diff options
Diffstat (limited to '22338.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 22338.txt | 7751 |
1 files changed, 7751 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/22338.txt b/22338.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5476aee --- /dev/null +++ b/22338.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7751 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Impossibles, by +Gordon Randall Garrett and Laurence Mark Janifer + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Impossibles + +Author: Gordon Randall Garrett + Laurence Mark Janifer + +Release Date: August 16, 2007 [EBook #22338] +[Last updated: July 16, 2011] + +Date Last Updated: October 2, 2007 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMPOSSIBLES *** + + + + + + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + +This etext was produced from the 1963 book publication of the story. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright on +this publication was renewed. + +Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without +note. + + * * * * * + +Since the publication of BRAIN TWISTER (Pyramid Book F-783), Mark +(Laurence M. Janifer) Phillips (Randall Philip Garrett) has, or have, +undergone several changes. In order to keep the reader posted on the +latest developments regarding this author, or these authors, he, or +they, has, or have, passed on the following details: + +GARRETT is still engaged. He and his charming fiancee plan to run out +of excuses during the early Fall of 1994, but this date may be changed +at any time by mutual agreement, or the end of the world. He has given +up an interest in river pollution in favor of a new hobby, grading +type-cleaner. Garrett, who spends an hour each day expanding his +repertoire, now claims the ability to distinguish year and vineyard +for over one thousand type-cleaners. + +JANIFER is still on the other hand. He has had his eyeglasses cleaned, +and is happy to report that he has recently met a woman. The woman, +however, seems to have been looking for a man. Janifer's hobbies, +humming and blinking, remain constant, but in an effort to add more +healthful activity to his life he has begun training in leaping to +conclusions. He states that he can now clear a conclusion of better +than seven feet, eight and one-half inches from a running start. + +THE IMPOSSIBLES was written in six days. On the seventh day, nothing +of any interest whatsoever occurred. + + + The Impossibles + + Mark Phillips + + +To John J., + +without whose accident in 1945 this series would not have been +possible. + + + 1 + +The sidewalk was as soft as a good bed. Malone lay curled on it, +thinking about nothing at all. He was drifting off into a wonderful +dream, and he didn't want to interrupt it. There was this girl, a +beautiful girl, more wonderful than anything he had ever imagined, +with big blue eyes and long blonde hair and a figure that made the +average pin-up girl look like a man. And she had her soft white hand +on his arm, and she was looking, up at him with trust and devotion and +even adoration in her eyes, and her voice was the softest possible +whisper of innocence and promise. + +"I'd love to go up to your apartment with you, Mr. Malone," she said. + +Malone smiled back at her, gently but with complete confidence. "Call +me Ken," he said, noticing that he was seven feet tall and superbly +muscled. He put his free hand on the girl's warm, soft shoulder and +she wriggled with delight. + +"All right--Ken," she said. "You know, I've never met anyone like you +before. I mean, you're so wonderful and everything." + +Malone chuckled modestly, realizing, in passing, how full and rich his +voice had become. He felt a weight pressing over his heart, and knew +that it was his wallet, stuffed to bursting with thousand-dollar +bills. + +But was this a time to think of money? + +No, Malone told himself. This was the time for adventure, for romance, +for love. He looked down at the girl and put his arm around her waist. +She snuggled closer. + +He led her easily down the long wide street to his car at the end of +the block. It stood in godlike solitude, a beautiful red Cadillac +capable of going a hundred and ten miles an hour in any gear, equipped +with fully automatic steering and braking, and with a stereophonic +radio, a hi-fi and a 3-D set installed in both front and back seats. +It was a 1972 job, but he meant to trade it in on something even +better when the 1973 models came out. In the meantime, he decided, it +would do. + +He handed the girl in, went round to the other side and slid in under +the wheel. There was soft music playing somewhere, and a magnificent +sunset appeared ahead of them as Malone pushed a button on the +dashboard and the red Cadillac started off down the wide, empty, +wonderfully paved street into the sunset, while he... The red +Cadillac? + +The sidewalk became a little harder, and, Malone suddenly realized +that he was lying on it. Something terrible had happened; he knew that +right away. He opened his eyes to look for the girl, but the sunset +had become much brighter; his head began to pound with the slow +regularity of a dead-march, and he closed his eyes again in a hurry. + +The sidewalk swayed a little, but he managed to keep his balance on it +somehow; and after a couple of minutes it was quiet again. His head +hurt. Maybe that was the terrible thing that had happened, but Malone +wasn't quite sure. As a matter of fact, he wasn't very sure about +anything, and he started to ask himself questions to make certain he +was all there. + +He didn't feel all there. He felt as if several of his parts had been +replaced with second- or even third-hand experimental models, and +something had happened to the experiment. It was even hard to think of +any questions, but after a while he managed to come up with a few. + +_What is your name?_ + +Kenneth Malone. + +_Where do you live?_ + +Washington, D. C. + +_What is your work?_ + +I work for the FBI. + +_Then what the hell are you doing on a sidewalk in New York in broad +daylight?_ + +He tried to find an answer to that, but there didn't seem to be any, +no matter where he looked. The only thing he could think of was the +red Cadillac. + +And if the red Cadillac had anything to do with anything, Malone +didn't know about it. + +Very slowly and carefully, he opened his eyes again, one at a time. He +discovered that the light was not coming from the gorgeous Hollywood +sunset he had dreamed up. As a matter of fact, sunset was several +hours in the past, and it never looked very pretty in New York anyhow. +It was the middle of the night, and Malone was lying under a +convenient street lamp. + +He closed his eyes again and waited patiently for his head to go away. + +A few minutes passed. It was obvious that his head had settled down +for a long stay, and no matter how bad it felt, Malone told himself, +it _was_ his head, after all. He felt a certain responsibility for it. +And he couldn't just leave it lying around somewhere with its eyes +closed. + +He opened the head's eyes once more, and this time he kept them open. +For a long time he stared at the post of the street lamp, considering +it, and he finally decided that it looked sturdy enough to support a +hundred and sixty-five pounds of FBI man, even with the head added in. +He grabbed for the post with both hands and started to pull himself +upright, noticing vaguely that his legs had somehow managed to get +underneath him. + +As soon as he was standing, he wished he'd stayed on the nice +horizontal sidewalk. His head was spinning dizzily, and his mind was +being sucked down into the whirlpool. He held on to the post grimly +and tried to stay conscious. + +A long time, possibly two or three seconds, passed. Malone hadn't +moved at all when the two cops came along. + +One of them was a big man with a brassy voice and a face that looked +as if it had been overbaked in a waffle iron. He came up behind Malone +and tapped him on the shoulder, but Malone barely felt the touch. Then +the cop bellowed into Malone's ear: "What's the matter, buddy?" + +Malone appreciated the man's sympathy. It was good to know that you +had friends. But he wished, remotely, that the cop and his friend, a +shorter and thinner version of the beat patrolman, would go away and +leave him in peace. Maybe he could lie down on the sidewalk again and +get a couple of hundred years' rest. + +Who could tell? "Mallri," he said. + +"You're all right?" the big cop said. "That's fine. That's great. So +why don't you go home and sleep it off?" + +"Sleep?" Malone said. "Home?" + +"Wherever you live, buddy," the big cop said. "Come on. Can't stand +around on the sidewalk all night." + +Malone shook his head, and decided at once never to do it again. He +had some kind of rare disease, he realized. His brain was loose, and +the inside of his skull was covered with sandpaper. Every time his +head moved, the brain jounced against some of the sandpaper. + +But the policemen thought he was drunk. That wasn't right. He couldn't +let the police get the wrong impression of FBI agents. Now the men +would go around telling people that the FBI was always drunk and +disorderly. + +"Not drunk," he said clearly. + +"Sure," the big cop said. "You're fine. Maybe just one too many, huh?" + +"No," Malone said. The effort exhausted him, and he had to catch his +breath before he could say anything else. But the cops waited +patiently. At last he said, "Somebody slugged me." + +"Slugged?" the big cop said. + +"Right." Malone remembered just in time not to nod his head. + +"How about a description, buddy?" the big cop said. + +"Didn't see him," Malone said. He let go of the post with one hand, +keeping a precarious grip with the other. He stared at his watch. The +hands danced back and forth, but he focused on them after a while. It +was 1:05. "Happened just--a few minutes ago," he said. "Maybe you can +catch him." + +The big cop said, "Nobody around here. The place is deserted--except +for you, buddy." He paused and then added: "Let's see some +identification, huh? Or did he take your wallet?" + +Malone thought about getting the wallet, and decided against it. The +motions required would be a little tricky, and he wasn't sure he could +manage them without letting go of the post entirely. At last he +decided to let the cop get his wallet. "Inside coat pocket," he said. + +The other policeman blinked and looked up. His face was a studied +blank. "Hey, buddy," he said. "You know you got blood on your head?" + +"Be damned," the big cop said. "Sam's right. You're bleeding, mister." + +"Good," Malone said. + + The big cop said, "Huh?" + +"I thought maybe my skull was going to explode from high blood +pressure," Malone said. It was beginning to be a little easier to +talk. "But as long as there's a slow leak, I guess I'm out of danger." + +"Get his wallet," Sam said. "I'll watch him." + +A hand went into Malone's jacket pocket. It tickled a little bit, but +Malone didn't think of objecting. Naturally enough, the hand and +Malone's wallet did not make an instantaneous connection. When the +hand touched the bulky object strapped near Malone's armpit, it +stopped, frozen, and then cautiously snaked the object out. + +"What's that, Bill?" Sam said. + +Bill looked up with the object in his hand. He seemed a little dazed. +"It's a gun," he said. + +"My God," Sam said. "The guy's heeled! Watch him! Don't let him get +away!" + +Malone considered getting away, and decided that he couldn't move. +"It's okay," he said. + +"Okay, hell," Sam said. "It's a .44 Magnum. What are you doing with a +gun, Mac?" He was no longer polite and friendly. "Why [are] you +carrying a gun?" he said. + +"I'm not carrying it," Malone said tiredly. "Bill is. Your pal." + +Bill backed away from Malone, putting the Magnum in his pocket and +keeping the FBI agent covered with his own Police Positive. At the +same time, he fished out the personal radio every patrolman carried in +his uniform, and began calling for a prowl car in a low, somewhat +nervous voice. + +Sam said, "My God. A gun. He could of shot everybody." + +"Get his wallet," Bill said. "He can't hurt you now. I disarmed him." + +Malone began to feel slightly dangerous. Maybe he _was_ a famous +gangster. He wasn't sure. Maybe all this about being an FBI agent was +just a figment of his imagination. Blows on the head did funny things. +"I'll drill everybody full of holes," he said in a harsh, underworld +sort of voice, but it didn't sound very convincing. Sam approached him +gently and fished out his wallet with great care, as if Malone were a +ticking bomb ready to go off any second. + +There was a little silence. Then Sam said, "Give him his gun back, +Bill," in a hushed and respectful tone. + +"Give him back his gun?" the big cop said. "You gone nuts, Sam?" + +Sam shook his head slowly. "Nope," he said. "But we made a terrible +mistake. Know who this guy is?" + +"He's heeled," Bill said. "That's all I want to know." He put the +radio away and gave all his attention to Malone. + +"He's FBI," Sam said. "The wallet says so. Badge and everything. And +not only that, Bill. He's Kenneth J. Malone." + +Well, Malone thought with relief, that settled that. He wasn't a +gangster after all. He was just the FBI agent he had always known and +loved. Maybe now the cops would do-something about his head and take +him away for burial. + +"Malone?" Bill said. "You mean the guy who's here about all those red +Cadillacs?" + +"Sure," Sam said. "So give him his gun back." He looked at Malone. +"Listen, Mr. Malone," he said. "We're sorry. We're sorry as hell." + +"That's all right," Malone said absently. He moved his head slowly and +looked around. His suspicions were confirmed. There wasn't a red +Cadillac anywhere in sight, and from the looks of the street there +never had been. "It's gone," he said, but the cops weren't listening. + +"We better get you to a hospital," Bill said. "As soon as the prowl +car gets here, we'll take you right on down to St. Vincent's. Can you +tell us what happened? Or is it classified?" + +Malone wondered what could be classified about a blow on the head, and +decided not to think about it. "I can tell you," he said, "if you'll +answer one question for me." + +"Sure, Mr. Malone," Bill said. "We'll be glad to help." + +"Anything at all," Sam said. + +Malone gave them what he hoped was a gracious and condescending smile. +"All right, then," he said. "Where the hell am I?" + +"In New York," Sam said. + +"I know that," Malone said tiredly. "Anywhere in particular, or just +sort of all over New York?" + +"Ninth Street," Bill said hurriedly. "Near the Village. Is that where +you were when they slugged you?" + +"I guess so," Malone said. "Sure." He nodded, and immediately +remembered that he shouldn't have. He closed his eyes until the pain +had softened to agony, and then opened them again. "I was getting +pretty tired of sitting around waiting for something to break on this +case," he said, "and I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk. I +ended up in Greenwich Village--which is a hell of a place for a +self-respecting man to end up." + +"I know just what you mean," Sam said sympathetically. "Bohemians, +they call themselves. Crazy people." + +"Not the people," Malone said. "The streets. I got sort of lost." +Chicago, he reflected, was a long way from the easiest city in the +world to get around in. And he supposed you could even get confused in +Washington if you tried hard enough. But he knew those cities. He +could find his way around in them. Greenwich Village was different. + +It was harder to navigate in than the trackless forests of the Amazon. +The Village had tracks, all right--thousands of tracks. Only none of +them led anywhere in particular. + +"Anyhow," Malone said, "I saw this red Cadillac." + +The cops looked around hurriedly and then looked back at Malone. Bill +started to say, "But there isn't any--" + +"I know," Malone said. "It's gone now. That's the trouble." + +"You mean somebody got in and drove it away?" Sam said. + +"For all I know," Malone said, "it sprouted wings and flew away." He +paused. "When I saw it, though--when I saw it, I decided to go over +and have a look. Just in case." + +"Sure," Bill said. "Makes sense." He stared at his partner as if +defying him to prove it didn't make sense. Malone didn't really care. + +"There wasn't anybody else on the street," he said, "so I walked over +and tried the door. That's all. I didn't even open the car or +anything. And I'll swear there was nobody behind me." + +"Well," Sam said, "the street was empty when we got here." + +"But a guy could have driven off in that red Cadillac before we got +here," Bill said. + +"Sure," Malone said. "But where did he come from? I figured maybe +somebody dropped something by mistake--a safe or something. Because +there wasn't anybody behind me." + +"There had to be," Bill said. + +"Well," Malone said, "there wasn't." + +There was a little silence. + +"What happened then?" Sam said. "After you tried the door handle, I +mean." + +"Then?" Malone said. "Then I went out like a light." + +A pair of headlights rounded the nearby corner. Bill looked up. +"That's the prowl car," he announced, and went over to meet it. + +The driver was a solidly built little man with the face of a +Pekingese. His partner, a tall man who looked as if he'd have been +much more comfortable in a ten-gallon Stetson instead of the +regulation blue cap, leaned out at Bill, Sam, and Malone. + +"What's the trouble here?" he said in a harsh, high voice. + +"No trouble," Bill said, and went over to the car. He began talking to +the two cops inside in a low, urgent voice. Meanwhile, Sam got his arm +around Malone and began pulling him away from the lamp post. + +Malone was a little unwilling to let go, at first. But Sam was +stronger than he looked. He convoyed the FBI agent carefully to the +rear door of the prowl car, opened it and levered Malone gently to a +seat inside, just as Bill said, "So with the cut and all, we figured +he ought to go over to St. Vincent's. You people were already on the +way, so we didn't bother with ambulances." + +The driver snorted. "Next time you want taxi service," he said, "you +just call us up. What do you think, a prowl car's an easy life?" + +"Easier than doing a beat," Bill said mournfully. "And anyway," he +added in a low, penetrating whisper, "the guy's FBI." + +"So the FBI's got all kinds of equipment," the driver said. "The +latest. Why don't he whistle up a helicopter or a jet?" Then, +apparently deciding that further invective would get him nowhere, he +settled back in his seat, said, "Aah, forget it," and started the car +with a small but perceptible jerk. + +Malone decided not to get into the argument. He was tired, and it was +late. He rested his head on the back seat and tried to relax, but all +he could do was think about red Cadillacs. + +He wished he had never even heard of red Cadillacs. + + + 2 + +And it had all started so simply, too. Malone remembered very clearly +the first time he had had any indication that red Cadillacs were +anything unusual, or special. Before that, he'd viewed them all with +slightly wistful eyes: red, blue, green, gray, white, or even black +Cadillacs were all the same to him. They spelled luxury and wealth and +display, and a lot of other nice things. + +Now, he wasn't at all sure what they spelled. Except that it was +definitely uncomfortable, and highly baffling. + +He'd walked into the offices of Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI, +just one week ago. It was a beautiful office, pine-paneled and +spacious, and it boasted an enormous polished desk. And behind the +desk sat Burris himself, looking both tired and somehow a little +kindly. + +"You sent for me, Chief?" Malone said. + +"That's right." Burris nodded. "Malone, you've been working too hard +lately." + +Now, Malone thought, it was coming. The dismissal he'd always feared. +At last Burris had found out that he wasn't the bright, intelligent, +fearless, and alert FBI agent he was supposed to be. Burris had +discovered that he was nothing more or less than lucky, and that all +the "fine jobs" he was supposed to have done were only the result of +luck. + +Oh, well, Malone thought. Not being an FBI agent wouldn't be so bad. +He could always find another job. + +Only at the moment he couldn't think of one he liked. + +He decided to make one last plea. "I haven't been working so hard, +Chief," he said. "Not too hard, anyhow. I'm in great shape. I--" + +"I've taken advantage of you, Malone, that's what I've done," Burris +said, just as if Malone hadn't spoken at all. "Just because you're the +best agent I've got, that's no reason for me to hand you all the tough +ones." + +"Just because I'm what?" Malone said, feeling slightly faint. + +"I've given you the tough ones because you could handle them," Burris +said. "But that's no reason to keep loading jobs on you. After that +job you did on the Gorelik kidnaping, and the way you wrapped up the +Transom counterfeit ring--well, Malone, I think you need a little +relaxation." + +"Relaxation?" Malone said, feeling just a little bit pleased. Of +course, he didn't deserve any of the praise he was getting, he knew. +He'd just happened to walk in on the Gorelik kidnapers because his +telephone had been out of order. And the Transom ring hadn't been just +his job. After all, if other agents hadn't managed to trace the +counterfeit bills back to a common area in Cincinnati, he'd never have +been able to complete his part of the assignment. But it was nice to +be praised, anyhow. Malone felt a twinge of guilt, and told himself +sternly to relax and enjoy himself. + +"That's what I said," Burris told him. "Relaxation." + +"Well," Malone said, "I certainly would like a vacation, that's for +sure. I'd like to snooze for a couple of weeks, or maybe go up to Cape +Cod for a while. There's a lot of nice scenery up around there. It's +restful, sort of, and I could just--" + +He stopped. Burris was frowning, and when Andrew J. Burris frowned it +was a good idea to look attentive, interested, and alert. "Now, +Malone," Burris said sadly, "I wasn't exactly thinking about a +vacation. You're not scheduled for one until August, you know." + +"Oh, I know, Chief," Malone said. "But I thought--" + +"Much as I'd like to," Burris said, "I just can't make an exception; +you know that, Malone. I've got to go pretty much by the schedule." + +"Yes, sir," Malone said, feeling just a shade disappointed. + +"But I do think you deserve a rest," Burris said. + +"Well, if I--" + +"Here's what I'm going to do," Burris said, and paused. Malone felt a +little unsure as to exactly what his chief was talking about, but by +now he knew better than to ask a lot of questions. Sooner or later, +Burris would probably explain himself. And if he didn't, then there +was no use worrying about it. That was just the way Burris acted. + +"Suppose I gave you a chance to take it easy for a while," Burris +said. "You could catch up on your sleep, see some shows, have a couple +of drinks during the evening, take girls out for dinner--you know. +Something like that. How would you like it?" + +"Well..." Malone said cautiously. + +"Good," Burris said. "I knew you would." + +Malone opened his mouth, thought briefly and closed it again. After +all, it did sound sort of promising, and if there was a catch in it +he'd find out about it soon enough. + +"It's really just a routine case," Burris said in an offhand tone. +"Nothing to it." + +"Oh," Malone said. + +"There's this red Cadillac," Burris said. "It was stolen from a party +in Connecticut, out near Danbury, and it showed up in New York City. +Now, the car's crossed a state line." + +"That puts it in our jurisdiction," Malone said, feeling obvious. + +"Right," Burris said. "Right on the nose." + +"But the New York office--" + +"Naturally, they're in charge of everything," Burris said. "But I'm +sending you out as sort of a special observer. Just keep your eyes +open, and nose around and let me know what's happening." + +"Keep my eyes and nose what?" Malone said. + +"Open," Burris said. "And let me know about it." + +Malone tried to picture himself with his eyes and nose open, and +decided he didn't look very attractive that way. Well, it was only a +figure of speech or something. He didn't have to think about it. + +It really made a very ugly picture. + +"But why a special observer?" he said after a second. Burris could +read the reports from the New York office, and probably get more facts +than any single agent could find out just wandering around a strange +city. It sounded as if there were something, Malone told himself, just +a tiny shade rotten in Denmark. It sounded as if there were going to +be something in the nice easy assignment he was getting that would +make him wish he'd gone lion hunting in Darkest Africa instead. + +And then again, maybe he was wrong. He stood at ease and waited to +find out. + +"Well," Burris said, "it is just a routine case. Just like I said. But +there seems to be something a little bit odd about it." + +"I see," Malone said with a sinking feeling. + +"Here's what happened," Burris said hurriedly, as if he were afraid +Malone was going to change his mind and refuse the assignment. "This +red Cadillac I told you about was reported stolen from Danbury. Three +days later, it turned up in New York City--parked smack across the +street from a precinct police station. Of course it took them a while +to wake up, but one of the officers happened to notice the routine +report on stolen cars in the area, and he decided to go across the +street and check the license number on the car. Then something funny +happened." + +"Something funny?" Malone asked. He doubted that, whatever it was, it +was going to make him laugh. But he kept his face a careful, receptive +blank. + +"That's right," Burris said. "Now, if you're going to understand what +happened, you've got to get the whole picture." + +"Sure," Malone said. + +"Only that isn't what I mean," Burris added suddenly. + +Malone blinked. "_What_ isn't what you mean?" he said. + +"Understanding what happened," Burris said. "That's the trouble. You +won't understand what happened. I don't understand it, and neither +does anybody else. So what do you think about it?" + +"Think about what?" Malone said. + +"About what I've been telling you," Burris snapped. "This car." + +Malone took a deep breath. "Well," he said, "this officer went over to +check the license plate. It seems like the right thing to do. It's +just what I'd have done myself." + +"Sure you would," Burris said. "Anybody would. But listen to me." + +"All right, Chief," Malone said. + +"It was just after dawn--early in the morning." Malone wondered +briefly if there were parts of the world where dawn came, say, late in +the afternoon, or during the evening sometime, but he said nothing. +"The street was deserted," Burris went on. "But it was pretty light +out, and the witnesses are willing to swear that there was nobody on +that street for a block in either direction. Except them, of course." + +"Except who?" Malone said. + +"Except the witnesses," Burris said patiently. "Four cops, police +officers who were standing on the front steps of the precinct station, +talking. They were waiting to go on duty, or anyhow that's what the +report said. It's lucky they were there, for whatever reason; they're +the only witnesses we've got." + +Burris stopped. Malone waited a few seconds and then said, as calmly +as he could, "Witnesses to what?" + +"To this whole business with Sergeant Jukovsky," Burris said. + +The sudden introduction of a completely new name confused Malone for +an instant, but he recovered gamely. "Sergeant Jukovsky was the man +who investigated the car," he said. + +"That's right," Burris said. "Except that he didn't." + +Malone sighed. + +"Those four officers--the witnesses--they weren't paying much +attention to what looked like the routine investigation of a parked +car," Burris said. "But here's their testimony. They were standing +around talking when this Sergeant Jukovsky came out of the station, +spoke to them in passing, and went on across the street. He didn't +seem very worried or alarmed about anything." + +"Good," Malone said involuntarily. "I mean, go on, Chief," he added. + +"Ah," Burris said. "All right. Well. According to Jukovsky, he took a +look at the plate and found the numbers checked the listing he had for +a stolen Connecticut car. Then he walked around to take a look inside +the car. It was empty. Get that, Malone. The car was empty." + +"Well," Malone said, "it was parked. I suppose parked cars are usually +empty. What's special about this one?" + +"Wait and see," Burris said ominously. "Jukovsky swears the car was +empty. He tried the doors, and they were all locked but one, the front +door on the curb side, the driver's door. So he opened it, and leaned +over to have a look at the odometer to check the mileage. And +something clobbered him on the back of the head." + +"One of the other cops," Malone said. + +"One of the--who?" Burris said. "No. Not the cops. Not at all." + +"Then something fell on him," Malone said. "Okay. Then whatever fell +on him ought to be--" + +"Malone," Burris said. + +"Yes, Chief?" + +"Jukovsky woke up on the sidewalk with the other cops all around him. +There was nothing on that sidewalk but Jukovsky. Nothing could have +fallen on him; it hadn't landed anywhere, if you see what I mean." + +"Sure," Malone said. "But--" + +"Whatever it was," Burris said, "they didn't find it. But that isn't +the peculiar thing." + +"No?" + +"No," Burris said slowly. "Now--" + +"Wait a minute," Malone said. "They looked on the sidewalk and around +there. But did they think to search the car?" + +"They didn't get a chance," Burris said. "Anyhow, not then. Not until +they got around to picking up the pieces of the car uptown at 125th +Street." + +Malone closed his eyes. "Where was this precinct?" he said. + +"Midtown," Burris said. "In the forties." + +"And the pieces of the car were eighty blocks away when they searched +it?" Malone said. + +Burris nodded. + +"All right," Malone said pleasantly. "I give up." + +"Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you," Burris said. "According to +the witnesses, after Jukovsky fell out of the car, the motor started +and the car drove off uptown." + +"Oh," Malone said. He thought about that for a minute and decided at +last to hazard one little question. It sounded silly--but then, what +didn't? "The car just drove off all by itself?" he said. + +Burris seemed abashed. "Well, Malone," he said carefully, "that's +where the conflicting stories of the eyewitnesses don't agree. You +see, two of the cops say there was nobody in the car. Nobody at all. +Of any kind. Small or large." + +"And the other two?" Malone said. + +"The other two swear they saw somebody at the wheel," Burris said, +"but they won't say whether it was a man, a woman, a small child, or +an anthropoid ape. And they haven't the faintest idea where he, she, +or it came from." + +"Great," Malone said. He felt a little tired. This trip was beginning +to sound less and less like a vacation. + +"Those two cops swear there was something--or somebody--driving the +car," Burris said. "And that isn't all." + +"It isn't?" Malone said. + +Burris shook his head. "A couple of the cops jumped into a squad car +and started following the red Cadillac. One of these cops saw somebody +in the car when it left the curb. The other one didn't. Got that?" + +"I've got it," Malone said, "but I don't exactly know what to do with +it." + +"Just hold on to it," Burris said, "and listen to this. The cops were +about two blocks behind at the start, and they couldn't close the gap +right away. The Cadillac headed west and climbed up the ramp of the +West Side Highway, heading north, out toward Westchester. I'd give a +lot to know where they were going, too." + +"But they crashed," Malone said, remembering that the pieces were at +125th