"I'm in a perfectly terrible way," Malone said, "and it's going to get worse. You wait and see."
"Of course I'll wait and see," Boyd said. "I wouldn't miss the end of the world for anything. It ought to be a great spectacle." He paused. "Want them to bring in the next one?"
"Sure," Malone said. "What have we got to lose but our minds? And who is the next one?"
"Borbitsch," Boyd said. "They're saving Garbitsch for a big finish."
Malone nodded wearily. "Onward," he said, and picked up the phone. He punched a number, spoke a few words and hung up.
A minute later, the four FBI agents came back, leading a man. This one was tall and thin, with the expression of a gloomy, degenerate and slightly nauseated bloodhound. He was led to the chair and he sat down in it as if he expected the worst to start happening at once.
"Well," Malone said in a bored, tired voice. "So this is the one who won't talk."
VI
Midnight.
Kenneth J. Malone sat at his desk, in his Washington office, surrounded by piles of papers covering the desk, spilling off onto the floor and decorating his lap. He was staring at the papers as if he expected them to leap up, dance round him and shout the solution to all his problems at him in trained choral voices. They did nothing at all.