"And collected," Burris added.
"That, too," Malone said vaguely.
"Malone," Burris began, "you've got to get rid of this idea that
everything the FBI investigates these days is somehow linked with
psionics. I know you've done a lot of work in that connection--"
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "There are those errors. How did
the technicians feed the wrong data into the machines?"
"Errors do happen," Burris said. "If I slip on a banana peel, do I
blame psionics? Do I even blame the United Fruit Growers? I do not,
Malone. Instead, I tell myself that errors do happen. All the time."
"Now," Malone said, "you've contradicted yourself."
"I have?" Burris said with a look of complete surprise.
"Sure," Malone said. He leaned forward across the desk. "If the errors
were just ordinary accidental errors, then how were the spies
responsible? And why did they stop after the spies were arrested? When
you slip on a banana peel, does it matter whether or not the United
Fruit Growers are out on strike?"
"Oh," Burris said.
"You see?" Malone said. "You've gone and contradicted yourself." He
felt victorious, but somewhere in the back of his mind was the
horrible sensation that someone was about to come up behind him and
hit him on the head with a wet sock full of old sand.
A long second passed. Then Burris said: "Oh. Malone, I forgot to give
you the analysis report."
That, Malone realized dimly, was supposed to be the wet sock. Fate, he
told himself, was against him. Anyhow, something was against him. It
was a few seconds before he came to the conclusion that what he had
heard didn't really make any sense. "Analysis report?" he said.
"On the water cooler," Burris explained cheerfully.
"There is an analysis report on a water cooler," Malone said.
"Everything now becomes as clear as crystal." He heard his voice begin
to rise. "You analyzed a water cooler and discovered that it was a
Siberian spy in disguise," he said, trying to make himself sound less
hysterical.
"No, no," Burris said, pushing at Malone with his palms. "The water in
it, Malone. The water in it."
"No Siberian spy," Malone said with decision, "could disguise himself
as the water in a water cooler."
"I didn't say that," Burris went on. "But what do you think was in
that water cooler, Malone?"
"Water," Malone said. "_Cool_ water."
"Congratulations," Burris said, in the hearty tones usually reserved
for announcers on programs where housewives win trips to Nome. "You
are just a shade less than ninety-nine point nine nine per cent
correct."
"The rest of the water," Malone hazarded, "was warm?"
"The rest of the water," Burris said, "wasn't water. Aside from the
usual minerals, there was also a trace of one of the psychodrugs."
* * * * *
The word seemed to hang in mid-air, like somebody's sword. Malone knew
perfectly well what the psychodrugs were. Over the past twenty years,
a great number of them had been developed by confused and anxious
researchers. Some were solids, some liquids and a few gaseous at
normal temperatures. Some were weak and some were highly potent. Some
were relatively innocuous, and quite a few were as deadly as any of
the more common poisons. They could be administered by mouth, by
injection, by spray, as drops, grains, whiffs or in any other way
conceivable to medical science. But they all had one thing in common.
They affected the mental functioning--what seemed to be the
personality itself--of the person dosed with them.
The effect of the drugs was, in most cases, highly specific. One might
make a normally brave man a craven coward; laboratory tests on that
one had presented the interesting spectacle of terrified cats running
from surprised, but by no means displeased, experimental mice. Another
drug reversed this picture, and made the experimental mice mad with
power. They attacked cats in battalions or singly, cheering and almost
waving large flags as they went over the top, completely foolhardy in
the presence of any danger whatever. Others made man abnormally
suspicious and still others disassociated judgment to the point where
all decisions were made completely at random.
The FBI had a large file on psychodrugs, Malone knew. But he didn't
need the file to see what was coming. He asked the question anyhow,
just for the record: "What particular psychodrug was this one?"
"One of the judgment-warpers," Burris said. "Haenlingen's Mixture;
it's more or less a new development, but the Russians probably know as
much about it as we do. In large doses, the drug affects even the
automatic nervous system and throws the involuntary functions out of
whack; but it isn't usually used in killing amounts."
"And in the water cooler?" Malone asked.
"There wasn't much of it," Burris said, "but there was enough. The
technicians could be depended on to make a great many more mistakes
than usual--just how many we can't determine, but the order of
magnitude seems about right. It would depend on how much water each
one of them drank, of course, and we haven't a chance of getting
anything like a precise determination of that now."
"Oh," Malone said. "But it comes out about right, doesn't it?" He felt
hopeless.
"Just about," Burris said cheerfully. "And since it was Brubitsch's
job to change the cooler jug--"
"Wait a minute," Malone said. "I think I see a hole in that."
