“I don’t know,” Boyd said. “I haven’t the faintest idea. And I’m rapidly approaching the stage where I don’t care.”
“Well,” Malone said, heaving a sigh, “let’s keep looking.”
He bent down and picked up another sheaf of copies from the Psychical Research Society.
“After all,” he said, without much hope, “you never know.”
Malone looked around the office of Andrew J. Burris as if he’d never seen it before. He felt tired, and worn out, and depressed; it had been a long night, and here it was morning and the head of the FBI was giving him instructions. It was, Malone told himself, a hell of a life.
“Now, Malone,” Burris said, “this is a very ticklish situation. You’ve got to handle it with great care.”
“I can see that,” Malone said apprehensively. “It certainly looks ticklish. And unusual.”
“Well, we don’t want any trouble,” Burris said. “We have enough trouble now.”
“Sometimes I think we have too much,” Malone said.