“And we talk a lot at the meetings,” Malone went on, carried away, “and get a lot of publicity, and we subpoena famous people, just as famous as we can get, except governors or presidents, because you can’t—they tried that back in the Fifties, and it didn’t work very well—and that gives us some more publicity, and then when we have all the publicity we can possibly get—”
“You stop,” Burris said hurriedly.
“That’s right,” Malone said. “We stop. And that’s what I’d do.”
“Of course, the problem of inefficiency is left exactly where it always was,” Burris said. “Nothing’s been done about it.”
“Naturally,” Malone said. “But think of all the lovely publicity. And all the nice talk. And the subpoenas and committees and everything.”
“Sure,” Burris said wearily. “It’s happened a thousand times. But, Malone, that’s the difference. It isn’t happening this time.”
There was a short pause. “What do you mean?” Malone said at last.
“This time,” Burris said, in a tone that sounded almost awed, “they want to keep it a secret.”
“A secret?” Malone said, blinking. “But that’s—that’s not the American way.”
Burris shrugged. “It’s un-congressman-like, anyhow,” he said. “But that’s what they’ve done. Tiptoed over to me and whispered softly that the thing has to be investigated quietly. Naturally, they didn’t give me any orders—but only because they know they can’t make one stick. They suggested it pretty strongly.”