"Nothing," Malone said shamefacedly. "An old song. It runs through my
mind. And when you said that about going where I want to go--"
"An old song with avacados in it?" Burris said.
Malone cleared his throat and burst into shy and slightly hoarse song.
"Avacado go where you go," he piped feebly, "do what you do--"
"Oh," Burris said. "Oh, my."
"Sorry," Malone muttered. He took a breath and waited. A second
passed.
"Well, Kenneth," Burris said at last, with an attempt at heartiness,
"you can do anything you like. The mountains. The seashore. Hawaii.
The Riviera. Just go and forget all about gangsters, spies,
counter-espionage, kidnapings, mad telepaths, juvenile teleports and
anything else like that."
"You forgot water coolers," Malone said.
Burris nodded. "And water coolers," he said, "by all means. Forget
about FBI business. Forget about me. Just relax."
It did sound appealing, Malone told himself. But there was a case to
finish, and he was sure Burris was finishing it wrong. He wanted to
argue about it some more, but he was fresh out of arguments.
And besides, the idea of being able to forget all about Andrew J.
Burris for a little while was almost insidious. Malone liked it more
the more he thought about it. Burris went on naming vacation spots and
drawing magnificent travel-agency pictures of how wonderful life could
be, and after a while Malone left. There just wasn't anything else to
say. Burris had given him an order for his vacation pay and another
guaranteeing travel expenses. Not, he thought glumly, that he would be
expected to buy return tickets. Oh, no. Once he'd been to a place he
could teleport back, so there would be no point in taking a plane or
a train back from wherever he went.
"And suppose I like planes and trains?" he muttered, going on down the
hall. But there was nothing he could do about it. He did think of
looking for some sympathy, at least, but he couldn't even get much of
that. Tom Boyd had apparently already talked to Burris, and was in
full agreement with him.
"After all," Boyd said, "there's the drug in the water--and it looks
like pretty solid proof to me, Ken."
"It's not proof of anything," Malone said sourly.
"Sure it is," Boyd said. "Why would anybody put it there otherwise?"
Malone shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "But I'm not surprised you like
Burris' theory. Psionics never did make you very happy, did it?"
"Not very," Boyd admitted. "This way, anyhow, I've got something I can
cope with. And it makes nice, simple sense. No reason to go and
complicate it, Ken. None at all."
* * * * *
Glumly, Malone made his farewells and then teleported himself from the
Justice Department Building back to his own apartment. There, slowly
and sadly, he began to pack. He hadn't yet decided just where he _was_
going, but that was a minor detail. The important thing was that he
was going. If the Director of the FBI tells you that you need a rest
cure, Malone thought, you do not argue with him. Argument may result
in your vacation being extended indefinitely. And that is not a good
thing.
Of course, such a "vacation" wouldn't be the end of the world. Not
quite. He could even beat Burris to the gun, hand in his resignation
and go into private practice as a lawyer. The name of Malone, he told
himself proudly, had not been entirely forgotten in Chicago, by any
means. But he didn't feel happy about the idea. He knew, perfectly
well, that he didn't want to live by trading on his father's
reputation. And besides, he _liked_ being an FBI agent. It had
glamour. It had standing.
It had everything. It even had trouble.
Malone caught his whirling mind and forced it back to a landing.
Where, he asked himself, was he going?
He thought about that for a second. Perhaps, as Burris had apparently
suspected, he was going nuts. When he considered it, it even sounded
like a good possibility.
After all, what evidence _did_ he have for his psionic theory? Her
Majesty had told him about those peculiar bursts of metal energy,
true. But there wasn't anything else. And, come to think of it, wasn't
it possible that Her Majesty had slipped just a little off the trolley
of her one-track psychosis?
At that thought a quick wave of guilt swept through him. Her Majesty,
after all, might be reading his mind from Yucca Flats, where she had
returned the previous night, right at that moment. He felt as if he
had committed high, middle and low treason all in one great big
package, not to mention Jack and the Game, he added disconsolately.
"Nevertheless," he muttered, and stopped. He blinked and started over
again. In spite of all that, he told himself, the Burris Theory
certainly looked a lot sounder when you considered it objectively.
The big question was whether or not he _wanted_ to consider it
objectively. But he put this aside for the future, and continued
packing slowly and carefully. When at last he snapped shut the last
suitcase, he still hadn't made up his mind as to the best spot for a
vacation. Images tumbled through his brain: mountains, seacoasts,
beaches, beautiful native girls and even a few insane asylums. But
nothing definite appeared. He sat down in his favorite easychair,
found a cigar and lit it, and luxuriated in the soothing fumes while
his mind began to wander.
Her Majesty, he was quite certain, wouldn't lie purposely. Granted,
she had misled him now and again, but even when she felt misleading
necessary she hadn't lied; she had merely juggled the truth a little.
And Malone was sure she would continue to tell him the truth as she
knew it.
Of course, that was the stopper: _as she knew it_. And she might have
developed another delusion. In which case, he thought sadly, Burris
was very probably right.
But she might also be telling the actual truth. And that meant, Malone
thought, that little pops of energy were occasionally bursting in
various minds. These little pops had an effect, or an apparent effect:
they made people change their minds about doing one thing or another.
And that meant--Malone stopped, his cigar halfway to his mouth.
_Wasn't it possible that just such a burst of energy had made Burris
call him off the case?_
It seemed like a long time before the cigar reached his mouth. Malone
felt slightly appalled. The flashes that had been going on in his own
mind had already been bothering him, and he'd decided that he'd have
to check every decision he made to be sure that it was not capricious;
now he made a resolve that he'd kept his mental faculties on a
perpetual watch for that sort of interference. Of course, it was more
than barely possible that he wouldn't notice it if anything happened.
But it would be pretty stupid to succumb to that sort of defeatism
now, he told himself grimly.
Now that everything was narrowing down so nicely, anyhow, he thought.
There were only two real possibilities. Malone numbered them in his
mind:
1. Her Majesty has developed a new delusion. In this case, he thought,
Burris was perfectly right. I can enjoy a month of free vacation.
2. Her Majesty is no nuttier than before. If this is the case, he
thought, then there's more to the case than has appeared, and Kenneth
J. Malone, with or without the FBI, is going to get to the bottom of
it.
Therefore, he summed up, everything now hinged on whether or not Her
Majesty was unhinged.
That was confusing, but he managed to straighten it out after a
second. He put his half-smoked cigar carefully in an ashtray and stood
up. He went over to the phone and dialed the special unlisted number
of the FBI.
The face that appeared was faintly sallow and looked sad. "Pelham
here," it said in the tones of a discouraged horse.
"Hello, Pelham," Malone said. "Kenneth Malone here."
"Trouble?" Pelham said. It was obvious that he expected trouble, and
always had, and probably always would.
"Nope," Malone said. Pelham looked even sadder. "Just checking out for
vacation. You can tell the Chief I'm going to take off for Las Vegas.
I'm taking his advice, tell him; I'm going to carouse and throw my
money away and look at dancing girls and smoke and drink and stay out
late. I'll let the local office know where I'm staying when I get
there, just in case something comes up."
"O.K.," Pelham said unhappily. "I'll check you out." He tried a smile,
but it looked more like the blank expression on the face of a local
corpse. "Have fun," he said.
"Thanks," Malone said. "I'll try."
But his precognitive sense suddenly rose up on its hind legs as he
broke the connection. The attempt to have fun, it told him in no
uncertain terms, was going to be a morbid failure.
"Nevertheless," Malone muttered, heaved a great sigh, and started for
the suitcase and the door.