"Really?" Burris said. He frowned slightly.
Malone nodded. "Sure," he said. "If any of the spies drank the
water--their judgment would be warped, too, wouldn't it?"
"So they didn't drink the water," Burris said easily.
"How can we be sure?" Malone asked.
Burris shrugged. "Why do we have to be?" he said. "Malone, you've got
to stop pressing so hard on this."
"But a man who didn't drink water all day would be a little
conspicuous," Malone said. "After a while, anyhow."
Burris sighed. "The man is a janitor, Kenneth," he said. "Do you know
what a janitor is?"
"Don't baby me," Malone snapped.
Burris shrugged. "A janitor doesn't work in the office with the men,"
he said. "He can drink out of a faucet in the broom closet--or
wherever the faucets might be. Nobody would notice. Nobody would think
it odd."
Malone said: "But--" and stopped and thought it over. "All right," he
went on at last. "But I still insist--"
"Now, Kenneth," Burris said in a voice that dripped oil. "I'll admit
that psionics is new and wonderful and you've done a lot of fine work
with it. A lot of very fine work indeed. But you can't go around
blaming everything on psionics no matter what it is or how much sense
it makes."
"I don't," Malone said, injured. "But--"
"But you do," Burris said. "Lately, you've been acting as though magic
were loose in the world. As though nothing were dependable any more."
"It's not magic," Malone said.
"But it is," Burris told him, "when you use it as an explanation for
anything and everything." He paused, "Kenneth," he said in a more
kindly tone, "don't think I blame you. I know how hard you've been
working. I know how much time and effort you've put into the gallant
fight against this country's enemies."
Malone closed his eyes and turned slightly green. "It was nothing," he
said at last. He opened his eyes but nothing had changed. Burris'
expression was still kindly and concerned.
"Oh, but it was," Burris said. "Something, I mean. You've been working
very hard and you're just not at peak efficiency any more. You need a
rest, Kenneth. A nice rest."
"I do not," Malone said indignantly.
"A lovely rest," Burris went on, oblivious. "Somewhere peaceful and
quiet, where you can just sit around and think peacefully about
peaceful things. Oh, it ought to be wonderful for you, Kenneth. A
nice, peaceful, lovely, wonderful vacation."
Through the haze of adjectives, Malone remembered dimly the last time
Burris had offered him a vacation in that tone of voice. It had turned
out to be one of the toughest cases he'd ever had: the case of the
teleporting delinquents.
[Illustration]
"Nice?" Malone said. "Peaceful? Lovely? Wonderful? I can see it now."
"What do you mean, Malone?" Burris said.
"What am I going to get?" Malone said. "A nice easy job like arresting
all the suspected nose-pickers in Mobile, Alabama?"
Burris choked and recovered quickly. "No," he said. "No, no, no. I
mean it. You've earned a vacation, Kenneth, a real vacation. A nice,
peaceful--"
"Lovely, wonderful vacation," Malone said. "But--"
"You're one of my best agents," Burris said. "I might almost say
you're my top man. My very top man. And because of that I've been
overworking you."
"But--"
"Now, now," Burris said, waving a hand vaguely. "I have been
overworking you, Kenneth, and I'm sorry. I want to make amends."
"A what?" Malone said, feeling confused again.
"Amends," Burris said. "I want to do something for you."
Malone thought about that for a second. Burris was well-meaning, all
right, but from the way the conversation was going it looked very much
as if "vacation" weren't going to be the right word.
The right word, he thought dismally, was going to be "rest home." Or
possibly even "insane asylum."
"I don't want to stop work," he said grimly. "Really, I don't."
"You'll have lots of time to yourself," Burns said in a wheedling
tone.
Malone nodded. "Sure I will," he said. "Until they come and put me in
a wet pack."
Burris blinked, but recovered gamely. "You don't have to go swimming,"
he said, "if you don't want to go swimming. Up in the mountains, for
instance--"
"Where there are nice big guards to watch everything," Malone said.
"And nuts."
"Guides," Burris said. "But you could just sit around and take things
easy."
"All locked up," Malone said. "Sure. I'll love it."
"If you want to go out," Burris said, "you can go out. Anywhere. Just
do whatever you feel like doing."
Malone sighed. "O.K.," he said. "When do the men in the white coats
arrive?"
"White coats?" Burris said. There was a short silence. "Kenneth," he
said, "don't suspect me of trying to do anything to you. This is my
way of doing you a favor. It would just be a vacation--going anywhere
you want to go, doing anything you want to do."
"Avacado," Malone muttered at random.