Occasion for Disaster

depended on to make a great many more mistakesthan usual--just how many we can't determine, but the order ofmagnitude seems about right. It would depend on how much water eachone of them drank, of course, and we haven't a chance of gettinganything like a precise determination of that now."

  "Oh," Malone said. "But it comes out about right, doesn't it?" He felthopeless.

  "Just about," Burris said cheerfully. "And since it was Brubitsch'sjob 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 thewater--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 gotto stop pressing so hard on this."

  "But a man who didn't drink water all day would be a littleconspicuous," Malone said. "After a while, anyhow."

  Burris sighed. "The man is a janitor, Kenneth," he said. "Do you knowwhat 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--orwherever the faucets might be. Nobody would notice. Nobody would thinkit odd."

  Malone said: "But--" and stopped and thought it over. "All right," hewent on at last. "But I still insist--"

  "Now, Kenneth," Burris said in a voice that dripped oil. "I'll admitthat psionics is new and wonderful and you've done a lot of fine workwith it. A lot of very fine work indeed. But you can't go aroundblaming everything on psionics no matter what it is or how much senseit makes."

  "I don't," Malone said, injured. "But--"

  "But you do," Burris said. "Lately, you've been acting as though magicwere 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 foranything and everything." He paused, "Kenneth," he said in a morekindly tone, "don't think I blame you. I know how hard you've beenworking. I know how much time and effort you've put into the gallantfight against this country's enemies."

  Malone closed his eyes and turned slightly green. "It was nothing," hesaid 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 workingvery hard and you're just not at peak efficiency any more. You need arest, Kenneth. A nice rest."

  "I do not," Malone said indignantly.

  "A lovely rest," Burris went on, oblivious. "Somewhere peaceful andquiet, where you can just sit around and think peacefully aboutpeaceful things. Oh, it ought to be wonderful for you, Kenneth. Anice, peaceful, lovely, wonderful vacation."

  Through the haze of adjectives, Malone remembered dimly the last timeBurris had offered him a vacation in that tone of voice. It had turnedout to be one of the toughest cases he'd ever had: the case of theteleporting delinquents.

  "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 arrestingall the suspected nose-pickers in Mobile, Alabama?"

  Burris choked and recovered quickly. "No," he said. "No, no, no. Imean 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 sayyou're my top man. My very top man. And because of that I've beenoverworking you."

  "But--"

  "Now, now," Burris said, waving a hand vaguely. "I have beenoverworking 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, allright, but from the way the conversation was going it looked very muchas if "vacation" weren't going to be the right word.

  The right word, he thought dismally, was going to be "rest home." Orpossibly 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 wheedlingtone.

  Malone nodded. "Sure I will," he said. "Until they come and put me ina 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, forinstance--"

  "Where there are nice big guards to watch everything," Malone said."And nuts."

  "Guides," Burris said. "But you could just sit around and take thingseasy."

  "All locked up," Malone said. "Sure. I'll love it."

  "If you want to go out," Burris said, "you can go out. Anywhere. Justdo whatever you feel like doing."

  Malone sighed. "O.K.," he said. "When do the men in the white coatsarrive?"

  "White coats?" Burris said. There was a short silence. "Kenneth," hesaid, "don't suspect me of trying to do anything to you. This is myway of doing you a favor. It would just be a vacation--going anywhereyou 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 mymind. 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 secondpassed.

  "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 andanything else like that."

  "You forgot water coolers," Malone said.

  Burris nodded. "And water coolers," he said, "by all means. Forgetabout FBI business. Forget about me. Just relax."

  It did sound appealing, Malone told himself. But there was a case tofinish, and he was sure Burris was finishing it wrong. He wanted toargue 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 morethe more he thought about it. Burris went on naming vacation spots anddrawing magnificent travel-agency pictures of how wonderful life couldbe, and after a while Malone left. There just wasn't anything else tosay. Burris had given him an order for his vacation pay and anotherguaranteeing travel expenses. Not, he thought glumly, that he would beexpected to buy return tickets. Oh, no. Once he'd been to a place hecould teleport back, so there would be no point in taking a plane ora train back from wherever he went.

  "And suppose I like planes and trains?" he muttered, going on down thehall. But there was nothing he could do about it. He did think oflooking for some sympathy, at least, but he couldn't even get much ofthat. Tom Boyd had apparently already talked to Burris, and was infull agreement with him.

  "After all," Boyd said, "there's the drug in the water--and it lookslike 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 likeBurris' theory. Psionics never did make you very happy, did it?"

  "Not very," Boyd admitted. "This way, anyhow, I've got something I cancope with. And it makes nice, simple sense. No reason to go andcomplicate it, Ken. None at
all."

  * * * * *

  Glumly, Malone