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.