Street. "So--" + +"They didn't crash right away," Burris said. "The prowl car started +gaining on the Cadillac slowly. And--now, get this, Malone--both the +cops swear there _was_ somebody in the driver's seat now." + +"Wait a minute," Malone said. "One of these cops didn't see anybody at +all in the driver's seat when the car started off." + +"Right," Burris said. + +"But on the West Side Highway, he did see a driver," Malone said. He +thought for a minute. "Hell, it could happen. They took off so fast he +could have been confused, or something." + +"There's another explanation," Burris said. + +"Sure," Malone said cheerfully. "We're all crazy. The whole world is +crazy." + +"Not that one," Burris said. "I'll tell you when I finish with this +thing about the car itself. There isn't much description of whoever or +whatever was driving that car on the West Side Highway, by the way. In +case you were thinking of asking." + +Malone, who hadn't been thinking of asking anything, tried to look +clever. Burris regarded him owlishly for a second, and then went on: + +"The car was hitting it up at about a hundred and ten by this time, +and accelerating all the time. But the souped-up squad car was coming +on fast, too, and it was quite a chase. Luckily, there weren't many +cars on the road. Somebody could have been killed, Malone." + +"Like the driver of the Cadillac," Malone ventured. + +Burris looked pained. "Not exactly," he said. "Because the car hit the +125th Street exit like a bomb. It swerved right, just as though it +were going to take the exit and head off somewhere, but it was going +much too fast by that time. There just wasn't any way to maneuver. The +Cadillac hit the embankment, flipped over the edge, and smashed. It +caught fire almost at once. Of course the prowl car braked fast and +went down the exit after it. But there wasn't anything to do." + +"That's what I said," Malone said. "The driver of the Cadillac was +killed. In a fire like that--" + +"Don't jump to conclusions, Malone," Burris said. "Wait. When the +prowl car boys got to the scene, there was no sign of anybody in the +car. Nobody at all." + +"In the heat of those flames--" Malone began. + +"Not enough heat, and not enough time," Burris said. "A human body +couldn't have been destroyed in just a few minutes, not that +completely. Some of the car's metal was melted, sure; but there would +have been traces of anybody who'd been in the car. Nice, big, easily +seen traces. And there weren't any. No corpse, no remains, no +nothing." + +Malone let that stew in his mind for a few seconds. "But the cops +said--" + +"Whatever the cops said," Burris snapped, "there was nobody at all in +that Cadillac when it went off the embankment." + +"Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "Here's a car with a driver who +appears and disappears practically at will. Sometimes he's there and +sometimes he's not there." + +"Ah," Burris said. "That's why I have another explanation." + +Malone shifted his feet. Maybe there _was_ another explanation. But, +he told himself, it would have to be a good one. + +"Nobody expects a car to drive itself down a highway," Burris said. + +"That's right," Malone said. "That's why it's all impossible." + +"So," Burris said, "it would be a natural hallucination--or illusion, +anyhow--for somebody to imagine he did see a driver when there wasn't +any." + +"Okay," Malone said. "There wasn't any driver. So the car couldn't +have gone anywhere. So the New York police force is lying to us. It's +a good explanation, but it--" + +"They aren't lying," Burris said. "Why should they? I'm thinking of +something else." He stopped, his eyes bright as he leaned across the +desk toward Malone. + +"Do I get three guesses?" Malone said. + +Burris ignored him. "Frankly," he said, "I've got a hunch that the +whole thing was done with remote control. Somewhere in that car was a +very cleverly concealed device that was capable of running the +Cadillac from a distance." + +It did sound plausible, Malone thought. "Did the prowl car boys find +any traces of it when they examined the wreckage?" he said. + +"Not a thing," Burris said. "But, after all, it could have been +melted. The fire did destroy a lot of the Cadillac, and there's just +no telling. But I'd give long odds that there must have been some kind +of robot device in that car. It's the only answer, isn't it?" + +"I suppose so," Malone said. + +"Malone," Burns said, his voice filled with Devotion To One's Country +In The Face of Great Obstacles, "Malone, I want you to find that +device!" + +"In the wreck?" Malone said. + +Burris sighed and leaned back. "No," he said. "Of course not. Not in +the wreck. But the other red Cadillacs--some of them, anyhow--ought to +have--" + +"What red Cadillacs?" Malone said. + +"The other ones that have been stolen. From Connecticut, mostly. One +from New Jersey, out near Passaic." + +"Have any of the others been moving around without drivers?" Malone +said. + +"Well," Burris said, "there's been no report of it. But who can tell?" +He gestured with both arms. "Anything is possible, Malone." + +"Sure," Malone said. + +"Now," Burris said, "all of the stolen cars are red 1972 Cadillacs. +There's got to be some reason for that. I think they're covering up +another car like the one that got smashed: a remote-controlled +Cadillac. Or even a self-guiding, automatic, robot-controlled +Cadillac." + +"They?" Malone said. "Who?" + +"Whoever is stealing the cars," Burris said patiently. + +"Oh," Malone said. "Sure. But--" + +"So get up to New York," Burris said, "keep your eyes open, and nose +around. Got it?" + +"I have now," Malone said. + +"And when that Cadillac is found, Malone, we want to take a look at +it. Okay?" + +"Yes, sir," Malone said. + + * * * * * + +Of course there were written reports, too. Burris had handed Malone a +sheaf of them--copies of the New York police reports to Burris +himself--and Malone, wanting some time to look through them, had taken +a train to New York instead of a plane. Besides, the new planes still +made him slightly nervous, though he could ride one when he had to. If +jet engines had been good enough for the last generation, he thought, +they were certainly good enough for him. + +But avoidance of the new planes was all the good the train trip did +him. The reports contained thousands of words, none of which was +either new or, apparently, significant to Malone. Burris, he +considered, had given him everything necessary for the job. + +Except, of course, a way to make sense out of the whole thing. He +considered robot-controlled Cadillacs. What good were they? They might +make it easier for the average driver, of course--but that was no +reason to cover up for them, hitting policemen over the head and +smashing cars and driving a hundred and ten miles an hour on the West +Side Highway. + +All the same, it was the only explanation Malone had, and he cherished +it deeply. He put the papers back in his brief case when the train +pulled into Penn Station, handed his suitcases to a redcap and punched +the buttons for the waiting room. Now, he thought as he strolled +slowly along behind the robot, there was an invention that made sense. +And nobody had to get killed for it, or hit over the head or smashed +up, had they? + +So what was all this nonsense about robot-controlled red Cadillacs? + +Driving these unwelcome reflections from his mind, he paused to light +a cigarette. He had barely taken the first puff when a familiar voice +said, "Hey, buddy, hold the light, will you?" + +Malone looked up, blinked and grinned happily. "Boyd!" he said. "What +are you doing here? I haven't seen you since--" + +"Sure haven't," Boyd said. "I've been out West on a couple of cases. +Must be a year since we worked together." + +"Just about," Malone said. "But what are you doing in New York? +Vacationing?" + +"Not exactly," Boyd said. "The chief called it sort of a vacation, +but--" + +"Oh," Malone said. "You re working with me." + +Boyd nodded. "The chief sent me up. When I got back from the West, he +suddenly decided you might need a good assistant, so I took the plane +down, and got here ahead of you." + +"Great," Malone said. "But I want to warn you about the vacation--" + +"Never mind," Boyd said; just a shade sadly. "I know. It isn't." He +seemed deep in thought, as if he were deciding whether or not to get +rid of Anne Boleyn. It was, Malone thought, an unusually apt simile. +Boyd, six feet tall and weighing about two hundred and twenty-five +pounds, had a large square face and a broad-beamed figure that might +have made him a dead ringer for Henry VIII of England even without his +Henry-like fringe of beard and his mustache. With them--thanks to the +recent FBI rule that agents could wear "facial hair, at the discretion +of the director or such board as he may appoint"--the resemblance to +the Tudor monarch was uncanny. + +But, like his famous double, Boyd didn't stay sad for long. "I thought +I'd meet you at the station," he said, cheering up, "and maybe talk +over old times for a while, on the way to the hotel, anyhow. So long +as there wasn't anything else to do." + +"Sure," Malone said. "It's good to see you again. And when did you get +pulled out of the Frisco office?" + +Boyd grimaced. "You know," he said, "I had a good thing going for me +out there. Agent-in-Charge of the entire office. But right after that +job we did together--the Queen Elizabeth affair--Burris decided I was +too good a man to waste my fragrance on the desert air. Or whatever it +is. So he recalled me, assigned me from the home office, and I've been +on one case after another ever since." + +"You're a home-office agent now?" Malone said. + +"I'm a Roving Reporter," Boyd said, and struck a pose. "I'm a General +Trouble-shooter and a Mr. Fix-It. Just like you, Hero." + +"Thanks," Malone said. "How about the local office here? Seen the boys +yet?" + +Boyd shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "I was waiting for you to +show up. But I did manage hotel rooms--a couple of rooms with a +connecting bath over at the Hotel New Yorker. Nice place. You'll like +it, Ken." + +"I'll love it," Malone said. "Especially that connecting bath. It +would have been terrible to have an unconnecting bath. Sort of +distracting." + +"Okay," Boyd said. "Okay. You know what I mean." He stared down at +Malone's hand. "You know you've still got your lighter on?" he added. + +Malone looked down at it and shut it off. "You asked me to hold it," +he said. + +"I didn't mean indefinitely," Boyd said. "Anyhow, how about grabbing a +cab and heading on down to the hotel to get your stuff away, before we +check in at 69th Street?" + +"Good idea," Malone said. "And besides, I could do with a clean shirt. +Not to mention a bath." + +"Trains get worse and worse," Boyd said absently. + +Malone punched the redcap's buttons again, and he and Boyd followed it +through the crowded station to the taxi stand. The robot piled the +suitcases into the cab, and somehow Malone and Boyd found room for +themselves. + +"Hotel New Yorker," Boyd said grandly. + +The driver swung around to stare at them, blinked, and finally said, +"Okay, Mac. You said it." He started with a terrific grinding of +gears, drove out of the Penn Station arch and went two blocks. + +"Here you are, Mac," he said, stopping the cab. + +Malone stared at Boyd with a reproachful expression. + +"So how was I to know?" Boyd said. + +"I didn't look. If I'd known it was so close we could've walked." + +"And saved half a buck," Malone said. "But don't let it bother +you--this is expense-account money." + +"That's right," Boyd said. He beamed and tipped the driver heavily. +The cab drove off and Malone hailed the New Yorker doorman, who +equipped them with a robot bellhop and sent them upstairs to their +rooms. + +Three-quarters of an hour later, Boyd and Malone were in the offices +of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, on East 69th Street. There +they picked up a lot of nice, new, shiny facts. It was unfortunate, if +not particularly surprising, that the facts did not seem to make any +sense. + +In the first place, only red 1972 Cadillacs seemed to be involved. +Anybody who owned such a car was likely to find it missing at any +time; there had been a lot of thefts reported, including some that +hadn't had time to get into Burris' reports. New Jersey now claimed +two victims, and New York had three of its own. + +And all the cars weren't turning up in New York, by any means. Some of +the New York cars had turned up in New Jersey. Some had turned up in +Connecticut--including one of the New Jersey cars. So far, there had +been neither thefts nor discoveries in Pennsylvania, but Malone +couldn't see why. + +There was absolutely no pattern that he, Boyd, or anyone else could +find. The list of thefts and recoveries had been fed into an +electronic calculator, which had neatly regurgitated them without +being in the least helpful. It had remarked that the square of seven +was forty-nine, but this was traced to a defect in the mechanism. + +Whoever was borrowing the red Caddies exhibited a peculiar combination +of burglarious genius and what looked to Malone like outright idiocy. +This was plainly impossible. + +Unfortunately, it had happened. + +Locking the car doors didn't do a bit of good. The thief, or thieves, +got in without so much as scratching the lock. This obviously proved +that the criminal was either an extremely good lock-pick or else knew +where to get duplicate keys. + +However, the ignition was invariably shorted across. + +This proved neatly that the criminal was not a very good lock-pick, +and did not know where to get duplicate keys. + +Query: Why work so hard on the doors, and not work at all on the +ignition? + +That was the first place. The second place was just what had been +bothering Malone all along. There didn't seem to be any purpose to the +car thefts. They hadn't been sold, or used as getaway cars. True, +teenage delinquents sometimes stole cars just to use them joy-riding, +or as some sort of prank. + +But a car or two every night? How many joy-rides can one gang take? +Malone thought. And how long does it take to get tired of the same +prank? + +And why, Malone asked himself wearily for what was beginning to feel +like the ten thousandth time, why only red Cadillacs? + +Burris, he told himself, must have been right all along. The red +Cadillacs were only a smoke screen for something else. Perhaps it was +the robot car, perhaps not; but whatever it was, Burris' general +answer was the only one that made any sense at all. + +That should have been a comforting thought, Malone reflected. Somehow, +though, it wasn't. + +After they'd finished with the files and personnel at 69th Street, +Malone and Boyd started downtown on what turned out to be a sort of +unguided tour of the New York Police Department. They spoke to some of +the eyewitnesses, and ended up in Centre Street asking a lot of +reasonably useless questions in the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. In +general, they spent nearly six hours on the Affair of the +Self-Propelled Cadillac, picking up a whole bundle of facts. Some of +the facts they had already known. Some were new, but unhelpful. + +Somehow, nobody felt much like going out for a night on the town. +Instead both agents climbed wearily into bed, thinking morose and +disillusioned thoughts. + +And, after that, a week passed. It was filled with ennui. + +Only one new thing became clear. In spite of the almost identical +modus operandi used in all the car thefts, they were obviously the +work of a gang rather than a single person. This required the +assumption that there was not one insane man at work, but a crew of +them, all identically unbalanced. + +"But the jobs are just too scattered to be the work of one man," +Malone said. "To steal a car in Connecticut and drive it to the Bronx, +and then steal another car in Westfield, New Jersey, fifteen minutes +later takes more than talent. It takes an outright for-sure magician." + +This conclusion, while interesting, was not really helpful. The fact +was that Malone needed more clues--or, anyhow, more facts--before he +could do anything at all. And there just weren't any new facts around. +He spent the week wandering morosely from one place to another +sometimes accompanied by Thomas Boyd and sometimes all alone. Time, he +knew, was ticking by at its usual rate. But there wasn't a thing he +could do about it. + +He did try to relax and have some fun, as Burris had suggested. But he +didn't seem to be able to get his mind off the case. + +Boyd, after the first little while, had no such trouble. He entered +the social life of the city with a whoop of joy and disappeared from +sight. That was fine for Boyd, Malone reflected, but it did leave +Malone himself just a little bit at loose ends. + +Not that he begrudged Boyd his fun. It was nice that one of them was +enjoying himself, anyway. + +It was just that Malone was beginning to get fidgety. He needed to be +doing something--even if it was only taking a walk. + +So he took a walk and ended up, to his own surprise, downtown near +Greenwich Village. + +And then he'd been bopped on the head. + + + 3 + +The patrol car pulled up in front of St. Vincent's Hospital, and one +of the cops helped Malone into the emergency receiving room. He didn't +feel as bad as he had a few minutes before. The motion of the car +hadn't helped any, but his head seemed to be knitting a little, and +his legs were a little steadier. True, he didn't feel one hundred per +cent healthy, but he was beginning to think he might live, after all. +And while the doctor was bandaging his head, a spirit of new life +began to fill the FBI agent. + +He was no longer morose and undirected. He had a purpose in life, and +the purpose filled him with cold determination. He was going to find +the robot-operated car--or whatever it turned out to be. + +The doctor, Malone noticed, was whistling _Greensleeves_ under his +breath as he worked. That, he supposed, was the influence of the +Bohemian folk-singers of Greenwich Village. But he put the noise +resolutely out of his mind and concentrated on the red Cadillac. + +It was one thing to think about a robot car miles away, doing +something or other to somebody you'd never heard of before. That was +just theoretical, a case for solution, nothing but an ordinary job. + +But when the car stepped up and bopped Malone himself on the head, it +became a personal matter. Now Malone had more than a job to contend +with. Now he was thinking about revenge. + +_By God_, he told himself, _no car in the world--not even a +Cadillac--can get away with beaning Kenneth J. Malone!_ + +Malone was not quite certain that he agreed with Burris' idea of a +self-operating car, but at least it was something to work on. A car +that could reach out, crown an investigator, and then drive off +humming something innocent under its breath was certainly a unique and +dangerous machine within the meaning of the act. Of course, there were +problems attendant on this view of things. For one thing, Malone +couldn't quite see how the car could have beaned him when he was ten +feet away from it. But that was, he told himself uncomfortably, a +minor point. He could deal with it when he felt a little better. + +The important thing was the car itself. Malone jerked a little under +the doctor's calm hands, and swore subvocally. + +"Hold still," the doctor said. "Don't go wiggling your head around +that way. Just wait quietly until the dermijel sets." + +Obediently, Malone froze. There was a crick in his neck, but he +decided he could stand it. "My head still hurts," he said accusingly. + +"Sure it still hurts," the doctor agreed. + +"But you--" + +"What did you expect?" the doctor said. "Even an FBI agent isn't +immune to blackjacks, you know." He resumed his work on Malone's +skull. + +"Blackjacks?" Malone said. "What blackjacks?" + +"The ones that hit you," the doctor said. "Or the one, anyhow." + +Malone blinked. Somehow, though he could manage a fuzzy picture of a +car reaching out to hit him, the introduction of a blackjack into this +imaginative effort confused things a little. But he resolutely ignored +it. + +"The bruise is just the right size and shape," the doctor said. "And +that cut on your head comes from the seams on the leather casing." + +"You're sure?" Malone said doubtfully. It did seem as if a car had a +lot more dangerous weapons around, without resorting to blackjacks. If +it had really wanted to damage him, why hadn't it hit him with the +engine block? + +"I'm sure," the doctor said. "I've worked in Emergency in this +hospital long enough to recognize a blackjack wound." + +That was a disturbing idea, in a way. It gave a new color to Malone's +reflection on Greenwich Villagers. Maybe things had changed since he'd +heard about them. Maybe the blackjack had supplanted the guitar. + +But that wasn't the important thing. + +The fact that it had been a blackjack that had hit him _was_ +important. It was vital, as a matter of fact. Malone knew that +perfectly well. It was a key fact in the case he was investigating. + +The only trouble was that he didn't see what, if anything, it meant. + +The doctor stepped back and regarded Malone's head with something like +pride. "There," he said. "You'll be all right now." + +"A concussion?" + +"Sure," the doctor said. "But it isn't serious. Just take these +pills--one every two hours until they're gone--and you'll be rid of +any effects within twenty-four hours." He went to a cabinet, fiddled +around for a minute, and came back with a small bottle containing six +orange pills. They looked very large and threatening. + +"Fine," Malone said doubtfully. + +"You'll be all right," the doctor said, giving Malone a cheerful, +confident grin. "Nothing at all to worry about." He loaded a hypojet +and blasted something through the skin of Malone's upper arm. Malone +swallowed hard. He knew perfectly well that he hadn't felt a thing but +he couldn't quite make himself believe it. + +"That'll take care of you for tonight," the doctor said. "Get some +sleep and start in on the pills when you wake up, okay?" + +"Okay," Malone said. It was going to make waking up something less +than a pleasure, but he wanted to get well, didn't he? + +Of course he did. If that Cadillac thought it was going to beat him... + +"You can stand up now," the doctor said. + +"Okay," Malone said, trying it. "Thanks, Doctor. I--" + +There was a knock at the door. The doctor jerked his head around. + +"Who's that?" he said. + +"Me," a bass voice said, unhelpfully. + +The emergency-room door opened a crack and a face peered in. It took +Malone a second to recognize Bill, the waffle-faced cop who had picked +him up next to the lamp post three years or so before. "Long time no +see," Malone said at random. + +"What?" Bill said, and opened the door wider. He came in and closed it +behind him. "It's okay, Doc," he said to the attendant. "I'm a cop." + +"Been hurt?" the doctor said. + +Bill shook his head. "Not recently," he said. "I came to see this +guy." He looked at Malone. "They told me you were still here," he +said. + +"Who's they?" Malone said. + +"Outside," Bill said. "The attendants out there. They said you were +still getting stitched up." + +"And quite right, too," Malone said solemnly. + +"Oh," Bill said. "Sure." He fished in his pockets. "You dropped your +notebook, though, and I came to give it back to you." He located the +object he was hunting for and brought it out with the triumphant +gesture of a man displaying the head of a dragon he had slain. "Here," +he said, waving the book. + +"Notebook?" Malone said. He stared at it. It was a small looseleaf +book bound in cheap black plastic. + +"We found it in the gutter," Bill said. + +Malone took a tentative step forward and managed not to fall. He +stepped back again and looked at Bill scornfully. "I wasn't even in +the gutter," he said. "There are limits." + +"Sure," Bill said. "But the notebook was, so I brought it along to +you. I thought you might need it or something." He handed it over to +Malone with a flourish. + +It wasn't Malone's notebook. In the first place, he had never owned a +notebook that looked anything like that, and in the second place he +hadn't had any notebooks on him when he went for his walk. _Mine not +to question why_, Malone told himself with a shrug, and flipped the +book open. + +At once he saw why the cop had mistaken it for his. + +It had his name in it. + +On the very first page were two names, written out in a careful, +semieducated scrawl: + + _Mr. Kenneth J. Malone, FBI_ + _Lt. Peter Lynch, NYPD_ + +The rest of the page was blank. Malone wondered who Lieutenant Lynch +was, and made a mental note to find out. Then he wondered what his +name was doing in somebody else's notebook. Maybe, he thought, it was +a list of people to slug, and the car had made it up. But he hadn't +heard of anybody named Lynch being hit on the head by a marauding +automobile, and he couldn't quite picture a Cadillac jotting things +down in a notebook for future reference. Besides, he had an idea that +a Cadillac's handwriting would be more formal, and prettier. + +He turned the page. On the next leaf there were more names, eight of +them. The first one was written in red pencil and the others were in +ordinary black. Malone stared at them: + + _Mike F._ + _Ramon O._ + _Mario G._ + _Silvo E._ + _Alvarez A._ + _Felipe la B._ + _Juan de los S._ + _Ray del E._ + +All the names except Mike F. sounded Spanish, or possibly Puerto +Rican. Malone wondered who they were. Juvenile delinquents? Other +people to slug? Police officers? + +Maybe they were all the names of Spanish-speaking Cadillacs. + +He blinked and rubbed at his forehead with one hand. His head still +hurt, and that was probably why he was getting such strange ideas. It +was obvious that, whatever the notebook was, it hadn't been written by +an automobile. + +He turned the page again. + +Here there was a carefully detailed drawing of a car. Malone +recognized it as a 1972 Cadillac without any effort at all. + +And it had been carefully colored in with red pencil. + +Wow, Malone asked himself, _What the hell does that mean?_ + +He couldn't find an answer. He turned the page, hoping for some more +facts that might make some sense out of what he had been seeing, but +there was nothing more. All the rest of the pages in the notebook were +blank. + +He looked up at the cop and the doctor with a bland, blank face. +"Thanks a lot," he told Bill. "I thought I'd lost this book. I +appreciate it." + +"Oh, that's okay, Mr. Malone," Bill said. "Glad to do it." + +"You don't know what this means to me," Malone said truthfully. + +"No trouble at all," Bill said. "Any time." He gave Malone a big smile +and turned back to the door. "But I got to get back to my beat," he +said. "Listen, I'll see you. And if I can be any help--" + +"Sure," Malone said. "I'll let you know. And thanks again." + +"Welcome," Bill said, and opened the door. He strode out with the air +of a man who has just been decorated with the Silver Star, the Purple +Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor. + +Malone tried a few more steps and discovered that he could walk +without falling down. He thanked the doctor again. + +"Perfectly all right," the doctor said. "Nothing to it. Why, you ought +to see some of the cases we get here. There was a guy here the other +night with both his legs all mashed up by a--" + +"I'll bet," Malone said hurriedly. "Well, I've got to be on my way. +Just send the bill to FBI headquarters on 69th Street." He closed the +door on the doctor's enthusiastic "Yes, _sir!