"What did you do with your information?" Boyd said.
"We remembered it," Brubitsch said. "Or, if we had a scrap of paper, we saved it for Garbitsch and gave it to him. But I remember once that I had some paper. It had a formula on it. I do not know what the formula said."
"What was it about?" Malone said.
Brubitsch gave a massive shrug. "It was about an X and some numbers," he said. "It was not very interesting, but it was a formula, and Garbitsch would have liked it. Unfortunately, I did not give it to him."
"Why not?" Boyd said.
"I am ashamed," Brubitsch said, looking ashamed. "I was lighting a cigarette in the afternoon, when I had the formula. It is a very relaxing thing to smoke a cigarette in the afternoon. It is soothing to the soul." He looked very sad. "I was holding the piece of paper in one hand," he said. "Unfortunately, the match and the paper came into contact. I burned my finger. Here." He stuck out a finger toward Malone and Boyd, who looked at it without much interest for a second. "The paper is gone," he said. "Don't tell Garbitsch. He is very inflamed."
Malone sighed. "But you remember the formula," he said. "Don't you?"
Brubitsch shook his massive head very slowly. "It was not very interesting," he said. "And I do not have a mathematical mind."
"We know," Malone said, "You are a small child."
* * * * *
"It was terrible," Brubitsch said. "Garbitsch was not happy about our activities."
"What did Garbitsch do with the information?" Boyd said.
"He passed it on," Brubitsch said. "Every week he would send a short-wave message to the homeland, in code. Some weeks he did not send the message."
"Why not?" Malone said.
"The radio did not work," Brubitsch said simply. "We received orders by short-wave, but sometimes we did not receive the orders. The radio was of very poor quality, and some weeks it refused to send any messages. On other weeks, it refused to receive any messages."
"Who was your contact in Russia?" Boyd said.
"A man named X," Brubitsch said. "Like in the formula."
"But what was his real name?" Malone said.
"Who knows?" Brubitsch said.
"What else did you do?" Boyd said.
"We met twice a week," Brubitsch said. "Sometimes in Garbitsch's home, sometimes in other places. Sometimes we had information. At other times, we were friends, having a social gathering."
"Friends?" Malone said.
Brubitsch nodded. "We drank together, talked, played chess. Garbitsch is the best chess player in the group. I am not very good. But once we had some trouble." He paused. "We had been drinking Russian liquors. They are very strong. We decided to uphold the honor of our country."
"I think," Malone murmured sadly, "I know what's coming."
"Ah?" Brubitsch said, interested. "At any rate, we decided to honor our country in song. And a policeman came and talked to us. He took us down to the police station."
"Why?" Boyd said.
"He was suspicious," Brubitsch said. "We were singing the _Internationale_, and he was suspicious. It is unreasonable."
"Oh, I don't know," Boyd said. "What happened then?"
"He took us to the police station," Brubitsch said, "and then after a little while he let us go. I do not understand this."
"It's all right," Malone said. "I do." He drew Boyd aside for a second, and whispered to him: "The cops were ready to charge these three clowns with everything in the book. We had a time springing them so we could go on watching them. I remember the stir-up, though I never did know their names until now."
Boyd nodded, and they returned to Brubitsch, who was staring up at them with surly eyes.
"It is a secret you are telling him," Brubitsch said. "That is not right."
"What do you mean, it's not right?" Malone said.
"It is wrong," Brubitsch went on. "It is not the American way."
He went on, with some prodding, to tell about the activities of the spy ring. It did not seem to be a very efficient spy ring; Brubitsch's long sad tale of forgotten messages, mixed orders, misplaced documents and strange mishaps was a marvel and a revelation to the listening officers.
"I've never heard anything like it," one of them whispered in a tone of absolute wonder. "They're almost working on our side."
Over an hour later, Malone turned wearily away from the prisoner. "All right, Brubitsch," he said. "I guess that pretty much covers things for the moment. If we want any more information, though--"
"Call on me," Brubitsch said sadly. "I am not going any place. And I will give you all the information you desire. But I did not commit any murders--"
"Good-bye, small child," Malone said, as two agents led the fat man away. The other two left soon afterward, and Malone and Boyd were alone.
