because they were spies," he
said at last. He wondered if the sentence made any real sense, but
shrugged his shoulders and plunged on. "But they're not the real
spies," he said. "Not the ones everybody's been looking for."
"Kenneth," Burris said, his voice positively dripping with what Malone
thought of as the heavy, Grade A, Government-inspected cream of human
kindness, "all the confusion with the computer-secretaries has
stopped. Everything is running fine in that department."
"But--" Malone began.
"The technicians," Burris said, hypnotized by this poem of beauty,
"aren't making any more mistakes. The information is flowing through
beautifully. It's a pleasure to see their reports. Believe me,
Kenneth--"
"Call me Chief," Malone said wearily.
Burris blinked. "What?" he said. "Oh. Ha. Indeed. Very well, then:
Malone, what more proof do you want?"
"Is that proof?" Malone said. "The spies didn't even confess to that.
They--"
"Of course they didn't, Malone," Burris said.
"Of course?" Malone said weakly.
"Look at their confessions," Burris said. "Just look at them, in black
and white." He reached for a sheaf of papers and pushed them across
the desk. Malone looked at them. They were indeed, he told himself, in
black and white. There was no arguing with that. None at all.
* * * * *
"Well?" Burris said after a second.
"I don't see anything about computer-secretaries," Malone said.
"The Russians," Burris began slowly, "are not stupid, Malone. You
believe that, don't you?"
"Of course I believe it," Malone said. "Otherwise we wouldn't need an
FBI."
Burris frowned. "There are still domestic cases," he said. "Like
juvenile delinquents stealing cars inter-state, for instance. If you
remember." He paused, then went on: "But the fact remains: Russians
are not stupid. Not by a long shot."
"All right," Malone said agreeably.
"Do you really think, then," Burris said instantly, "that a spy ring
could be as utterly inefficient as the one described in those
confessions?"
"Lots of people are inefficient," Malone said.
"Not spies," Burris said with decision. "Do you really believe that
the Russians would send over a bunch of operatives as clodheaded as
these are pretending to be?"
"People make mistakes," Malone said weakly.
"Russian spies," Burris said, "do not make mistakes. Or, anyhow, we
can't depend on it. We have to depend on the fact that they're
operating at peak efficiency, Malone. Peak."
Malone nearly asked: "Where?" but controlled himself at the last
minute. Instead, he said: "But the confessions are right there. And,
according to the confessions--"
"Do you really believe," Burris said, "that a trio of Soviet agents
would confess everything as easily as all that if they didn't intend
to get something out of it? Such as, for instance, covering up their
methods of doing damage? And do you really believe--"
Malone began to feel as if he were involved in the Athanasian Creed.
"I don't think the spies are the real spies," he said stubbornly. "I
mean the spies we're all looking for."
"Do you mean to stand there and tell me," Burris went on inexorably,
"that you take the word of spies when they tell you about their own
activities?"
"Their confessions--"
"Spies can lie, Malone," Burris said gently. "As a matter of fact,
they usually do. We have come to depend on it as one of the facts of
life."
"But Queen Elizabeth," Malone said stubbornly, "told me they weren't
lying." As he finished the sentence, he suddenly realized what it
sounded like. "You know Queen Elizabeth," he said chummily.
"The Virgin Queen," Burris said helpfully.
"I wouldn't know," Malone said, feeling uncomfortable. "I mean Rose
Thompson. She thinks she's Queen Elizabeth and I just said it that way
because--"
"It's all right, Malone," Burris said softly. "I know who you mean."
"Well, then," Malone said. "If Queen Elizabeth says the spies aren't
lying, then--"
"Then nothing," Burris said flatly. "Miss Rose Thompson is a nice,
sweet, little old lady. I admit that."
"And she's been a lot of help," Malone said.
"I admit that, too," Burris said. "But she is also somewhat battier,
Malone, than the entire Order Chiroptera, including Count Dracula and
all his happy friends."
"She only thinks she's Queen Elizabeth I," Malone said defensively.
"That," Burris said, "is a large sort of _only_. Malone, you've got to
look at the facts sensibly. Square in the face."
Malone pictured a lot of facts going by with square faces. He didn't
like the picture. "All right," he said.
