"After all," Burris said, in a voice that attempted to sound reasonable, "a paranoid has just as much right to be persecuted as anybody else, doesn't he?"
"Sure," Malone said. "Everybody has rights. But what do you want me to do about that?"
"About their rights?" Burris said. "Nothing, Malone. Nothing."
"I mean," Malone said patiently, "about whatever it is that's going on."
Burris took a deep breath. His hands clasped behind his head, and he looked up at the ceiling. He seemed perfectly relaxed. That, Malone knew, was a bad sign. It meant that there was a dirty job coming, a job nobody wanted to do, and one Burris was determined to pass off on him. He sighed and tried to feel resigned.
* * * * *
"Well," the FBI Director said, "the only actual trouble we can pinpoint is that there seem to be a great many errors occurring in the paperwork--more than usual."
"People get tired," Malone said tentatively.
"But computer-secretary calculating machines don't," Burris said. "And that's where the errors are--in the computer-secretaries down in the Senate Office Building. I think you'd better start out there."
"Sure," Malone said sadly.
"See if there's any mechanical or electrical defect in any of those computers," Burris said. "Talk to the computer technicians. Find out what's causing all these errors."
"Yes, sir," Malone said. He was still trying to feel resigned, but he wasn't succeeding very well.
"And if you don't find anything--" Burris began.
"I'll come right back," Malone said instantly.
"No," Burris said. "You keep on looking."
"I do?"
"You do," Burris said. "After all, there has to be _something_ wrong."
"Sure," Malone said, "if you say so. But--"
"There are the interview tapes," Burris said, "and the reports the congressmen brought in. You can go through those."
Malone sighed. "I guess so," he said.
"And there must be thousands of other things to do," Burris said.
"Well--" Malone began cautiously.
"You'll be able to think of them," Burris said heartily. "I know you will. I have confidence in you, Malone. Confidence."
"Thanks," Malone said sadly.
"You just keep me posted from time to time on what you're doing, and what ideas you get," Burris said. "I'm leaving the whole thing in your hands, Malone, and I'm sure you won't disappoint me."
"I'll try," Malone said.
"I know you will," Burris said warmly. "And no matter how long it takes--I know you'll succeed."
"No matter how long it takes?" Malone said hesitantly.
"That's right!" Burris said. "You can do it, Malone! You can do it."
Malone nodded slowly. "I hope so," he said. "Well, I ... well, I'll start out right away, then."
He turned. Before he could make another move Burris said: "Wait!"
Malone turned again, hope in his eyes. "Yes, sir?" he said.
"When you leave--" Burris began, and the hope disappeared "please do one little favor for me. Just one little favor, because I'm an old, tired man and I'm not used to things any more."
"Sure," Malone said. "Anything, Chief."
"Don't call me--"
"Sorry," Malone said.
Burris breathed heavily. "When you leave," he said, "please, please use the door."
"But--"
"Malone," Burris said, "I've tried. I've really tried. Believe me. I've tried to get used to the fact that you can teleport. But--"
"It's useful," Malone said, "in my work."
"I can see that," Burris said. "And I don't want you to ... well, to stop doing it. By no means. It's just that it sort of unnerves me, if you see what I mean. No matter how useful it is for the FBI to have an agent who can go instantaneously from one place to another, it unnerves me." He sighed. "I can't get used to seeing you disappear like an over-dried soap bubble, Malone. It does something to me--here." He placed a hand directly over his sternum and sighed again.
"I can understand that," Malone said. "It unnerved me, too, the first time I saw it. I thought I was going crazy, when that kid--Mike Fueyo--winked out like a light. But then we got him, and some FBI agents besides me have learned the trick." He stopped there, wondering if he'd been tactful. After all, it took a latent ability to learn teleportation, and some people had it, while others didn't. Malone, along with a few other agents, did. Burris evidently didn't--so he couldn't teleport, no matter how hard he tried or how many lessons he took.
"Well," Burris said, "I'm still unnerved. So ... please, Malone ... when you come in here, or go out, use the door. All right?"
