ctor of the FBI.
There's a lot to be done."

Sir Lewis puffed at his pipe again. "At any rate," he said smoothly,
"Mr. Malone had requested some dossiers on us. On the PRS, myself, and
Luba. They arrived very quickly. The efficiency of that arrival, and
the efficiency he'd been noting about the FBI ever since he began work
on this case, finally struck home to him."

"Ah," Burris said. "You see? The FBI's a full-time job. It's got to be
efficient."

"Of course," Sir Lewis said soothingly.

"Anyhow," Malone said, "Sir Lewis is right. While every other branch
of the government was having its troubles with the Great Confusion,
the FBI was ticking along like a transistorized computer."

"A good start," Sir Lewis said.

"Darn good," Burris said. "Malone, I knew I could depend on you.
You're a good man."

Malone swallowed hard. "Well, anyway," he said after a pause, "when I
saw that I began to remember a few other things. Starting with a
couple of years ago, when we first found Her Majesty, remember?"

"I'll never forget it," Burris said fervently. "She knighted me.
Knight Commander of the Queen's Own FBI. What a moment."

"Thrilling," Malone said. "But you got to Yucca Flats for your
knighting awfully quickly, a little too fast even for a modern plane."

"It had to be done," Burris said. "Anyhow, I've never really liked
planes. Basically unsafe. People crash in them."

"But you wouldn't," Malone said. "You could always teleport yourself
out."

"Sure," Burris said. "But that's troublesome. Why bother? Anyhow, I'd
been to Yucca Flats before, so I could teleport there--a little way
down the road, where I could meet my car--without any trouble."

"Anyhow, that was one thing," Malone said. "And then there was Her
Majesty, when she pointed at that visiphone screen and accused you of
being the telepathic spy. Remember?"

"She wasn't pointing at me," Burris said. "She was pointing at the man
in the next room. How about you doing some remembering?"

"Sure she was," Malone said. "But it was just a little coincidence.
And I have a hunch she felt, subconsciously, that there was something
not quite right about you."

"Maybe," Burris conceded. "But that doesn't answer my question."

"It doesn't?" Malone said.

"Now look, Malone," Burris said. "None of this is proof. Not real
proof. Not the kind the FBI has trained you to look for."

"But--"

"What I want to know," Burris said, "is why you came here, to my home?
A