"Things are going wrong in the Congressional computer-secretaries,"
Burris said. "So I assign you to the case. You come back to me with
three spies, and the trouble stops. And what other information have
you got?"
"Plenty," Malone said, and stopped for thought. There was a long
pause.
"All this business about mysterious psionic faculties," Burris said,
"comes direct from the testimony of that sweet little old twitch.
Which she is. Dr. O'Connor, for instance, has told you in so many
words that there's no such thing as this mysterious force. And if you
don't want to take the word of the nation's foremost authority,
there's this character from the Psychical Research Society--Carter, or
whatever his name is. Carter told you he'd never heard of such a
thing."
"But that doesn't mean there isn't such a thing," Malone said.
"Even your own star witness," Burris said, "even the Queen herself,
told you it couldn't be done."
"Nevertheless--" Malone began. But he felt puzzled. There was no way,
he decided, to finish a sentence that started with _nevertheless_. It
was the wrong kind of word.
"What are you trying to do?" Burris said. "Beat your head against a
stone wall?"
Malone realized that that was just what he felt like. Of course,
Burris thought the stone wall was his psionic theory. Malone knew that
the stone wall was Andrew J. Burris. But it didn't matter, he thought
confusedly. Where there's a stone, there's a way.
"I feel," he said carefully, "like a man with a stone head."
"And I don't blame you," Burris said in an understanding tone. "Here
you are trying to make evidence to fit your theories. What real
evidence is there, Malone, that these three spies ... these three
comic-opera spies--are innocent?"
"What evidence is there that they're guilty?" Malone said. "Now,
listen, Chief--"
"Don't call me Chief," Burris murmured.
"Another five minutes," Malone said in a sudden rage, "and I won't
even call you."
"Malone!" Burris said.
Malone swallowed hard. "Sorry," he said at last. "But isn't it just
barely possible that these three spies aren't the real criminals?
Suppose you were a spy."
"All right," Burris said. "I'm a spy." Something in his tone made
Malone look at him with a sudden suspicion. Burris, he thought, was
humoring him.
Is it possible, Malone asked himself, that _I_ am the one who is as a
little child?
Little children, he told himself with decision, do not capture Russian
spies and then argue about it. They go home, eat supper and go to bed.
* * * * *
He stopped thinking about sleep in a hurry, and got back to the
business at hand. "If you were a spy," he said, "and you knew that a
lot of other spies had been arrested and charged with the crimes you
were committing, what would you do?"
Burris appeared to think deeply. "I would celebrate," he said at last,
in a judicious tone.
"I mean, would you just go on with the same crimes?" Malone said.
"What are you talking about, Malone?" Burris said cautiously.
"If you knew we'd arrested Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch," Malone
went on doggedly, "you'd lay off for a while, just to make us think
we'd caught the right men. Doesn't that make sense?"
"Of course it makes sense," Burris said in what was almost a pitying
tone. "But don't push it too far. Malone, I want you to know
something."
Malone sighed. "Yes, sir?" he said.
"Contrary to popular opinion," Burris said, "I was not appointed
Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation just because I own a
Hoover vacuum cleaner."
"Of course not," Malone said, feeling that something of the sort was
called for.
"And I think you ought to know by now," Burris went on, "that I
wouldn't fall for a trick like that any more than you would. There are
obviously more members in this spy ring. Brubitsch, Borbitsch and
Garbitsch are just a start."
"Well, then--" Malone began.
"_I'm_ not going to be taken in by what these three say," Burris said.
"But now, Malone, we know what to look for. All we have to do is
pretend to be taken in. Get it?"
"Sure," Malone said. "We pretend to be taken in. And in the meantime I
can go on looking for--"
"We don't have to look for anything," Burris said calmly.
Malone took a deep breath. Somehow, he told himself, things were not
working out very well. "But the other spies--"
"The next time they try anything," Burris said, "we'll be able to
reach out and pick them up as easy as falling off a log."
"It's the wrong log!" Malone said.
Burris folded his hands on the desk and looked at them for a second,
frowning slightly like a psychiatrist. "Malone," he said at last, "I
want you to listen to me. Calmly. Coolly. Collectedly."