Burris frowned again. “Don’t call me Chief,” he said.
Malone nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But if you don’t know what it is, you must have some idea of what you don’t know. I mean, is it larger than a breadbox? Does it perform helpful tasks? Is it self-employed?”
“Malone,” Burris sighed, “you ought to be on television.”
“But—”
“Let me explain,” Burris said. His voice was calmer now, and he spoke as if he were enunciating nothing but the most obvious and eternal truths. “The country,” he said, “is going to hell in a handbasket.”
Malone nodded again. “Well, after all, Chief—”
“Don’t call me Chief,” Burris said wearily.
“Anything you say,” Malone agreed peacefully. He eyed the Director of the FBI warily. “After all, it isn’t anything new,” he went on. “The country’s always been going to hell in a handbasket, one way or another. Look at Rome.”
“Rome?” Burris said.
“Sure,” Malone said. “Rome was always going to hell in a handbasket, and finally it—” He paused. “Finally it did, I guess,” he said.