_" and went on down the +hallway and out into the street. At Seventh Avenue and Greenwich +Avenue he flagged a cab. + +It was a hell of a place to be, Malone thought as the cab drove away. +Where but in Greenwich Village did avenues intersect each other +without so much as a by-your-leave? + +"Hotel New Yorker," he said, giving the whole thing up as a bad job. +He put his hat on his head and adjusted it painfully to the proper +angle. + +And that, he thought, made another little problem. The car had not +only hit him on the head, it had removed his hat before doing so, and +then replaced it. It had only fallen off when he'd started to get up +against the lamp post. + +_A nice quiet vacation_, Malone thought bitterly. + +He fumed in silence all the way to the hotel, through the lobby, up in +the elevator, and to the door of his room. Then he remembered the +notebook. + +That was important evidence. He decided to tell Boyd about it right +away. + +He went into the bathroom and tapped gently on the door to Boyd's +connecting room. The door swung open. + +Boyd, apparently, was still out painting the town--Malone considered +the word _red_ and dropped the whole phrase with a sigh. At any rate, +his partner was nowhere in the room. + +"The hell with it," Malone announced loudly to no one in particular. +He went back into his own room, closed the door, and got wearily ready +for bed. + + * * * * * + +Dawn came, and then daylight, and then a lot more daylight. It was +streaming in through the windows with careless abandon, filling the +room with a lot of bright sunshine and the muggy heat of the city. +From the street below, the cheerful noises of traffic and pedestrians +floated up and filled Malone's ears. + +He got up, turned over in bed, and tried to go back to sleep. + +But sleep wouldn't come. After a long time he gave up, and swung +himself over the edge of the bed. Standing up was a delicate job, but +he managed it, feeling rather proud of himself in a dim, semiconscious +sort of way. + +He went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and then opened the +connecting door to Boyd's room softly. + +Boyd was home. He lay in a great tangle of bedclothes, snoring +hideously and making little motions with his hands and arms like a +beached whale. Malone padded over to him and dug him fiercely in the +ribs. + +"Come on," he said. "Wake up, Tommy-boy." + +Boyd's eyes did not open. In a voice as hollow as a zombie's, he said, +"My head hurts." + +"Can't feel any worse than mine," Malone said cheerily. This, he +reflected, was not quite true. Considering everything it had been +through recently, his head felt remarkably like its old carefree self. +"You'll feel better once you're awake." + +"No, I won't," Boyd said simply. He jammed his head under a pillow and +began to snore again. It was an awesome sound, like a man strangling +to death in chicken fat. Malone sighed and poked at random among the +bedclothes. + +Boyd swore distantly, and Malone poked him again. + +"The sun is up," Malone said, "and all the little pedestrians are +chirping. It is time to rise." + +Boyd said, "Gah," and withdrew his head from the pillow. Gently, as if +he were afraid he were going to fall apart, he rose to a sitting +position. When he had arrived at it, he opened his eyes. + +"Now," Malone said. "Isn't that better?" + +Boyd closed his eyes again. "No," he said. + +"Come on," Malone said. "We've got to be up and moving." + +"I'm up," Boyd said. His eyes flickered open. "But I can't move," he +added. "We had quite a time last night." + +"We?" Malone said. + +"Me, and a couple of girls, and another guy. Just people I met." Boyd +started to stand up and thought better of it. "Just having a good +time, that's, all." + +Malone thought of reading his partner a lecture on the Evils of Drink, +and decided against it. Boyd might remember it, and use it against him +sometime. Then he realized what had to be done. He went back into his +own room, dialed for room service, and ordered a couple of pots of +strong black coffee. + +By the time a good deal of that was awash in Boyd's intestinal system, +he was almost capable of rational, connected conversation. He filled +himself to the eyebrows with aspirins and other remedies, and actually +succeeded in getting dressed. He seemed quite proud of this feat. + +"Okay," Malone said. "Now we have to go downstairs." + +"You mean outside?" Boyd said. "Into all that noise?" He winced. + +"Bite the bullet," Malone said cheerfully. "Keep a stiff upper lip." + +"Nonsense," Boyd said, hunting for his coat with a doleful air. "Have +you ever seen anybody with a loose upper lip?" + +Malone, busy with his own coat, didn't bother with a reply. He managed +somehow to get Boyd downstairs and bundled into a cab. They headed for +69th Street. There he made several phone calls. The first, of course, +was to Burris in Washington. After that he got the New York Police +Commissioner on the wire and, finding that he needed still more +authority, he called the mayor and then, by long-distance to Albany, +the governor. + +But by noon he had everything straightened out. He had a plan fully +worked out in his mind, and he had the authority to go ahead with it. +Now, he could make his final call. + +"They're completely trustworthy," Burris had told him. "Not only that, +but they have a clearance for this kind of special work--we've needed +them before." + +"Good," Malone said. + +"Not only that," Burris told him. "They're damned good men. Maybe +among the best in their field." + +So Malone made his last call, to the firm of Leibowitz and Hardin, +Electronic Engineers. + +Then he beckoned to Boyd. + +"I don't see what I've been sitting around here for, all this time," +his partner complained. "I could have been home sleeping until you +needed me." + +"I need you now," Malone said. "I want you to take over part of this +plan." + +Boyd nodded sourly. "Oh, all right," he said. + +"Here's what I want," Malone said. "Every red 1972 Cadillac in the +area is to be picked up for inspection. I don't care why--make up a +reason. A general traffic check. Anything you please. You can work +that end of it out with the commissioner; he knows about it and he's +willing to go along." + +"Great," Boyd said. "Do you have any idea how many cars there are in a +city this size?" + +"Well, we don't want all of them," Malone said. "Only red 1972 +Cadillacs." + +"It's still a lot," Boyd said. + +"If there were only three," Malone said, "we wouldn't have any +problems." + +"And wouldn't that be nice?" Boyd said. + +"Sure," Malone said, "but it isn't true. Anyhow, I want every one of +those cars checked for any oddity, no matter how small. If there's an +inch-long scratch on one fender, I want to know about it. If you've +got to take the cars apart, then do that." + +"Me?" Boyd said. "All by myself?" + +"My God, no," Malone said. "Use your head. There'll be a team working +with you. Let me explain it. Every nut, every bolt, every inch of +those cars has to be examined thoroughly--got it?" + +"I've got it," Boyd said, "but I'm damned if I like it. After all, +Malone--" + +Malone ignored him. "The governor of New York's promised his +cooperation," he said, "and he said he'd get in touch with the +governors of New Jersey and Connecticut and get cooperation from that +angle. So we'll have both state and local police working with us." + +"That's a help," Boyd said. "We'll make such a happy team of workmen. +Singing as we pull the cars apart through the long day and night +and--listen, Malone, when do you want reports on this?" + +"Yesterday," Malone said. + +Boyd's eyebrows raised, then lowered. "Great," he said dully. + +"I don't care how you get the cars," Malone said. "If you've got to, +condemn 'em. But get every last one of them. And bring them over to +Leibowitz and Hardin for a complete checkup. I'll give you the +address." + +"Thanks," Boyd said. + +"Not at all," Malone said. "Glad to be of help. And don't worry; I'll +have other work to do." He paused, and then went on, "I talked to Dr. +Isaac Leibowitz--he's the head of the firm out there--and he says--" + +"Wait a minute," Boyd said. "What?" + +"You mean I don't have to take the cars apart myself? You mean this +Leibowitz and Hardin, or whatever it is, will do it for me?" + +"Of course," Malone said wearily. "You're not an auto technician or an +electronics man. You're an agent of the FBI." + +"I was beginning to wonder," Boyd said. "After all." + +"Anyhow," Malone said doggedly, "I talked to Leibowitz, and he says he +can give a car a complete check in about six hours, normally." + +"Six hours?" Boyd stared. "That's going to take forever," he said. + +"Well, he can set up a kind of assembly-line process and turn out a +car every fifteen minutes. Any better?" + +Boyd nodded. + +"Good," Malone said. "There can't be so many 1972 red Cadillacs in the +area that we can't get through them all at that speed." He thought a +minute and then added, "By the way, you might check with the Cadillac +dealers around town, and find out just how many have been sold to +people living in the area." + +"And while I'm doing all that," Boyd said, "what are you going to be +doing?" + +Malone looked at him and sighed. "I'll worry about that," he said. +"Just get started." + +"Suppose Leibowitz can't find anything?" Boyd said. + +"If Leibowitz can't find it, it's not there," Malone said. "He can +find electronic devices anywhere in any car made, he says--even if +they're printed circuits hidden under the paint job." + +"Pretty good," Boyd said. "But suppose he doesn't?" + +"Then they aren't there," Malone said, "and we'll have to think of +something else." He considered that. It sounded fine. Only he wished +he knew what else there was to think of. + +Well, that was just pessimism. Leibowitz would find something, and the +case would be over, and he could go back to Washington and rest. In +August he was going to have his vacation anyway, and August wasn't +very far away. + +Malone put a smile carefully on his face and told Boyd, "Get going." +He slammed his hat on his head. + +Wincing, he took it off and replaced it gently. The bottle of pills +was still in his pocket, but he wasn't due for another one just yet. + +He had time to go over to the precinct station in the West Eighties +first. He headed outside to get another taxi. + + + 4 + +The door didn't say anything at all except _Lt. P. Lynch_. Malone +looked at it for a couple of seconds. He'd asked the desk sergeant for +Lynch, shown his credentials and been directed up a set of stairs and +around a hall. But he still didn't know what Lynch did, who he was, or +what his name was doing in the little black notebook. + +Well, he told himself, there was only one way to find out. + +He opened the door. + +The room was small and dark. It had a single desk in it, and three +chairs, and a hatrack. There wasn't any coat or hat on the hatrack, +and there was nobody in the chairs. In a fourth chair, behind the +desk, sat a huskily built man. He had steel-gray hair, a hard jaw and, +Malone noticed with surprise, a faint twinkle in his eye. + +"Lieutenant Lynch?" Malone said. + +"Right," Lynch said. "What's the trouble?" + +"I'm Kenneth J. Malone, FBI." He reached for his wallet and found it. +He flipped it open for Lynch, who stared at it for what seemed a long, +long time, and then burst into laughter. + +"What's so funny?" Malone asked. Lynch laughed some more. + +"Oh, come on," Malone said bitterly. "After all, there's no reason to +treat an FBI agent like some kind of a--" + +"FBI agent?" Lynch said. "Listen, buster, this is the funniest gag +I've seen since I came on the force. Really a hell of a funny thing. +Who told you to pull it? Jablonski downstairs? Or one of the boys on +the beat? I know those beat patrolmen, always on the lookout for a new +joke.. But this tops 'em all. This is the--" + +"You're a disgrace to the Irish," Malone said tartly. + +"A what?" Lynch said. "I'm not Irish." + +"You talk like an Irishman," Malone said. + +"I know it," Lynch said, and shrugged. "Around some precincts, you +sort of pick it up. When all the other cops are--hey, listen. How'd we +get to talking about me?" + +"I said you were a disgrace to the Irish," Malone said. + +"I was a--_what_?" + +"Disgrace." Malone looked carefully at Lynch. In a fight, he +considered, he might get in a lucky punch that would kill Malone. +Otherwise, Malone didn't have a thing to worry about except a few +months of hospitalization. + +Lynch looked as if he were about to get mad, and then he looked down +at Malone's wallet again and started to laugh. + +"For God's sake," Malone said. "What's so damned funny?" + +He grabbed the wallet and turned it toward him. At once, of course, he +realized what had happened. He hadn't flipped it open to his badge at +all. He'd flipped it open, instead, to a card in the card case: + + + KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS THAT + Sir Kenneth Malone, Knight, is hereby formally installed + with the title of + KNIGHT OF THE BATH + and this card shall signify his right to that title + and his high and respected position as officer in and of + THE QUEEN'S OWN FBI + + +In a very small voice, Malone said, "There's been a terrible mistake." + +"Mistake?" Lynch said. + +Malone flipped the wallet open to his FBI shield. Lynch gave it a good +long examination, peering at it from every angle and holding it up to +the light two or three times. He even wet his thumb and rubbed the +badge with it. At last he looked up. + +"I guess you are the FBI," he said. "But what's with the gag?" + +"It isn't a gag," Malone said. "It's just--" He thought of the little +old lady in Yucca Flats, the little old lady who had been the prime +mover in the last case he and Boyd had worked on together. Without the +little old lady, the case might never have been solved; she was an +authentic telepath, about the best that had ever been found. + +But with her, Boyd and Malone had had enough troubles. Besides being a +telepath, she was quite thoroughly insane. She had one fixed delusion: +she believed she was Queen Elizabeth I. + +She was still at Yucca Flats, along with the other telepaths Malone's +investigation had turned up. And she still believed, quite calmly, +that she was Good Queen Bess. Malone had been knighted by her during +the course of the investigation. This new honor had come to him +through the mail; apparently she had decided to ennoble some of her +friends still further. + +Malone made a mental note to ask Boyd if he'd received one. After all, +there couldn't be too many Knights of the Bath. There was no sense in +letting _everybody_ in. + +Then he realized that he was beginning to believe everything again. +There had been times, working with the little old lady, when he had +been firmly convinced that he was, in fact, the swaggering, ruthless +swordsman, Sir Kenneth Malone. And even now... + +"Well?" Lynch said. + +"It's too long a story," Malone said. "And besides, it's not what I +came here about." + +Lynch shrugged again. "Okay," he said. "Tell it your way." + +"First," Malone said, "what's your job?" + +"Me? Precinct Lieutenant." + +"Of this precinct?" + +Lynch stared. "What else?" he said. + +"Who knows?" Malone said. He found the black notebook and passed it +across to Lynch. "I'm on this red Cadillac business, you know," he +said by way of introduction. + +"I've been hearing about it," Lynch said. He picked up the notebook +without opening it and held it like a ticking bomb. "And I mean +hearing about it," he said. "We haven't had any trouble at all in this +precinct." + +"I know," Malone said. "I've read the reports." + +"Listen, not a single red Cadillac has been stolen from here, or been +reported found here. We run a tight precinct here, and let me tell +you--" + +"I'm sure you do a fine job," Malone said hastily. "But I want you to +look at the notebook. The first page." + +Lynch opened his mouth, closed it, and then flipped the notebook +cover. He stared at the first page for a few seconds. "What's this?" +he said at last. "Another gag?" + +"No gag, Lieutenant," Malone said. + +"It's your name and mine," Lynch said. "What is that supposed to +mean?" + +Malone shrugged. "Search me," he said. "The notebook was found only a +couple of feet away from another car theft, last night." That was the +simplest way he could think of to put it. "So I asked the Commissioner +who Peter Lynch was, and he told me it was you." + +"And, by God, it is," Lynch said, staring at the notebook. He seemed +to be expecting it to rise and strike him. + +Malone said, "Have you got any idea who'd be writing about you and +me?" + +Lynch shook his head. "If I had any ideas I'd feel a lot better," he +said. + +He wet his finger and turned the notebook page carefully over. When he +saw the list of names on the second page he stopped again, and stared. +This time he whistled under his breath. + +Very cautiously, Malone said, "Something?" + +"I'll be damned," Lynch said feelingly. + +"What's wrong?" Malone said. + +The police lieutenant looked up. "I don't know if it's wrong or what," +he said. "It gives me sort of the willies. I know every one of these +kids." + +Malone took out a pill and swallowed it in a hurry. He felt exactly as +if he had been given another concussion, absolutely free and without +any obligations. His mouth opened but nothing came out for a long +time. At last he managed to say, _"Kids?"_ + +"That's right," Lynch said. "What did you think?" + +Malone shrugged helplessly. + +"Every single one of them," Lynch said. "Right from around here." + +There was a little silence. + +"Who are they?" Malone said carefully. + +"They're some kind of kid gang--a social club, or something like that. +This first kid--Miguel Fueyo's his full name--is the leader. They call +themselves the Silent Spooks." + +"The what?" It seemed to Malone that the name was just a little fancy, +even for a kid gang. + +"The Silent Spooks," Lynch said. "I can't help it. But here they are, +every one of them: Fueyo, Ramon Otravez, Mario Grito, Silvo Envoz, +Alvarez Altapor, Felipe la Barba, Juan de los Santos, and Ray del +Este. Right down the line." He looked up from the notebook with a +blank expression on his face. "All of them kids from this +neighborhood. The Silent Spooks." + +"They know you?" Malone said. + +"Sure they do," Lynch said. "They all know me. But do they know you?" + +Malone thought. "They could have heard of me," he said at last, trying +to be as modest as possible. + +"I guess," Lynch said grudgingly. "How old are they?" Malone said. + +"Fourteen to seventeen," Lynch said. "Somewhere in there. You know how +these kid things run." + +"The Silent Spooks," Malone said meditatively. It was a nice name, in +a way; you just had to get used to it for a while. When he had been a +kid, he'd belonged to a group that called itself the East Division +Street Kids. There just wasn't much romance in a name like that. Now +the Silent Spooks... + +With a wrench, he brought his mind back to the subject at hand. "Do +they get into much trouble?" he said. + +"Well, no," Lynch said reluctantly. "As a matter of fact, they don't. +For a bunch like that, around here, they're pretty well behaved, as +far as that goes." + +"What do you mean?" Malone said. + +Lynch's face took on a delicately unconcerned appearance. "I don't +know," he said. "They just don't get into neighborhood trouble. Maybe +a scrap now and then--nothing big, though. Or maybe one of them cuts a +class at school or argues with his teacher. But there's nothing +unusual, and damn little of anything." He frowned. + +Malone said, "Something's got to be wrong. What is it?" + +"Well," Lynch said, "they do seem to have a hell of a lot of money to +spend." + +Malone sat down in a chair across the desk, and leaned eagerly toward +Lynch. "Money?" he said. + +"Money," Lynch said. "New clothes. Cigarettes. Malone, three of them +are even supporting their parents. Old Jose Otravez--Ramon's old +man--quit his job a couple of months ago, and hasn't worked since. +Spends all his time in bars, and never runs out of dough--and don't +tell me you can do that on unemployment insurance. Or social security +payments." + +"Okay," Malone said. "I won't tell you." + +"And there's others. All the others, in fact. Mike Fueyo's sister +dresses fit to kill, like a high-fashion model. And the Grito kid--" + +"Wait a minute," Malone said. "From what you tell me, this isn't just +a little extra money. These kids must be rolling in the stuff. Up to +their ears in dough." + +"Listen," Lynch said sadly, "Those kids spend more than I do. Hell, +they do better than that--they spend more than I _earn_." He looked +remotely sorry for himself, but not for long. "Every one of those kids +spends like a drunken sailor, tossing his money away on all sorts of +things." + +"Like an expense account," Malone said idly. Lynch looked up. "Sorry," +Malone said. "I was thinking about something else." + +"I'll bet you were," Lynch said with unconcealed envy. + +"No," Malone said. "Really. Listen, I'll check with Internal Revenue +on that money. But have you got a list of the kids' addresses?" + +"I can get one," Lynch said, and went to the door. + +It closed behind him. Malone sat waiting alone for a few minutes, and +then Lynch came back. "List'll be here in a minute," he said. He sat +down behind his desk and reached for the notebook again. When he +turned to the third page his expression changed to one of surprise. + +"Be damned," he said. "There does seem to be a connection, doesn't +there?" He held up the picture of the red Cadillac for Malone to see. + +"Sure does," Malone said. "That's why I want those addresses. If there +is a connection, I sure as hell want to find out about it." + +Ten minutes later, Malone was walking out of the precinct station with +the list of addresses in his pocket. He was heading for his Great +Adventure, but he didn't know it. All he was thinking about was the +red Cadillacs, and the eight teenagers. + +"I'm going to get to the bottom of this if it takes me all summer," he +said, muttering to himself. + +"That's the spirit," he told himself. "Never say die." + +Then, realizing he had just said it, he frowned. Perhaps it hadn't +really counted. But then again... + +He was on his way down the steps when he hit the girl. + +The mutual collision was not catastrophic. On the other hand, it was +not exactly minor. It fell somewhere between the two, as an +unclassifiable phenomenon of undoubted potency. Malone said, "Oog," +with, some fervor as the girl collided with his chest and rebounded +like a handball striking a wall. Something was happening to her, but +Malone had no time to spare to notice just what. He was falling +through space, touching a concrete step once in a while, but not long +enough to make any real acquaintance with it. It seemed to take him a +long time to touch bottom, and when he had, he wondered if _touch_ was +quite the word. + +_Bottom_ certainly was. He had fallen backward and landed directly on +his _glutei maximi_, obeying the law regarding equal and opposite +reaction and several other laws involving falling bodies. + +His first thought was that he was now neatly balanced. His tail had +received the same treatment as his head. He wondered if a person could +get concussion of the tail bones, and had reached no definite +conclusion when, unexpectedly, his eyes focused again. + +He was looking at a girl. That was all he saw at first. She had +apparently fallen just as he had, bounced once and sat down rather +hard. She was now lying flat on her back, making a sound like "rrr" +between her teeth. + +Malone discovered that he was sitting undignifiedly on the steps. He +opened his mouth to say something objectionable, took another look at +the girl, and shut it with a snap. This was no ordinary girl. + +He smiled at her. She shook her head and sat up, still going "rrr." +Then she stopped and said instead, "What do you think--" + +"I'm sorry," Malone said in what he hoped was a charming, debonair, +and apologetic voice. It was quite a lot to get into one voice, but he +tried his very hardest. "I just didn't see--" + +"You didn't?" the girl said. She took a long, slow look at him, shook +her head again, and then pulled her skirt down carefully. "If you +didn't, you must be blind," she said. + +Malone noticed with hope that there was no anger in her voice. The +last thing in the world he wanted was to get this girl angry at him. + +"Oh, no," Malone said. "I'm not blind. Not blind at all." He smiled at +her and stood up. His tail throbbed a little, but it didn't seem to be +anything really serious. "I'm just polite," he said, and smiled again. +His face was beginning to get a little tired, but he retained his last +smile as he went over to her, extended a hand and pulled her to her +feet. + +She was something special. Her hair was long and dark, and fell in +soft waves to her shoulders. The shoulders were something all by +themselves, but Malone postponed consideration of them for a minute to +take a look at her face. + +It was heart-shaped and rather thin. She had large brown liquid eyes +that could look, Malone imagined, appealing, loving, worshiping--or, +like a minute ago, downright furious. Below these features she had a +straight lovely nose and a pair of lips which Malone immediately +classified as kissable. + +Her figure, including the shoulders, was on the slim side, but she was +very definitely all there. Malone couldn't think of any parts the +Creator had left out, and if there were any he didn't want to hear +about them. In an instant, Malone knew that he had met the only great +love of his life. + +Again. + +His mind was whirling, and for a second he didn't know what to do. And +then he remembered the Queen's Own FBI. Phrases flowered forth in his +mind as if it were a garden packed corner to corner with the most +exquisite varieties of blooming idiots. + +"My deepest apologies, my dear," Sir Kenneth Malone said gallantly, +even managing a small display bow for the occasion. "May I be of any +assistance?" + +The girl smiled up at him as she came to her feet. The smile was +radiant and beautiful and almost loving. Malone felt as if he couldn't +stand it. Tingles of the most wonderful kind ran through him, reached +his toes and then back the other way, meeting a whole new set going +forward. + +"You're very nice," the girl said, and the tingles became positive +waves of sensation. "Actually, it was all my fault. Please don't +apologize, Mr.--" She paused expectantly. + +"Me?" Malone said, his gallantry deserting him for the second. But it +returned full force before he expected it. "I'm Malone," he said. +"Kenneth Joseph Malone." He had always liked the middle name he had +inherited from his father, but he never had much opportunity to use +it. He made the most of it now, rolling it out with all sorts of +subsidiary flourishes. As a matter of fact, he barely restrained +himself from putting a "Sir" before his name. + +The girl's brown eyes widened just a trifle. Malone felt as if he +could have fallen into them and drowned. "Oh, my," she said. "You must +be a detective." And then, like the merest afterthought, "My name's +Dorothy." + +_Dorothy._ It was a beautiful name. It made Malone feel all choked up +inside. He blinked at the girl and tried to look manly and wonderful. +It was an effort, but he nearly carried it off. + +After a second or two he realized that she had asked him a question. +He didn't want to disillusion her in any way, and, after all, an FBI +agent was a kind of detective, but he thought it was only fair that +she should know the whole truth about him right from the start. + +"Not exactly a detective," he said. + +"Not exactly?" she said, looking puzzled. She looked positively +glorious when puzzled, Malone decided at once. + +"That is," he said carefully, "I do detect, but not for the city of +New York." + +"Oh," she said. "A private eye. Is that right?" + +"Well," Malone said, "no." She looked even more puzzled. + +Malone hastened to explain before he got to the point where +conversation was impossible. + +"Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said. After a second he thought +of a clarification and added, "FBI." + +"Oh," the girl said. _"Oh."_ + +"But you can call me Ken," Malone said. + +"All right--Ken," she said. "And you call me Dorothy." + +"Sure," he said. He tried it out. "Dorothy." It felt swell. + +"Well," she said after a second. + +"Oh," Malone said. "Were you looking for a detective? Because if I can +help in any way--" + +"Not exactly," Dorothy said. "Just a little routine business. I'll go +on in and--" + +Malone suddenly found himself talking without having any idea why he'd +started, or what he was going to say. At first he said, "Urr," as if +the machine were warming up, and this stopped Dorothy and caused her +to give him a rather sharp, baffled stare. Then he found some words +and used them hurriedly, before they got away. + +"Dorothy," he said, "would you like to take in a show this evening? I +think I can get tickets to--well, I guess I could get tickets to +almost anything, if I really tried." His expression attempted to leave +no doubt that he would really try. + +Dorothy appeared to consider for a moment. "Well," she said at last, +"how about _The Hot Seat_?" + +Malone felt just the way he had several years before when he had +bluffed his way into a gigantic pot during a Washington poker game, +with only a pair of fours to work with. At the last moment, his bluff +had been called. + +It had, he realized, been called again. _The Hot Seat_ had set some +sort of record, not only for Broadway longevity, but for audience +frenzy. Getting tickets for it was about the same kind of proposition +as buying grass on the moon, and getting them with absolutely no prior +notice would require all the wire-pulling Malone could manage. He +thought about _The Hot Seat_ and wished Dorothy had picked something +easy, like arranging for her to meet the Senate. + +But he swallowed bravely. "I'll do my best," he said. "Got any second +choice?" + +"Sure," she said, and laughed. "Pick any one you want. I haven't seen +them all, and the ones I have seen are worth seeing again." + +"Oh," Malone said. + +"I really didn't expect you to get tickets for _The Hot Seat_," she +said. + +"Nothing," Malone said, "is impossible." He grinned at her. +"Meanwhile, where can I pick you up? Your home?" + +Dorothy frowned and shook her head. "No," she said. "You see, I'm +living with an aunt, and I--well, never mind." She thought for a +minute. "I know," she said. "Topp's." + +"What?" Malone said. + +"Topp's," Dorothy said. "On Forty-second Street, just east of +Broadway? It's a restaurant." + +"I don't exactly know where it is," Malone said, "but if it's there, +I'll find it." He looked gallant and determined. "We can get something +to eat there before the show--whatever the show turns out to be." + +"Fine," Dorothy said. + +"How about making it at six?" Malone said. + +She nodded. "Six it is," she said. "Now bye-bye." She touched her +forefinger to her lips, and brushed Malone's cheek with the kissed +finger. + +By the time the new set of tingles had begun to evaporate, she had +gone into the police station. Malone heaved a great sigh of passion, +and held down a strong impulse to follow her and protect her. He +wasn't quite sure what he was going to protect her from, but he felt +certain that that would come to him when the time arrived. + +Nevertheless, he had work to do, unpleasant as the idea had suddenly +begun to seem. He pulled the list of addresses out of his pocket and +looked at the first one. + +_Mike Fueyo._ + +Mike was the leader of the Silent Spooks, according to Lieutenant +Lynch. Logically, therefore, he would be the first one to talk to. +Malone tried to think of some good questions, but the best one he +could come up with was: "Well, what about all those red Cadillacs?" + +Somehow he doubted that this would provide a satisfactory reply. + +He checked the address again and started firmly down the street, +trying to think of some better questions along the way. + + * * * * * + +The building was just off Amsterdam Avenue, in the eighties. It had +been a shining new development once, but it was beginning to slide +downhill now. The metal on the window frames was beginning to look +worn, and the brickwork hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Where +chain fences had once protected lonely blades of grass, children, +mothers, and baby carriages held sway now, and the grass was gone. +Instead, the building was pretty well surrounded by a moat of +sick-looking brown dirt. + +Malone went into the first building and checked the name against the +mailboxes there, trying to ignore the combined smells of sour milk, +red pepper, and here and there a whiff of unwashed humanity. + +It was on the tenth floor: _Fueyo, J._ That, he supposed, would be +Mike's widowed mother; Lynch had told him that much about the boy and +his family. He found the elevator, which was covered with scribbles +ranging from JANEY LOVES MIGUEL to startling obscenities, and rode it +upstairs. + +Apartment 1004 looked like every other apartment in the building, at +least from the outside. Malone pressed the button and waited a second +to hear the faint buzzing at the other side of the door. After a +minute, he pressed it again. + +The door swung open very suddenly, and Malone stepped back. + +A short, wrinkled, dark-eyed woman in a print housedress was eying him +with deep suspicion. "My daughter is not home," she announced at once. + +"I'm not looking for your daughter," Malone said. "I'd like to talk to +Mike." + +"Mike?" Her expression grew even more suspicious. "You want to talk to +Mike?" + +"That's right," Malone said. + +"Ah," the woman said. "You one of those hoodlum friends he has. I'm +right? You can talk to Mike when I am dead and have no control over +him. For now, you can just--" + +"Wait a minute," Malone said. