vel expenses. Not, he thought glumly, that he would be
expected to buy return tickets. Oh, no. Once he'd been to a place he
could teleport back, so there would be no point in taking a plane or
a train back from wherever he went.

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

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

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

* * * * *

Glumly, Malone made his farewells and then teleported himself from the
Justice Department Building back to his own apartment. There, slowly
and sadly, he began to pack. He hadn't yet decided just where he _was_
going, but that was a minor detail. The important thing was that he
was going. If the Director of the FBI tells you that you need a rest
cure, Malone thought, you do not argue with him. Argument may result
in your vacation being extended indefinitely. And that is not a good
thing.

Of course, such a "vacation" wouldn't be the end of the world. Not
quite. He could even beat Burris to the gun, hand in his resignation
and go into private practice as a lawyer. The name of Malone, he told
himself proudly, had not been entirely forgotten in Chicago, by any
means. But he didn't feel happy about the idea. He knew, perfectly
well, that he didn't want to live by trading on his father's
reputation. And besides, he _liked_ being an FBI agent. It had
glamour. It had standing.

It had everything. It even had trouble.

Malone caught his whirling mind and forced it back to a landing.
Where, he asked himself, was he going?

He thought about that for a second. Perhaps, as Burris had apparently
suspected, he was going nuts. When he considered it, it even sounded
like a good possibility.

After all, what evidence _did_ he have for