the problemsof plastic prints--made in putty or like substances--and visibleprints, made when the hand is covered with a visible substance likeblood, ketchup or glue.
Malone found what he was looking for at the very end of the floor. Itwas the Computer Section, a large room filled with humming, clackingand buzzing machines of an ancient vintage, muttering to themselves asthey worked, and newer machines which were smaller and more silent.Lights were lighting and bells were ringing softly, relays wererelaying and the whole room was a gigantic maze of calculating andcontrol machines. What space wasn't filled by the machines themselveswas filled by workbenches, all littered with an assortment of gears,tubes, spare relays, transistors, wires, rods, bolts, resistors andall the other paraphernalia used in building the machines andrepairing them. Beyond the basic room were other, smaller rooms, eachassigned to a particular kind of computer work.
The narrow aisles were choked here and there with men who looked up asMalone passed by, but most of them gave him one quick glance and wentback to work. A few didn't even do that, but went right onconcentrating on their jobs. Malone headed for a man working all alonein front of a workbench, frowning down at a complicated-lookingmechanism that seemed to have neither head nor tail, and prodding atit with a long, thin screwdriver. The man was thin, too, but not verylong; he was a little under average height, and he had straight blackhair, thick-lensed glasses and a studious expression, even when he wasfrowning. He looked as if the mechanism were a student who had cut toomany classes, and he was being kindly but firm with it.
* * * * *
Malone managed to get to the man's side, and coughed discreetly. Therewas no response.
"Fred?" he said.
The screwdriver waggled a little. Malone wasn't quite sure that theman was breathing.
"Fred Mitchell," he said.
Mitchell didn't look up. Another second passed.
"Hey," Malone said. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath."Fred," he said in a loud, reasonable-sounding voice, "the StateDepartment's translator has started to talk pig-Latin."
Mitchell straightened up as if somebody had jabbed him with a pin. Thescrewdriver waved wildly in the air for a second, and then pointed atMalone. "That's impossible," Mitchell said in a flat, precise voice."Simply impossible. It doesn't have a pig-Latin circuit. It can'tpossibly--" He blinked and seemed to see Malone for the first time."Oh," he said. "Hello, Malone. What can I do for you?"
Malone smiled, feeling a little victorious at having got through theMitchell armor, which was almost impregnable when there was a job inhand. "I've been standing here talking to you for some time."
"Oh, have you?" Mitchell said. "I was busy." That, obviously,explained that. Malone shrugged.
"I want you to help me check over some calculators, Fred," he said."We've had some reports that some of the government machines are outof kilter, and I'd like you to go over them for me."
"Out of kilter?" Fred Mitchell said. "No, you can forget about it.It's absolutely unnecessary to make a check--believe me. Absolutely.Forget it." He smiled suddenly. "I suppose it's some kind of a joke,isn't it?" he said, just a trifle uncertainly. Fred Mitchell's world,while pleasant, did not include much humor, Malone knew. "It'ssupposed to be funny," he said in the same flat, precise voice.
"It isn't funny," Malone said.
Fred sighed. "Then they're obviously lying," he said, "and that's allthere is to it. Why bother me with it?"
"Certainly," Fred said. He looked at the machinery with longing.
Malone took a breath. "How do you know?" he said.
Fred sighed. "It's perfectly obvious," he said in a patient tone."Since the State Department translator has no pig-Latin circuit, itcan't possibly be talking pig-Latin. I will admit that such a circuitwould be relatively easy to build, though it would have no utility asfar as I can see. Except, of course, for a joke." He paused. "Joke?"he said, in a slightly uneasy tone.
"Sure," Malone said. "Joke."
Mitchell looked relieved. "Very well, then," he began. "Since--"
"Wait a minute," Malone said. "The pig-Latin is a joke. That's right.But I'm not talking about the pig-Latin."
"You're not?" Mitchell asked, surprised.
"No," Malone said.
Mitchell frowned. "But you said--" he began.
"A joke," Malone said. "You were perfectly right. The pig-Latin is ajoke." He waited for Fred's expression to clear, and then added: "Butwhat I want to talk to you about isn't."
"It sounds very confused," Fred said after a pause. "Not at all thesort of thing that ... that usually goes on."
"You have no idea," Malone said. "It's about the political machines,all right, but it isn't anything as simple as pig-Latin." Heexplained, taking his time over it.
When he had finished, Fred was nodding his head slowly. "I see," hesaid. "I understand just what you want me to do."
"Good," Malone said.
"I'll take a team over to the Senate Office Building," Fred said, "andcheck the computer-secretaries there. That way, you see, I'll be ableto do a full running check on them without taking any one machine outof operation for too long."
"Sure," Malone said.
"And it shouldn't take long," Fred went on, "to find out just what thetrouble is." He looked very confident.
"How long?" Malone asked.
Fred shrugged. "Oh," he said, "five or six days."
Malone repressed an impulse to scream. "Days?" he said. "I mean ...well, look, Fred, it's important. Very important. Can't you do the jobany faster?"
Fred gave a little sigh. "Checking and repairing all those machines,"he said, "is an extremely complex job. Sometimes, Malone, I don'tthink you realize quite how complex, and how delicate a job it is todeal with such a high-order machine. Why--"
"Wait a minute," Malone said. "Check and repair them?"
"Of course," Fred said.
"But I don't want them repaired," Malone said. Seeing the look ofhorror on Fred's face, he added hastily: "I only want a report fromyou on what's wrong, whether they are actually making errors or not.And if they are making errors, just what's making them do it. And justwhat kind of errors. See?"
Fred nodded very slowly. "But I can't just ... just leave them there,"he said piteously. "In ... pieces and everything. It isn't right,Malone. It just isn't right."
"Well, then," Malone said with energy, "you go right ahead and repairthem, if you want to. Fix 'em all up. But you can do that _after_ youmake the report to me, can't you?"
"I--" Fred hesitated. "I had planned to check and repair each machineon an individual basis--"
"The Congress can allow for a short suspension," Malone said. "Anyhow,they can now--or as soon as I get the word to them. Suppose you checkall the machines first, and then get around to the repair work."
"It's not the best way," Fred demurred.
Malone discovered that it was his turn to sigh. "Is it the fastest?"he said.
Fred nodded.
"Then it's the best," Malone said. "How long?"
Fred rolled his eyes to the ceiling and calculated silently for asecond. "Tomorrow morning," he announced, returning his gaze toMalone.
"Fine," Malone said. "Fine."
"But--"
"Never mind the buts," Malone said hurriedly. "I'll count on hearingfrom you tomorrow morning."
"Oh--" Fred said. "All right."
"And if it looks like sabotage," Malone added, "if the errors aren'tcaused by normal wear and tear on the machines--you let me know rightaway. Phone me. Don't waste an instant."
"I'll ... I'll start right away," Fred said heavily. He looked sadlyat the mechanism he had been working on, and put his screwdriver downnext to it. It looked to Malone as if he were putting flowers on thegrave of a dear departed. "I'll get a team together," Fred added. Hegave the mechanism and screwdriver one last fond parting look.
Malone looked after him for a second, thinking of nothing inparticular, and then turned in the opposite direction a
nd headed backtoward the elevator. As he walked, he began to feel more and morepleased with himself. After all, he'd gotten the investigationstarted, hadn't he?
And now all he had