away," he assured the intercom. "I should be there in--"
"Don't bother to get dressed," Burris snapped. "This is an emergency!"
"But, Chief--"
"And don't call me Chief!"
"Okay," Malone said. "Sure. You want me to come down in my pyjamas. Right?"
"I want you to--" Burris stopped. "All right, Malone. If you want to waste time while our country's life is at stake, you go ahead. Get dressed. After all, Malone, when I say something is an emergency--"
"I won't get dressed, then," Malone said. "Whatever you say."
"Just do something!" Burris told him desperately. "Your country needs you. Pyjamas and all. Malone, it's a crisis!"
Conversations with Burris, Malone told himself, were bound to be a little confusing. "I'll be right down," he said.
"Fine," Burris said, and hesitated. Then he added: "Malone, do you wear the tops or the bottoms?"
"The what?"
"Of your pyjamas," Burris explained hurriedly. "The top part or the bottom part?"
"Oh," Malone said. "As a matter of fact, I wear both."
"Good," Burris said with satisfaction. "I wouldn't want an agent of mine arrested for indecent exposure." He rang off.
Malone blinked at the intercom for a minute, shut it off and then, ignoring the trip-hammers in his skull and the Eagle Scouts on his nerves, began to get dressed. Somehow, in spite of Burris' feelings of crisis, he couldn't see himself trying to flag a taxi on the streets of Washington in his pyjamas. Anyhow, not while he was awake. I dreamed I was an FBI agent, he thought sadly, in my drafty BVDs.
Besides, it was probably nothing important. These things, he told himself severely, have a way of evaporating as soon as a clear, cold intelligence got hold of them.
Then he began wondering where in hell he was going to find a clear, cold intelligence. Or even, for that matter, what one was.
Chapter 1
"They could be anywhere," Burris said, with an expression which bordered on exasperated horror. "They could be all around us. Heaven only knows."
He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up, a chunky little man with bright blue eyes and large hands. He paced to the window and looked out at Washington, and then he came back to the desk. A persistent office rumor held that he had become head of the FBI purely because he happened to have an initial J in his name, but in his case the J stood for Jeremiah. And, at the moment, his tone expressed all the hopelessness of that Old Testament prophet's lamentations.
"We're helpless," he said, looking at the young man with the crisp brown hair who was sitting across the desk. "That's what it is, we're helpless."
Kenneth Malone tried to look dependable. "Just tell me what to do," he said.
"You're a good agent, Kenneth," Burris said. "You're one of the best. That's why you've been picked for this job. And I want to say that I picked you personally. Believe me, there's never been anything like it before."
"I'll do my best," Malone said at random. He was twenty-six, and he had been an FBI agent for three years. In that time, he had, among other things, managed to break up a gang of smugglers, track down a counterfeiting ring, and capture three kidnappers. For reasons which he could neither understand nor explain, no one seemed willing to attribute his record to luck.
"I know you will," Burris said. "And if anybody can crack this case, Malone, you're the man. It's just that--everything sounds so impossible. Even after all the conferences we've had."
"Conferences?" Malone said vaguely. He wished the Chief would get to the point. Any point. He smiled gently across the desk and tried to look competent and dependable and reassuring. Burris' expression didn't change.
"You'll get the conference tapes later," Burris said. "You can study them before you leave. I suggest you study them very carefully, Malone. Don't be like me. Don't get confused." He buried his face in his hands. Malone waited patiently. After a few seconds, Burris looked up. "Did you read books when you were a child?" he asked.
Malone said: "What?"
"Books," Burris said. "When you were a child. Read them."
"Sure I did," Malone said. "Bomba the Jungle Boy, and Doctor Doolittle, and Lucky Starr, and Little Women--"
"Little Women?"
"When Beth died," Malone said, "I wanted to cry. But I didn't. My father said big boys don't cry."
"And your father was right," Burris said. "Why, when I was a--never mind. Forget about Beth and your father. Think about Lucky Starr for a minute. Remember him?"
"Sure," Malone said. "I liked those books. You know it's funny, but the books you read when you're a kid, they kind of stay with you. Know what I mean? I can still remember that one about Venus, for instance. Gee, that was--"
"Never mind about Venus, too," Burris said sharply. "Keep your mind on the problem."
"Yes, sir," Malone said. He paused. "What problem, sir?" he added.
"The problem we're discussing," Burris said. He gave Malone a bright, blank stare. "My God," he said. "Just listen to me."
"Yes, sir."
"All right, then." Burris took a deep breath. He seemed nervous. Once again he stood up and went to the window. This time, he spoke without turning. "Remember how everybody used to laugh about spaceships, and orbital satellites, and life on other planets? That was just in those Lucky Starr books. That was all just for kids, wasn't it?"
"Well, I don't know," Malone said slowly.
"Sure it was all for kids," Burris said. "It was laughable. Nobody took it seriously."
"Well, somebody must--"
"You just keep quiet and listen," Burris said.
"Yes, sir," Malone said.
Burris nodded. His hands were clasped behind his back. "We're not laughing any more, are we, Malone?" he said without moving.
There was silence.
"Well, are we?"
"Did you want me to answer, sir?"
"Of course I did!" Burris snapped.
"You told me to keep quiet and--"
"Never mind what I told you," Burris said. "Just do what I told you."
"Yes, sir," Malone said. "No, sir," he added after a second.
"No, sir, what?" Burris asked softly.
"No,
