"I know all that," Malone said. "But—"
Burris held up a pink, patient hand. Malone stared at it, fascinated. It had five pink, patient fingers on it. "Malone," Burris said slowly, "just what's bothering you? Don't you think those men are spies? Is that it?"
"Spies?" Malone said, slightly confused.
"You know," Burris said. "The men you arrested, Malone. The men you wrote this report about."
Malone blinked and focused on the hand again. It still had five fingers. "Sure they are," he said. "They're spies, all right. And they're caught, and that's that. Except I don't think they're causing all the confusion around here."
"Well, of course they're not," Burris said, the beam of kindliness coming back to his face. "Not any more. You caught them."
"I mean," Malone said desperately, "they never were. Even before I caught them."
"Then why," Burris said with great patience, "did you arrest them?"
"Because they're spies," Malone said. "Besides, I didn't."
"Didn't what?" Burris said, looking confused. He seemed to realize he was still holding up his hand, and dropped it to the desk. Malone felt sad as he watched it go. Now he had nothing to concentrate on except the conversation, and he didn't even want to think about what was happening to that.