"O.K.?" Malone said.
She smiled at him, very gently. "O.K.," she said. "Now let's go in to dinner, before I get any hungrier and the Great Universal loses some of its paneling."
Dinner, Malone told himself, was going to be wonderful. He was alone with Luba, and he was in a fancy, fine, expensive place. He was happy, and Luba was happy, and everything was going to be perfectly frabjous.
It was. He had no desire whatever, when dinner and the floor show were over, to leave Luba. Unfortunately, he did have work to do—work that was more important than anything else he could imagine. He made a tentative date for the next day, went to his room, and from there teleported himself to FBI Headquarters, New York.
The agent-in-charge looked up at him. "Hey," he said. "I thought you were on vacation, Malone."
"How come everybody knows about me being on vacation?" Malone said sourly.
The agent-in-charge shrugged. "The only leave not canceled?" he said. "Hell, it was all over the place in five minutes."
"O.K., O.K.," Malone said. "Don't remind me. Is there a package for me?"
The agent-in-charge produced a large box. "A messenger brought it," he said. "From the Psychical Research Society," he said. "What is it, ghosts?"
"Dehydrated," Malone said. "Just add ectoplasm and out they come, shouting Boo! at everybody."