, he told himself. Nobody could conceivably look as
horrible as Kenneth J. Malone thought he did. Things just couldn't be
as bad as all that.

Ignoring a still, small voice which asked persistently: "Why not?" he
turned away from the mirror and set about finding his clothes. He
determined to take his time about getting ready for work: after all,
nobody could really complain if he arrived late on his first day after
vacation. Everybody knew how tired vacations made a person.

And, besides, there was probably nothing happening anyway. Things had,
he recalled with faint pleasure, been pretty quiet lately. Ever since
the counterfeiting gang he'd caught had been put away, crime seemed to
have dropped to the nice, simple levels of the 1950's and '60's.
Maybe, he hoped suddenly, he'd be able to spend some time catching up
on his scientific techniques, or his math, or pistol practice....

The thought of pistol practice made his head begin to throb with the
authority of a true hangover. There were fifty or sixty small gnomes
inside his skull, he realized, all of them with tiny little hammers.
They were mining for lead.

"The lead," Malone said aloud, "is farther down. Not in the skull."

The gnomes paid him no attention. He shut his eyes and tried to relax.
The gnomes went right ahead with their work, and microscopic regiments
of Eagle Scouts began marching steadily along his nerves.

There were people, Malone had always understood, who bounced out of
their beds and greeted each new day with a smile. It didn't sound
possible, but then again there were some pretty strange people. The
head of that counterfeiting ring, for instance: where had he got the
idea of picking an alias like Andre Gide?

Clutching at his whirling thoughts, Malone opened his eyes, winced,
and began to get dressed. At least, he thought, it was going to be a
peaceful day.

It was at this second that his private intercom buzzed.

Malone winced again. "To hell with you," he called at the thing, but
the buzz went on, ignoring the code shut-off. That meant, he knew, an
emergency call, maybe from his Chief of Section. Maybe even from
higher up.

"I'm not even late for work yet," he complained. "I will be, but I'm
not yet. What are they screaming about?"

There was, of course, only one way to find out. He shuffled painfully
across the room, flipped the switch and said:

"Malone here." Vaguely, he wondered if it were true. He certainly
didn't feel as i