so far."
Malone shrugged. "I'm sure you do," he said, and dropped the name almost casually: "Andrew J. Burris."
Manelli raised his eyebrows. "So that's who you are," he said. "I ought to have known, Mr. Malone. And you want to talk to me a little bit, right?"
"That's right," Malone said.
"But this is no way to act, Mr. Malone," Manelli said reproachfully. "After all, we understand each other, you and me. What you should do, you should come in through channels, in the correct way, so everything it would be open and above the board."
"Through channels?" Malone said.
Manelli regarded him with a pitying glance. "You must be new on your job, Mr. Malone," he said. "Because there is an entire system built up, and you don't know about it. The way things work, we sit around and we don't see people. And then somebody comes and presents his credentials, you might say--search warrants, for instance, or subpoenas. And then we know where we are."
Malone shook his head. "This isn't that kind of call," he said. "It's more a friendly type of call."
"Mr. Malone," Manelli said. The reproach was stronger in his voice. "You must be very new at your job."
"Nevertheless," Malone said.
Manelli hesitated only a second. "Because I like you," he said, "and to teach you how things operate around here, I could do you a favor."
"Good," Malone said patiently.
"In an hour," Manelli said. "My place. Here."
The screen blanked out before Malone could even say goodbye.
Malone got up, went out to the corridor, and decided that, since he had time to kill, he might as well walk on down to Manelli's office. That, he told himself, would give him time to decide what he wanted to say.
He toyed at first with the idea of a nice bourbon and soda in a Madison Avenue bar, but he discarded that idea in a hurry. It was always possible for him to get into a tight spot and have to teleport his way out, and he didn't want to be fuzzy around the edges in case that happened. Trotkin's had showed him that, under enough stress, he could manage the job with quite a lot of vodka in him. But there was absolutely no sense, he told himself sadly, in taking chances.
He started off downtown along Fifth. Soon he was standing in front of the blue-and-crystal tower of the Ravell Building.
That made up his mind for him. He checked his watch, mentally flipped a coin and then cheated a little to make the answer come out right. He went inside and stepped into an elevator.
"Six," he said with decision.
Lou was sitting at the Psychical Research Society desk, talking to the tweedy Sir Lewis Carter. Malone waved at Carter, decided that conversation with Lou was out, and started to walk away. Then he realized that he couldn't have Carter thinking he was crazy. He had to figure out something to tell the man--and in a hurry, too.
Carter smiled and gestured to him. "Ah, Mr. Malone," he said. "I'm glad you brought our Lou home safely. I've heard a little about your-- ah--escapade. Astounding, really."
"Not for the FBI," Malone said modestly. "We've been through too much."
"But--"
"No, really," Malone said. "We never call anything astounding any more."
"I can well imagine," Carter said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
Malone thought fast. He had to have something, and he didn't have much time. "Why--uh--" he said, and then it came to him. "Yes, as a matter of fact you can," he said.
"Glad to be of service," Carter said. "I'm sure we can do anything you request."
"Have you got any more data on telepathic projection?" Malone said.
Sir Lewis Carter frowned. "Telepathic projection?" he said.
"The stuff--the phenomenon Cartier Taylor mentioned," Malone said, "in Minds and Morons. I think it was page eighty-four."
"Oh," Carter said. "Oh, yes. Of course. Well, Mr. Malone, we'll see what we can do for you."
Malone sighed. "Thanks," he said mournfully. "I guess--I guess that's all, then." He smiled at Lou, and turned the smile into a terrifying scowl when his eye caught Carter's. "Oh," Malone said. "So long. So long, everybody."
"Ken--"
This was not, he told himself sadly, either the time or the place. "Goodbye, Sir Lewis," he said. "Goodbye, Lou."
The elevator opened its doors and received him.
* * * * *
Exactly fifty-nine minutes after Cesare Manelli had hung up on him, Malone showed up in the stately and sumptuous suite that belonged, for a stiff fee every month, to the firm of Rodger, Willcoe, O'Vurr and Aoud. The girl at the desk was his old Spearmint friend.
"Mr. Manelli," Malone said. "I've got an appointment. My name is Malone and his is Manelli. He works here." That, he told himself, was an understatement; but at least he had a chance of getting his point across.
"Oh," the girl said. Her gum popped. "Certainly. Right away, Mr. Maloney."
Malone opened his mouth, then shut it again. It just wasn't worth the trouble, he thought.
The girl did things with a switchboard, then turned to him again. "Mr. Manelli's office is right down there in back," she said, pointing vaguely. "Think you can find it, Mr. Maloney?"
"I'll try," Malone promised. He went down the long corridor and stopped at an unmarked door. It was at least an even chance, he told himself, and opened the door.
The room inside appeared to be mostly desk. The gigantic slab of wood sat against the far wall of the room, in the right-hand corner and spreading over toward the center. It appeared, in the soft half-light of the room, to be waiting for somebody to walk into its lair. Malone was sure, at first sight, that this desk ate people; it was just the type: big and dark and glowering and massive.
There wasn't anybody seated behind it, which reinforced his belief. The desk had eaten its master. Now it was out of control and they would have to have it shot. Malone took a deep breath and tried not to veer.
Then he heard a voice.
"Sit down, Mr. Malone," the voice said. "How about you having a drink while we talk? If this is going to be so friendly."
The voice didn't belong to the desk. It belonged, unmistakably, to Big Cheese himself. Malone turned and saw him, sitting in the left-hand corner of the room behind a low table. There was another empty chair facing Manelli, and Malone went over and sat in it.
"A drink?" he said. "Okay. Sure."
"Bourbon and soda, isn't it?" Manelli said. He stood up.
"Your research department gets fast answers," Malone said. "Bourbon and soda it is."
"After all," Manelli said, shrugging slightly, "a person
