The lieutenant from the local precinct limped up, rubbing a well-kicked shin and trying to disentangle pieces of floor lamp from his hair. "Listen, Lynch," he said, "What's with these kids? What's going on here? Look at my men." "Some days," Lynch said, "it just doesn't pay to get up." "Sure," the local man said, "but what do I do now?" "Make your reports." "But--" "To the Commissioner," Lynch said, "and to nobody else. If this gets into the papers, heads will roll." "My head is rolling right now," the local man said. "Know what one of those kids did? Stood in front of a floor lamp. I swung at him and he vanished. Vanished. I hit the lamp, and then the lamp hit me." "Just see that this doesn't get out," Lynch said. "It can't," the local man said. "Anybody who mentioned this to a reporter would just be laughed out of town. It's not possible." He paused thoughtfully, and added: "We'd all be laughed out of town." "And probably replaced with the FBI," Lynch said morosely. He looked at Malone. "Nothing personal, you understand," he said. "Of course," Malone said. "We can't do any more here, can we?" "I don't think we can do any more anywhere," Lynch said. "Let's lock the place up and leave and forget all about it." "Fine," Malone said. "I've got work to do." He looked round, found Dorothea and signaled to her. "Come on, Dorothea. Where's Boyd?" "Here I am," Boyd said, walking slowly across the big room to Malone. He had one hand held to his chin. "What's the matter with you?" Malone asked. Boyd took his hand away. There was a bald spot the size of a quarter on the point of his chin. "One of those kids," he said sadly, "has a hell of a strong grip. Come on, Miss Fueyo. Come on, Malone. Let's get out of here." XV. It is definitely not usual for the Director of the FBI to come stalking into a local office of that same FBI without so much as an advance warning or a by-your-leave. Such things are simply not done. Andrew J. Burris, however, was doing them. Three days after the Great Warehouse Fiasco, a startled A-in-C looked up to see the familiar Burris figure stalk by his office, growling under its breath. The A-in-C leaped to the interoffice phone, wondered whom he ought to call first, and subsided, staring dully at the telephone screen and thinking about retiring. The next appearance of the head of the FBI was in the office assigned to Malone and Boyd. Burris came through the doorway without warning, his countenance that of a harried and unhappy man. Malone looked up, blinked, and then readjusted his features to what he imagined was a nice, bright smile. "Oh," he said. "Hello, chief. I've been sort of expecting you." "I'll bet you have," Burris said. He set his brief case on Malone's desk and pulled a sheaf of papers from it. "Do you see these?" he said, waving them. "Inquiries. Complaints. Demands. From everybody. I've been getting them for three days." "Sure are a lot of them," Malone said at random.