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it +open to show his badge, being very careful that he made the right flip +this time. He didn't know exactly how this woman would react to the +Queen's Own FBI, but he didn't especially want to find out. + +She looked down at the badge without taking the wallet from him. +"Hah," she said. "You're cop, eh?" Her eyes left the wallet and +examined Malone from head to foot. It was perfectly plain that they +didn't like what they saw. "Cop," she said again, as if to herself. It +sounded like a curse. + +Malone said, "Well, I--" + +"You want to ask me stupid questions," she said. "That is what you +want to do. I'm right?" + +"I only--" + +"I know nothing," she said. "Nothing of any kind." She closed her +mouth and stood regarding him as if he were a particularly repulsive +statue. Malone looked past her into the living room beyond the door. + +It was faded now, but it had once been bright and colorful. There was +an old rug on the floor, and tables were everywhere. The one bright +thing about the room was the assortment of flowers; there were flowers +everywhere, in vases, in pots, and even in window boxes. There was +also a lot of crockery statuary, mostly faded, chipped, or worn in +some way. The room looked to Malone as if its last inhabitant had died +ten years before; only the flowers had been renewed. Everything else +had not only the appearance of age, but the look of having been cast +up as a high-water mark by the sea, which had receded and left only +the tangled wreckage. + +The woman cleared her throat, and Malone's gaze came back to her. "I +can tell you nothing," she said. + +"I don't want to talk to you," Malone said again. "I want to talk to +Mike." + +Her eyes were very cold. "You from the police, and you want to talk to +Mike. You make a joke. Only I don't think the joke is very funny." + +"Joke?" Malone said. "You mean Mike's not here?" + +Her gaze never wavered. "You know he is not," she said. "Ten minutes +ago the policemen were taking him away to the police station. How then +could he be here?" + +"Ten minutes ago?" Malone blinked. Ten minutes ago he had been looking +for this apartment. Probably it hadn't taken Lynch's men ten minutes +to find it; they weren't strangers in New York. "He was arrested?" +Malone said. + +"I said so, didn't I?" the woman said. "You must be crazy or else +something." Her eyes were still cold points, but Malone suddenly saw a +glow behind them, the glow of tears. Mike was her son. She did not +seem surprised that the police had taken him away, but she was +determined to protect him. He was her son. + +Malone's voice was very gentle. "Why did they arrest him?" he said. + +The woman shrugged, a single sharp gesture. "You ask me this?" she +said. + +"I'm not a cop," Malone said. "I'm from the FBI. I don't know anything +about why the cops might have arrested Mike." + +"FBI?" the woman said. + +"It's all right," Malone said, with all the assurance he could muster. +"I only want to talk to him." + +"Ah," the woman said. Tears were plain in her eyes now, glittering on +the surface. "Why they take him away, I do not know. My Mike do +nothing. Nothing." + +"But didn't they say anything about--" + +"They say?" the woman cried. "They say only they have orders from this +Lieutenant Lynch. He is lieutenant at police station." + +"I know," Malone said gently. + +"Lieutenant Lynch wants to ask Mike questions, so police come, take +him away." Her English was beginning to lose ground as the tears came +closer, as she slowly lost control. + +"Lynch asked for him?" Malone said. He frowned. Whatever that meant, +he wanted to be there himself. And perhaps he could help the old woman +in some way. Anyhow, he would try. She stared up at him stonily. +"Look, Mrs. Fueyo," he said. "I'm going down there to talk to Mike +right now. And if he hasn't done anything, I'll see that he gets right +on home to you. Right away." + +Her expression changed a trifle. She did not actually soften, but +Malone could feel the gratitude lurking behind her eyes as if it were +afraid to come out. She nodded gravely and said nothing at all. He +stepped away, and she closed the door without a sound. + +He stood staring at the door for a few seconds. Then he turned and +punched the elevator button savagely. + +There wasn't any time to lose. + +He walked back to the precinct station. Knowing the way, it took him +about five minutes instead of the fifteen it had taken him to find the +Fueyo residence. But he still felt as if time were passing much too +fast. He ran up the steps and passed right by the desk sergeant, who +apparently recognized him; he said nothing as Malone charged up the +stairs and around the hall to Lynch's office. + +It was empty. + +Malone stared at it and started down the hall again without knowing +where he was heading. Halfway to the stairs he met a patrolman. + +"Where's Lynch?" he asked. + +"The lieutenant?" the patrolman said. + +Malone fumed. "Who else?" he said. "Where is he?" + +"Got some kid back in the tank, or somewhere," the patrolman said. +"Asking him a couple of questions, that's all." He added, "Hey, +listen, buddy, what do you want to see the lieutenant for? I mean, you +can't just go charging in to--" + +Malone was down the stairs before he'd finished. He went, up to the +desk. + +The desk sergeant looked down. "What's it this time?" he said. "A +track meet?" + +"I'm in a hurry," Malone said. "Where are the cells? I want to see +Lieutenant Lynch." + +The desk sergeant nodded. "Okay," he said. "But the lieutenant ain't +in any of the cells. He's back in Interrogation with some kid." + +"Take me there," Malone said. + +"I'll show you, anyway," the sergeant said. "Can't leave the desk on +duty." He cleared his throat and gave Malone a set of directions that +took him around to the back of the station. He was repeating the +directions when Malone left. + +There was a door at the end of a corridor at the back of the station. +It was a plain wooden door with the numeral _1_ stenciled on it. +Malone opened it and looked inside. + +He was staring into a rather small, rather plain little room. There +were absolutely no bright beam lights burning, and there didn't seem +to be any rubber hoses around anywhere. There were only four chairs. + +Seated in three of the chairs were Lieutenant Lynch and two other +police officers. In the fourth chair, facing them, was a young boy. + +He didn't look like a tough kid. He had wavy black hair, brown eyes, +and what Malone thought looked like a generally friendly appearance. +He was slight and wiry, not over five feet five or six. And he wore an +expression that was neither too eager nor hostile. It wasn't just +blank, either; Malone finally pinned it down as receptive. + +He had the strangest impression that he had seen the boy somewhere +before. But he couldn't remember when or where. + +Lieutenant Lynch was talking. + +"...all we want, Mike, is a little information. We thought you'd be +able to help us, if you wanted to. Now, how about it?" + +"Sure," Mike Fueyo said. His voice was a little high, but it was well +controlled and responsive. "Sure, Lieutenant. I'll help if I can, but +I just don't dig what you're giving me. It doesn't make sense." + +Lynch stirred a little impatiently, and his voice began to carry a new +bite. "I'm talking about Cadillacs," he said. "Red Cadillacs, 1972 +models." + +"It's a nice car," Mike said. + +"What do you know about them?" Lynch said. + +"Know about them?" Mike said. "I know they're nice cars. That's about +it. What else am I going to know, Lieutenant? Maybe you think I own +one of these big red 1972 Caddies. Maybe you think I got that kind of +money. Well, listen, Lieutenant. I'd like to help you out, but I'm +just not--" + +"The Cadillacs," Lynch said, "were--" + +"Just a minute, Lieutenant," Malone said. Dead silence fell with great +suddenness. Lynch and all the others looked around at Malone, who +smiled apologetically. "I don't want to disturb anything," he said. +"But I would like to talk to Mike here for a little while." + +"Oh," Lynch said sourly. "Sure. Sure." + +"I'd like to ask him a couple of questions," Malone said. "Alone." + +"Alone." Lynch said. "Oh." But there was nothing for him to do, Malone +knew, except bow to the inevitable. "Of course," he said. "Go right +ahead." + +"You can stand outside the door," Malone said. "He won't get away. And +you'd better hold this." Malone, knowing perfectly well that staying +armed and alone in a room with a suspect was something you just did +not do, unstrapped his .44 Magnum and handed it to the lieutenant. + +He left reluctantly with his men. The door closed. + +Malone could understand Lynch's attitude. If Malone solved the case, +Lynch would not get any credit. Otherwise, it might go down in his +personal record. And of course the NYPD would rather wrap the case up +themselves; the FBI was treated as a necessary interference. +Unfortunately, Malone thought, Lynch had had absolutely no choice. He +sighed gently, and turned his attention to Mike Fueyo, who was still +sitting in his chair. + +"Now, Mike--" he began, and was interrupted. + +The door opened. Lieutenant Lynch said, "If you need us, Malone, just +yell." + +"You'll hear me," Malone promised. The door shut. + +He turned back to the boy. "Now, Mike," he began again. "My name is +Malone, and I'm with the FBI in Washington. I'd like to ask you a +few--" + +"Gee, Mr. Malone," Mike broke in eagerly. "I'm glad you're here. I'm +really glad about that." + +Malone said, "Well, I--" + +"These cops here have been giving me a pretty rough deal, you know?" +Mike said. + +"I'm sure they--" Malone began. + +"But I've been looking for you," Mike went on. "See, I wanted to say +something to you. Something real important." + +Malone leaned forward expectantly. At last he was going to get some +information--perhaps the information that would break the whole case +wide open. He said, "Yes?" + +"Well," Mike began, and stopped. + +"You don't have to be afraid of me, Mike," Malone said. "Just tell me +whatever's on your mind." + +"Sure," Mike said. "It's this." + +He took a deep breath. Malone clenched his fists. Now it was coming. +Now he would hear the all-important fact. He waited. + +Mike stuck out his tongue and blew the longest, loudest, brassiest, +and juiciest Bronx cheer that Malone had ever heard. + +Then, almost instantly, the room was empty except for Malone himself. + +Mike was gone. + +There wasn't any place to hide, and there hadn't been any time to hide +in. Malone looked around wildly, but he had no doubts at all. + +Mike Fueyo had vanished, utterly and instantaneously. He'd gone out +like a light. + + + 5 + +Thirty seconds passed. + +During that time, Malone did nothing at all. He just sat there, while +a confused montage of pictures tumbled through his head. Sometimes he +saw double exposures, and sometimes a couple of pictures overlapped, +but it didn't seem to make any difference, because none of the +pictures meant anything anyhow. + +The reason for that was obvious. He was no longer sane. He had cracked +up. At a crucial moment his brain had failed him, and now people would +have to come in and cart him away and put him in a strait jacket. It +was perfectly obvious to Malone that he was no longer capable of +dealing with everyday life. The blow on the head had probably taken +final effect, and it had been more serious than the doctor had +imagined. + +He had always distrusted doctors anyhow. + +And now he was suffering from a delayed reaction. He wasn't living in +the real world any more. He had gone off to dreamland, where people +disappeared when you looked at them. There was no hope for him any +more. + +It was a nice theory, and it was even comforting in a way. There was +only one thing wrong with it. + +The room around him didn't look dreamlike at all. It was perfectly +solid and real, and it looked just the way it had looked before Mike +Fueyo had--well, Malone amended, before whatever had happened had +happened. It was a perfectly complete little room, and it had four +chairs in it. Malone was sitting in one of the chairs and all the +others were empty. + +There was absolutely nothing else in the room. + +With some regret, Malone abandoned the theory that he had gone mad. +This left him with no ideas at all. Because if he hadn't become +insane, then what _had_ happened? + +After another second or two, some ideas began to filter through the +daze. Perhaps he'd just blacked out for a minute and the kid had gone +out the door. That was possible, wasn't it? + +Sure it was. And maybe he had just not seen the kid go. His eyes had +failed for a second or two. That could certainly happen after a blow +on the head. Malone tried to remember where the sight centers of the +brain were. Maybe whoever had hit him had disturbed them, and he'd had +a sudden blackout. + +Come to think of it, that made pretty good sense. He had blacked out, +and Mike had just walked out the door. It had to be the door, of +course--the windows were out of the question, since there weren't any +windows. And six-inch-wide air-conditioner ducts do not provide +reasonable space for an exit, not if you happen to be a human being. + +That, Malone told himself, was settled--and a good thing, too. He had +begun to worry about it. But now he knew just what had happened, and +he felt relieved. He got up from his chair, walked over to the door +and opened it. + +Lieutenant Lynch nearly fell into the room. He'd obviously had his ear +pressed tightly to the door and hadn't expected it to open. The other +two cops stood behind him, just about filling the hallway with their +broad shoulders. + +"Well, well," Malone said. + +Lynch recovered his balance and glared at the FBI agent. He said +nothing. + +"Where is he?" Malone said. + +"Where is he?" Lynch repeated, and blinked. "Where's _who_?" + +Malone shook his head impatiently. "Fueyo," he said. "The kid. Where +did he--" + +Lynch's expression was the same as that on the faces of the other two +cops: complete and utter bafflement. Malone stopped and stared. It was +suddenly very obvious that the lovely theory he had worked out for +Mike's disappearance wasn't true in the least. If Mike Fueyo had come +out the door, then these cops would know about it. But they obviously +knew nothing at all about it. + +Therefore, he hadn't come out through the door. + +Malone took a deep breath. + +"What are you talking about?" Lynch said. "Isn't the kid in there with +you? What's happened?" + +There was only one thing to do and, straight-faced, Malone went ahead +and did it. "Of course not," he snapped, trying to sound impatient and +official. "I released him." + +"You _what_?" + +"Released him," Malone said. He stepped out into the hall and closed +the door of the interrogation room firmly behind him. "I got all the +information I needed, so I let him go." + +"Thanks," Lynch said bitterly. "After all, I was the one who--" + +"You called him in for questioning, didn't you, Lieutenant?" Malone +said. + +"Yes, I did, and I--" + +"Well," Malone said, "I questioned him." + +There was a little silence. Then Lynch asked, in a strangled voice, +"What did he say?" + +"Sorry," Malone said at once. "That's classified information." He +pushed his way into the corridor, trying to look as if he had fifteen +other jobs to accomplish within the next hour. Being an FBI agent was +going to help a little, but he still had to look good in order to +carry it off. + +"But--" + +"Thanks for your co-operation, Lieutenant," Malone said. "You've all +been very helpful." He smiled at them in what he hoped was a superior +manner. "So long," he said, and started walking. + +"Wait!" Lynch said. He flung open the door of the interrogation room. +There was no doubt that it was empty. "Wait! Malone!" + +Malone turned slowly, trying to look calm and in control of the +situation. "Yes?" he said. + +Lynch looked at him with puzzled, pleading eyes. "Malone, _how_ did +you release him? We were right here. He didn't come through the door. +There isn't any other exit. So how did you get him out?" + +There was only one answer to that, and Malone gave it with a quiet, +assured air. "I'm terribly sorry, Lieutenant," he said, "but that's +classified information, too." He gave the cops a little wave and +walked slowly down the corridor. When he reached the stairs he began +to speed up and he was out of the precinct station and into a taxicab +before any of the cops could have realized what had happened. + +He took a deep breath, feeling as if it were the first he'd had in +several days. "Breathe air," he told himself. "It's _good_ for you." +Not that New York had any real air in it. It was mostly carbon fumes +and the like. But it was the nearest thing to air that Malone could +find at the moment, and he determined to go right on breathing it +until something better and cleaner showed up. + +But that wasn't important now. As the cab tooled along down Broadway +toward 69th Street, Malone closed his eyes and began going over the +whole thing in his mind. + +Mike Fueyo had vanished. + +Of that, Malone told himself, there was no shadow of doubt. No +probable, possible shadow of doubt. + +No possible doubt (as a matter of fact) whatever. + +Dismissing the Grand Inquisitor with a negligent wave of his hand, he +concentrated on the main question. It was a good question. Malone +could have sat and pondered it admiringly for a long time. + +As a matter of fact, that was all he could think of to do, as the cab +turned up 70th Street and headed east. He certainly didn't have any +answers for it. + +But it was a lovely question: + +_Where does that leave Kenneth J. Malone?_ + +And, possibly even more important: _Where was Miguel Fueyo?_ + +It was obvious that he'd vanished on purpose. And it hadn't just been +something he'd recently discovered. He had known all along that he +could pull the trick; if he hadn't known that, he wouldn't have done +what he had done beforehand. No seventeen-year-old boy, no matter what +he was, would give the FBI the raspberry unless he was pretty sure he +could get away with it. + +Malone remembered the raspberry and winced slightly. The cab driver +called back, "Anything wrong, buddy?" + +"Everything," Malone said. "But don't worry about it." + +The cab driver shrugged and turned back to the wheel. Malone went back +to Mike Fueyo. + +The kid could make himself vanish at will. + +Invisibility? + +Malone thought about that for a while. The fact that it was impossible +didn't decide him against it. Everything was impossible; that much was +clear. But he didn't think Mike Fueyo had just become invisible. No. +There had been the sense of presence actually leaving the room. If +Mike had become invisible and stayed, Malone was sure he wouldn't have +felt the boy leave. + +Mike had not just become invisible. (_And what do I mean, "just"?_ +Malone asked himself unhappily.) He had gone--elsewhere. + +This brought him back full circle to his original question. Where was +the boy now? But he ignored it for a minute or two as another, even +more difficult query presented itself. + +_Never mind where_, Malone told himself. _How?_ + +Something was bothering him. Malone realized that it had been +bothering him for a long time. At last he managed to locate it and +hold it up to the light for inspection. + +Dr. O'Connor, the psionics expert at Westinghouse, had mentioned +something during Malone's last conversation with him. Dr. O'Connor, +who'd invented a telepathy detector, had been discussing further +reaches in his field. + +"After all," he'd said, "if thoughts can bridge any distance whatever, +regardless of other barriers, there is no reason why matter could not +do likewise." + +"But it doesn't," Malone had said. "Or at least it hasn't so far." + +"There's no way to be sure of that," Dr. O'Connor had said sternly. +"After all, we have no reports of it--but that means little. Our +search has only begun." + +"Oh," Malone had said. "Sure." + +"Matter, controlled by thought, might bridge distances +instantaneously," Dr. O'Connor had said. + +And he'd referred to something, some word... + +_Teleportation._ + +That was it. Malone sat back. All you had to do, he reflected, was to +think yourself somewhere else, and--bing!--you were there. If Malone +had been able to do it, it would not only have saved him a lot of time +and trouble, but also such things as cab fare and train fare and ... +oh, a lot of different things. + +But he couldn't. And Dr. O'Connor hadn't found anyone else who could, +either. As far as Malone knew, nobody could teleport. + +Except Mike Fueyo. + +The cab stopped in front of FBI headquarters. "You some kind of secret +agent?" the cabbie said. "Like on 3-D?" + +"Of course not," Malone said pleasantly. "I'm a foreign spy." + +"Oh," the cabbie said. "Sure." He took his money with a somewhat +puzzled air, while Malone crossed the sidewalk and went into the +building. + +Everyone was active. Malone pushed his way through arguing knots of +men until he reached the small office which he and Boyd had been +assigned. He had already decided not to tell Boyd about the +disappearing boy. That would only confuse him, and matters were +confused enough as they stood. Malone had no proof; he had only his +word and the word of a few baffled policemen, all of whom were +probably thoroughly confused by now. + +Boyd had a job to do, and Malone had decided to let him go on doing +it. That, as a matter of fact, was what he was doing when Malone +entered the room. + +He was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone. Malone couldn't +see the face on the screen, but Boyd was scowling at it fiercely. +"Sure," he said. "So some guy makes a fuss. That's what you're there +for." + +"But he wants to sue the city," a voice said tinnily. "Or somebody, +anyhow." + +"Let him sue," Boyd said. "We've got authority. Just get that car." + +"Look," the voice said. "I--" + +"I don't care now," Boyd snapped. "Get it. Then hand it over to the +pickup squad and say, 'Mr. Malone wants this car immediately.' They'll +know what to do. Got that?" + +"Sure, Mr. Boyd," the voice said. "But I don't--" + +"Never mind," Boyd said. "Go ahead and get the job done. The United +States of America is depending on you." With one last scowl, he hung +up and swung around to face Malone. "You gave me a great job," he +said. "I really love it, you know that?" + +"It's got to be done," Malone said in a noncommittal voice. "How's it +going so far?" + +Boyd closed his eyes for a second. "Twenty-three red 1972 Cadillacs to +date--which isn't bad, I suppose," he said. "And six calls like the +one you just heard. All from agents with problems. What _am_ I +supposed to do when a guy catches a couple necking in a 1972 red +Cadillac?" + +"At this time of day?" Malone said. + +"New York," Boyd said, and shrugged. "Things are funny here." + +Malone nodded. "What did you do about them?" he said. + +"Told the agent to take the car and give 'em a pass to a movie," Boyd +said. + +"Good," Malone said. "Keep that sort of thing in the dark where it +belongs." For some reason, this reminded him of Dorothy. He still had +to get tickets for a show. But that could wait. "How about the +assembly line?" he said. + +"Disassembly," Boyd said. "Leibowitz has started it going. He borrowed +the use of a big auto repair shop out in Jersey City, and they'll be +doing a faster job than we thought." He paused. "But it's been a +wonderful day," he said. "One to remember as long as I live. Possibly +even until tomorrow. And how have you been doing?" + +"Well," Malone said, "I'm not absolutely sure yet." + +"That's a nice helpful answer," Boyd said. "In the best traditions of +the FBI." + +"I can't help it," Malone said. "It's true." + +"Well, what the hell have you been doing?" Boyd said. "Drinking? +Helling around? Living it up while I sit here and talk to people about +Cadillacs?" + +"Not exactly," Malone said. "I've been--well, doing more or less what +Burris told me to do. Nosing around. Keeping my eyes open. I think--" + +The phone chimed. Boyd flipped up the mike and eyed the screen +balefully. "Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said crisply. "Who +the hell are you?" + +A voice on the other end said, "What?" before the image on the screen +cleared. + +"Federal Bureau of Investigation," Boyd said in a perfectly innocent +voice. "Boyd speaking." + +"Oh," a voice said. It was a very calm, quiet voice. "Hello, Boyd." + +The image cleared. Boyd was facing the picture of a man in his middle +thirties, a brown-haired man with large, gentle brown eyes and an +expression that somehow managed to look both sad and confident. +"Hello, Dr. Leibowitz," Boyd said. + +"Is Mr. Malone in?" Leibowitz said. "I really wanted to talk to him." + +"Sure," Boyd said. "Just a second." + +He motioned to Malone, who came around and sat at Boyd's desk as Boyd +got up. He nodded to Leibowitz, and the electronics engineer nodded +back. + +"How's everything coming, Dr. Leibowitz?" Malone said. + +Leibowitz shrugged meaningfully. "All right," he said. "I called you +to tell you about that, by the way. We've managed to cut the per-car +time down somewhat." + +"That's wonderful," Malone said. + +"It's now down to about four hours per car, and that means we may be +able to do even better than running one off the line every fifteen +minutes. At the moment, fifteen minutes is about standard, though, +with sixteen cars in the line." + +"Sure," Malone said. "But anything you can do to speed it up--" + +"I understand," Leibowitz said. "Of course I'll do anything that I can +for you. I have got a small preliminary report, by the way." + +"Yes?" + +"The first car has just been run off the assembly line," Leibowitz +said. "And I'm afraid, Mr. Malone, that there's nothing odd about it +at all." + +"Well," Malone said, "we can't expect to hit the jackpot with our +first try." + +"Certainly not," Leibowitz said. "But the second should be off soon. +And then the rest. I'm keeping my eye on every one, of course." + +"Fine," Malone said, and meant it. Leibowitz was the kind of man who +inspired instant and complete trust. Malone was perfectly sure he'd do +the job he had started to do. Then an idea struck him. "Has the first +car been reassembled yet?" he asked. + +"Of course," Leibowitz said. "We took that step into account in our +timing. What would you like done with it--and with the other ones, as +they come off?" + +"Unless you can find something odd about a car, just return it to its +owner," Malone said. "Or pass the problem on to the squad men; they'll +take care of it." He paused. "If you do find something odd--" + +"I'll call you at once, of course," Leibowitz said. + +"Good," Malone said. "Incidentally, I did want to ask you something. I +don't want you to think I'm doubting your work, or anything like that. +Believe me." + +"I'm sure you're not," Leibowitz said. + +"But," Malone said, "why does it take so long? I'd think it would be +fairly easy to spot a robotic or a semi-robotic brain capable of +controlling a car." + +"It might have been, once," Leibowitz said. "But these days the +problems are rather special. Oh, I don't mean we can't do it--we can +and we will. But with subminiaturization, Mr. Malone, and semipsionic +circuits, a pretty good brain can be hidden beneath a coat of paint." + +For no reason at all, Malone suddenly thought of Dorothy again. "A +coat of paint?" he said in a disturbed tone. + +"Certainly," Leibowitz said, and smiled at him. It was a warm smile +that had little or nothing to do with the problem they were talking +about. But Malone liked it. It made him feel as if Leibowitz liked +him, and approved of him. He grinned back. + +"But a coat of paint isn't very much," Malone said. + +"It doesn't have to be very much," Leibowitz said. "Not these days. +I've often told Emily--that's my wife, Mr. Malone--that I could hide a +TV circuit under her lipstick. Not that there would be any use in it; +but the techniques are there. Mr. Malone. And if your conjecture is +correct, someone is using them." + +"Oh," Malone said. "Sure. But you _can_ find the circuits, if they're +there?" + +Leibowitz nodded slowly. "We can, Mr. Malone," he said. "They betray +themselves. A microcircuit need not be more than a few microns thick, +you see--as far as the conductors and insulators are concerned, at any +rate. But the regulators-transistors and such--have to be as big as a +pinhead." + +"Enormous, huh?" Malone said. + +"Well," Leibowitz said, and chuckled, "quite large enough to locate +without trouble, at any rate. They're very hard to conceal. And the +leads from the brain to the power controls are even easier to +find--comparatively speaking, of course." + +"Of course," Malone said. + +"All the brain does, you see," Leibowitz said, "is control the +mechanism that steers the car. But it takes real power to steer--a +great deal more than it does to compute the steering." + +"I see," Malone, who didn't, said desperately. "In other words, unless +something radically new has been developed, you can find the +circuits." + +"Right," Leibowitz said, grinning. "It would have to be something very +new indeed, Mr. Malone. We're up on most of the latest developments +here; we've got to be. But I don't want you giving me the credit for +this." + +"No?" Malone said. + +"Oh, no," Leibowitz said. "All I do is work out the general +application to theory, as far as actual detection is concerned. It's +my partner, Mr. Hardin, who takes care of all the engineering +details." + +Malone said, "Well, so long as one of you--" + +"Sal's a real crackerjack," Leibowitz said enthusiastically. "He had +an intuitive feel about these things. It's really amazing to watch him +go to work." + +"It must be," Malone said politely. + +"Oh, it really is," Leibowitz said. "And it's because of Sal that I +can make the guarantee I do make: that if there are any unusual +circuits in those cars, we can find them." + +"Thanks," Malone said. "I'm sure you'll do the job. And we need that +information. Don't bother to send along a detailed report, though, +unless you find something out of the ordinary." + +"Of course, Mr. Malone," Leibowitz said. "I wouldn't have bothered you +except for the production speed-up here." + +"I understand," Malone said. "It's perfectly all right. I'll be +hearing from you, then?" + +"Certainly, Mr. Malone," Leibowitz said. + +Malone cut the circuit at once and started to turn away, but he never +got the chance. It started to chime again at once. + +"Federal Bureau of Investigation," Malone said as he flipped up the +receiver. He wanted badly to copy Boyd's salutation, but he found that +he just didn't have the gall to do it, and said sadly instead, "Malone +speaking." + +There was no immediate answer from the other party. Instead, the +screen slowly cleared, showing Malone the picture of a woman he +recognized instantly. + +It was Juanita Fueyo, Mike's mother. + +Malone stared at her. It seemed to him as if a couple of hours passed +while he tried to find his voice. Of course, she'd looked up the FBI +number in the phone book, and found him that way. But she was about +the last person on earth from whom he'd expected a call. + +"Oh, Mr. Malone," she said, "thank you so much. You got my Mike back +from the police." + +Malone gulped. "I did?" he said. "Well, I--" + +"But, Mr. Malone, you must help me again. Because now my Mike says he +must not stay at home! He is leaving, he is leaving right away!" + +"Leaving?" Malone said. + +He thought of a thousand things to do. He could send a squad of men to +arrest Mike. And Mike could disappear while they were trying to get +hold of him. He could go down himself--and be greeted, if he knew Mike +Fueyo, with another giant economy-size raspberry. He could try to +plead with Mike on the phone. + +And what good would that do? + +So, instead, he just sat and stared while Mrs. Fueyo went right on. + +"He says he will send me money, but money is nothing compared to my +own boy, my own Mike. He says he must go away, Mr. Malone, but I know +you can stop him. I know it!" + +"Sure," Malone said. "But I--" + +"Oh, I knew that you would," Mrs. Fueyo shrieked. She almost came +through the screen at him. "You are a great man, Mr. Malone. I will +say many prayers for you. Every day I will pray for you in all your +work. I will never stop praying for you because you help me." Her +voice and face changed abruptly. "Excuse me now," she said. "I must go +back to work." + +"Well," Malone said, "if I--" + +Then she turned back and beamed at him again. "Oh, thank you, Mr. +Malone. Thank you with the thanks of a mother. Bring my boy back to +me." + +And the image faded and died. + +Boyd tapped Malone on the shoulder. "I didn't know you were involved +in an advice column for the lovelorn," he said. + +"I'm not," Malone said sourly. + +Boyd sighed. "I'll bite," he said. "Who was that?" + +Malone thought of several possible answers and finally chose one. +"That," he said, "was my mother-in-law. She worries about me every +time I go out on a job with you." + +"Very funny," Boyd said. "I am screaming with laughter." + +"Just get back to work, Tommy-boy," Malone said, "and leave everything +to me." + +He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. Lighting a +cigarette--and wishing he were alone in his own room, so that he could +smoke a cigar and not have to worry about looking dashing and +alert--Malone strolled out of the office with a final wave to Boyd. He +was thinking about Mike Fueyo, and he stopped his chain of reasoning +just long enough to look in at the office of the Agent-in-Charge, and +ask him to pry loose two tickets for _The Hot Seat_ for that night. + +"My God," the agent said. He was a tall thin man who looked as if he +suffered from chronic stomach trouble. "You must be crazy. Are they +all like that in Washington?" + +"No," Malone said cheerfully. "Some of them are pretty normal. There's +this one man--Napoleon, we call him--who keeps insisting that he +should have won the battle of Waterloo. But otherwise he's perfectly +fine." + +He flicked his cigarette in the air and left, grinning. Five steps +away the grin disappeared and a frown took its place. + + + 6 + +He walked along 69th Street to Park Avenue without noticing where he +was going. Luckily, the streets weren't really crowded, and Malone +only had to apologize twice, once for stepping on a man's toe and once +for absently toeing a woman's dog. When he reached the corner he +headed downtown, humming _Kathleen Mavourneen_ under his breath and +trying to figure out his next move. + +He needed more than one move. He needed a whole series of moves. This +was not the usual kind of case. Burris had called it a vacation and, +in one way, Malone supposed, Burris was perfectly right. For once +there was no question about who had committed the crimes. It was +obvious by now that Mike Fueyo and his Silent Spooks had been stealing +the Cadillacs. + +It was even obvious that Mike--or someone with Mike's talent--had +bopped him on the head, and taken the red Cadillac he had been +examining. And the same gang probably accounted for the Sergeant +Jukovsky affair, too. + +Or at least it was reasonable to assume that they did, Malone thought. +He could see how it had worked. One of the Silent Spooks was a lot +smaller than a grown man, and the two cops who hadn't seen anyone in +the parked car just hadn't been able to catch sight of the undersized +driver. Of course, there _had_ been someone in the car when it had +been driving along the West Side Highway. Someone who had teleported +himself right out of the car when it had gone over the embankment. + +That, of course, meant that there would be no secret machines found in +the red Cadillacs Leibowitz and Hardin were examining now. But Malone +had already decided to let that phase of things go on. First of all, +it was always possible that he was wrong, and that some such machine +really did exist. Second, even if they didn't find a machine, they +might find something else. Almost anything, he thought, might turn up. + +And third, it kept Boyd decently busy, and out of Malone's hair. + +That had been an easy solution. And, Malone thought, the problem of +who had been taking the red Cadillacs looked just as easy now, if his +answers were right. And he was reasonably sure of that. + +Unfortunately, he was now left with a new and unusual question: _How +do you catch a teleport?