A Spaceship Named: 45 Sci-Fi Novels & Stories in One Volume. Randall Garrett

a Soviet agent?"

      "I will say nothing," Brubitsch announced. "I am a small child. It is enough." He paused, blinked, and went on, "I will only tell you this: no murders were done by our group in any of our activities."

      "And what were your activities?" Malone asked.

      "Oh, many things," Brubitsch said. "Many, many things. We--"

      The telephone rang loudly, and Malone scooped it up with a practiced hand. "Malone here," he said.

      Her Majesty's voice was excited. "Sir Kenneth!" she said. "I just got a tremendous burst of static!"

      Malone blinked. Is my mind acting up again? he thought, knowing she would pick it up. Am I being interfered with?

      He didn't feel any different. But then, how was he supposed to feel?

      "It's not your mind, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "Not this time. It's his mind. That sneaky-thinking Brubitsch fellow."

      Brubitsch? Malone thought. Now what is that supposed to mean?

      "I don't know, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "But get on back to your questioning. He's ready to talk now."

      "Okay," Malone said aloud. "Fine." He hung up and looked back to the Russian sitting on his chair. Brubitsch was ready to talk, and that was one good thing, anyhow. But what was all the static about?

      What was going on?

      "Now, then," Malone said. "You were telling us about your group activities."

      "True," Brubitsch said. "I did not commit any murders. It is possible that Borbitsch committed murders. It is maybe even possible that Garbitsch committed murders. But I do not think so."

      "Why not?" Boyd said.

      "They are my friends," Brubitsch said. "Even if they tell lies. They are also small children. Besides, I am not even the head of the group."

      "Who is?" Malone said.

      "Garbitsch," Brubitsch said instantly. "He worked in the State Department, and he told us what to look for in the Senate Office Building."

      "What were you supposed to look for?" Boyd said.

      "For information," Brubitsch said. "For scraps of paper, or things we overheard. But it was very bad, very bad."

      "What do you mean, bad?" Malone said.

      "Everything was terrible," Brubitsch said mournfully. "Sometimes Borbitsch heard something and forgot to tell Garbitsch about it. Garbitsch did not like this. He is a very inflamed person. Once he threatened to send Borbitsch to the island of Yap as a spy. That is a very bad place to go to. There are no enjoyments on the island of Yap, and no ones likes strangers there. Borbitsch was very sad."

      "What did you do with your information?" Boyd said.

      "We remembered it," Brubitsch said. "Or, if we had a scrap of paper, we saved it for Garbitsch and gave it to him. But I remember once that I had some paper. It had a formula on it. I do not know what the formula said."

      "What was it about?" Malone said.

      Brubitsch gave a massive shrug. "It was about an X and some numbers," he said. "It was not very interesting, but it was a formula, and Garbitsch would have liked it. Unfortunately, I did not give it to him."

      "Why not?" Boyd said.

      "I am ashamed," Brubitsch said, looking ashamed. "I was lighting a cigarette in the afternoon, when I had the formula. It is a very relaxing thing to smoke a cigarette in the afternoon. It is soothing to the soul." He looked very sad. "I was holding the piece of paper in one hand," he said. "Unfortunately, the match and the paper came into contact. I burned my finger. Here." He stuck out a finger toward Malone and Boyd, who looked at it without much interest for a second. "The paper is gone," he said. "Don't tell Garbitsch. He is very inflamed."

      Malone sighed. "But you remember the formula," he said. "Don't you?"

      Brubitsch shook his massive head very slowly. "It was not very interesting," he said. "And I do not have a mathematical mind."

      "We know," Malone said. "You are a small child."

      "It was terrible," Brubitsch said. "Garbitsch was not happy about our activities."

      "What did Garbitsch do with the information?" Boyd said.

      "He passed it on," Brubitsch said. "Every week he would send a short-wave message to the homeland, in code. Some weeks he did not send the message."

      "Why not?" Malone said.

      "The radio did not work," Brubitsch said simply. "We received orders by short-wave, but sometimes we did not receive the orders. The radio was of very poor quality, and some weeks it refused to send any messages. On other weeks, it refused to receive any messages."

      "Who was your contact in Russia?" Boyd said.

      "A man named X," Brubitsch said. "Like in the formula."

      "But what was his real name?" Malone said.

      "Who knows?" Brubitsch said. "Does it matter?"

      "What else did you do?" Boyd said.

      "We met twice a week," Brubitsch said. "Sometimes in Garbitsch's home, sometimes in other places. Sometimes we had information. At other times, we were friends, having a social gathering."

      "Friends?" Malone said.

      Brubitsch nodded. "We drank together, talked, played chess. Garbitsch is the best chess player in the group. I am not very good. But once we had some trouble." He paused. "We had been drinking Russian liquors. They are very strong. We decided to uphold the honor of our country."

      "I think," Malone murmured sadly, "I know what's coming."

      "Ah?" Brubitsch said, interested. "At any rate, we decided to honor our country in song. And a policeman came and talked to us. He took us down to the police station."

      "Why?" Boyd said.

      "He was suspicious," Brubitsch said. "We were singing the Internationale, and he was suspicious. It is unreasonable."

      "Oh, I don't know," Boyd said. "What happened then?"

      "He took us to the police station," Brubitsch said, "and then after a little while he let us go. I do not understand this."

      "It's all right," Malone said. "I do." He drew Boyd aside for a second, and whispered to him: "The cops were ready to charge these three clowns with everything in the book. We had a hell of a time springing them so we could go on watching them. I remember the stir-up, though I never did know their names until now."

      Boyd nodded, and they returned to Brubitsch, who was staring up at them with surly eyes.

      "It is a secret you are telling him," Brubitsch said. "That is not right."

      "What do you mean, it's not right?" Malone said.

      "It is wrong," Brubitsch went on. "It is not the American way."

      He went on, with some prodding, to tell about the activities of the spy ring. It did not seem to be a very efficient spy ring; Brubitsch's long sad tale of forgotten messages, mixed orders, misplaced documents and strange mishaps was a marvel and a revelation to the listening officers. "I've never heard anything like it," one of them whispered in a tone of absolute wonder. "They're almost working on our side."

      Over an hour later, Malone turned wearily away from the prisoner. "All right, Brubitsch," he said. "I guess that pretty much covers things for the moment. If we want any more information, though--"

      "Call on me," Brubitsch said sadly. "I am not going anyplace. And I will give you all the information you desire. But I did not commit any murders."

      "Goodbye, small child," Malone said, as two agents led the fat man away. The other two left soon afterward, and Malone and Boyd were alone.

      "Think he was telling the truth?" Boyd said.