"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.
Burris stared. "What?"
"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?