_ + +Malone looked up, jarred to a stop by a man built like a brown bear, +with a chunky body and an oval, slightly sloping head and face. He had +very short brown hair shot through with gray, and gave Malone a small +inquisitive stare and looked away without a word. + +Malone mumbled, "Sorry," and looked up at the street sign. He was at +47th Street and Park Avenue. He jerked a hand up to his face, and +managed to hook the chunky man by the suit. It fell away, exposing the +initials S.M. carefully worked into his shirt. Second Mistake, Malone +thought wildly, muttered, "Sorry," again and turned west, feeling +fairly grateful to the unfortunate bystander. + +He had reminded Malone of one thing. If he wanted to get even a part +of his plan past the drawing-board stage, he had to make a call in a +hurry. + +He found a phone booth in a bar called the Ad Lib, at Madison Avenue. +Sternly telling himself that he was stopping there to make a phone +call, a business phone call, and not to have a drink, he marched right +past the friendly bartender and went into the phone booth, where he +made a call to New York Police Commissioner John Henry Fernack. + +Fernack's face was that of an old man, but there was no telling how +old. The early seventies was one guess, Malone imagined; the late +fifties might be another. He looked tough, as if he had spent all of +his life trying to persuade other people that he was young enough for +the handball tournament. When he saw Malone, his eyebrows lifted +slightly, but he didn't say anything. + +"Commissioner," Malone said, "I called to ask you to do me a favor." + +There was caution hidden in the calm and quiet voice. "Well," Fernack +said, "what is it, Malone?" + +"Can you have all the robberies for a given period run through the +computer?" Malone said. "I need some dope." + +"Depends on the given period," Fernack said. "I can't do it for 1774." + +"What would I need data on robberies in 1774 for?" Malone said, +honestly interested. + +"I never question the FBI," Fernack said soberly. "But what dates do +you want?" + +"The past year, maybe the past year and a half." + +"And what data?" + +"I want every reported crime that hasn't been solved," Malone said, +"and which seems to have been committed by some impossible means. A +safe that was robbed without being opened, for instance--that's the +kind of thing I mean." + +"Every unsolved crime?" Fernack said. "Now, hold your horses, Malone. +I'm not at all sure that--" + +"Don't worry about a thing, Commissioner," Malone said. "This is +confidential." + +"You know how I'd feel about this if word ever got out to--" + +"I said confidential, John Henry," Malone said, trying to sound +friendly and trustworthy. "After all, every place has unsolved crimes. +Even the FBI isn't absolutely perfect." + +"Oh," Fernack said. "Sure. But confidential, Malone." + +"You have my word," Malone said sincerely. + +Fernack said, "Well--" + +"How fast can you get me the dope?" Malone said. + +"I don't exactly know," Fernack said. "The last time anything even +remotely like this was run through--departmental survey, but you +wouldn't be interested--it took something like eight hours." + +"Fine," Malone said. "Eight hours, then. I'll look everything over and +if we need a second run-through it won't take too long. I'll let you +know as soon as I can about that." He grinned into the phone. + +Fernack cleared his throat and asked delicately, "Mind telling me what +all this is for?" + +Malone offered up a little prayer before answering, and when he did +answer it was in his softest and friendliest tones. "I'd rather not +say just now, John Henry." + +"But, Malone--" Fernack's voice sounded a little strained, and his jaw +set just a trifle--"if you--" + +Malone knew perfectly well how Fernack reacted when he didn't get a +bit of information he wanted. And this was no time to set off any +fireworks in the commissioner's office. "Look, John Henry," he said +gently, "I'll tell you as soon as I can. Honest. But this is +classified information; it's not my fault." + +Fernack said, "But--" and apparently realized that argument was not +going to do him any good. "All right, Malone," he said at last. "I'll +have it for you as soon as possible." + +"Great," Malone said. "Then I'll see you later." + +"Sure," Fernack said. He paused, as if he were about to open the +controversy just once more. But all he said was "So long, Malone." + +Malone breathed a great sigh of relief and flipped the phone off. He +stepped out of the booth feeling so proud of himself that he could +barely walk. Not only had he managed to calm down Commissioner +Fernack, he had also walked right past a bar on the way to the phone. +He had performed several acts, he felt, above and beyond the call of +duty, and he told himself that he deserved a reward. + +Happily, the reward was convenient to hand. He went to the bar and +beckoned the bartender over to him. "Bourbon and soda," he said. "And +a medal, if possible." + +"A what?" the bartender said. + +"A medal," Malone said. "For conduct beyond reproach." + +The bartender nodded sadly. "Maybe you just ought to go home, Mac," he +said. "Sleep it off for a while." + +New Yorkers, Malone decided as the bartender went off to get his +drink, had no sense of humor. Back in Chicago--where he'd been more or +less weaned on gin, and discovered that, unlike his father, he didn't +much care for the stuff--and even in Washington, people didn't go +around accusing you of drunkenness just because you made some harmless +little pleasantry. + +Oh, well. Malone drank his drink and went out into the afternoon +sunlight. + +He considered the itinerary of the magical Miguel Fueyo. He had gone +straight home from the police station, apparently, and had then told +his mother that he was going to leave home. But he had promised to +send her money. + +Of course, money was easy for Mike to get. With a shudder, Malone +thought he was beginning to realize just _how_ easy. Houdini had once +boasted that no bank vault could hold him. In Mike Fueyo's case, that +was just doubly true. The vault could neither hold him out nor keep +him in. + +But he was going to leave home. + +Malone said, "Hmm," to himself, cleared his throat and tried it again. +By now he was at the corner of the block, where he nearly collided +with a workman who was busily stowing away a gigantic ladder, a pot of +paint, and a brush. Malone looked at the street sign, where the words +_Avenue of the Americas_ had been painted out, and _Sixth Avenue_ +hand-lettered in. + +"They finally give in," the painter told him. "But do you think they +buy new signs? Nah. Cheap. That's all they are. Cheap as pretzels." He +gave Malone a friendly push with one end of the ladder and disappeared +into the crowd. + +Malone didn't have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. And +how cheap could a pretzel be, anyhow? Malone didn't remember ever +having seen an especially tight-fisted one. + +New York, he decided for the fifteenth time, was a strange place. + +He walked downtown for a block, still thinking about Mike Fueyo, and +absently turned west again. Between Sixth and Seventh, he had another +attack of brilliance and began looking for another phone booth. + +He found one in a Mexican bar named the Xochitl, across the street +from the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin. It was a coincidence that he +had landed in another bar, he told himself hopefully, but he didn't +quite believe it. To prove it to himself, he headed straight for the +phone booths again and put in his call, ignoring the blandishments of +several rows of sparkling bottles which he passed on the way. + +He dialed the number of Lieutenant Lynch's precinct, and then found +himself connected with a new desk sergeant. + +"I'm Malone," he said. "I want to talk to Lynch." + +"Glad to know you, Malone," the desk sergeant said pleasantly. "Only +_Lieutenant_ Lynch doesn't want to subscribe to the Irish _Echo_!" + +"Damn it," Malone said, "I'm the FBI." He showed his badge. + +The desk sergeant took a good long look at it. "Maybe you are, and +maybe you aren't," he said at last. + +"Does the lieutenant know you?" + +"We were kids together," Malone said. "We're brothers. Siamese twins. +Put him on the phone." + +"Wait a minute," said the desk sergeant. "I'll check." + +The screen went blank for two agonizing minutes before it cleared +again to show Lynch's face. + +"Hello, Mr. Malone," Lynch said formally. "Have you found some new +little trick to show up poor stupid policemen? Like, say, making +yourself vanish?" + +"I'll make the whole damn police force vanish," Malone said, "in a +couple of minutes. I called to ask a favor." + +"Anything," Lynch said. "Anything within my poor power. Whatever I +have is yours. Whither thou goest--" + +"Knock it off," Malone said, and then grinned. After all, there was no +sense in making an enemy out of Lynch. + +Lynch blinked, took a deep breath, and said in an entirely different +voice, "Okay, Malone. What's the favor?" + +"Do you still have that list of Silent Spooks?" Malone said. + +"Sure I do," Lynch said. "Why? I gave you a copy of it." + +"I can't do this job," Malone said. "You'll have to.". + +"Yes, sir," Lynch said, and saluted. + +"Just listen," Malone said. "I want you to check up on every kid on +that list." + +"And what are we supposed to do when we find them?" Lynch said. + +"That's the trouble," Malone said. "You won't." + +"And why not?" + +"I'll lay you ten to one," Malone said, "that every one of them has +skipped out. Left home. Without giving a forwarding address." + +Lynch nodded slowly. "Ten to one?" he said. "Want to make that a money +bet? Or does the FBI frown on gambling?" + +"Ten dollars to your one," Malone said. "Okay?" + +"Made," Lynch said. "You've got the bet--just for the hell of it, +understand." + +"Oh, sure," Malone said. + +"And where can I call you to collect?" + +Malone shook his head. "You can't," he said. "I'll call you." + +"I will wait with anxiety," Lynch said. "But it had better be before +eight. I get off then." + +"If I can make it," Malone said. + +"If you can't," Lynch said, "call me at home." He gave Malone the +number, and then added, "Whatever information I get, I can keep for my +own use this time, can't I?" + +"Hell," Malone said, "you've already got all the information you're +going to get. I just gave it to you." + +"That," Lynch said, "we'll see." + +"I'll call to collect my money," Malone said. + +"Well talk about it later," Lynch said. "Farewell, old pal." + +"Flights of angels," Malone said, "sing thee to thy rest." + +Malone replaced the microphone and headed for the door. Halfway there, +however, he stopped. He hadn't had any tequila in a long time, and he +thought he owed it to himself. He felt he had come out ahead in his +exchange with Lynch, and another medal was in order. + +Only a small one, though. He told himself that he would order one +tequila and quit. Besides, he had to meet Dorothy. + +He sat down on one of the tall bar stools. The bartender bustled over +and eyed him speculatively. + +_"Tequila con limon,"_ he said negligently. + +"Ah," the bartender said. _"Si, senor."_ + +Malone waited with ill-concealed impatience. At last it arrived, +Malone took the small glass of tequila in his right hand, with the +slice of lemon held firmly between the index and middle fingers of the +same hand, the rind facing in toward the glass. On the web between the +thumb and forefinger of his left hand he had sprinkled a little salt. +Moving adroitly and with dispatch, he downed the tequila, licked off +the salt, and bit his teeth into the lemon slice. + +It felt better than good; it felt wonderful. He hadn't had such a good +time in years. + +He had three more before he left the Xochitl. + +Then, noticing the time, he moved in a hurry and got out of the bar +before temptation overcame him and he started ordering still more. It +was nearly six o'clock, and he had to meet Dorothy at Topp's. + +He hoped he could find it. + +He headed downtown toward 42nd Street, turned right and, sure enough, +there was a big red sign. It said Topp's. Malone beamed his approval +at it. It was just where it ought to be, and he was grateful. + +He pushed open the glass door of the place and went in. + +The maitre d'hotel was a chunky man with a pleasant face, a receding +hairline and, some distance back on his head, dark curly hair. He +beamed at Malone as if the FBI agent were a long-lost brother. "Table +for one, sir?" he said. + +"No," Malone said, peering into the place. It was much bigger than he +had expected. "No," he said again. "I guess I'll just have a drink at +the bar." + +The maitre d' smiled and bowed him to a bar stool. Malone sat down and +looked the place over again. His first glance had shown him that +Dorothy wasn't there yet, but he saw no harm in making sure. _Always +be careful of your facts_, he admonished himself a little fuzzily. + +There were a lot of women in the place, but they were all with +escorts. Some of them had two escorts, and Malone wondered about them. +Were they drunk, or was he? It was obvious that someone was seeing +double, but Malone wasn't quite sure who. + +He stared at his face in the bar mirror for a few seconds, and ordered +a bourbon and soda when a bartender came over and occluded the image. +The bartender went away and Malone went on studying himself. + +He wasn't bad looking for an FBI agent. He was taller than his father, +anyway, and less heavily built. That was one good thing. As a matter +of fact, Malone told himself, he was really a pretty good-looking guy. + +So why did women keep him waiting? + +He heard her voice before he saw her. But she wasn't talking to him. + +"Hello, Milty," she said. "How's everything?" + +Malone turned around to get a look at Milty. He turned out to be the +maitre d'. What did he have that Malone didn't have? the agent asked +himself sourly. Obviously Dorothy was captivated by his charm. Well, +that showed him what city girls were like. Butterflies. Social +butterflies. Flitting hither and yon with the wind, now attracted to +this man, now to that. Once, Malone told himself sadly, he had known +this beautiful woman. Now she belonged to someone else. + +He felt a little bit sad about it, but he told himself to buck up and +learn to live with his tragedy. He drank some more of his bourbon and +soda, and then she noticed him. + +He heard her say, "Oh. Excuse me, Milty. There's my man." She came +over and sat down next to him. + +He wanted to ignore her, just to teach her a lesson. But he had +already turned around and smiled at her, and she smiled back. + +"Hi," she said. "Did you get the tickets?" + +_Tickets._ + +Malone knew there was something he'd forgotten, and now he knew what +it was. "Oh," he said. "Sure. Just a second. I've got to check up." + +"Check up?" + +"Friend of mine," Malone improvised hurriedly. "Bringing them." He +gave Dorothy a big smile and climbed down off the bar stool. He +managed to find a phone booth, and dialed FBI headquarters on 69th +Street and blessed several saints when he found that the A-in-C was +still there. + +"Tickets," Malone said. + +The Agent-in-Charge blinked at him. "What tickets?" he said. + +"The _Hot Seat_ tickets," Malone said. "Did you get 'em?" + +"I got 'em," the Agent-in-Charge said sourly. "Had to chase all over +town and pull more wires than there are on a grand piano. But they +turned up, brother. Two seats. Do you know what a job like that +entails?" + +"I'm grateful," Malone said. "I'm hysterical with gratitude." + +"I'd rather track down a gang of fingerless second-story men than go +through that again," the Agent-in-Charge said. He looked as if his +stomach trouble had suddenly gotten a great deal worse. Malone thought +that the A-in-C was considering calling a doctor, and would probably +decide to make it the undertaker instead, and save the price of a +call. + +"I can't express my gratitude," Malone told him. "Where are they? +Where do I pick them up?" + +"Box office," the A-in-C said sourly. "I tell you, everybody in +Washington must be nuts. The things I have to go through--" + +"Thanks," Malone said. "Thanks a lot. Thanks a million. If there's +ever anything I can do for you, let me know and I'll do it." He hung +up and went back to the bar, walking very carefully. + +"Well?" Dorothy said. "Where do we go tonight? Joe's hot-dog stand? Or +a revival of _The Wild Duck_ in a loft on Bleecker Street?" + +There was pride in Malone's manner as he stood there on his feet. +There was just a touch of hauteur as he said, "We'll see _Hot Seat_." + +And he was repaid for all of the Agent-in-Charge's efforts. Dorothy's +eyes went wide with appreciation and awe. "My goodness," she said. "A +man of his word--and what a tough word, too! Mr. Malone, I +congratulate you." + +"Nothing," Malone said. "A mere absolute nothing." + +"Nothing, the man says," Dorothy muttered. "My goodness. And modest, +too. Tell me, how do you do, Mr. Malone?" + +"Me?" Malone said. "Very well, so far." He finished his drink. "And +you?" + +"I work at it," she said cryptically. + +"May I have another drink?" + +Malone gave her a grin. "Another?" he said. "Have two. Have a dozen." + +"And what," she said, "would I do with a dozen drinks? Don't answer. I +think I can guess. But let's just take them one at a time, okay?" She +signaled to the bartender. "Wally, I'll have a martini. And Mr. Malone +will have whatever it is he has, I imagine." + +"Bourbon and soda," Malone said, and gave the bartender a grin too, +just to make sure he didn't feel left out. The sun was shining +(although it was evening outside), and the birds were singing +(although, Malone reflected, catching a bird on 42nd Street and +Broadway might take a bit of doing), and all was well with the world. + +There was only a tiny, nagging, disturbing thought in his mind. It had +to do with Mike Fueyo and the Silent Spooks, and a lot of red +Cadillacs. But he pushed it resolutely away. It had nothing to do with +the evening he was about to spend. Nothing at all. + +After all, this _was_ supposed to be a vacation, wasn't it? + +"Well, Mr. Malone," Dorothy said, when the drinks had arrived. + +"Very well indeed," Malone said, raising his. "And just call me Ken. +Didn't I tell you that once before?" + +"You did," she said. "And I asked you to call me Dorothy. Not Dotty. +Try and remember that." + +"I will remember it," Malone said, "just as long as ever I live. You +don't look the least bit dotty, anyhow. Which is probably more than +anybody could say for me." He started to look at himself in the bar +mirror again, and decided not to. "By the way," he added, as a sudden +thought struck him. "Dotty what?" + +"Now," she said. "There you go doing it." + +"Doing what?" + +"Calling me that name." + +"Oh," Malone said. "Make it Dorothy. Dorothy what?" He blinked. "I +mean, I know you've got a last name. Dorothy Something. Only it +probably isn't Something. What is it?" + +"Francis," she said obligingly. "Dorothy Francis. My middle name is +Something, in case you ever want to call me by my middle name. Just +yell, 'Hey, Something,' and I'll come a-running. Unless I have +something else to do. In which case everything will be very simple: I +won't come." + +"Ah," Malone said doubtfully. "And what do--" + +"What do I do?" she said. "A standard question. Number two of a +series. I do modeling. Photographic modeling. And that's not all; I +also do commercials on 3-D. If I look familiar to you, it's probably +because you've seen me on 3-D. Do I look familiar to you?" + +"I never watch 3-D," Malone said, crestfallen. + +"Fine," Dorothy said unexpectedly. "You have excellent taste." + +"Well," Malone said, "it's just that I never seem to get the time--" + +"Don't apologize for it," Dorothy said. "I have to appear on it, but I +don't have to like it. And now that I've answered your questions, how +about answering some of mine." + +"Gladly," Malone said. "The inmost secrets of the FBI are yours for +the asking." + +"Hmm," Dorothy said slowly. "What do you do as an FBI agent, anyhow? +Dig up spies?" + +"Oh, no," Malone said. "We've got enough trouble with the live ones. +We don't go around digging anybody up. Believe me." He paused, feeling +dimly that the conversation was beginning to get out of control. "Have +I told you that you are the most beautiful woman I've ever met?" he +said at last. + +"No," Dorothy said. "Not yet, anyway. But I was expecting it." + +"You were?" Malone said, disappointed. + +"Certainly," Dorothy said. "You've been drinking. As a matter of fact, +you've managed to get quite a head start." + +Malone hung his head guiltily. "True," he said in a low voice. "Too +true. Much too true." + +Dorothy nodded, downed her drink and waved to the bartender. "Wally, +bring me a double this time." + +"A double?" + +"Sure," Dorothy said. "I've got to do some fast catching-up on Mr. +Malone here." + +"Call me Ken," Malone muttered. + +"Don't be silly," Dorothy told him. "Wally hardly knows you. He'll +call you Mr. Malone and like it." + +The bartender went away, and Malone sat on his stool and thought +busily for a minute. At last he said, "If you really want to catch up +with me..." + +"Yes?" Dorothy said. + +"Better have a triple," Malone muttered. + +Dorothy's eyebrows rose slightly. + +"Because I intend to have another one," Malone added. "And even then +you'll be just a little behind." + +"That sounds sort of sad, in a way," Dorothy said. "Just a little +behind. Tell me, is that a compliment or an insult?" + +"Both," Malone said instantly. "And an observation, too." + +Dorothy nodded. "I can see why you're a Federal cop," she said. + +"Really?" Malone said. "I didn't know it showed. Why?" + +"You're good at observing," she said. "Like this morning, for +instance." + +"Ah," Malone said. He searched in his mind for a quotation and found +it. "If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee," he +said triumphantly. + +"Sounds sort of grisly," Dorothy said. + +Malone shrugged. "I can't help it," he said. "That's what it says." + +"Well?" Dorothy said. "Did you?" + +"Did I what?" + +"Pluck your eye out and cast it from you?" + +"Didn't have to," Malone said. "Mine eye did not offend me." He +blinked and added, "Far from it." + +"I guess we'll just have to leave it unplucked," Dorothy said sadly. +"It didn't offend me, either." + +"Good," Malone said, and the bartender brought drinks. + +Malone picked his up and held it in the air. "I propose a toast," he +said. + +Dorothy picked up her glass. "A toast?" + +"An old German toast, as a matter of fact," Malone said. + +He fell silent. After a few seconds Dorothy said, "Well? Go ahead." + +_"Zwieback!"_ Malone said, bowed carefully to Dorothy and drained his +glass with a flourish. + + + 7 + +It started a million years ago. + +In that distant past, a handful of photons deep in the interior of Sol +began their random journey to the photosphere. They had been born as +ultrahard gamma radiation, and they were positively bursting with +energy, attempting to push their respective ways through the dense +nucleonic gas that had been their womb. Within millimicroseconds, they +had been swallowed up by the various particles surrounding +them--swallowed, and emitted again, as the particles met in violent +collision. + +And then the process was repeated. After a thousand thousand years, +and billions on billions of such repetitions, the handful of photons +reached the relatively cool photosphere of the sun. But the long +battle had taken some of the drive out of them; over the past million +years, even the strongest had become only hard ultraviolet, and the +weakest just sputtered out in the form of long radio waves. + +But now, at last, they were free! And in the first flush of this +newfound freedom, they flung themselves over ninety-three million +miles of space, traveling at one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles +a second, and making the entire trip in less than eight and one-half +minutes. + +They struck the earth's ionosphere, and their numbers diminished. The +hard ultraviolet was gobbled up by ozone; much of the blue was +scattered through the atmosphere. The remainder bore steadily onward. + +Down through the air they came, only slightly weakened this time. They +hit the glass of a window in the Hotel New Yorker, losing more of +their members in the plunge. + +And, a few feet from the glass, they ended their million-year epic by +illuminating a face. + +The face responded to them with something less than pleasure. It was +clear that the face did not like being illuminated. The light was very +bright, much too bright. It seemed to be searing its way through the +face's closed eyelids, right past the optic nerves into the brain-pan +itself. The face twisted in a sudden spasm, as if its brain were +shriveling with heat. Its owner thoughtfully turned over, and the face +sought the seclusion and comparative darkness of a pillow. + +Unfortunately, the motion brought the face's owner to complete +wakefulness. He did not want to be awake, but he had very little +choice in the matter. Even though his face was no longer being +illuminated, he could feel other rays of sunlight eating at the back +of his head. He put the pillow over his head and felt more comfortable +for a space, but this slight relief passed, too. + +He thought about mausoleums. Mausoleums were nice, cool, dark places +where there was never any sun or heat, and never any reason to wake +up. Maybe, he told himself cunningly, if he went to sleep again he +would wake up dead, in a mausoleum. That, he thought, would be nice. + +Death was nice and pleasant. Unfortunately, he realized, he was not +dead. And there was absolutely no chance of his ever getting back to +sleep. He finally rolled over again, being very careful to avoid any +more poisonous sunlight. Getting up was an even more difficult +process, but Malone knew it had to be managed. Somehow he got his feet +firmly planted on the floor and sat up. + +It had been a remarkable feat, he told himself. He deserved a medal. + +That reminded him of the night before. He had been thinking quite a +lot about the medals he deserved for various feats. He had even +awarded some of them to himself, in the shape of liquid decoctions. + +He remembered all that quite well. There were a lot of cloudy things +in his mind, but from all the testimony he could gather, he imagined +that he'd had quite a time the night before. Quite a wonderful time, +as a matter of fact. + +Not that that reflection did anything for him now. As he opened his +eyes, one at a time, he thought of Boyd. Once, long ago, ages and ages +ago, he had had to wake Boyd up, and he recalled how rough he had been +about it. That had been unforgivable. + +He made a mental note to apologize to Boyd the next time he saw +him--if he could ever see again. Now, he knew how Boyd had felt. And +it was terrible. + +Still sitting on the bed, he told himself that, in spite of +everything, he was lucky. To judge by his vague memories, he'd had +quite a time the night before, and if the hangover was payment for it, +then he was willing to accept the payment. Almost. Because it had +really been a terrific time. The only nagging thought in his mind was +that there had been something vital he'd forgotten. + +"Tickets," he said aloud, and was surprised that his voice was +audible. As a matter of fact, it was too audible; the noise made him +wince slightly. He shifted his position very quietly. + +And he hadn't forgotten the tickets. No. He distinctly remembered +going to see _The Hot Seat_, and finding seats, and actually sitting +through the show with Dorothy at his side. He couldn't honestly say +that he remembered much of the show itself, but that couldn't be the +important thing he'd forgotten. By no means. + +He had heard that it was a good show, though. Sometime, he reminded +himself, he would have to get tickets and actually see it. + +He checked through the evening. Drinks. Dinner ... he had had dinner, +hadn't he? Yes, he had. He recalled a broiled sea bass looking up at +him with mournful eyes. He couldn't have dreamed anything like that. + +And then the theater, and after that some more drinks ... and so on, +and so on, and so on, right to his arrival back in his hotel room, at +four-thirty in the morning, on a bright, boiled cloud. + +He even remembered arguing with Dorothy about taking her home. She'd +won that round by ducking into a subway entrance, and he had turned +around after she'd left him and headed for home. Had he taken a taxi? + +Yes, Malone decided, he had. He even remembered that. + +Then what had he forgotten? + +He had met Dorothy, he told himself, starting all over again in an +effort to locate the gaps, at six o'clock, right after phoning... + +"My God!" Malone said, and winced. He looked at his watch. It was ten +o'clock in the morning. He had completely forgotten to call Fernack +and Lynch. + +Hangover or no hangover, Malone told himself grimly, there was work to +be done. Somehow, he managed to get to his feet and start moving. + +He checked Boyd's room after a while. But his partner wasn't home. +_Probably at work already_, Malone thought, _while I lie here useless +and helpless._ He thought of the Sermon on the Evils of Alcohol, and +decided he'd better read it to himself instead of delivering it to +Boyd. + +But he didn't waste any time with it. By ten-fifteen he was showered +and shaved, his teeth were brushed, and he was dressed. He felt, he +estimated, about fifteen hundred per cent better. That was still +lousy, but it wasn't quite as bad as it had been. He could move around +and talk and even think a little, if he was careful about it. Before +he left, he took a look at himself in the mirror. + +Well, he told himself, that was nice. + +It hardly showed at all. He looked tired, to be sure, but that was +almost normal. The eyes weren't bloodshot red, and didn't seem to bug +out at all, although Malone would have sworn that they were bleeding +all over his face. His head was its normal size, as near as he +remembered; it was