The screwdriver waggled a little. Malone wasn’t quite sure that the man was breathing. “Fred Mitchell,” he said. Mitchell didn’t look up. Another second passed. “Hey,” Malone said. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Fred,” he said in a loud, reasonable-sounding voice, “the State Department’s translator has started to talk pig-Latin.” Mitchell straightened up as if somebody had jabbed him with a pin. The screwdriver waved wildly in the air for a second, and then pointed at Malone. “That’s impossible,” Mitchell said in a flat, precise voice. “Simply impossible. It doesn’t have a pig-Latin circuit. It can’t possibly—” He blinked and seemed to see Malone for the first time. “Oh,” he said. “Hello, Malone. What can I do for you?” Malone smiled, feeling a little victorious at having got through the Mitchell armor, which was almost impregnable when there was a job in hand. “I’ve been standing here talking to you for some time.” “Oh, have you?” Mitchell said. “I was busy.” That, obviously, explained that. Malone shrugged. “I want you to help me check over some calculators, Fred,” he said. “We’ve had some reports that some of the government machines are out of kilter, and I’d like you to go over them for me.” “Out of kilter?” Fred Mitchell said. “No, you can forget about it. It’s absolutely unnecessary to make a check, believe me. Absolutely. Forget it.” He smiled suddenly. “I suppose it’s some kind of a joke, isn’t it?” he said, just a trifle uncertainly. Fred Mitchell’s world, while pleasant, did not include much humor, Malone knew. “It’s supposed to be funny,” he said in the same flat, precise voice. “It isn’t funny,” Malone said. Fred sighed. “Then they’re obviously lying,” he said, “and that’s all there is to it. Why bother me with it?” “Lying, Fred?” Malone said. “Certainly,” Fred said. He looked at the machinery with longing. Malone took a breath. “How do you know?” he said. Fred sighed. “It’s perfectly obvious,” he said in a patient tone. “Since the State Department translator has no pig-Latin circuit, it can’t possibly be talking pig-Latin. I will admit that such a circuit would be relatively easy to build, though it would have no utility as far as I can see. Except, of course, for a joke.” He paused. “Joke?” he said, in a slightly uneasy tone. “Sure,” Malone said. “Joke.” Mitchell looked relieved. “Very well, then,” he began. “Since—” “Wait a minute,” Malone said. “The pig-Latin is a joke. That’s right. But I’m not talking about the pig-Latin.” “You’re not?” Mitchell asked, surprised. “No,” Malone said. Mitchell frowned. “But you said—” he began. “A joke,” Malone said. “You were perfectly right. The pig-Latin is a joke.” He waited for Fred’s expression to clear, and then added: “But what I want to talk to you about isn’t.” “It sounds very confused,” Fred said after a pause. “Not at all the sort of thing that—that usually goes on.”