“But first,” the announcer burbled downstairs, “a word from Mother Kohler herself, about the brand new special B-Complex Irradiated Bolster you can get at your neighborhood stores....”
“Shut up,” Malone said. He had wasted a lot of time doing nothing but sleeping, he told himself. This was no time to be listening to television. He got up and found, to his vague surprise, that he felt a lot better and more clear-headed than he’d been feeling. Maybe the sleep had done him some good.
He yawned, blinked and stretched, and then he padded into the bathroom, showered and shaved and put on fresh clothes. He thought about having a morning cup of coffee, but last night’s dregs appeared to have taken up permanent residence in his digestive tract, and he decided against it at last. He swallowed some orange juice and toast and then, heaving a great sigh of resignation and brushing crumbs off his shirt, he teleported himself over to his office.
He was going to have to face Burris eventually, he knew.
And now was just as good, or as bad, a time as any.
Malone didn’t hesitate. He punched the button on his intercom for Burris’ office and then sat back, with his eyes closed, for the well-known voice.
It didn’t come.
Instead, Wolf, the director’s secretary, spoke up.
“Burris isn’t in, Malone,” he said. “He had to fly to Miami. I can get a call through to him on the plane, if it’s urgent, but he’ll be landing in about fifteen minutes. And he did say he’d call this afternoon.”
“Oh,” Malone said. “Sure. Okay. It isn’t urgent.” He was just as glad of the reprieve; it gave him one more chance to work matters through to a solution, and report success instead of failure. “But what’s going on in Miami?” he added.