not swollen visibly, or pulsing like a jellyfish at +every move. + +He looked even better than he felt. + +He started for the door, and then stopped himself. There was no need +to go out so early; he could start work right in his own hotel room +and not even have to worry about the streets of New York, the cars or +the pedestrians for a while. + +He thought wistfully about a hair of the hound, decided against it +with great firmness, and sat down to the phone. + +He dialed a number, and the face of Commissioner Fernack appeared +almost at once. Malone forced himself to smile cheerfully, reasonably +sure that he was going to crack something as he did it. "Hello, John +Henry," he said in what he hoped was a good imitation of a happy, +carefree voice. "And how are you this lovely morning?" + +"Me?" Fernack said sourly. "I'm in great shape. Tiptop. Dancing in the +goddamn daisies. Malone, how did you--" + +"Any news for me?" Malone said. + +Fernack waited a long time before he answered, and when he did his +voice was dangerously soft and calm. "Malone," he said, "when you +asked for this survey, just what kind of news did you expect to get?" + +"A godawful lot of impossible crimes," Malone said frankly. "How did I +do, John Henry?" + +"You did damn well," Fernack said. "Too damn well. Listen, Malone, how +could you know about anything like this?" + +Malone blinked. "Well," he said, "we have our sources. Confidential. +Top secret. I'm sure you understand, Commissioner." Hurriedly, he +added, "What does the breakdown look like?" + +"It looks like hell," Fernack said. "About eight months ago, according +to the computer, there was a terrific upswing in certain kinds of +crime. And since then it's been pretty steady, right at the top of the +swing. Hasn't moved down hardly at all." + +"Great," Malone said. + +Fernack stared. "What?" he said. + +"I mean--" Malone stopped, thought of an answer and tried it. "I mean, +that checks out my guess. My information. Sources." + +Fernack seemed to weigh risks in his mind. "Malone, I know you're +FBI," he said at last. "But this sounds pretty fishy to me. Pretty +strange." + +"You have no idea how strange," Malone said truthfully. + +"I'm beginning to," Fernack said. "And if I ever find out that you had +anything to do with this--" + +"Me?" + +"And don't look innocent," Fernack said. "It doesn't succeed in +looking anything but horrible. You remind me of a convicted murderer +trying to steal thirty cents from the prison chaplain." + +"What would I have to do with all these crimes?" Malone said. "And +what kind of crimes were they, anyway?" + +"What you'd have to do with them," Fernack said, "is an unanswered +question. And so long as it remains unanswered, Malone, you're safe. +But when I come up with enough facts to answer it--" + +"Don't be silly. Commissioner," Malone said. "How about those crimes? +What kind were they?" + +"Burglaries," Fernack said. "And I have a hunch you know that well +enough. Most of them were just burglaries--locked barrooms, for +instance, early in the morning. There's never any sign of tampering +with the locks, no sign of breaking and entering, no sign of any +alarms being tampered with in any way. But the money's gone from the +cash register, and all of the liquor is gone too." + +Malone stared. "_All_ the liquor?" he said in a dazed voice. + +"Well," Fernack said, "all of it that's in plain sight, anyway. Except +for the open bottles. Disappeared. Gone. Without a trace. And most of +the time the extra stock's gone too, from the basement or wherever +they happen to keep it." + +"That's a lot of liquor," Malone said. + +"A hell of a lot," Fernack said. "Some of the bars have gone broke, +not being insured against the losses." + +The thought of thousands of bottles of liquor--millions of +bottles--went through Malone's mind like an ice pick. He could almost +see them, handle them, taste them. "Hair of the dog," he muttered. +"What hair. What a dog." + +"What did you say, Malone?" + +"Nothing," Malone said hastily. "Nothing at all." After a second +another query occurred to him. "You mean to tell me that only bars +were robbed? Nothing else?" + +"Oh, no," Fernack said. "Bars are only part of it. Malone, why are you +asking me to tell you this?" + +"Because I want to know," Malone said patiently. + +"I still think--" Fernack began, and then said, "Never mind.. But it +hasn't been only bars. Supermarkets. Homes. Cleaning and tailoring +shops. Jewelers. Hell, Malone, you name it and it's been hit." + +Malone tried valiantly to resist temptation, but he was not at his +best, and he lost. "All right," he said. "I will name it. Here's a +list of places that haven't even been touched by the rising crime +wave. Banks, for one." + +"Malone!" + +"Safes that have been locked, for another," Malone went on. "Homes +with wall safes, though that's not quite accurate. The homes may have +been robbed, but the safes won't have been touched." + +"Malone, how much do you know?" Fernack said. "My God, man--" + +"I'll make a general rule for you," Malone said. "Any place that fits +the following description is safe: it's got a secure lock on it, and +it's too small for a human being to get into." + +Fernack opened his mouth, shut it, and stared downward, obviously +scanning some papers lying on the desk in front of him. Malone waited +patiently for the explosion, but it never came. + +Instead, Fernack said, "You know, Malone, you remind me of an old +friend of mine." + +"Really?" Malone said pleasantly. + +"You certainly do," Fernack said. "There's just one small difference. +You're an FBI man, and he's a crook. If that's a difference." + +"It is," Malone said. "And on behalf of the FBI, I resent the +allegation. And, as a matter of fact, defy the allegator. But that's +neither here nor there," he continued. "If that's the difference, what +are the similarities?" + +Fernack drew in a deep, hissing breath, and when he spoke his voice +was as calm and quiet as a coiled cobra. "The both of you come up with +the goddamnedest answers to things. Things I never knew about or even +cared about before. Things I wish I'd never heard of. Things that +don't have any explanation. And--" He stopped, his face dark in the +screen. Malone wondered what color it was going to turn, and decided +on purple as a good choice. + +"Well?" Malone said at last. + +"And you're always so goddamned right it makes me sick," Fernack +finished flatly. He rubbed a hand through his hair and stared into the +screen at Malone. "How did you know all this stuff?" he said. + +Malone waited one full second, while Fernack got darker and darker on +the screen. When he judged that the color was right, he said quietly, +"I'm prescient. And thanks a lot, John Henry; just send the reports to +me personally, at 69th Street. By messenger. So long." + +He cut the circuit just as Fernack started: "Now, Malone--" + +With a satisfied, somewhat sheepish smile, Malone dialed another +number. This time a desk sergeant told him politely that Lynch wasn't +at the precinct, and wouldn't arrive until noon. + +Malone had Lynch's home number. He dialed it. + +It was a long wait before the lieutenant answered, and he didn't look +much like a police officer when his face finally showed up on the +screen. His hair was uncombed and he was unshaven. His eyes were +slightly bleary, but he was definitely awake. + +"Oh," Malone said. "Hello." + +"Hi, there," Lynch said with enormous cheerfulness. "Old buddy-boy. +Old pal. Old friend." + +"What's wrong?" Malone said. + +"Wrong?" Lynch said. "Nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wanted +to thank you for not waking me up last night. I only waited for your +call until midnight. Then I decided I just wasn't very important to +you. You obviously had much bigger things on your mind." + +"As a matter of fact," Malone said, speculatively eying Lynch's +figure, dressed in a pair of trousers and a T-shirt, "you're right." + +"That's what I thought," Lynch said. "And I decided that, since you +were so terribly busy, it could wait until I woke up. Or even until I +got down to the station. How about it, _buddy-boy_?" + +"Listen, Lynch," Malone said, "we made a bet. Ten to one. I just want +to know if I can come down to collect or not." + +There was a second of silence. + +"All right," Lynch said at last, looking crestfallen. "I owe you a +buck. Every last one of those kids has skipped out on us." + +"Good," Malone said. He wondered briefly just what was good about it, +and decided he'd rather have lost the money to Lynch. But facts, he +reflected, were facts. Thoroughly nasty facts. + +"I spent all night tracing them," Lynch said. "Got nowhere. Nowhere at +all. Malone, how did you know--" + +"Classified," Malone said. "Very classified. But you're sure they're +all gone? Vanished?" + +Lynch's face reddened. "Sure I'm sure," he said. "Every last one of +them is gone. And what more do you want me to do about it?" He paused, +then added, "What do you expect, Malone? Miracles?" + +Malone shook his head gently. "No," he said. "I--" + +"Oh, never mind," Lynch said. "But I--" + +"Look, Malone," Lynch said, "there's a guy who wants to talk to you." + +"One of the Silent Spooks?" Malone said hopefully. + +Lynch shook his head and made a growling noise. "Don't be silly," he +said. "It's just that this guy might have some information, but he +won't say anything to me about it. He's a social worker or something +like that." + +"Social worker?" Malone said. "He works with the kids, right?" + +"I guess," Lynch said. "His name's Kettleman. Albert Kettleman." + +Malone nodded. "Okay," he said. "I'll be right over." + +"Hey," Lynch said, "hold on. He's not here now. What do you think this +is--my house or a reception center?" + +"Sorry," Malone said wearily. "Where and when?" + +"How about three o'clock at the precinct station?" Lynch said. "I can +have him there by then, and you can get together and talk." He paused. +"Nobody likes the cops," he said. "People hear the FBI's mixed up in +this, and they figure the cops are all second-stringers or something." + +"Sorry to hear it," Malone said. + +"I'll bet you are," Lynch told him bitterly. + +Malone shrugged. "Anyway," he said, "I'll see you at three, right?" + +"Right," Lynch said, and Malone flipped off. + +He sat there for a few seconds, grinning quietly. His brain throbbed +like an overheated motor, but he didn't really mind any more. His +theory had been justified, and that was the most important thing. + +The Silent Spooks were all teleports. + +Eight of them--eight kids on the loose, stealing everything they could +lay their hands on, and completely safe. How could you catch a boy who +just disappeared when you started for him? No wonder their names +hadn't appeared on the police blotter, Malone thought. + +Spooks didn't get into trouble. They didn't have to. + +They could get into any place big enough to hold them, take what they +wanted and just disappear. They'd been doing it for about eight +months, according to the figures Malone had received from Fernack; +maybe teleportative ability didn't develop until you were around +fourteen or fifteen. + +But it had developed in these kids--and they were using it in the most +obvious way. They had a sure method of getting away from the cops, and +a sure method of taking anything they wanted. No wonder they had so +much money. + +Malone got up, feeling slightly dazed, and left the hotel room. + + + 8 + +By three o'clock, he was again among the living. Maybe his occupations +had had something to do with it; he'd spent about four hours +supervising Operation Dismemberment, and then listening to the reports +on the dismantled Cadillacs. It was nice, peaceful, unimportant work, +but there just wasn't anything else to do. FBI work was ninety-five +per cent marking time, anyway. Malone felt grateful that there was any +action at all in what he was doing. + +Dr. Leibowitz had found all sort of things in the commandeered +Caddies--everything from guns and narcotics to pornographic pictures +in lots of three hundred, for shipment into New York City from the +suburbs where the processing plant probably was. Of course, there had +been personal effects, too--maps and lucky dolls and, just once, a +single crutch. + +Malone wondered about that for quite a while. Who'd just walk off and +leave one crutch in a car? But people did things like that all the +time, he finally told himself heavily. There wasn't any explanation +for it, and there probably never would be. + +But in spite of the majestic assortment of valuables found in the +cars, there was no sign of anything remotely resembling an +electro-psionic brain. Dr. Leibowitz had found just about everything-- +except what he was looking for. + +At a quarter to three, Malone gave up. The search wasn't quite +finished, but he'd heard enough to last him for a long time. He +grabbed a cab downstairs and went over to Lynch's office to meet +Kettleman. + +The "social worker or something" was a large, balding man about six +feet tall. Malone estimated his weight as close to two hundred and +fifty pounds, and he looked every pound of it; his face was round +without being chubby, and his body was stocky and hard. He wore +black-rimmed glasses, and he was going bald in front. His face was +like a mask; it was held in a gentle, almost eager expression that +Malone would have sworn had nothing to do with the way Kettleman felt +underneath. + +Lynch performed the introductions, escorted the two of them to one of +the interrogation rooms at the rear of the station, and left them +there, with, "If either of you guys comes up with anything, let me +know," for a parting shot. + +Kettleman blinked slowly behind his glasses. "Mr. Malone," he said, "I +understand that the FBI is interested in one of the--ah--adolescent +social groups with which I work." + +"Well, the Silent Spooks," Malone said. "That's right." + +"The Spooks," Kettleman said. His voice was rather higher than Malone +would have expected, oddly breathy without much depth to it. "My, yes. +I did want to talk to somebody about it, and I thought you might be +the man." + +"I'll be interested in anything you have to say," Malone said +diplomatically. He was beginning to doubt whether he'd get any real +information out of Kettleman. But it was impossible to tell. He sat +back in a hard wooden chair and tried to look fascinated. + +"Well," Kettleman said tentatively, "the boys themselves have sort of +a word for it. They'd say that there was something oddball about the +Spooks. Do you understand? Not just the fact that they never drink +liquor, but--" + +"Something strange," Malone said. "Is that what you mean?" + +"Ah," Kettleman said. "_Strange._ Of course." He acted, Malone +thought, as if he had never heard the word before, and was both +pleased and startled by its sound. "Perhaps I had better explain my +position a little more clearly," he said. "That will give you an idea +of just where I 'fit into' this picture." + +"Whatever you think best," Malone said, resigning himself to a very +dull hour. He tried to picture Kettleman in the midst of a gang of +juvenile delinquents. It was very hard to do. + +"I'm a social worker," Kettleman said, "working on an individual basis +with these--social groups that the adolescents have formed. It's my +job to make friends with them, become accepted by them, and try to +turn their hostile impulses toward society into more useful, more +acceptable channels." + +"I see," Malone said, feeling that something was expected of him. +"That's fine." + +"Oh, we don't expect praise, we social workers," Kettleman said +instantly. "The worth of a good job well done, that's enough for us." +He smiled. The effect was a little unsettling, as if a hippopotamus +had begun to laugh like a hyena. "But to continue, Mr. Malone," he +said. + +"Of course," Malone said. "Certainly." + +"I've worked with many of the organizations in this neighborhood," +Kettleman said. "And I've been quite successful in getting to know +them, and in being accepted by them. Of course, the major part of my +job is more difficult, but--well, I'm sure that's enough about my own +background. That isn't what you're interested in, now, is it?" + +He looked penitent. Malone said, "It's all right. I don't mind." He +shifted positions on the hard chair. + +"Well, then," Kettleman said, with the air of a man suddenly getting +down to business. He leaned forward eagerly, his eyes big and bright +behind the lenses. "There's something very peculiar about those boys," +he said in a whisper. + +"Really?" Malone said. + +"Very peculiar indeed," Kettleman said. "My, yes. All of the other +social groups are afraid of them." + +"Big, huh?" Malone said. "Big strong boys who--" + +"Oh, my, no," Kettleman said. "My goodness, no. All of the Spooks are +rather slight, as a matter of fact. They've got _something_, but it +isn't strength." + +"My goodness," Malone said tiredly. + +"I doubt if--in the language of my own groups--any one of the Spooks +could punch his way out of a paper bag," Kettleman said. "It's more +than that." + +"Frankly," Malone said, "I'm inclined to agree with you. But what is +this something that frightens everyone else?" + +Kettleman leaned even closer. "I'm not sure," he said softly. "I can't +say for certain, Mr. Malone. I've only heard rumors." + +"Well," Malone said, "rumors might--" + +"Rumors are a very powerful force among my groups, Mr. Malone," +Kettleman said. "I've learned, over the years, to keep my ear to the +ground, as it were, and pay very close attention to rumors." + +"I'm sure," Malone said patiently. "But what did this particular rumor +say?" + +"Well," Kettleman said, and stopped. "Well," he said again. And at +last he gulped and got it out. "Magicians, Mr. Malone. They say the +Spooks are magicians--that they can come and go at will. Make +themselves invisible. All sorts of things. Of course, I don't believe +that, but--" + +"Oh, it's quite true," Malone said, solemn faced. + +"It's what?" + +"Perfectly true," Malone said. "We know all that." + +"Oh, my," Kettleman said. His face took on a whitish cast. "Oh, my +goodness," he said. "Isn't that--isn't that amazing." He swallowed +hard. "True all the time," he said. + +"Magicians. I--" + +"You see, this information isn't new to us," Malone said. + +"Oh," Kettleman said. "No. Of course not. My. It's--rather +disconcerting to think about, isn't it?" + +"There," Malone said, "I agree with you." + +Kettleman fell silent. Malone offered him a cigarette, but the social +worker refused with a pale smile, and Malone lit one for himself. He +took a couple of puffs in the silence, and then Kettleman said, "Well, +Mr. Malone, Lieutenant Lynch did say that I was to tell you everything +I could about these boys." + +"I'm sure we all appreciate that," Malone said at random, wondering +exactly what he meant. + +"There is--well, there is one more thing," Kettleman said. +"Ordinarily, of course, I wouldn't say anything about this to anyone. +In my line of work, Mr. Malone, you learn the need for confidence. For +being able to keep one's word." + +"Certainly," Malone said, wondering what startling new fact was on its +way now. + +"And we certainly try to keep the confidence of the boys," Kettleman +said maddeningly. "We wouldn't betray them to the police in any way +unless it were absolutely necessary." + +"Betray them? Mr. Kettleman," Malone said, "just what are you trying +to tell me?" + +"It's about their meeting place," Kettleman said. "Oh, my. I'm not at +all sure I ought to tell you this." He wrung his pale fat hands +together and looked at Malone appealingly. + +"Now, now," Malone said, feeling foolish. "It's perfectly all right. +We don't want to hurt the Spooks. Not any more than we have to. You +can tell me, Mr. Kettleman." + +"Oh," Kettleman said. "Well, the Spooks do have a sort of secret +meeting place, you know. And they meet there." + +He stopped. Malone said, "Where is it?" + +"Oh, it's a big empty warehouse," Kettleman said. "I really feel +terrible about this. They're meeting there tonight sometime, or that's +what the rumors say. I shouldn't be telling you--" + +"Of course you should," Malone said, trying to sound reassuring. +"Don't worry about a thing, Mr. Kettleman. Tonight?" + +"That's right," Kettleman said eagerly. He grinned, and then looked +morosely down at his hands. + +"Do you know where this warehouse is?" Malone said. "If any of the +other little social groups use it--" + +"Oh, no, they don't," Kettleman said. "That's what makes it so funny. +You see, the warehouse is deserted, but it's kept in good repair; +there are bars on the windows, and it's protected by all sorts of +alarm systems and things like that. So none of the others can use it. +Only the Spooks. You can't get in without a key, not at all." + +"But do the Spooks--" Malone began. + +"Oh, no," Kettleman moaned. "They don't have a key. At least, that's +what the other groups say. The Spooks just--just melt borough the +walls, or something like that." + +"Mr. Kettleman," Malone said, "where is this warehouse?" + +"I shouldn't be telling you this," Kettleman said. + +Malone sighed. "Please, Mr. Kettleman. You know we're working for the +good of those boys, don't you?" + +"Well, I--" + +"Sure we are," Malone said. "So you can tell me." + +Kettleman blinked behind his glasses, and moaned a little. Malone +waited with his hands tense in his lap. At last Kettleman said, "It's +on West Street, near Chambers. That's downtown." He gave Malone an +address. "That's where it is," he said. "But you won't do anything to +the boys, will you? They're basically good boys. No matter what. And +they--" + +"Don't worry about it, Mr. Kettleman," Malone said. "We'll take care +of the Spooks." + +"Oh," Kettleman said. "Yes. Sure." + +He got up. Malone said, "There's just one more thing, Mr. Kettleman." + +"Yes?" The big man's voice had reached the high, breathy pitch of a +fife. + +"Do you have any idea what time the Spooks usually meet?" + +"Well, now," Kettleman said, "I don't really know. You see, the reason +I wanted to tell you all this was because Lieutenant Lynch was +checking up on all those boys yesterday, and I thought..." He stopped +and cleared his throat, and when he began again his voice had dropped +almost to a whisper. "Well, Mr. Malone, I thought, after all, that +since he was asking me questions--you know, questions about where the +Spooks were, and all of that--since he was asking me questions..." + +"Yes?" Malone said. + +"I thought perhaps I ought to tell you about them," Kettleman said. +"Where they were, and all of that." + +Malone stood up. "Mr. Kettleman," he said in his most official voice, +"I want you to know that the FBI appreciates what you've done. Your +information will probably be very helpful to us, and the FBI certainly +commends you for being public-spirited enough to come to us and tell +us what you know." He thought for a second, and then added, "In the +name of the FBI, Mr. Kettleman--well done!" + +Kettleman stared, smiled, and gulped. "My goodness," he said. "Well." +He smiled again, a little more broadly. "One has one's duty, you know. +My, yes. Duty." He nodded to Malone. + +"Of course," Malone said, going to the door and opening it. "Thanks +again, Mr. Kettleman." + +Kettleman saw the open door and headed for it blindly. As he left he +flashed one last smile after Malone, who sighed, shut the door, and +leaned against it for a second. + +The things an FBI agent had to go through! + +When he had recovered, he opened the door again and peered carefully +down the hallway to make sure Kettleman had gone. Then he left the +interrogation room and went down the hall, past the desk sergeant, and +up the stairs to Lieutenant Lynch's office. He was still breathing a +little hard when he opened Lynch's door, and Lynch didn't seem to be +expecting him at all. He was very busy with a veritable snow flurry of +papers, and he looked as if he had been involved with them steadily +ever since he had left Malone and Kettleman alone downstairs. + +"Well," Malone said. "Hello there, Lieutenant." + +Lynch looked up, his face a mask of surprise. "Oh," he said. "It's +you. Through with Kettleman?" + +"I'm through," Malone said. "As if you didn't know." He looked at +Lynch for a long minute, and then said, "Lieutenant..." + +Lynch had gone right back to his papers. He looked up again with a +bland expression. "Yes?" + +"Lieutenant, how reliable is Kettleman?" Malone said. + +Lynch shrugged. "He's always been pretty good with the kids, if that's +what you mean. You know these social workers--I've never got much +information out of him. He feels it's his duty to the kids--I don't +know. Some such thing. Why do you ask?" + +"Well," Malone said, "what he told me. Was he kidding me? Or does he +know what he's talking about? Was what he said reasonably accurate?" + +"How would I know?" Lynch said. "After all, you were down there alone, +weren't you? I was up here working. If you'll tell me what he said, +maybe I'll be able to tell you whether or not I think he was kidding." + +Malone placed both his palms on the lieutenant's desk, mashing a +couple of piles of papers. He leaned forward slowly, his eyes on +Lynch's bland, innocent face. "Now look, Lynch," he said. "I like you. +I really do. You're a good cop. You get things done." + +"Well, thanks," Lynch said. "But I don't see what this has to do +with--" + +"I just don't want you trying to kid your buddy-boy," Malone said. + +"Kid you?" Lynch said. "I don't get it." + +"Come on, now," Malone said. "I know that room was bugged, just as +well as you do. It was the sensible thing for you to pull, and you +pulled it. You've got the whole thing recorded, haven't you?" + +"Me?" Lynch said. "Why would I--" + +"Oh, cut it out," Malone said impatiently. "Let's not play games, +okay?" + +There was a second of silence. + +"All right," Lynch said. "So I recorded the conversation. Kill me. +Crucify me. I'm stealing FBI secrets. I'm a spy secretly working for a +foreign power. Take me out and electrocute me." + +"I don't want to fight you," Malone said wearily. "So you've got the +stuff recorded. That's your business." + +"My business?" + +"Sure," Malone said cheerfully. "As long as you don't try to use it." + +"Now, Malone--" Lynch began. + +"This is touchy stuff," Malone said. "We're going to have to take a +lot of care in handling it. And I don't want you throwing raids all +over the place and mixing everything up." + +"Malone, I--" + +"Eventually," Malone said, "I'm going to need your help with these +kids. But for right now, I want to handle this my way, without any +interference." + +"I wouldn't think of--" + +"You wanted information," Malone said. "Fine. That's all right with +me. You got the information, and that's okay too. But if you try to +use it before I say the word, I'll--I'll talk to good old Uncle John +Henry Fernack. And he'll help me out; he'll give you a refresher +course on How To Be A Beat Cop. In Kew Gardens. It's nice and lonely +out there now, Lynch, You'd love it." + +"Malone," Lynch said tiredly. + +"Don't give me any arguments," Malone said. "I don't want any +arguments." + +"I won't argue with you, Malone," Lynch said. "I've been trying to +tell you something." + +Malone stepped away from the desk. "All right," he said. "Go ahead." + +Lynch took a deep breath. "Malone, I'm not trying to queer your +pitch," he said. "If I were going to pull a raid, here's what I'd have +to do: get my own cops together, then call the precinct that covers +that old warehouse. We don't cover the warehouse from here, Malone, +and we'd need the responsible precinct's aid in anything we did down +there." + +Malone said, "Well, all I--" + +"Not only that," Lynch said. "I'd have to call Safe and Loft, and get +them in on it. A warehouse raid would probably be their baby first of +all. That means it takes this precinct, the warehouse precinct, and +the Safe and Loft Squad, all together, to raid that warehouse. Malone, +would I pull a raid at this stage, if I had to go through all that, +without knowing what the hell I was going to find down there?" + +"Oh," Malone said. + +"If those kids can just appear and disappear at will," Lynch said, +"I'm not going to pull a raid on them, and end up looking like a damn +fool, until I've got some way of making sure they're there when the +raid goes through." + +Malone coughed gently. "Okay," he said at last. "Sorry." + +"There's only one thing I want," Lynch said. "I want to be able to +move as soon as possible." + +"Well, sure," Malone said apologetically. + +"And that means I'm going to have to be informed," Lynch said. "I want +to know what's going on, as fast as possible." + +Malone nodded gently. "Sure," he said. "I'll tell you everything that +happens--as soon as I know myself. But right now, I haven't got a +thing for you. All I have is a kind of theory, and it's pretty +screwy." + +He stopped. Lynch looked up at him. "How screwy can it get?" he said. +"The facts are nutty enough." + +"You have absolutely no idea," Malone assured him. "I'm not even +saying a word about this, not until I prove it out one way or another. +I'm not even thinking about it--not until it stops sounding so nutty +to me." + +"Okay, Malone," Lynch said. "I can see a piece of it, if no more. The +Fueyo kid vanishes mysteriously--never mind all that about you getting +him out of the interrogation room by some kind of confidential method. +There isn't any confidential method. I know that better than you do." + +"I had to say something, didn't I?" Malone asked apologetically. + +"So the kid disappears," Lynch said, brushing Malone's question away +with a wave of his hand. "So now I hear all this stuff from Kettleman. +And it begins to add up. The kids can disappear somehow, and reappear +some place else. Walk through walls?" He shrugged. "How should I know? +But they can sure as hell do something like it." + +"Something," Malone said. "Like I said, it sounds screwy." + +"I don't like it," Lynch said. + +Malone nodded. "Nobody likes it," he said. "But keep it under your +hat. I'll give you everything I have--whenever I have anything. And by +the way--" + +"Yes?" Lynch said. + +"Thanks for giving me and Kettleman a chance to talk," Malone said. +"Even if you had reasons of your own." + +"Oh," Lynch said. "You mean the recording." + +"I was a little suspicious," Malone said. "I didn't think you'd give +Kettleman to me without getting _something_ for yourself." + +"Would you?" Lynch said. + +Malone shrugged. "I'm not crazy either," he said. + +Lynch picked up a handful of papers. "I've got all this work to do," +he said. "So I'll see you later." + +"Okay," Malone said. + +"And if you need my help, buddy-boy," Lynch said, "just yell. Right?" + +"I'll yell," Malone said. "Don't worry about that. I'll yell loud +enough to get myself heard in Space Station One." + + + 9 + +The afternoon was bright and sunny, but it didn't match Malone's mood. +He got a cab outside the precinct station and headed for 69th Street, +dining off his nails en route. When he hit the FBI headquarters, he +called Washington and got Burris on the line. + +He made a full report to the FBI chief, including his wild theory and +everything else that had happened. "And there was this notebook," he +said, and reached into his jacket pocket for it. + +The pocket was empty. + +"What notebook?" Burris said. + +Malone tried to remember if he'd left the book in his room. He +couldn't quite recall. "This book I picked up," he said, and described +it. "I'll send it on, or bring it in when the case is over." + +"All right," Burris said. + +Malone went on with his description of what had happened. When he'd +finished, Burris heaved a great sigh. + +"My goodness," he said. "Last year it was telepathic spies, and this +year it's teleporting thieves. Malone, I hate to think about next +year." + +"I wish you hadn't said that," Malone said sadly. + +Burris blinked. "Why?" he said. + +"Oh, just because," Malone said. "I haven't even had time to think +about next year yet. But I'll think about