Brain Twister | Page 2

J. Malone thought he did. Things just couldn't be as
bad as all that.
Ignoring a still, small voice which asked persistently: "Why not?" he
turned away from the mirror and set about finding his clothes. He
determined to take his time about getting ready for work: after all,
nobody could really complain if he arrived late on his first day after
vacation. Everybody knew how tired vacations made a person.
And, besides, there was probably nothing happening anyway. Things
had, he recalled with faint pleasure, been pretty quiet lately. Ever since
the counterfeiting gang he'd caught had been put away, crime seemed
to have dropped to the nice, simple levels of the 1950's and '60's.
Maybe, he hoped suddenly, he'd be able to spend some time catching
up on his scientific techniques, or his math, or pistol practice....
The thought of pistol practice made his head begin to throb with the
authority of a true hangover. There were fifty or sixty small gnomes
inside his skull, he realized, all of them with tiny little hammers. They
were mining for lead.
"The lead," Malone said aloud, "is farther down. Not in the skull."
The gnomes paid him no attention. He shut his eyes and tried to relax.
The gnomes went right ahead with their work, and microscopic

regiments of Eagle Scouts began marching steadily along his nerves.
There were people, Malone had always understood, who bounced out
of their beds and greeted each new day with a smile. It didn't sound
possible, but then again there were some pretty strange people. The
head of that counterfeiting ring, for instance: where had he got the idea
of picking an alias like André Gide?
Clutching at his whirling thoughts, Malone opened his eyes, winced,
and began to get dressed. At least, he thought, it was going to be a
peaceful day.
It was at this second that his private intercom buzzed.
Malone winced again. "To hell with you," he called at the thing, but the
buzz went on, ignoring the code shut-off. That meant, he knew, an
emergency call, maybe from his Chief of Section. Maybe even from
higher up.
"I'm not even late for work yet," he complained. "I will be, but I'm not
yet. What are they screaming about?"
There was, of course, only one way to find out. He shuffled painfully
across the room, flipped the switch and said:
"Malone here." Vaguely, he wondered if it were true. He certainly
didn't feel as if he were here. Or there. Or anywhere at all, in fact.
A familiar voice came tinnily out of the receiver. "Malone, get down
here right away!"
The voice belonged to Andrew J. Burris. Malone sighed deeply and felt
grateful, for the fiftieth time, that he had never had a TV pickup
installed in the intercom. He didn't want the FBI chief to see him
looking as horrible as he did now, all rippled and everything. It
wasn't--well, it wasn't professional, that was all.
"I'll get dressed right 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