atall in Malone's mind.
He realized that he was still staring at the sock, which was blackwith a gold clock. Hurriedly, he put it on, and finished dressing. Hereached for the phone and made a few fast calls, and then teleportedhimself to his locked office in FBI Headquarters, on East Sixty-ninthStreet in New York. He let himself out, and strolled down thecorridor. The agent-in-charge looked up from his desk as Malonepassed, blinked, and said: "Hello, Malone. What's up now?"
"I'm going prowling," Malone said. "But there won't be any work foryou, as far as I can see."
"Oh?"
"Just relax," Malone said. "Breathe easy."
"I'll try to," the agent-in-charge said, a little sadly. "But everytime you show up, I think about that wave of red Cadillacs youstarted. I'll never feel really secure again."
"Relax," Malone said. "Next time it won't be Cadillacs. But it mightbe spirits, blowing on ear-trumpets. Or whatever it is they do."
"Spirits, Malone?" the agent-in-charge said.
"No, thanks," Malone said sternly. "I never drink on duty." He gavethe agent a cheery wave of his hand and went out to the street.
* * * * *
The Psychical Research Society had offices in the Ravell Building, alarge structure composed mostly of plate glass and anodized aluminumthat looked just a little like a bright blue, partially transparentcrackerbox that had been stood on end for purposes unknown. Havingwalked all the way down to this box on Fifty-sixth Street, Malone hadrecovered his former sensitivity range to temperature and feltpathetically grateful for the coolish sea breeze that made New Yorksomewhat less of an unbearable Summer Festival than was normal.
The lobby of the building was glittering and polished, as if humanbeings could not possibly exist in it. Malone took an elevator to thesixth floor, stepped out into a small, equally polished hall, andhurriedly looked off to his right. A small door stood there, with alegend engraved in elegantly small letters. It said:
_The Psychical Research Society_ _Push_
Malone obeyed instructions. The door swung noiselessly open, and thenclosed behind him.
He was in a large square-looking room which had a couch and chair setat one corner, and a desk at the far end. Behind the desk was a brassplate, on which was engraved:
_The Psychical Research Society_ _Main Offices_
To Malone's left was a hall that angled off into invisibility, and tothe left of the desk was another one, going straight back past doorsand two radiators until it ran into a right-angled turn and alsodisappeared.
Malone took in the details of his surroundings almost automatically,filing them in his memory just in case he ever needed to use them.
One detail, however, required more than automatic attention. Sittingbehind the desk, her head just below the brass plaque, was a redhead.She was, Malone thought, positively beautiful. Of course, he could notsee the lower two-thirds of her body, but if they were half asinteresting as the upper third and the face and head, he was willingto spend days, weeks or even months on their investigation. Some jobs,he told himself, feeling a strong sense of duty, were definitely worthtaking time over.
She was turned slightly away from Malone, and had obviously not heardhim come in. Malone wondered how best to announce himself, andregretfully gave up the idea of tiptoeing up to the girl, placing hishands over her eyes, kissing the back of her neck and crying:"Surprise!" It was elegant, he felt, but it just wasn't right.
He compromised at last on the old established method ofthroat-clearing to attract her attention. He was sure he could take itfrom there, to an eminently satisfying conclusion.
He tiptoed on the deep-pile rug right up to her desk.
And the expected happened.
He sneezed.
The sneeze was loud and long, and it echoed through the room andthroughout the corridors. It sounded to Malone like the blast of asmall bomb, or possibly a grenade. Startled himself by the volume ofsound he had managed to generate, he jumped back.
The girl had jumped, too--but her leap had been straight upward, aboutan inch and a half. She came down on her chair and reached up a hand.The hand wiped the back of her neck with a slow, lingering motion ofcomplete loathing. Then, equally slowly, she turned.
"That," she said in a low, sweet voice, "was a dirty trick."
"It was an accident," Malone said.
She regarded Malone darkly. "Do you always do that to strangers? Is itsome new sort of perversion?"
"I have never done such a thing before," Malone said sternly.
"Oh," the girl said. "An experimenter. Avid for new sensations.Probably a jaded scion of a rich New York family." She paused. "Tellme," she said. "Is it fun?"
Malone opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He shut it, thought fora second and then tried again. He got as far as: "I--" before Nemesisovertook him. The second sneeze was even louder and more powerful thanthe first had been.
"It must be fun," the girl said acidly, producing a handkerchief fromsomewhere and going to work on her face. "You just can't seem to waitto do it again. Would it do any good to tell you that the fascinationwith this form of greeting is not universal? Or don't you care?"
Malone said, goaded, "I've got a cold."
"And you feel you should share it with the world," the girl said. "Iquite understand. Tell me, is there anything I can do for you? Or hasyour mission been accomplished?"
"My mission?" Malone said.
"Having sneezed twice at me," the girl said, "do you now feelsatisfied? Will you vanish softly and silently away? Or do you want tosneeze at somebody else?"
"I want the President of the Society," Malone said. "According to myinformation, his name is Sir Lewis Carter."
"And if you sneeze at him," the girl said, "yours is going to be mud.He isn't much on novelty."
"I--"
"Besides which," she said, "he's extremely busy. And I don't thinkhe'll see you at all. Why don't you go and sneeze at somebody else?There must be lots of people who would consider themselves honored tobe noticed, especially in such a startling way. Why don't you try andfind one somewhere? Somewhere very far away?"
Malone was beyond speech. He fumbled for his wallet, flipped it openand showed the girl his identification.
"My, my," she said. "And hasn't the FBI anything better to do? I mean,can't you go and sneeze at counterfeiters in their lairs, or whereverthey might be?"
"I want to see Sir Lewis Carter," Malone said doggedly.
The girl shrugged and picked up the phone on her desk. It was ablank-vision device, of course; many office intercoms were. Shedialed, waited and then said: "Sir Lewis, please." Another second wentby. Then she spoke again. "Sir Lewis," she said, "this is Lou, at thefront desk. There's a man here named Malone, who wants to see you."
She waited a second. "I don't know what he wants," she told the phone."But he's from the FBI." A second's pause. "That's right, the FBI,"she said. "All right, Sir Lewis. Right away." She hung up the phoneand turned to watch Malone warily.
"Sir Lewis," she said, "will see you. I couldn't say why. But take theside corridor to the rear of the suite. His office has his name on it,and I won't tell you you can't miss it because I have every faith thatyou will. Good luck."
Malone blinked. "Look," he said. "I know I startled you, but I didn'tmean to. I--" He started to sneeze, but this time he got his ownhandkerchief out in time and muffled the explosion slightly.
"Good work," the girl said approvingly.
* * * * *
There was nothing at all to say to that remark, Malone reflected as hewended his way down the side corridor. It seemed endless, and keptbranching off unexpectedly. Once he blundered into a large open roomfilled with people at desks. A woman who seemed to have a great manyteeth and rather bulbous eyes looked up at him. "Can I help you?" shesaid in a fervent whine.
"I sincerely hope not," Malone said, backing away and managing to findthe
corridor once more. After what seemed like a long time, and twomore sneezes, he found a small door which was labeled in capitalletters:
THE PSYCHICAL RESEARCH SOCIETY SIR LEWIS CARTER PRESIDENT
Malone sighed. "Well," he muttered, "they certainly aren't hidinganything." He pushed at the door, and it swung open.
Sir Lewis was a tall, solidly-built man with a kindly expression. Hewore gray flannel trousers and a brown tweed jacket, which made aninteresting color