Sir Lewis shrugged. “Tune in and see,” he said. “It’s an old joke; but you’ll never really adjust to telepathy unless you practice.”
“Damn it,” Burris said, “I practice. I’m always practicing. This and that and the other thing—after all, I am the director of the FBI. There’s a lot to be done.”
Sir Lewis puffed at his pipe again. “At any rate,” he said smoothly, “Mr. Malone had requested some dossiers on us. On the PRS, myself, and Luba. They arrived very quickly. The efficiency of that arrival, and the efficiency he’d been noting about the FBI ever since he began work on this case, finally struck home to him.”
“Ah,” Burris said. “You see? The FBI’s a full-time job. It’s got to be efficient.”
“Of course,” Sir Lewis said soothingly.
“Anyhow,” Malone said, “Sir Lewis is right. While every other branch of the government was having its troubles with the Great Confusion, the FBI was ticking along like a transistorized computer.”
“A good start,” Sir Lewis said.
“Darn good,” Burris said. “Malone, I knew I could depend on you. You’re a good man.”
Malone swallowed hard. “Well, anyway,” he said after a pause, “when I saw that I began to remember a few other things. Starting with a couple of years ago, when we first found Her Majesty, remember?”
“I’ll never forget it,” Burris said fervently. “She knighted me. Knight Commander of the Queen’s Own FBI. What a moment.”