Wondering vaguely if Burris had really been predicting mass religious conversions, Malone nodded silently.
"And he's right," Boyd said. "Look at the newspapers. Everything's screwy lately."
"Everything always is screwy," Malone said.
"Not like now," Boyd said. "So many big-shot gangsters have been killed lately we might as well bring back Prohibition. And the labor unions are so busy with internal battles that they haven't had time to go on strike for over a year."
"Is that bad?" Malone said.
Boyd shrugged. "God knows," he said. "But it's sure confusing as all hell."
"And now," Malone said, "with all that going on--"
"The Congress of the United States decides to go off its collective rocker," Boyd finished. "Exactly." He stared down at his cigarette for a minute with a morose and pensive expression on his face. He looked, Malone thought, like Henry VIII trying to decide what to do about all these here wives.
[Illustration]
Then he looked up at Malone. "Ken," he said in a strained voice, "there seem to be a lot of nutty cases lately."
Malone considered. "No," he said at last. "It's just that when a nutty one comes along, we get it."
"That's what I mean," Boyd said. "I wonder why that is."
Malone shrugged. "It takes a thief to catch a thief," he said.
"But these aren't thieves," Boyd said. "I mean--they're just nutty." He paused. "Oh," he said.
"And, two thieves are better than one," Malone said.
"Anyhow," Boyd said with a small, gusty sigh, "it's company."
"Sure," Malone said.
Boyd looked for an ashtray, failed again to find one, and walked over to flip a second cigarette out onto Washington. He came back to his chair, sat down, and said: "What's our next step, Ken?"
Malone considered carefully. "First," he said finally, "we'll start assuming something. We'll start assuming that there is some kind of organization behind all this--behind all the senators' resignations and everything like that."
"It sounds like a big assumption," Boyd said.
Malone shook his head. "It isn't really," he said. "After all, we can't figure it's the work of one person: it's too widespread for that. And it's silly to assume that everything's accidental."
"All right," Boyd said equably. "It's an organization."
"Trying to subvert the United States," Malone went on. "Reducing everything to chaos. And that brings in everything else, Tom. That brings in the unions and the gang wars and everything."
Boyd blinked. "How?" he said.
"Obvious," Malone said. "Strife brought on by internal confusion--that's what's going on all over. It's the same pattern. And if we assume an organization trying to jam up the United States, it even makes sense." He leaned back and beamed.
"Sure it makes sense," Boyd said. "But who's the organization?"
Malone shrugged.
"If I were doing the picking," Boyd said, "I'd pick the Russians. Or the Chinese. Or both. Probably both."
"It's a possibility," Malone said. "Anyhow, if it's sabotage, who else would be interested in sabotaging the United States? There's some Russian or Chinese organization fouling up Congress, and the unions, and the gangs. Come to think of it, why the gangs? It seems to me that if you left the professional gangsters strong, it would do even more to foul things up."
"Who knows?" Boyd said. "Maybe they're trying to get rid of American gangsters so they can import some of their own."
"That doesn't make any sense," Malone said, "but I'll think about it. In the meantime, we have one more interesting question."
"We do?" Boyd said.
"Sure we do," Malone said. "The question is: How?"
Boyd said: "Hm-m-m." Then there was silence for a little while.
"How are the saboteurs doing all this?" Malone said. "It just doesn't seem very probable that _all_ the technicians in the Senate Office Building, for instance, are spies. It makes even less sense that the labor unions are composed mostly of spies. Or, for that matter, the Mafia and the organizations like it. What would spies be doing in the Mafia?"
"Learning Italian," Boyd said instantly.
"Don't be silly," Malone said. "If there were that many spies in this country, the Russians wouldn't have to fight at all. They could _vote_ the Communists into power--and by a nice big landslide, too."
"Wait a minute," Boyd said. "If there aren't so many spies, then how is all this getting done?"
Malone beamed. "That's the question," he said. "And I think I have the answer."
"You do?" Boyd said. After a second he said: "Oh, no."
"Suppose you tell me," Malone said.