"Yes, sir," Malone said. He turned and went out. As he opened the door, he could almost hear Burris' sigh of relief. Then he banged it shut behind him and, feeling that he might as well continue with his spacebound existence, walked all the way to the elevator, and rode it downstairs to the FBI laboratories.
The labs, highly efficient and divided into dozens of departments, covered several floors. Malone passed through the Fingerprint section, filled with technicians doing strange things to great charts and slides, and frowning over tiny pieces of material and photographs. Then came Forgery Detection, involving many more technicians, many more slides and charts and tiny pieces of things and photographs, and even a witness or two sitting on the white bench at one side and looking lost and somehow civilian. Identification Classified was next, a great barn of a room filled with index files. The real indexes were in the sub-basement; here, on microfilm, were only the basic division. A man was standing in front of one of the files, frowning at it. Malone went on by without stopping.
Cosmetic Surgery Classification came next. Here there were more indexes, and there were also charts and slides. There was an FBI agent sitting on a bench looking bored while two female technicians--classified as O&U for Old and Ugly in Malone's mind--fluttered around him, deciding what disguises were possible, and which of those was indicated for the particular job on hand. Malone waved to the agent, whom he knew very slightly, and went on. He felt vaguely regretful that the FBI couldn't hire prettier girls for the Cosmetic Surgery Division, but the trouble was that pretty girls fell for the agents--and vice versa--and this led to an unfortunate tendency toward only handsome and virile-looking disguises. The O&U Division was unfortunate, he decided, but a necessity.
Chemical Analysis (III) was next. The Chemical Analysis section was scattered over several floors, with the first stages up above. Division III, Malone remembered, was devoted to non-poisonous substances--like clay or sand found in boots or trouser cuffs, cigar ashes and such. They were placed on the same floor as Fingerprints to allow free and frequent passage between the sections on the problems of plastic prints--made in putty or like substances--and visible prints, made when the hand is covered with a visible substance like blood, ketchup or glue.
Malone found what he was looking for at the very end of the floor. It was the Computer Section, a large room filled with humming, clacking and buzzing machines of an ancient vintage, muttering to themselves as they worked, and newer machines which were smaller and more silent. Lights were lighting and bells were ringing softly, relays were relaying and the whole room was a gigantic maze of calculating and control machines. What space wasn't filled by the machines themselves was filled by workbenches, all littered with an assortment of gears, tubes, spare relays, transistors, wires, rods, bolts, resistors and all the other paraphernalia used in building the machines and repairing them. Beyond the basic room were other, smaller rooms, each assigned to a particular kind of computer work.
The narrow aisles were choked here and there with men who looked up as Malone passed by, but most of them gave him one quick glance and went back to work. A few didn't even do that, but went right on concentrating on their jobs. Malone headed for a man working all alone in front of a workbench, frowning down at a complicated-looking mechanism that seemed to have neither head nor tail, and prodding at it with a long, thin screwdriver. The man was thin, too, but not very long; he was a little under average height, and he had straight black hair, thick-lensed glasses and a studious expression, even when he was frowning. He looked as if the mechanism were a student who had cut too many classes, and he was being kindly but firm with it.
* * * * *
Malone managed to get to the man's side, and coughed discreetly. There was no response.
"Fred?" he said.
The screwdriver waggled a little. Malone wasn't quite sure that the man was breathing.
"Fred Mitchell," he said.
Mitchell didn't look up. Another second passed.
"Hey," Malone said. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Fred," he said in a loud, reasonable-sounding voice, "the State Department's translator has started to talk pig-Latin."
Mitchell straightened up as if somebody had jabbed him with a pin. The screwdriver waved wildly in the air for a second, and then pointed at Malone. "That's impossible," Mitchell said in a flat, precise voice. "Simply impossible. It doesn't have a pig-Latin circuit. It can't possibly--" He blinked and seemed to see Malone for the first time. "Oh," he said. "Hello, Malone. What can I do for you?"