Malone nodded, realized the man couldn't see him, said: "Fine," and switched off. He looked at his watch. A little over half an hour had passed since he had left the Psychical Research Society offices. That, he told himself, was efficiency.
Not that the books would mean anything, he thought. They would just take their places at the end of the long row of meaningless, disturbing, vicious facts that cluttered up his mind. He wasn't an FBI agent any more; he was a clown and a failure, and he was through. He was going to resign and go to South Dakota and live the life of a hermit. He would drink goat's milk and eat old shoes or something, and whenever another human being came near he would run away and hide. They would call him Old Kenneth, and people would write articles for magazines about The Twentieth Century Hermit.
And that would make him famous, he thought wearily, and the whole circle would start all over again.
"Now, now, Sir Kenneth," Queen Elizabeth said. "Things aren't quite that bad."
"Oh, yes, they are," Malone said. "They're even worse."
"I'm sure we can find an answer to all your questions," Her Majesty said.
"Sure," Malone said. "Even I can find an answer. But it isn't the right one."
"You can?" Her Majesty said.
"That's right," Malone said. "My answer is: To Hell with everything."