that that was just what he felt like. Of course,Burris thought the stone wall was his psionic theory. Malone knew thatthe stone wall was Andrew J. Burris. But it didn't matter, he thoughtconfusedly. Where there's a stone, there's a way.
"I feel," he said carefully, "like a man with a stone head."
"And I don't blame you," Burris said in an understanding tone. "Hereyou are trying to make evidence to fit your theories. What realevidence is there, Malone, that these three spies ... these threecomic-opera spies--are innocent?"
"What evidence is there that they're guilty?" Malone said. "Now,listen, Chief--"
"Don't call me Chief," Burris murmured.
"Another five minutes," Malone said in a sudden rage, "and I won'teven call you."
"Malone!" Burris said.
Malone swallowed hard. "Sorry," he said at last. "But isn't it justbarely possible that these three spies aren't the real criminals?Suppose you were a spy."
"All right," Burris said. "I'm a spy." Something in his tone madeMalone look at him with a sudden suspicion. Burris, he thought, washumoring him.
Is it possible, Malone asked himself, that _I_ am the one who is as alittle child?
Little children, he told himself with decision, do not capture Russianspies and then argue about it. They go home, eat supper and go to bed.
* * * * *
He stopped thinking about sleep in a hurry, and got back to thebusiness at hand. "If you were a spy," he said, "and you knew that alot of other spies had been arrested and charged with the crimes youwere committing, what would you do?"
Burris appeared to think deeply. "I would celebrate," he said at last,in a judicious tone.
"I mean, would you just go on with the same crimes?" Malone said.
"What are you talking about, Malone?" Burris said cautiously.
"If you knew we'd arrested Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch," Malonewent on doggedly, "you'd lay off for a while, just to make us thinkwe'd caught the right men. Doesn't that make sense?"
"Of course it makes sense," Burris said in what was almost a pityingtone. "But don't push it too far. Malone, I want you to knowsomething."
Malone sighed. "Yes, sir?" he said.
"Contrary to popular opinion," Burris said, "I was not appointedDirector of the Federal Bureau of Investigation just because I own aHoover vacuum cleaner."
"Of course not," Malone said, feeling that something of the sort wascalled for.
"And I think you ought to know by now," Burris went on, "that Iwouldn't fall for a trick like that any more than you would. There areobviously more members in this spy ring. Brubitsch, Borbitsch andGarbitsch are just a start."
"Well, then--" Malone began.
"_I'm_ not going to be taken in by what these three say," Burris said."But now, Malone, we know what to look for. All we have to do ispretend to be taken in. Get it?"
"Sure," Malone said. "We pretend to be taken in. And in the meantime Ican go on looking for--"
"We don't have to look for anything," Burris said calmly.
Malone took a deep breath. Somehow, he told himself, things were notworking out very well. "But the other spies--"
"The next time they try anything," Burris said, "we'll be able toreach out and pick them up as easy as falling off a log."
"It's the wrong log!" Malone said.
Burris folded his hands on the desk and looked at them for a second,frowning slightly like a psychiatrist. "Malone," he said at last, "Iwant you to listen to me. Calmly. Coolly. Collectedly."
Malone shrugged. "All right," he said. "I'm calm and cool."
"And collected," Burris added.
"That, too," Malone said vaguely.
"Malone," Burris began, "you've got to get rid of this idea thateverything the FBI investigates these days is somehow linked withpsionics. I know you've done a lot of work in that connection--"
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "There are those errors. How didthe technicians feed the wrong data into the machines?"
"Errors do happen," Burris said. "If I slip on a banana peel, do Iblame psionics? Do I even blame the United Fruit Growers? I do not,Malone. Instead, I tell myself that errors do happen. All the time."
"Now," Malone said, "you've contradicted yourself."
"I have?" Burris said with a look of complete surprise.
"Sure," Malone said. He leaned forward across the desk. "If the errorswere just ordinary accidental errors, then how were the spiesresponsible? And why did they stop after the spies were arrested? Whenyou slip on a banana peel, does it matter whether or not the UnitedFruit Growers are out on strike?"
"Oh," Burris said.
"You see?" Malone said. "You've gone and contradicted yourself." Hefelt victorious, but somewhere in the back of his mind was thehorrible sensation that someone was about to come up behind him andhit him on the head with a wet sock full of old sand.
A long second passed. Then Burris said: "Oh. Malone, I forgot to giveyou the analysis report."
That, Malone realized dimly, was supposed to be the wet sock. Fate, hetold himself, was against him. Anyhow, something was against him. Itwas a few seconds before he came to the conclusion that what he hadheard didn't really make any sense. "Analysis report?" he said.
"On the water cooler," Burris explained cheerfully.
"There is an analysis report on a water cooler," Malone said."Everything now becomes as clear as crystal." He heard his voice beginto rise. "You analyzed a water cooler and discovered that it was aSiberian spy in disguise," he said, trying to make himself sound lesshysterical.
"No, no," Burris said, pushing at Malone with his palms. "The water init, Malone. The water in it."
"No Siberian spy," Malone said with decision, "could disguise himselfas the water in a water cooler."
"I didn't say that," Burris went on. "But what do you think was inthat water cooler, Malone?"
"Water," Malone said. "_Cool_ water."
"Congratulations," Burris said, in the hearty tones usually reservedfor announcers on programs where housewives win trips to Nome. "Youare just a shade less than ninety-nine point nine nine per centcorrect."
"The rest of the water," Malone hazarded, "was warm?"
"The rest of the water," Burris said, "wasn't water. Aside from theusual minerals, there was also a trace of one of the psychodrugs."
* * * * *
The word seemed to hang in mid-air, like somebody's sword. Malone knewperfectly well what the psychodrugs were. Over the past twenty years,a great number of them had been developed by confused and anxiousresearchers. Some were solids, some liquids and a few gaseous atnormal temperatures. Some were weak and some were highly potent. Somewere relatively innocuous, and quite a few were as deadly as any ofthe more common poisons. They could be administered by mouth, byinjection, by spray, as drops, grains, whiffs or in any other wayconceivable to medical science. But they all had one thing in common.They affected the mental functioning--what seemed to be thepersonality itself--of the person dosed with them.
The effect of the drugs was, in most cases, highly specific. One mightmake a normally brave man a craven coward; laboratory tests on thatone had presented the interesting spectacle of terrified cats runningfrom surprised, but by no means displeased, experimental mice. Anotherdrug reversed this picture, and made the experimental mice mad withpower. They attacked cats in battalions or singly, cheering and almostwaving large flags as they went over the top, completely foolhardy inthe presence of any danger whatever. Others made man abnormallysuspicious and still others disassociated judgment to the point whereall decisions were made completely at random.
The FBI had a large file on psychodrugs, Malone knew. But he didn'tneed the file to see what was coming. He asked the question anyhow,just for the record: "What particular psychodrug was this one?"
"One of the judgment-warpers," Burris said. "Haenlingen's Mixture;it's more or less a new development, but the Russians probably know asmuch about it as we do
. In large doses, the drug affects even theautomatic nervous system and throws the involuntary functions out ofwhack; but it isn't usually used in killing amounts."
"And in the water cooler?" Malone asked.
"There wasn't much of it," Burris said, "but there was enough. Thetechnicians could be