He didn't know. And that was even worse; it called up horrible terrors from the darkest depths of Malone's mind. He continued to walk forward. Finally he reached the steps that led up to the porch, and took them one at a time. He stood on the porch. A long second passed. He took a step toward the high, wide and handsome oaken door. Then he took another step, and another. What was waiting for him inside? He took a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell button. The door swung open immediately, and Malone involuntarily stepped back. The owner of the house smiled at him from the doorway. Malone let out his breath in one long sigh of relief. "I was hoping it would be you," he said weakly. "May I come in?" "Why, certainly, Malone. Come on in. We've been expecting you, you know," said Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI. XVI Malone sat, quietly relaxed and almost completely at ease, in the depths of a huge, comfortable, old-fashioned Morris chair. Three similar chairs were clustered around a squat, massive coffee table, made of a single slab of dark wood set on short, curved legs. Malone looked around at the other three with a relaxed feeling of recognition: Andrew J. Burris, Sir Lewis Carter and Luba Ardanko. Sir Lewis softly exhaled a cloud of smoke as he removed the briar from his mouth. "Malone," he asked gently, "how did you know we would be here?" "Well," Malone said, "I just ... I mean, it was obvious as soon as I--" He stopped, frowning. "I had one thing to go on, anyway," he said. "I figured out the PRS was responsible for all the troubles because it was so efficient. And then, while I was sitting and staring at the file reports, it suddenly came to me: the FBI was just as efficient. So it was obvious." "What was?" Burris said. Malone shrugged. "I thought you'd been keeping me on vacation because your mind was being changed," he said. "Now I can see you were doing it of your own free will." "Yes," Sir Lewis said. "But how did you know you'd find us _here_, Malone?" There was a shadow in the room, but not a visible one. Malone felt the chill of sudden danger. Whatever was going to happen, he realized, he would not be around for the finish. He, Kenneth Joseph Malone, the cuddly, semi-intrepid FBI Agent he had always known and loved, would never get out of this deadly situation. If he lived, he would be so changed that-- He didn't even want to think about it. "What sort of logic," Sir Lewis was saying, "led you to the belief that we would all be here, in Andrew's house?" Malone forced his mind to consider the question. "Well," he began, "it isn't exactly logic, I guess." Luba smiled at him. He felt a little reassured, but not much. "You should have phrased that differently," she said. "It's: 'It isn't exactly logic. I guess.'" "Not guess," Sir Lewis said. "You know. Prescience, Malone. Your precognitive faculty." "All right," Malone said. "All right. So what?"