* * * * *
"Think he was telling the truth?" Boyd said.
Malone nodded. "Nobody," he said, "could make up a story like that."
"I suppose so," Boyd said, and the phone rang. Malone picked it up.
"Well?" he asked.
"He was telling the truth, all right," Her Majesty said. "There are a few more details, of course--there was a girl Brubitsch was involved with, Sir Kenneth. But she doesn't seem to have anything to do with the spy ring, and besides, she isn't a very nice person. She always wants money."
"Sounds perfectly lovely," Malone said. "As a matter of fact, I think I know her. I know a lot of girls who always want money."
"You don't know this one, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, "and besides, she wouldn't be a good influence on you."
Malone sighed. "How about the static explosions?" he said. "Pick up any more?"
"No," she said. "Just that one."
Malone nodded at the receiver. "All right," he said. "We're going to bring in the second one now. Keep up the good work."
He hung up.
"Who've you got in the Observation Room?" Boyd asked.
"Queen Elizabeth I," Malone said. "Her Royal Majesty."
"Oh," Boyd said without surprise. "Well, was Brubitsch telling the truth?"
"He wasn't holding back anything important," Malone said, thinking about the girl. It would be nice to meet a bad influence, he thought mournfully. It would be nice to go somewhere with a bad influence--a bad influence, he amended, with a good figure--and forget all about his job, about the spies, about telepathy, teleportation, psionics and everything else. It might be restful.
Unfortunately, it was impossible.
"What's this business about a static explosion?" Boyd said.
"Don't ask silly questions," Malone said. "A static explosion is a contradiction in terms. If something is static, it doesn't move--and whoever heard of a motionless explosion?"
"If it is a contradiction in terms," Boyd said, "they're your terms."
"Sure," Malone said. "But I don't know what they mean. I don't even know what I mean."
"You're in a bad way," Boyd said, looking sympathetic.
"I'm in a perfectly terrible way," Malone said, "and it's going to get worse. You wait and see."
"Of course I'll wait and see," Boyd said. "I wouldn't miss the end of the world for anything. It ought to be a great spectacle." He paused. "Want them to bring in the next one?"
"Sure," Malone said. "What have we got to lose but our minds? And who is the next one?"
"Borbitsch," Boyd said. "They're saving Garbitsch for a big finish."
Malone nodded wearily. "Onward," he said, and picked up the phone. He punched a number, spoke a few words and hung up.
A minute later, the four FBI agents came back, leading a man. This one was tall and thin, with the expression of a gloomy, degenerate and slightly nauseated bloodhound. He was led to the chair and he sat down in it as if he expected the worst to start happening at once.
"Well," Malone said in a bored, tired voice. "So this is the one who won't talk."
VI
Midnight.
Kenneth J. Malone sat at his desk, in his Washington office, surrounded by piles of papers covering the desk, spilling off onto the floor and decorating his lap. He was staring at the papers as if he expected them to leap up, dance round him and shout the solution to all his problems at him in trained choral voices. They did nothing at all.
Seated cross-legged on the rug in the center of the room, and looking like an impossible combination of the last Henry Tudor and Gautama Buddha, Thomas Boyd did nothing either. He was staring downward, his hands folded on his ample lap, wearing an expression of utter, burning frustration. And on a nearby chair sat the third member of the company, wearing the calm and patient expression of the gently born under all vicissitudes: Queen Elizabeth I.
"All right," Malone said into the silence. "Now let's see what we've got."
"I think we've got cerebral paresis," Boyd said. "It's been coming on for years."
"Don't be funny," Malone said.
Boyd gave a short, mirthless bark. "Funny?" he said. "I'm absolutely hysterical with joy and good humor. I'm out of my mind with happiness." He paused. "Anyway," he finished, "I'm out of my mind. Which puts me in good company. The entire FBI, Brubitsch, Borbitsch, Garbitsch, Dr. Thomas O'Connor and Sir Lewis Carter--we're all out of our minds. If we weren't, we'd all move away to the Moon."
"And drink to forget," Malone added. "Sure. But let's try and get some work done."