om him toward the PRS, toward civilization--was
over. But he didn't feel happy. He didn't feel anything.

"There's a crisis building in New York," Sir Lewis said suddenly,
"that's going to take all our attention. Malone, why don't you ...
well, go home and get some rest? We're going to be busy for a while,
and you'll want to be fresh for the work coming up."

"Sure," Malone said listlessly. "Sure."

As the others rose, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then
he vanished.

XVII

Two hours passed, somehow. Bourbon and soda helped them pass, Malone
discovered; he drank two high-balls slowly, trying not to think about
anything. He felt terrible. After a while he made himself a third
high-ball and started on it. Maybe this would make him feel better.
Maybe he thought, he ought to break out his cigars and celebrate.

But there didn't seem to be very much to celebrate somehow. He felt
like an amoeba on a slide being congratulated on having successfully
conquered the world.

He drank some more bourbon-and-soda. Amoebae, he told himself, didn't
drink bourbon-and-soda. He was better off than an amoeba. He was
happier than an amoeba. But somehow he couldn't imagine any amoeba in
the world, no matter how heart-broken, feeling any worse than Kenneth
J. Malone.

He looked up. There was another amoeba in the room.

Then he frowned. She wasn't an amoeba, he thought. She was the
scientist the amoeba was supposed to fall in love with, so the
scientist could report on everything he did, so all the other
scien--psiontists could know all about him. But whoever heard of a
scien--psiontist--falling in love with an amoeba? Nobody. It was fate.
And fate was awful. Malone had often suspected it, but now he was
sure. Now he was looking at things from the amoeba's side, and fate
was terrible.

"No, Ken," the psiontist said. "It needn't be at all like that."

"Oh, yes, it need," Malone said positively. "It need be even worse.
When I have some more to drink, it'll _be_ even worse. Wait and see."

"Ken," Luba said softly, "you don't have to suffer this way."

"No," Malone said agreeably, "I don't. You could shoot me and then I'd
be dead. Just quit all this amoebing around, O.K.?"

"You're already half shot," Luba said sharply. "Now be quiet and
listen. You're angry because you've fallen in love with me and you're
all choked up over the futility of it all."

"Exactly," Malone said. "Ex-positively-actly. You're a psionic
s