it now." + +"Well, maybe it won't be so bad," Burris said. + +Malone shook his head. "No, Chief," he said. "You're wrong. It'll be +worse." + +"This is bad enough," Burris said. + +"It's a great vacation," Malone said. + +"Please," Burris said. "Did I have any idea--" + +"Yes," Malone said. + +Burris' eyes closed. "All right, Malone," he said after a little +pause. "Let's get back to the report. At least it explains the red +Cadillac business. Sergeant Jukovsky was hit by a boy who vanished. +Vanished. My God." + +"I was hit by a boy who vanished, too," Malone said bitterly. "But of +course I'm just an FBI agent. Expendable. Nobody cares about--" + +"Don't say that, Malone," Burris said. "You're one of my most valuable +agents." + +Malone tried to stop himself from beaming, but he couldn't. "Well, +Chief," he began, "I--" + +"Vanishing boys," Burris muttered. "What are you going to do with +them, Malone?" + +"I was hoping you might have some kind of suggestion," Malone said. + +"Me?" + +"Well," Malone said, "I suppose I'll figure it out. When I catch them. +But I did want something from you, Chief." + +"Anything, Malone," Burris said. "Anything at all." + +"I want you to get hold of Dr. O'Connor, out at Yucca Flats, if you +can. He's the best psionics man Westinghouse has right now, and I +might need him." + +"If you say so," Burris said doubtfully. + +"Well," Malone said, "these kids are teleports. And maybe there's some +way to stop a teleport. Give him a good hard kick in the psi, for +instance." + +"In the what?" + +"Never mind," Malone said savagely. "But if I'm going to get any +information on what makes teleports tick, I'm going to have to get it +from Dr. O'Connor. Right?" + +"Right," Burris said. + +"So get in touch with Dr. O'Connor," Malone said. + +"I'll have him call you," Burris said. "Meanwhile--well, meanwhile +just carry on, Malone. I've got every confidence in you." + +"Thanks," Malone growled. + +"If anybody can crack a case like this," Burris said, "it's you." + +"I suppose it had better be," Malone said, and rang off. + +Then he started to think. The notebook wasn't in his pockets. He +checked every one, even the jacket pocket where he usually kept a +handkerchief and nothing else. It wasn't anywhere on his person. + +Had he left it in his room? + +He thought about that for several minutes, and finally decided that he +hadn't. He hadn't taken it out of his pocket, for one thing, and if it +had fallen to the ground he couldn't have helped seeing it. Of course +he'd put his wallet, keys, change, and other such items on the +dresser, and then replaced them in his pockets in the morning. But he +could remember how they'd looked on the dresser. + +The notebook hadn't been there among them. + +Now that he came to think of it, when had he seen the notebook last? +He'd shown it to Lieutenant Lynch during the afternoon, and then he'd +put it back in his pocket, and he hadn't looked for it again. + +So it had to be somewhere in one of the bars he'd visited, or at the +theater where he and Dorothy had seen _The Hot Seat_. + +Proud of himself for this careful and complete job of deduction, he +strolled out and, giving Boyd and the Agent-in-Charge one small smile +each, to remember him by, he went into the sunlight, trying to decide +which place to check first. + +He settled on the theater because it was most probable. After all, +people were always losing things in theaters. Besides, if he started +at the theater, and found the notebook there, he could then go on to a +bar to celebrate. If he found the notebook in a bar, he didn't much +relish the idea of going on to an empty theater in the middle of the +afternoon to celebrate. + +Shaking his head over this flimsy structure of logic, he headed down +to _The Hot Seat_. He banged on the lobby doors for a while without +any good result, and finally leaned against one of the side doors, +which opened. Malone fell through, recovered his balance, and found +himself facing an old bewhiskered man with a dustpan, a broom, and a +surprised expression. + +"I'm looking for a notebook," Malone said. + +"Try a stationery store, youngster," the old man said. "I thought I'd +heard 'em all, but--" + +"No," Malone said. "You don't understand." + +"I don't got to understand," the old man said. "That's what's so +restful about this here job. I just got to sweep up. I don't got to +understand nothing. Good-bye." + +"I'm looking for a notebook I lost here last night," Malone said +desperately. + +"Oh," the old man said. "Lost and Found. That's different. You come +with me." + +The old man led Malone in silence to a cave deep in the bowels of the +theater, where he went behind a little desk, took up a pencil as if it +were a club, held it poised over a sheet of grimy paper, and said, +"Name?" + +Malone said, "I just want to find a notebook." + +"Got to give me your name, youngster," the old man said solemnly. +"It's the rules here." + +Malone sighed. "Kenneth Malone," he said. "And my address is--" + +The old man, fiercely scribbling, looked up. "Wait a minute, can't +you?" he said. "I ain't through 'Kenneth' yet." He wrote on, and +finally said, "Address?" + +"Hotel New Yorker," Malone said. "In Manhattan?" the old man said. +"That's right," Malone said wearily. + +"Ah," the old man said. "Tourist, ain't you? Tourists is always losing +things. Once it was a big dog. Don't know yet how a dog got into this +here theater. Had to feed it for four days before somebody showed up +to claim it. Fierce-looking animal. Part bloodhound, part water +spaniel." + +Fascinated in spite of himself, Malone said, "That's impossible." + +"Nothing's impossible," the old man said. "Work for a theater long +enough and you find that out. Part bloodhound, I said, and part water +spaniel. Should have seen that dog before you start talking about +impossibilities. Hell of a strange-looking beast. And then there was +the time--" + +"About the notebook," Malone said. + +"Notebook?" the old man said. + +"I lost a notebook," Malone said. "I was hoping that--" + +"Description?" the old man said, and poised his pencil again. + +Malone heaved a great sigh. "Black plastic," he said. "About so big." +He made motions with his hands. "No names or initials on it. But the +first page had my name written on it, along with Lieutenant Peter +Lynch." + +"Who's he?" the old man said. + +"He's a cop," Malone said. + +"My, my," the old man said. "Valuable notebook, with a cop's name in +it and all. You a cop, youngster?" + +Malone shook his head. + +"Too bad," the old man said obscurely. "I like cops." He stood up. +"You said black plastic? Black?" + +"That's right," Malone said. "Do you have it here?" + +"Got no notebooks at all here, youngster," the old man said. "Empty +billfold, three hats, a couple of coats, and some pencils. And an +umbrella. No dogs tonight, youngster, _and_ no notebooks." + +"Oh," Malone said. "Well--wait a minute." + +"What is it, youngster?" the old man said. "I'm busy this time of day. +Got to sweep and clean. Got work to do. Not like you tourists." + +With difficulty, Malone leashed his temper. "Why did I have to +describe the notebook?" he said. "You haven't got any notebooks at +all." + +"That's right," the old man said cheerfully. + +"But you made me describe--" + +"That's the rules," the old man said. "And I ain't about to go against +the rules. Not for no tourist." He put the pencil down and rose. "Wish +you were a cop," he said. "I never met a cop. They don't lose things +like people do." + +Making a mental note to call up later and talk to the manager, if the +notebook hadn't turned up in the meantime, Malone went off to find the +bars he had stopped in before the theater. + +Saving Topp's for last, he started at the Ad Lib, where a surprised +bald-headed man told him they hadn't found a notebook anywhere in the +bar for something like six weeks. "Now if you'd been looking for +umbrellas," he said, "we could have accommodated you. Got over ten +umbrellas downstairs, waiting for their owners. I wonder why people +lose so many umbrellas?" + +"Maybe they hate rain," Malone said. + +"I don't know," the bald man said. "I'm sort of a psychologist--you +know, a judge of people. I think it's an unconscious protest against +the fetters of a society which is slowly strangling them by--" + +Malone said good-bye in a hurry and left. His next stop was the +Xochitl, the Mexican bar on 46th Street. He greeted the bartender +warmly. + +"Ah," the bartender told him. "You come back. We look for you." + +"Look for me?" Malone said. "You mean you found my notebook?" + +"Notesbook?" the bartender said. + +"A little black plastic book," Malone said, making motions, "about so +big. And it--" + +"Not find," the bartender said. "You lose him?" + +"Sure I lost him," Malone said. "I mean _it_. Would I be looking for +it if I hadn't lost it?" + +"Who knows?" the bartender said, and shrugged. + +"But you said you were looking for me," Malone said. "What about?" + +"Oh," the bartender said. "I only say that. Make customer feel good, +think we miss him. Customers like, so we do. What your name?" + +"Pizarro," Malone said disgustedly, and went away. + +The last stop was Topp's. Well, he had to find the notebook there. It +was the only place the notebook could be. That was logic, and Malone +was proud of it. He walked into Topp's, trying to remember the +bartender's name, and found it just as he walked into the bar. + +"Hello, Wally," he said gaily. + +The bartender stared at him. "I'm not Wally," he said. "Wally's the +night barman. My name's Ray." + +"Oh," Malone said, feeling deflated. "Well, I've come about a +notebook." + +"Yes, sir?" Ray said. + +"I lost the notebook here yesterday evening, between six and eight. If +you'll just take me to the Lost and Found--" + +"One moment, sir," Ray said, and left him standing at the bar, all +alone. + +In a few seconds he was back. "I didn't see the notebook myself, sir," +he said. "But if Wally picked it up, he'd have turned it over to the +maitre d'. Perhaps you'd like to check with him." + +"Sure," Malone said. The daytime maitre d' turned out to be a +shortish, heavy-set man with large blue eyes, a silver mane, and a +thin, pencil-line mustache. He was addressed, for no reason Malone was +able to discover, as BeeBee. + +Ray introduced them. "This gentleman wants to know about a notebook," +he told BeeBee. + +"Notebook?" BeeBee said. + +Malone explained at length. BeeBee nodded in an understanding fashion +for some moments and, when Malone had finished, disappeared in search +of the Lost and Found. He came back rather quickly, with the +disturbing news that no notebook was anywhere in the place. + +"It's got to be here," Malone said. + +"Well," BeeBee said, "it isn't. Maybe you left it some place else. +Maybe it's home now." + +"It isn't," Malone said. "And I've tried every place else." + +"New York's a big city, Mr. Malone," BeeBee said. + +Malone sighed. "I've tried every place I've been. The notebook +couldn't be somewhere I haven't been. A rolling stone follows its +owner." He thought about that. It didn't seem to mean anything, but +maybe it had. There was no way to tell for sure. + +He went back to the bar to think things over and figure out his next +move. A bourbon and soda while thinking seemed the obvious order, and +Ray bustled off to get it. + +Had he left the notebook on the street somewhere, just dropping it by +accident? Malone couldn't quite see that happening. It was, of course, +possible; but the possibility was so remote that he decided to try and +think of everything else first. There was Dorothy, for instance. + +Had he got stewed enough so that he'd showed Dorothy the notebook? + +He didn't remember doing it, and he didn't quite see why he would +have. Most of the evening was more or less clear in his mind; he +hadn't apparently, forgotten any other details, either. + +All the same, it was an idea. He decided to give the girl a call and +find out for sure. Maybe she remembered something that would help him, +anyway. + +He took the drink from Ray and slid off the bar stool. Two steps away, +he remembered one more little fact. + +He didn't have her number, and he didn't know anything about where she +lived, except that it could be reached by subway. That, Malone told +himself morosely, limited things nicely to the five boroughs of New +York. + +And she said she was living with her aunt. Would she have a phone +listing under her own name? Or would the listing be under her aunt's +name, which he also didn't know? + +At any rate, he could check listings under Dorothy Francis, he told +himself. + +He did so. + +There were lots and lots of people named Dorothy Francis, in Manhattan +and in all the other boroughs. + +Malone went back to the bar to think some more. He was on his second +bourbon and soda, still thinking but without any new ideas, when +BeeBee tapped him gently on the shoulder. + +"Pardon me," the maitre d' said, "but are you English?" + +"Am I what?" Malone said, spilling a little of his drink on the bar. + +"Are you English?" BeeBee said. + +"Oh," Malone said. "No. Irish. Very Irish." + +"That's nice," BeeBee said. + +Malone stared at him. "I think it's fine," he said, "but I'd love to +know why you asked me." + +"Well," BeeBee said, "I knew you couldn't be American. Not after the +phone call. You don't have to hide your nationality here; we're quite +accustomed to foreign visitors. And we don't have special prices for +tourists." + +Malone waited two breaths. "Will you please tell me," he said slowly, +"what it is you're talking about?" + +"Certainly," BeeBee said with aplomb. "There's a call for you in the +upstairs booth. A long-distance call, personal." + +"Oh," Malone said. "Who'd know I was--" He stopped, thinking hard. +There was no way for anybody in the world to know he was in Topp's. +Therefore, nobody could be calling him. "They've got the wrong name," +he said decisively. + +"Oh, no," BeeBee said. "I heard them quite distinctly. You _are_ Sir +Kenneth Malone, aren't you?" + +Malone gaped for one long second, and then his mind caught up with the +facts. "Oh," he said. "Sure." He raced upstairs to the phone booth, +said, "This is Sir Kenneth Malone," into the blank screen, and waited. + +After a while an operator said, "Person-to-person call, Sir Kenneth, +from Yucca Flats. Will you take this call?" + +"I'll take it," Malone said. A face appeared on the screen, and Malone +knew he was right. He knew exactly how he'd been located, and by whom. + +Looking only at the face in the screen, it might have been thought +that the woman who appeared there was somebody's grandmother, kindly, +red-cheeked, and twinkle-eyed. Perhaps that wasn't the only +stereotype; she could have been an old-maid schoolteacher, one of the +kindly schoolteachers who taught, once upon a time that never was, in +the little red schoolhouses of the dim past. The face positively +radiated kindliness, and friendship, and peace. + +But if the face was the face of a sentimental dream, the garb was the +garb of royalty. Somebody's grandmother was on her way to a costume +party. She wore the full court costume of the days of Queen Elizabeth +I, complete with brocaded velvet gown, wide ruff collar, and bejeweled +skullcap. + +She was, Malone knew, completely insane. + +Like all the other telepaths Malone and the rest of the FBI had found +during their work in uncovering a telepathic spy, she had been located +in an insane asylum. Months of extensive psychotherapy, including all +the newest techniques and some so old that psychiatrists were a little +afraid to use them, had done absolutely nothing to shake the firm +conviction in the mind of Miss Rose Thompson. + +She was, she insisted, Elizabeth Tudor, rightful Queen of England. + +She claimed she was immortal, which was not true. She also claimed to +be a telepath. This was perfectly accurate. It had been her help that +had enabled Malone to find the telepathic spy, and a grateful +government had rewarded her. + +It had given her a special expense allotment for life, covering the +clothing she wore, and the style in which she lived. Rooms had been +set aside for her at Yucca Flats, and she held court there, sometimes +being treated by psychiatrists and sometimes helping Dr. Thomas +O'Connor in his experiments and in the development of new psionic +machines. + +She was probably the happiest psychopath on Earth. + +Malone stared at her. For a second he could think of nothing to say +but, "My God." He said it. + +"Not at all, Sir Kenneth," the little old lady said. "Your Queen." + +Malone took a deep breath. "Good afternoon, Your Majesty," he said. + +"Good afternoon, Sir Kenneth," she said, and waited. After a second +Malone figured out what she was waiting for. + +He inclined his head in as courtly a bow as he could manage over a +visiphone. "I am deeply honored," he said, "that Your Majesty has +called on me. Is there any way in which I might be of service?" + +"Oh, goodness me, no," said the little old lady. "I don't need a +thing. They do one very well here in Yucca Flats. You must come out +soon and see my new throne room. I've had the decorations done by--but +I can see you're not interested in that, Sir Kenneth." + +"But--" Malone realized it was useless to argue with the old lady. She +was telepathic, and knew exactly what he was thinking. That, after +all, was how he had been located; she had mentally "hunted" for him +until she found him. + +But why? + +"I'll tell you why, Sir Kenneth," the little old lady said. "I'm +worried about you." + +"Worried? About me, Your Majesty?" + +"Certainly," the little old lady said, inclining her head just the +proper number of degrees, and raising it again. "You, Sir Kenneth, and +that silly little notebook you lost. You've been stewing about it for +the last hour." + +It was obvious that, for reasons of her own, the Queen had seen fit to +look into Malone's mind. She'd found him worrying, and called him +about it. It was, Malone thought, sweet of her in a way. But it was +also just a bit disconcerting. + +He was perfectly well aware that the Queen could read his mind at any +distance. But unless something reminded him of the fact, he didn't +have to think about it. + +And he didn't like to think about it. + +"Don't be disturbed," the Queen said. "Please. I only want to help +you, Sir Kenneth; you know that." + +"Well, of course I do," Malone said. "But--" + +"Heavens to Betsy," she said. "Sir Kenneth, what kind of a detective +are you?" + +"What?" Malone said, and added at once, "Your Majesty." He knew +perfectly well, of course, that Miss Thompson was not Queen Elizabeth +I--and he knew that Miss Thompson knew what he thought. + +But she didn't mind. Politeness, she held, was the act of being +pleasant on the surface, no matter what a person really thought. +People were polite to their bosses, she pointed out, even though they +were perfectly sure that they could do a better job than the bosses +were doing. + +So she insisted on the surface pretense that Malone was going through, +treating her like a Queen. + +The psychiatrists had called her delusion a beautifully rationalized +one. As far as Malone was concerned, it made more sense than most of +real life. + +"That's very nice of you, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "But I ask you +again, what kind of detective are you? Haven't you got any common +sense at all?" + +Malone hated to admit it, but he had always had just that suspicion. +After all, he wasn't a very good detective. He was just lucky. His +luck had enabled him to break a lot of tough cases. But some day +people would find out, and then-- + +"Well," the Queen said, "at the very least you ought to _act_ like a +detective." She sniffed audibly. "Sir Kenneth, I'm ashamed that a +member of my own FBI can't do any better than you're doing now." + +Malone blinked into the screen. He did feel ashamed in a vague sort of +way, and he was willing to admit it. But he did feel, wistfully, that +it would be nice to know just what he was being ashamed of. "Have I +been missing something?" he said. + +"Outside of the obvious," the Queen said, "that you've been missing +your notebook--or rather Mike Fueyo's notebook--" + +"Yes?" Malone said. + +"You certainly have," the Queen said. "Don't you see what happened to +that notebook? You've been missing the only possible explanation." + +"But there isn't any," Malone said. "Unless Miss Francis has it." + +Her Majesty gave him a bright smile. "There!" she said. + +"There, what?" Malone said. + +"I knew you could do it," the Queen said. "All you had to do was apply +your intelligence, and you'd come up with just the fact you needed." + +"What fact?" Malone said. + +"That Miss Francis has your notebook," the Queen said. "You just told +me." + +"All right," Malone said, and stopped and took a deep breath. "My +God," he said after a pause. "What is that supposed to mean? Did I +give it to her after all?" + +"No," the Queen said. + +"Did I lose it, and did she pick it up?" + +"No," the Queen said. + +"My God," Malone said again. "All right. I give up. Is this Twenty +Questions?" + +"Sir Kenneth!" the Queen said. "What a way to talk to your Queen!" + +Malone took another breath. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "But--" + +"Yes, I know," the Queen said sympathetically. "You're upset. But you +didn't give Miss Francis the notebook, and she didn't find it after +you'd lost it." + +"Then--" Malone stared. "She stole it. She stole it from me." + +"I imagine she took it right from your jacket pocket," the Queen said. +"Now, if you'd only wear proper clothing, and a proper pouch at your +belt--" + +"I'd be stared at," Malone said. "In court clothing." + +"No one in New York would stare at you," the Queen said. "They'd think +it was what they call an advertising stunt." + +"Anyhow," Malone said, "I wasn't wearing court clothing. So that made +it easy for her to steal the notebook. But why, for God's sake? Why?" + +"Because," the Queen said, "she needed it." + +_"Needed it?"_ Malone shrieked. + +"Please, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "Don't talk to your Sovereign +in that manner. And I do wish you'd stop thinking of that girl as +Dorothy Francis. She isn't at all, you know." + +"No," Malone said. "I don't know. If she isn't Dorothy Francis, who in +hell is she?" + +"Don't swear, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "She's Dorothea Francisca +Fueyo, if you want to know." + +Malone gulped. "Then she's--" + +"That's right," the Queen said. "She's little Miguel Fueyo's older +sister." + + + 10 + +Malone put in a great deal of time, he imagined, just staring at the +face of the little old lady on the screen. At last he spoke. "My God," +he said. "Her name is Fueyo. I'll be damned." + +"I've told you," the Queen said with some asperity, "not to swear, Sir +Kenneth." + +"I know," Malone said. "But--" + +"You're excited," the Queen said. "You're stunned. Goodness, you don't +need to tell me that, Sir Kenneth. I know." + +"But she's--" Malone discovered that he couldn't talk. He swallowed a +couple of times and then went on. "She's Mike Fueyo's sister." + +"That's exactly right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "That's just what +I told you." + +"Then she swiped the book to protect her little brother," Malone said. +"Oh, boy." + +"Exactly, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. + +"And she doesn't care about me at all," Malone said. "I mean, she only +went out with me because I was me. Malone. And she wanted the +notebook. That was all there was to it." He added an expletive. The +Queen frowned, but said nothing about it. + +"I wouldn't say that if I were you," she went on. "Quite the contrary. +She does like you, you know. And she thinks you're a very nice +person." The Queen beamed. "You are, you know," she said. + +"Oh," Malone said uncomfortably. "Sure." + +"You don't have to think that she merely went out with you because of +her brother's notebook," the Queen said. "But she does have a strong +sense of loyalty--and he is--her younger brother, after all." + +"He sure is," Malone said. "He's a great kid, little Mike." + +"You see," the Queen continued imperturbably, "Mike told her about +losing the notebook the other night--when he struck you." + +"When he struck me," Malone said. "Oh, yes. He struck me, all right." + +"He guessed that you must have it when you started asking questions +about the Silent Spooks, you see," the Queen said. "That was the only +way you could have found out about him--unless you were telepathic. +Which, of course, you're not." + +"No," Malone said. + +"Now, understand me," the Queen said. "I do not think that his +striking you was a very nice act." + +"I don't either," Malone said. "It hurt like--it hurt quite a lot." + +"Certainly," the Queen said. "But he didn't hurt the car any, and he +didn't want to. He just wanted to ride around in it for a while." + +"He likes red Cadillacs," Malone said. + +"Oh, yes," the Queen said. "He thinks they're wonderful." + +"Good for him," Malone said sourly. + +"Well, now," the Queen said. "You just go right on over to her house. +Of course she doesn't live with an aunt." + +"No," Malone said. "She lives with Mike and his mother." + +"Why not?" the Queen said. "She's part of the family." + +Malone nodded silently. + +"She'll give you the book, Sir Kenneth. I just know that she will. And +I want you to be very nice to her when you ask for it. She's a very +nice girl, you know." + +"She's a swell girl," Malone said morosely. "And I'll--hey. Wait a +minute." + +"Yes, Sir Kenneth?" + +"How come you can read her thoughts?" Malone said. "And Mike's? I +thought you had to know somebody pretty well before you could read +them at a distance like this. Do you? Know them, I mean." + +"Oh, no," the Queen said. "But I can read _you_, of course." Malone +could see that the Queen was trying very hard not to look proud of +herself. "And last night," she went on, "you two were--well, Sir +Kenneth, you had a real _rapport_ with each other. My goodness, yes." + +"Well," Malone said, "we--" + +"Don't explain, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "It really isn't +necessary; I thought it was very sweet. And, in any case, I can pick +her up now. Because of that rapport. Not quite as well as I can pick +you up, but enough to get the strong surface thoughts." + +"Oh," Malone said. "But Mike--" + +"I can't pick him up at all, this far away," the Queen said. "There is +just a faint touch of him, though, through the girl. But all I know +about him is what she thinks." She smiled gently. "He's a nice boy, +basically," she said. + +"Sure he is," Malone said. "He's got a nice blackjack, +too--basically." He grimaced. "Were you reading my mind all last +night?" he said. + +"Well," the Queen said, "no. Toward morning you were getting so fuzzy +I just didn't bother." + +"I can understand that," Malone said. "I nearly didn't bother myself." + +The queen nodded. "But toward afternoon," she said, "I didn't have +anything to do, so I just listened in. You do have such a nice mind, +Sir Kenneth. So refreshing and different. Especially when you're in +love." + +Malone blushed quietly. + +"Oh, I know," the Queen said. "You'd much rather think of yourself as +a sort of apprentice lecher, a kind of cynical Don Juan, but--" + +"I know," Malone said. "Don't tell me about it. All right?" + +"Of course, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said, "if you wish it." + +"Basically, I'm a nice boy," Malone said. "Sure I am." He paused. "Do +you have any more pertinent information, Your Majesty?" + +"Not right now," the Queen admitted. "But if I do, I'll let you know." +She giggled. "You know, I had to argue awfully hard with Dr. Hatterer +to get to use the telephone," she said. + +"I'll bet," Malone said. + +"But I did manage," she said, and winked. "I won't have that sort of +trouble again." + +Malone wondered briefly what dark secret Dr. Hatterer had, that Her +Majesty had discovered in his mind and used to blackmail him with. At +last he decided that it was probably none of his business, and didn't +matter too much anyway. + +"Quite right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "And good bye for now." + +"Good-bye, Your Majesty," Malone said. He bowed again, and flipped off +the phone. Bowing in a phone booth wasn't the easiest thing in the +world to do, he thought to himself. But somehow he had managed it. + +He reached into his pocket, half-convinced for a moment that it was an +Elizabethan belt-pouch. Talks with Her Majesty always had that effect; +after a time, Malone came to believe in the strange, bright world. But +he shook off the lingering effects of her psychosis, fished out some +coins and thought for a minute. + +So Dorothy--Dorothea--had lifted the notebook. That was some help, +certainly. It let him know something more about the enemy he was +facing. But it wasn't really a lot of help. + +What did he do now? + +Her Majesty had suggested going to the Fueyo house, collaring the girl +(but treating her nicely, Malone reminded himself) and demanding the +book back. She'd even said he would get the book back, and since she +knew some of what went on in Dorothea Fueyo's mind, she was probably +right. + +But what good was that going to do him? + +He knew everything that was in the book. Getting it back was something +that could wait. It didn't sound particularly profitable, and it +didn't even sound like fun. + +What he needed was a next move. He thought for a minute, dropped the +coins into the phone and dialed the number of the Police +Commissioner's office. After a brief argument with a secretary, he had +Fernack on the phone. And this time, Malone told himself, he was going +to be polite. + +If possible. + +"Good afternoon, John Henry," he said sunnily, when the commissioner's +face was finally on the screen. "Can you get me some more +information?" + +Fernack stared at him sourly. "Depends," he said. + +"On what?" Malone said, telling himself he wasn't going to get +irritated, and knowing perfectly well that he was lying. + +"On what kind of information you want," Fernack said. + +"Well," Malone said, "there's a warehouse I want to know some more +about. Who the owner is, for one thing, and--" + +Fernack nodded. "I've got it," he said. He fished around on his desk, +and brought up a sheet of paper. He held it up to the screen while +Malone copied off the name and address. "Lieutenant Lynch told me all +about it." + +"Lynch?" Malone said. "But he--" + +"Lynch works for me, Malone," Fernack said. "Remember that." + +"But he said he'd--" + +"He said he wouldn't do anything, and he won't," Fernack said. "He +just reported it to me for my action. He knew I was working with you, +Malone. And I am his boss, remember." + +"Great," Malone said. "Now, John Henry--" + +"Hold it, Malone," Fernack said. "I'd like a little information too, +you know. I'd like to know just what the hell is going on, if it isn't +too much trouble." + +"It's not that, John Henry," Malone said earnestly. "Really. It's just +that I--" + +"All this about vanishing boys," Fernack said. "Disappearing into thin +air. All this nonsense." + +"It isn't nonsense," Malone said. + +"All right," Fernack said indulgently. "Boys disappear every day like +that. Sure they do." He leaned toward the screen and his voice was as +hard as his face. "Malone, are these kids mixed up with those +impossible robberies you had me looking up?" + +"Well," Malone said, "I think so. But I doubt if you could prove it." + +Fernack's face had begun its slow climb toward purple again. "Malone," +he said, "if you're suppressing evidence, even if you are the FBI, +I'll--" + +"I'm not suppressing any evidence," Malone said. "I don't think _you_ +could prove a connection. I don't think _I_ could prove a connection. +I don't think _anybody_ could--not right now." + +Fernack leaned back, apparently mollified. + +"John Henry," Malone said, "I want to ask you to keep your hands off +this case. To let me handle it my way." + +Fernack nodded absently. "Sure, Malone," he said. + +_"What?"