Boyd opened his mouth. Nothing emerged. He shut it. A second passed and he opened it again. "Magic?" he said weakly.
"Not exactly," Malone said cheerfully. "But you're getting warm."
Boyd shut his eyes. "I'm not going to stand for it," he announced. "I'm not going to take any more."
"Any more what?" Malone said. "Tell me what you have in mind."
"I won't even consider it," Boyd said. "It haunts me. It gets into my dreams. Now, look, Ken: I can't even see a pitchfork any more without thinking of Greek letters."
Malone took a breath. "Which Greek letter?" he said.
"You know very well," Boyd said. "What a pitchfork looks like. _Psi_. And I'm not even going to think about it."
"Well," Malone said equably, "you won't have to. If you'd rather start with the Russian spy end of things, you can do that."
"What I'd rather do," Boyd said, "is resign."
"Next year," Malone said instantly. "For now, you can wait around until the dossiers come up--they're for the Senate Office Building technicians, and they're on the way. You can go over them, and start checking on any known Russian agents in the country for contacts. You can also start checking on the dossiers, and in general for any hanky-panky."
Boyd blinked. "Hanky-panky?" he said.
"It's a perfectly good word," Malone said, offended. "Or two words. Anyhow, you can start on that end, and not worry about anything else."
"It's going to haunt me," Boyd said.
"Well," Malone said, "eat lots of ectoplasm and get enough sleep, and everything will be fine. After all, I'm going to have to do the real end of the work--the psionics end. I may be wrong, but--"
He was interrupted by the phone. He flicked the switch and Andrew J. Burris' face appeared on the screen.
"Malone," Burris said instantly, "I just got a complaint from the State Department that ties in with your work. Their translator has been acting up."
Malone couldn't say anything for a minute.
"Malone," Burris went on. "I said--"
"I heard you," Malone said. "And it doesn't have one."
"It doesn't have one what?" Burris said.
"A pig-Latin circuit," Malone said. "What else?"
Burris' voice was very calm. "Malone," he said, "what does pig-Latin have to do with anything?"
"You said--"
"I said one of the State Department translators was acting up," Burris said. "If you want details--"
"I don't think I can stand them," Malone said.
"Some of the Russian and Chinese releases have come through with the meaning slightly altered," Burris went on doggedly. "And I want you to check on it right away. I--"
"Thank God," Malone said.
Burris blinked. "What?"
"Never mind," Malone said. "Never mind. I'm glad you told me, Chief. I'll get to work on it right away, and--"
"You do that, Malone," Burris said. "And stop calling me Chief! Do I look like an Indian? Do I have feathers in my hair?"
"Anything," Malone said grandly, "is possible." He broke the connection in a hurry.
III
The summer sun beat down on the white city of Washington, D. C. as if it had mistaken its instructions slightly, and was convinced that the city had been put down somewhere in the Sahara. The sun seemed confused, Malone thought. If this were the Sahara, obviously there was no reason whatever for the Potomac to be running through it. The sun was doing its best to correct this small error, however, by exerting even more heat in a valiant attempt to dry up the river.
Its attempt was succeeding, at least partially. The Potomac was still there, but quite a lot of it was not in the river bed any more. Instead, it had gone into the air, which was so humid by now that Malone was willing to swear that it was splashing into his lungs at every inhalation. Resisting an impulse to try the breast-stroke, he stood in the full glare of the straining sun, just outside the Senate Office Building. He looked across at the Capitol, squinting his eyes manfully against the glare of its dome in the brightness.
The Capitol was, at any rate, some relief from the sight of Thomas Boyd and a group of agents busily grilling two technicians. That was going on in the Senate Office Building, and Malone had come over to watch the proceedings. Everything had been set up in what Malone considered the most complicated fashion possible. A big room had been turned into a projection chamber, and films were being run off over and over. The films, taken by hidden cameras watching the computer-secretaries, had caught two technicians red-handed punching errors into the machines. Boyd had leaped on this evidence, and he and his crew were showing the movies to the technicians and questioning them under bright lights in an effort to break down their resistance.