“Thrilling,” Malone said. “But you got to Yucca Flats for your knighting awfully quickly, a little too fast even for a modern plane.”
“It had to be done,” Burris said. “Anyhow, I’ve never really liked planes. Basically unsafe. People crash in them.”
“But you wouldn’t,” Malone said. “You could always teleport yourself out.”
“Sure,” Burris said. “But that’s troublesome. Why bother? Anyhow, I’d been to Yucca Flats before, so I could teleport there—a little way down the road, where I could meet my car—without any trouble.”
“Anyhow, that was one thing,” Malone said. “And then there was Her Majesty, when she pointed at that visiphone screen and accused you of being the telepathic spy. Remember?”
“She wasn’t pointing at me,” Burris said. “She was pointing at the man in the next room. How about you doing some remembering?”
“Sure she was,” Malone said. “But it was just a little coincidence. And I have a hunch she felt, subconsciously, that there was something not quite right about you.”
“Maybe,” Burris conceded. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“It doesn’t?” Malone said.
“Now look, Malone,” Burris said. “None of this is proof. Not real proof. Not the kind the FBI has trained you to look for.”