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clusion?"
It was Lou who broke the light mood of their speech first. "Look, Ken," she said seriously, "I'm the daughter of an enemy spy. You know that. You're an FBI agent."
"So what?" he said.
"So," she said, "you don't treat me like the daughter of a spy. You treat me just like anybody else."
"I do not," Malone said instantly.
"All right," she said, and shrugged. "But I'm sure none of this is in the FBI manual for daughters of convicted spies."
"Now, you look," Malone said. "Just what do you think this is? The McCarthy era? Any way I treat you, it has nothing to do with your father. He's a spy, and we caught him and we sent him back to Moscow. That's our job. But all this about the sins of the fathers being visited on the heads of the children, even unto the seventh generation--this is just plain silly. You're you; you're not your father. You haven't done anything--why should I treat you as if you have?"
"How do you know I'm not a spy, too?" she said.
"Because," Malone said flatly, "I know."
"Really?" she said softly. "Do you really?"
Malone opened his mouth, shut it and then started again. "Strictly speaking," he said carefully, "I don't know. But we're in the United States now, where a person is considered innocent until proven guilty."
"And that," Lou said, "is all you're going on, I suppose."
"Not all," Malone said.
"I didn't think so," Lou said, still smiling.
"Don't ask me how," Malone said, "but we're pretty sure you knew nothing about your father's activities. Forget it."
Lou looked suddenly slightly disappointed. Malone wondered why. Of course, there was one more reason, and maybe she'd thought of that. "It does make it easier," he said, "that you happen to be a beautiful girl."
She smiled again, and started to say something, but she never got the chance. The landing gear of the aircraft bumped gently against the runway, and the ship rolled slowly in to a stop.
A second passed. From th