Supermind | Page 3

resigned.
"Well," the FBI director said, "the only actual trouble we can pinpoint is that there seem to be a great many errors occurring in the paperwork. More than usual."
"People get tired," Malone said tentatively.
"But computer-secretary calculating machines don't," Burris said. "And that's where the errors are, in the computer-secretaries down in the Senate Office Building. I think you'd better start out there."
"Sure," Malone said sadly.
"See if there's any mechanical or electrical defect in any of those computers," Burris said. "Talk to the computer technicians. Find out what's causing all these errors."
"Yes, sir," Malone said. He was still trying to feel resigned, but he wasn't succeeding very well.
"And if you don't find anything--" Burris began.
"I'll come right back," Malone said instantly.
"No," Burris said. "You keep on looking."
"I do?"
"You do," Burris said. "After all, there has to be something wrong."
"Sure," Malone said, "if you say so. But--"
"There are the interview tapes," Burris said, "and the reports the Congressmen brought in. You can go through those."
Malone sighed. "I guess so," he said.
"And there must be thousands of other things to do," Burris said.
"Well--" Malone began cautiously.
"You'll be able to think of them," Burris said heartily. "I know you will. I have confidence in you, Malone. Confidence."
"Thanks," Malone said sadly.
"You just keep me posted from time to time on what you're doing, and what ideas you get," Burris said. "I'm leaving the whole thing in your hands, Malone, and I'm sure you won't disappoint me."
"I'll try," Malone said.
"I know you will," Burris said warmly. "And no matter how long it takes, I know you'll succeed."
"No matter how long it takes?" Malone said hesitantly.
"That's right!" Burris said. "You can do it, Malone! You can do it."
Malone nodded slowly. "I hope so," he said. "Well, I--Well, I'll start out right away, then."
He turned. Before he could make another move Burris said, "Wait!"
Malone turned again, hope in his eyes. "Yes, sir?" he said.
"When you leave--" Burris began, and the hope disappeared. "When you leave," he went on, "please do one little favor for me. Just one little favor, because I'm an old, tired man and I'm not used to things any more."
"Sure," Malone said. "Anything, Chief."
"Don't call me--"
"Sorry," Malone said.
Burris breathed heavily. "When you leave," he said, "please, please use the door."
"But--"
"Malone," Burris said, "I've tried. I've really tried. Believe me. I've tried to get used to the fact that you can teleport. But--"
"It's useful," Malone said, "in my work."
"I can see that," Burris said. "And I don't want you to, well, to stop doing it. By no means. It's just that it sort of unnerves me, if you see what I mean. No matter how useful it is for the FBI to have an agent who can go instantaneously from one place to another, it unnerves me." He sighed. "I can't get used to seeing you disappear like an overdried soap bubble, Malone. It does something to me, here." He placed a hand directly over his sternum and sighed again.
"I can understand that," Malone said. "It unnerved me, too, the first time I saw it. I thought I was going crazy, when that kid--Mike Fueyo--winked out like a light. But then we got him, and some FBI agents besides me have learned the trick." He stopped there, wondering if he'd been tactful. After all, it took a latent ability to learn teleportation, and some people had it, while others didn't. Malone, along with a few other agents, did. Burris evidently didn't, so he couldn't teleport, no matter how hard he tried or how many lessons he took.
"Well," Burris said, "I'm still unnerved. So please, Malone, when you come in here, or go out, use the door. All right?"
"Yes, sir," Malone said. He turned and went out. As he opened the door, he could almost hear Burris' sigh of relief. Then he banged it shut behind him and, feeling that he might as well continue with his spacebound existence, walked all the way to the elevator, and rode it downstairs to the FBI laboratories.
The labs, highly efficient and divided into dozens of departments, covered several floors. Malone passed through the Fingerprint section, filled with technicians doing strange things to great charts and slides, and frowning over tiny pieces of material and photographs. Then came Forgery Detection, involving many more technicians, many more slides and charts and tiny pieces of things and photographs, and even a witness or two sitting on the white bench at one side and looking lost and somehow civilian. Identification Classified was next, a great barn of a room filled with index files. The real indexes were in the sub-basement; here, on microfilm, were only the basic divisions. A man was standing in front of one of the files, frowning at it. Malone went on by without stopping.
Cosmetic Surgery Classification came next. Here there