Like apes in the trees, that's what."
Malone nodded very slowly and took another puff of the cigarette."Nothing's going right," he said.
"Listen," Sand said. "You want to hear trouble? My account books arein duplicate--you know? Just to keep things nice and peaceful andquiet."
"One for the investigators and one for the money," Malone said.
"Sure," Sand said, preoccupied with trouble. "You know the setup. Butboth sets are missing. Both sets." He raised his head, the picture ofwitless agony. "I've got an idea where they are, too. I'm just waitingfor the axe to fall."
"O.K.," Malone said. "Where are they?"
"The U. S. Attorney's Office," Sand said dismally. He stared down athis battered desk and sighed.
Malone stubbed out his cigarette. "So you're not in the market for anymore buttons?" he said.
"All I'm in the market for," Sand said without raising his eyes, "isa nice, painless way to commit suicide."
* * * * *
Malone walked several blocks without noticing where he was going. Hetried to think things over, and everything seemed to fall into apattern that remained, agonizingly, just an inch or so out of hismental reach. The mental bursts, the trouble the United States washaving, Palveri, Queen Elizabeth, Burris, Mike Sand, Dr. O'Connor, SirLewis Carter and even Luba Ardanko juggled and flowed in his mind likepieces out of a kaleidoscope. But they refused to form any pattern hecould recognize.
He uttered a short curse and managed to collide with a bulky womanwith frazzled black hair. "Pardon me," he said politely.
"The hell with it," the woman said, looking straight past him, andwent jerkily on her way. Malone blinked and looked around him. Therewere a lot of people still on the streets, but they didn't look likenormal New York City people. They were all curiously tense and wary,as if they were suspicious not only of him and each other, but eventhemselves. He caught sight of several illegal-looking bulges beneathmen's armpits, and many heavily sagging pockets. One or two womenappeared to be unduly solicitous of their large and heavy handbags.But it wasn't his job to enforce the Sullivan Law, he told himself.Especially while he was on vacation.
A single foot patrolman stood a few feet ahead, guarding a liquorstore with drawn revolver, his eyes scanning the passers-by warilywhile he waited for help. Behind him, the smashed plate glass andbroken bottles and the sprawled figure just inside the door told afairly complete story.
Down the block, Malone saw several stores that carried _Closed_ or_Gone Out Of Business_ signs. The whole depressing picture gave himthe feeling that all the tragedies of the 1930-1935 period had somehowbeen condensed into the past two weeks.
Ahead there was a chain drugstore, and Malone headed for it. Twouniformed men wearing Special Police badges were standing near thedoor eyeing everyone with suspicion, but Malone managed to get pastthem and went on to a telephone booth. He tried dialling theWashington number of the FBI, but got only a continuous _beep-beep_,indicating a service delay. Finally he managed to get a specialoperator, who told him sorrowfully that calls to Washington werejamming all available trunk lines.
Malone glanced around to make sure nobody was watching. Then heteleported himself to his apartment in Washington and, on arriving,headed for the phone there. Using that one, he dialed again, gotPelham's sad face on the screen, and asked for Thomas Boyd.
Boyd didn't look any different, Malone thought, though maybe he was alittle more tired. Henry VIII had obviously had a hard day trying toget his wives to stop nagging him. "Ken," he said. "I thought you wereon vacation. What are you doing calling up the FBI, or do you justwant to feel superior to us poor working slobs?"
"I need some information," Malone said.
Boyd uttered a short, mirthless laugh. "How to beat the tables, youmean?" he said. "How are things in good old Las Vegas?"
Malone, realizing that with direct-dial phones Boyd had no idea wherehe was actually calling from, kept wisely quiet. "How about Burris?"he said after a second. "Has he come up with any new theories yet?"
"New theories?" Boyd said. "What about?"
"Everything," Malone said. "From all I see in the papers thingshaven't been quieting down any. Is it still Brubitsch, Borbitsch andGarbitsch putting psychodrugs in water-coolers, or has something newbeen added?"
"I don't know what the chief thinks," Boyd said. "Things'll straightenout in a while. We're working on it--twenty-four hours a day, or damnnear, but we're working. While you take a nice, long vacation that--"
"I want you to get me something," Malone said. "Just go and get it andsend it to me at Las Vegas."
"Money?" Boyd said with raised eyebrows.
"Dossiers," Malone said. "On Mike Sand and Primo Palveri."
"Palveri I can understand," Boyd said. "You want to threaten him withexposure unless he lets you beat the roulette tables. But why Sand?Ken, are you working on something psionic?"
"Me?" Malone said sweetly. "I'm on vacation."
"The chief won't like--"
"Can you send me the dossiers?" Malone interrupted.
Boyd shook his head very slowly. "Ken, I can't do it without the chieffinding out about it. If you are working on something ... hell, I'dlike to help you. But I don't see how I can. You don't know whatthings are like here."
"What are they like?" Malone said.
"The full force is here," Boyd said. "As far as I know, you're theonly vacation leave not canceled yet. And not only that, but we've gotagents in from the Surete and New Scotland Yard, agents from Belgiumand Germany and Holland and Japan ... Ken, we've even got three MVDmen here working with us."
"It's happening all over?" Malone said.
"All over the world," Boyd said. "Ken, I'm beginning to think we'vegot a case of Martian Invaders on our hands. Or something like it." Hepaused. "But we're licking them, Ken," he went on. "Slowly but surely,we're licking them."
"How do you mean?" Malone said.
"Crime is down," Boyd said, "away down. Major crime, I mean--pettytheft, assault, breaking and entering and that sort of thing has goneaway up, but that's to be expected. Everything's going to--"
"Skip the handbasket," Malone said. "But you're working things out?"
"Sooner or later," Boyd said. "Every piece of equipment and every manin the FBI is working overtime; we can't be stopped forever."
"I'll wave flags," Malone said bitterly. "And I wish I could joinyou."
"Believe me," Boyd said, "you don't know when you're well off."
Malone switched off. He looked at his watch; it was ten-thirty.
XII
That made it eight-thirty in Las Vegas. Malone opened his eyes againin his hotel room there. He had half an hour to spare until his dinnerdate with Luba. That gave him plenty of time to shower, shave anddress, and he felt pleased to have managed the timing so neatly.
Two minutes later, he was soaking in the luxury of a hot tub allowingthe warmth to relax his body while his mind turned over the facts hehad collected. There were a lot of them, but they didn't seem to meananything special.
The world, he told himself, was going to hell in a handbasket. Thatwas all very well and good, but just what was the handbasket made of?Burris' theory, the more he thought about it, was a pure case ofmental soapsuds, with perhaps a dash of old cotton-candy to makeconfusion even worse confounded.
And there wasn't any other theory, was there?
Well, Malone reflected, there was one, or at least a part of one. HerMajesty had said that everything was somehow tied up with the mentalbursts--and that sounded a lot more probable. Assuming that the burstsand the rest of the mixups were _not_ connected made, as a matter offact, very little sense; it was multiplying hypotheses without reason.When two unusual things happen, they have at least one definiteconnection: they're both unusual. The sensible thing to do, Malonethought, was to look for more connections.
Which meant asking who was causing the bursts, and why. Her Majestyhad said that she didn't know, and couldn't do it herself. Obvio
usly,though, some telepath or a team of telepaths was doing the job. Andthe only trouble with that, Malone reflected sadly, was that alltelepaths were in the Yucca Flats laboratory.
It was at this point that he sat upright in the tub, splashing waterover the floor and gripping the soap with a strange excitement. Who'dever said that _all_ the telepaths were in Yucca Flats? All the onesso far discovered were--but that, obviously, was an entirely