_ + +"I said sure," Fernack said. "Isn't that what you wanted?" + +"Well, yes," Malone said, "but--" + +Fernack leaned all the way back in his chair, his face a mask of +disappointment and frustration. "Malone," he said, "I wish I'd never +heard of this case. I wish I'd been retired or died before it ever +came up. I've been a police officer in New York for a long time, and I +wish this case had waited a few more years to happen." + +He stopped. Malone leaned against the back wall of the phone booth and +lit a cigarette. + +"Andy Burris called me less than half an hour ago," Fernack said. + +"Oh," Malone said. + +"That's right," Fernack said. "Good old Burris of the FBI. And he told +me this was a National Security case. National Security! It's your +baby, Malone, because Burris wants it that way." He snorted. "So don't +worry about me," he said. "I'm just here to co-operate. The patriotic, +loyal, dumb slave of a grateful government." + +Malone blew out a plume of smoke. "You know, John Henry," he said, +"you might have made a good FBI man yourself. You've got the right +attitude." + +"Never mind the jokes," Fernack said bitterly. + +"Okay," Malone said. "But tell me, did you actually make arrangements +for me to get into that warehouse? I suppose you know that's what I +want." + +"I guessed that much," Fernack said. "I haven't made any arrangements +at all yet, but I will. I'll have Safe and Loft get the keys, and a +full set of floor plans to the place while they're at it. Will that +do, Your Majesty?" + +Malone choked on his smoke and shot a quick look over his shoulder. +There was nothing there but the wall of the booth. Queen Elizabeth I +was nowhere in evidence. Then he realized that Fernack had been +talking to him. + +"Don't _do_ that," he said. + +"What?" Fernack said. + +Malone realized in one awful second how strange the explanation was +going to sound. Could he say that he thought he'd been mistaken for an +old friend of his, Elizabeth Tudor? Could he say that he'd just had a +call from her? + +In the end he merely said, "Nothing," and let it go at that. + +"Well, anyhow," Fernack said, "do you want anything else?" + +"Not right now," Malone said. "I'll let you know, though And thanks, +John Henry. No matter why you're doing this, thanks." + +"I don't deserve 'em," Fernack muttered. "And I hope you get caught in +some kind of deadfall and have to come screaming to the cops." + +That, Malone reflected, was the second time a cop had suggested his +yelling if he got into trouble. Hadn't the police force ever heard of +telephones? + +He said good-bye and flipped off. + +Then he stared at the screen for a little while, as his cigarette +burned down between his fingers. At last he put the cigarette out and +went downstairs again to the bar. + +If he had to do some heavy thinking, he told himself, there was +absolutely no reason why he couldn't enjoy himself a little while +doing it. + +The evening rush had begun, and Malone found himself a stool simply by +slipping into one while a drinker's back was turned. Once ensconced, +he huddled himself up like an old drunk, thus effectively cutting +himself off from interruptions, and lit another cigarette. Ray was +down at the other end of the bar, chatting with a red-headed woman and +her pale, bald escort. Malone sighed and set himself to the job of +serious, constructive thinking. + +_How,_ he asked himself, _do you go about catching a person who can +vanish away like so much smoke?_ + +Well, Malone could think of one solution, but it was pretty bloody. + +Nailing the kids to a wall would probably work, but he couldn't say +much else for it. There had to be another way out. For some reason, +Malone just couldn't see himself with a mouthful of nails, a hammer, +and a teen-ager. + +It sounded just a little too messy. + +Then, of course, there were handcuffs. + +That sounded a little better. The trouble was that Malone simply +didn't have enough information, and knew it. Obviously, the kids could +carry stuff with them when they teleported; the stuff they stole +proved that. And their clothes, Malone added. Apparently the kids +didn't arrive at wherever they went stark staring naked. + +But how close to a teleport did the things he carried have to be? + +In other words, Malone thought, if you put handcuffs on a teleport, +would the handcuffs vanish when the teleport did? And did that include +the part of the cuff you were holding? + +What happened if you snapped half the cuff around your own wrist +first? Did you go along with the teleport? Or did your wrist go, while +you stayed behind and wondered how long it would take to bleed to +death? + +Or what? + +All the questions were intriguing ones. Malone sighed, wishing he knew +the answer to even one of them. + +It was somewhat comforting to think that he'd managed to progress a +little, anyway. The kids hadn't meant anybody to find out about them; +but Malone had found out about them, and alerted all the cops in town, +as well as the rest of the FBI. He knew just who they were, and where +they lived, and how they performed the "miracles" they performed. + +Anyhow, he knew something about that last item. + +He even knew who had his notebook. + +He tabled that thought, and went back to feeling victorious. Within a +few seconds, the sense of achievement was gone, and futility had come +in its place. After all, he still didn't know how to catch the kids, +did he? + +No. + +He thought about handcuffs some more and then gave up. He'd just have +to try it and see how it worked. And if the teleports took his wrist +away he'd--he'd go after them and make them give it back. + +Sure he would. + +That reminded him of the notebook again, and since the thing was being +so persistent, he decided he might as well pay some attention to it. + +Dorothea had the notebook. Malone tried to see himself barging in on +her and asking for it, and he didn't care for the picture at all--no +matter how Good Queen Bess felt about it. + +After all, she thought Mike Fueyo was basically a nice kid. + +So what did she know? + +He closed his eyes. There he was, in the Fueyo apartment, talking to +Dorothea. + +"Dorothea," he muttered. "You filched my notebook." + +That didn't sound very effective. And besides, it wasn't really his +notebook. He tried again. + +"Dorothea, you pinched your brother's notebook." + +Now, for some reason, it sounded like something covered by the Vice +Squad. It sounded terrible. But there were other ways of saying the +same thing. + +"Dorothea," he muttered, "you borrowed your brother's notebook." + +That was too patronizing. Malone told himself that he sounded like a +character straight out of 3-D screens, and settled himself gamely for +another try. + +"Dorothea, you _have_ your brother's notebook." + +To which the obvious answer was, "Yes, I do, and so what?" + +Or possibly, "How do you know?" + +And Malone thought about answering that one. "Queen Elizabeth told +me," was the literal truth, but somehow it didn't sound like it. And +he couldn't find another answer to give the girl. + +"Dorothea," he said, and a voice from nowhere added: + +"Will you have another drink?" + +"Damn it," Malone exploded, "that's not the question. Drinks have +nothing to do with notebooks. It's notebooks I'm after. Can't you +understand..." Belatedly, he looked up. + +There was Ray, the barman. "Oh," he said. + +"I just came over," Ray said. "And I figured if you couldn't find your +notebook, maybe you'd like a drink. So long as you're here." + +"Ray," Malone said with feeling, "you are an eminently reasonable +fellow. I accept your solution. Nay, more. I endorse your solution. +Wholeheartedly." + +Ray went off to mix, and Malone stared after him happily. This was +really a nice place, he reflected; almost as nice as the City Hall Bar +in Chicago, where he'd gone long ago with his father. + +But he tore his mind away from the happy past, and concentrated +instead on the miserable present. He decided for the last time that he +was not going to ask Dorothea for the book--not just yet, anyhow. +After all, it wasn't as if he needed the book; he knew his own name, +and he knew Lynch's name, and he knew the names on the second page. +And he didn't see any particular need for a picture of a red Cadillac, +no matter how nicely colored it was. + +So, he asked himself, why embarrass everybody by trying to get it +back? + +Of course, it _was_ technically a crime to pick pockets, and that went +double or triple for the pockets of FBI agents. But Malone told +himself that he didn't feel like pressing charges, anyhow. And Dorothy +probably didn't make a habit of pocket-picking. + +He sighed and glanced at his watch. It was fifteen minutes of six. + +Now he knew what his next move was going to be. + +He was going to go back to his hotel and change his clothes. + +That is, he amended, as soon as he finished the drink that Ray was +setting up in front of him. + + + 11 + +By the time Malone reached the Hotel New Yorker it was six-twenty. +Malone hadn't reckoned with New York's rush-hour traffic, and, after +seeing it, he still didn't believe it. Finding a cab had been +impossible, and he had started for the subway, hoping that he wouldn't +get lost and end up somewhere in Brooklyn. + +But one look at the shrieking mob trying to sardine itself into the +Seventh Avenue subway entrance had convinced him it was better to +walk. Bucking the street crowds was bad enough. Bucking the subway +crowds was something Malone didn't even want to think about. + +He let himself into his room, and was taking off his shoes with a +grateful sigh when there was a rap on the door of the bathroom that +connected his room with Boyd's. Malone padded over to the door, his +shoes in one hand. "Tom?" he said. + +"You are expecting maybe Titus Moody?" Boyd called. + +"Okay," Malone said. "Come on in." + +Boyd pushed open the door. He was stripped to the waist, a state of +dress which showed the largest expanse of chest Malone had ever seen, +and he was carrying the small scissors which he used to trim his Henry +VIII beard. He stabbed the scissors toward Malone, who shuffled back +hurriedly. + +"Listen," Boyd said. "Did you call the office after you left this +afternoon?" + +"No," Malone admitted. "Why? What happened?" + +"There was a call for you," Boyd said. "Long distance, just before I +left at five. I came on back to the hotel and waited until I heard you +come in. Thought you might want to know about it." + +"I do, I guess," Malone said. "Who from?" Looking at Boyd, a +modern-day Henry VIII, the association was too obvious to be missed. +Malone thought of Good Queen Bess, and wondered why she was calling +him again. + +And--more surprising--why she'd called him at FBI headquarters, when +she must have known that he wasn't there. + +"Dr. O'Connor," Boyd said. + +"Oh," Malone said, somewhat relieved. "At Yucca Flats." + +Boyd nodded. "Right," he said. + +"You're to call operator nine." + +"Thanks." Malone went over to the phone, remembered his shoes and put +them down carefully on the floor. "Anything else of importance?" he +asked. + +"On the Cadillacs," Boyd said. "We've got a final report now. +Leibowitz and Hardin finally finished checking the last of them; there +weren't quite as many as we were afraid there were going to be. Red +isn't a very popular color around here." + +"Good," Malone said. + +"And there isn't a doggone thing on any of 'em," Boyd said. "Oh, we +cleared up a lot of small-time crime, one thing and another, but +that's about all. No such thing as an electro-psionic brain to be +found anywhere in the lot. Leibowitz says he's willing to swear to +it." + +Malone sighed. "I didn't think he'd find one," he said. + +"You didn't?" + +"No," Malone said. + +Boyd stabbed at him with the scissors again. "Then why did you cause +all that trouble?" he said. + +"Because I thought we might find electro-psionic brains," Malone said +wearily. "Or one, anyhow." + +"But you just said--" + +Malone picked up the phone, got long distance, and motioned Boyd to +silence in one sweeping series of moves. The long-distance operator +said, "Yes, sir? May we help you?" + +"Give me operator nine," Malone said. + +There was a buzz, a click, and a new voice which said, "Operator +ni-yun. May we help you?" + +"All nine of you?" Malone muttered. "Never mind. This is Kenneth +Malone. I've got a call from Dr. Thomas O'Connor at Yucca Flats. +Please connect me." + +There was another buzz, a click and an ungodly howl which was followed +by the voice of operator ni-yun saying, "We are connecting you. There +will be a slight delay. We are sor-ree." + +Malone waited. At last there was another small howl, and the screen +lit up. Dr. O'Connor's face, as stern and ascetic as ever, stared +through at Malone. + +"I understand you called me," Malone said. + +"Ah, yes," Dr. O'Connor said. "It's very good to see you again, Mr. +Malone." He gave Malone a smile good for exchange at your corner +grocery; worth, one icicle. + +"It's good to see you too," Malone lied. + +"Mr. Burris explained to me what it was that you wanted to talk to me +about," O'Connor said, "Am I to understand that you have actually +found a teleport?" + +"Unless my theories are away off," Malone said, "I've done a lot +better than that. I've found eight of them." + +"Eight." Dr. O'Connor's smile grew perceptibly warmer. It now stood at +about thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. "That is really excellent, Mr. +Malone. You have done a fine job." + +"Thanks," Malone muttered. He wished that O'Connor didn't make him +feel quite so much like a first-year law student talking to an +egomaniacal professor. + +"When can you deliver them?" O'Connor said. + +"Well," Malone said carefully, "that depends." O'Connor seemed to +view the teleports as pieces of equipment, he thought. "I can't +deliver them until I catch them," he said. "And that's why I wanted to +talk to you." + +"Some slight delay," Dr. O'Connor said, "will be quite +understandable." His face left no doubt that he didn't like the +necessity of understanding anything that was going to keep him and the +eight teleports apart for even thirty seconds longer, now that he knew +about them. + +"You see," Malone said, "they're kids. Juvenile delinquents, or +something like that. But they are teleports, that's for sure." + +"I see," Dr. O'Connor said. + +"So we've got to nab them," Malone said. "And for that I need all the +information I can get." + +Dr. O'Connor nodded slowly. "I'll be happy," he said, "to give you any +information I can provide." + +Malone took a deep breath, and plunged. "How does this teleportation +bit work, anyhow?" he said. + +"You've asked a very delicate question," Dr. O'Connor said. "Actually, +we can't be quite positive." His expression showed just how little he +wanted to make this admission. "However," he went on, brightening, +"there is some evidence which seems to show that it is basically the +same process as psychokinesis. And we do have quite a bit of empirical +data on psychokinesis." He scribbled something on a sheet of paper and +said, "For instance, there's this." He held the paper up to the screen +so that Malone could read it. + +It said: + +(m*d)/(f*t**2) = 1/k + +Malone looked at it for some seconds. At last he said, "It's very +pretty. What the hell is it?" + +"This," Dr. O'Connor said, in a condescending tone of voice that +meant, You should have known all along, but you're just hopeless, "is +the basic formula for the phenomenon, where _m_ is the mass in grams, +_d_ is the distance in centimeters, _f_ is the force in dynes, and _t_ +is the time in seconds. _K_ is a constant whose value is not yet +known, and the numeral 1 is unity." + +Malone said, "Hmm," and stared at the equation again. Somehow, the +explanation was not very helpful. The numeral 1 was unity. He +understood that much, all right, but it didn't seem to do him any +good. + +"As you can see," Dr. O'Connor went on, "the greater the force, and +the longer time it is applied, the greater distance any given mass can +be moved. Or, contrariwise, the more mass, the greater mass, that is, +the easier it is to move it any given distance. This is, as you +undoubtedly understand, not at all in contradistinction to physical +phenomena." + +"Ah," Malone said, feeling that something was expected of him, but not +being quite sure what. + +Dr. O'Connor frowned. "I must admit," he said, "that the uncertainty +as to the constant _k_, and the lack of any real knowledge as to just +what kind of force is being applied, have held up our work so far." +Then his face smoothed out. "Of course, when we have the teleports to +work with, we may derive a full set of laws which--" + +"Never mind that now," Malone said. + +"But our work is most important, Mr. Malone," Dr. O'Connor said with a +motion of his eyebrows. "As I'm sure you must understand." + +"Oh," Malone said, feeling if he'd been caught without his homework, +"of course. But if you don't mind--" + +"Yes, Mr. Malone?" Dr. O'Connor said smoothly. + +"What I want to know," Malone said, "is this. What are the limitations +of this--uh--phenomenon?" + +Dr. O'Connor brightened up thoroughly. "Well, theoretically," he said, +"there do not appear to be any limitations. However, practical +limitations do exist. If the process is at all parallel with +psychokinesis, or with levitation"--he stared at Malone, as if daring +him to say that it wasn't--"if that parallel exists, then the subject +is mentally limited by his own physical strength." + +Malone said, "What?" + +"Try and be patient, Mr. Malone," O'Connor said calmly. "Please. As I +was saying, the subject is limited by his own physical strength. In +other words, he cannot move psionically any subject larger than he can +lift physically. This appears to be a psychological limitation +which--" + +"Oh," Malone said. "You mean he couldn't carry off a building, or +anything like that?" + +"Of course not," Dr. O'Connor said. "Nor, as a matter of fact, could +he carry off anything that was securely bolted down. I hope you follow +me." + +"I think so," Malone said. "But look here. Suppose you handcuffed him +to, say, a radiator, or a jail cell bar." + +"Yes?" + +"Could he get _away_?" + +Dr. O'Connor appeared to consider this with some care. "Well," he said +at last, "he certainly couldn't take the radiator with him, or the +cell bar. If that's what you mean." He hesitated, looked slightly +shamefaced, and then went on: "But you must realize that we lack any +really extensive data on this phenomenon." + +"Of course," Malone said. + +"That's why I'm so very anxious to get those subjects," Dr. O'Connor +said. + +"Dr. O'Connor," Malone said earnestly, "that's just what I had in mind +from the start. I've been going to a lot of extra trouble to make sure +that those kids don't get killed or end up in reform schools or +something, just so you could work with them." + +"I appreciate that, Mr. Malone," O'Connor said gravely. + +Malone felt as if someone had given him a gold star. Fighting down the +emotion, he went on: "I know right now that I can catch one or two of +them. But I don't know for sure that I can hold one for more than a +fraction of a second." + +"I see your problem," Dr. O'Connor said. "Believe me, Mr. Malone. I do +see your problem." + +"And is there a way out?" Malone said. "I mean a way I can hold on to +them for--" + +"At present," Dr. O'Connor said heavily, "I have no suggestions. I +lack data." + +"Oh, fine," Malone said. "We need the kids to get the data, and we +need the data to get the kids." He sighed. "Hooray for our side," he +added. + +"There does appear to be something of a dilemma here," Dr. O'Connor +admitted sadly. + +"Dilemma is putting it mildly," Malone said. + +Dr. O'Connor opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again and said, "I +agree." + +"Well," Malone said, "maybe one of us will think of something. If +anything does occur to you, let me know at once." + +"I certainly will," Dr. O'Connor said. "Believe me, Mr. Malone, I want +you to capture those kids just as badly as you want to capture them +yourself." + +"I'll try," Malone said at random. He flipped off and turned with a +sense of relief back to Boyd. But it looked as if Henry VIII had been +hit on the head with a cow, or something equally weighty. Boyd looked +glassy-eyed and slightly stunned. + +"What's the matter with you?" Malone said. "Sick?" + +"I'm not sick," Boyd said carefully. "At least I don't think I'm sick. +It's hard to tell." + +"What's wrong?" + +"Teleporting!" Boyd said. "Juvenile delinquents!" + +Malone felt a sudden twinge in the area of his conscience. He realized +that he had told Boyd nothing at all about what had been going on +since the discovery of the notebook two nights ago. He filled his +partner in rapidly, while Boyd stood in front of the mirror and rather +shakily attempted to trim his beard. + +"That's why I had the car search continue," Malone said. "I was fairly +sure the fault wasn't in the cars, but the boys. But I had to make +absolutely sure." + +Boyd said, "Oh," chopped a small section out of the center of his +beard and added, "Damn. My hand's shaky." + +"Well," Malone said, "that's the story." + +"It's a hell of a story," Boyd said. "And I don't want you to think I +don't believe it. Because I don't." + +"It's true," Malone said. + +"That doesn't affect me," Boyd said. "I'll go along with the gag. But +enough is enough. Vanishing teenagers. Ridiculous." + +"Just so you go along with me," Malone said. + +"Oh, I'll go along," Boyd said. "This is my vacation too, isn't it? +What's the next move, Mastermind?" + +"We're going down to that warehouse," Malone said decisively. "I've +got a hunch the kids have been hiding there ever since they left their +homes yesterday." + +"Malone," Boyd said. "What?" + +"You mean we're going down to the warehouse _tonight_?" Boyd said. + +Malone nodded. + +"I might have known," Boyd said. "I might have known!" + +"Tom," Malone said. "What's wrong?" + +"Oh, nothing," Boyd said. "Nothing at all. Everything's fine and +dandy. I think I'm going to commit suicide, but don't let that bother +you." + +"What happened?" Malone said. + +Boyd stared at him. "You happened," he said. "You and the teen-agers +and the bloody damn warehouse happened. Three days' work--ruined." + +Malone scratched his head, found out that his head still hurt and put +his hand down again. "What work?" he said. + +"For three days," Boyd said, "I've been taking this blonde chick all +over New York. Wining her. Dining her. Spending money as if I were +Burris himself, instead of the common or garden variety of FBI agent. +Night clubs. Theaters. Bars. The works. Malone, we were getting along +famously. It was wonderful." + +"And tonight--" Malone said. + +"Tonight," Boyd said, "was supposed to be the night. The big night. +The payoff. We've got a date for dinner--T-bone steak, two inches +thick, with mushrooms. At her apartment, Malone. She will probably--" + +"You'll have to break it," Malone said sympathetically. "Too bad, but +it can't be helped now. You can pick up a sandwich before you go." + +"A sandwich," Boyd said with great dignity, "is not my idea of +something to eat." + +"Look, Tom--" Malone began. + +"All right, all right," Boyd said tiredly. "Duty is duty. I'll go call +her." + +"Fine," Malone said. "And meanwhile, I'll get us a little insurance." + +"Insurance?" + +"John Henry Fernack," Malone said, "and his Safe and Loft Squad." + + + 12 + +The warehouse was locked up tight, all right, Malone thought. In the +dim light that surrounded the neighborhood, it stood like a single +stone block, alone near the waterfront. There were other buildings +nearby, but they seemed smaller; the warehouse loomed over Malone and +Boyd threateningly. They stood in a shadow-blacked alley just across +the street, watching the big building nervously, studying it for weak +points and escape areas. + +Boyd whispered softly, "Do you think they have a look-out?" + +Malone's voice was equally low. "We'll have to assume they've got at +least one kid posted," he said. "But they can't be watching all the +time. Remember, they can't do everything." + +"They don't have to," Boyd said. "They do quite enough for me. Do you +realize that, right now, I could be--" + +"Break it up," Malone said. He took a small handset from his pocket +and pressed the stud. "Lynch?" he whispered. + +A tinny voice came from the earpiece. "Here, Malone." + +"Have you got them located yet?" Malone said. + +"Not yet," Lynch's voice replied. "We're working on a triangulation +now. Just hold on for a minute or so. I'll let you know as soon as +we've got results." + +The police squads--Lynch and his men, the warehouse precinct men, and +the Safe and Loft Squad--had set up a careful cordon around the area, +and were now hard at work trying to determine two things. + +First, they had to know whether there was anybody in the building at +all. + +Second, they had to be able to locate anyone in the building with +precision. + +The silence of the downtown warehouse district helped. They had +several specially designed, highly sensitive directional microphones +aimed at the building from carefully selected spots around the area, +trying to pick up the muffled sounds of speech or motion within the +warehouse. The watchmen in buildings nearby had been warned off for +the time being so that their footsteps wouldn't occlude any results. + +Malone waited, feeling nervous and cold. Finally Lynch's voice came +through again. "We're getting something, all right," he said. "There +are obviously several people in there. You were right, Malone." + +"Thanks," Malone said. "How about that fix?" + +"Hold it a second," Lynch said. Wind swept off the river at Malone and +Boyd. Malone closed his eyes and shivered. He could smell fish and +iodine and waste, the odor of the Hudson as it passes the city. Across +the river lights sparkled warmly. Here there was nothing but darkness. + +A long time passed, perhaps ten seconds. + +Then Lynch's voice was back. "Sergeant McNulty says they're on the top +floor, Malone," he said. "Can't tell how many for sure. But they're +talking and moving around." + +"It's a shame these things won't pick up the actual words at a +distance," Malone said. + +"Just a general feeling of noise is all we get," Lynch said. "But it +does some good." + +"Sure," Malone said. "Now listen carefully. Boyd and I are going in. +Alone." + +Lynch's voice whispered, "Right." + +"If those mikes pick up any unusual ruckus--any sharp increase in the +noise level--come running," Malone said. "Otherwise, just sit still +and wait for my signal. Got that?" + +"Check," Lynch said. + +Malone pocketed the radiophone. "Okay, Tom," he whispered. "This is +it." + +"Right," Boyd muttered. "Let's move in." + +"Wait a minute," Malone said. He took his goggles and brought them +down over his eyes, adjusting the helmet on his head. Boyd did the +same. Malone flicked on the infrared flashlight he held in his hand. + +"Okay?" he whispered. "Check," Boyd said. + +Thanks to the goggles, both of them could see the normally invisible +beams of the infrared flashlight. They'd equipped themselves to move +in darkness without betraying themselves, and they'd be able to see +where a person without equipment would be blind. + +Malone stayed well within the shadows as he moved silently around to +the alley behind the warehouse, and then to a narrow passageway that +led to the building next door. Boyd followed a few feet behind him +along the carefully planned route. + +Malone unlocked the small door that led into the ground floor of the +building adjoining. As he did so, he heard a sound behind him and +called, "Tom?" + +"Hey, Malone," Boyd whispered. "It's--" + +Before there was any outcry, Malone rushed back. Boyd was struggling +with a figure in the dimness. Malone grabbed the figure and clamped +his hand over its mouth. It bit him. He swore in a low voice, and +clamped the hand over the mouth again. + +It hadn't taken him more than half a second to realize what, whoever +it was who struggled in his arms, it wasn't a boy. + +"Shut up!" Malone hissed in her ear. "I won't hurt you." + +The struggle stopped immediately. Malone gently eased his hand off the +girl's mouth. She turned and looked at him. + +"Kenneth Malone," she said, "you look like a man from Mars." + +"Dorothea!" Malone gasped. "What are you doing here? Looking for your +brother?" + +"Never mind that," she said. "You play too rough. I'm going home to +Mother." + +"Answer me!" Malone said. + +"All right," Dorothea said. "You must know anyhow, since you're +here.... Yes, I'm looking for that fatheaded brother of mine. But now +I suppose it's too late. He'll--he'll go to prison." + +Her voice broke. Malone found his shoulder suddenly occupied by a +crying face. + +"No," he said quickly. "No. Please. He won't." + +"Really?" + +Boyd whispered: "Malone, what is this? It's a hell of a place for a +date. And I--" + +"Oh, shut up," Malone told him in a kindly fashion. He turned back to +Dorothea. "I promise he won't," he said. "If I can just talk to your +brother, make him listen to reason, I think we can get him and the +others off. Believe me." + +"But you--" + +"Please," Malone said. "Believe me." + +"Oh, Ken," Dorothea said, raising her head. "Do you mean it?" + +"Sure I mean it," Malone said. "What have I been saying? The +Government needs these kids." + +"The Government?" + +"It's nothing to worry about," Malone said. "Just go on home now, and +I'll call you tomorrow. Late tonight, if I can. All right?" + +"No," Dorothea said. "It's not all right. Not at all." + +"But--" + +Boyd hissed, "Malone!" + +Malone ignored him. He had a bigger fight on his hands. "I'm not going +home," Dorothea announced. "I'm going in there with you. After all," +she added, "I can talk more sense into Mike's head than you can." + +"Now look," Malone began. + +Dorothea grinned in the darkness. "If you don't take me along," she +said quietly, "I'll scream and warn them." + +Malone surrendered at once. He had no doubt at all that Dorothea meant +what she said. And, after all, the girl might really be some use to +them. And there probably wouldn't be much danger. + +Of course there wouldn't, he thought. He was going to see to that. + +"All right," he said. "Come along. Stick close to us, and don't worry +about the darkness. We can see, even if you can't, so let us guide +you. And for heaven's sake be quiet!" + +Boyd whispered, "Malone, what's going on?" + +"She's coming with us," Malone said, pointing to Dorothea. + +Boyd shrugged. "Malone," he said, "who do you think you are? The Pied +Piper of Hamelin?" + +Malone wheeled and went ahead. Opening the door, he played his I-R +flashlight on the room inside and he, Boyd, and Dorothea trailed in, +going through rooms piled with huge boxes. They went up an iron +stairway to the second floor, and so on up to the roof. + +They moved quickly across the roof to the wall of the warehouse, which +was two stories higher than the building they were on. Of course there +were no windows in the warehouse wall facing them, except on the top +story. + +But there was a single, heavy, fireproof emergency exit. It would have +taken power machinery or explosive to open that door from the outside +without a key, although from the inside it would open easily. +Fortunately, Malone had a key. + +He took it out and stepped aside. "Give that lock the works," he +whispered to Boyd. + +Boyd took a lubricant gun from his pocket and fired three silent shots +of special oil into the lock. Then he shot the hinges, and the cracks +around the door. + +They waited for a minute or two while the oil, forced in under +pressure, did its work. Then Malone fitted the key carefully into the +lock and turned it, slowly and delicately. + +The door swung open in silence. Malone slipped inside, followed by +Boyd and Dorothea Fueyo. + +Infrared equipment went on again, and the eerie illumination spread +over their surroundings. Malone tapped Boyd on the shoulder, and +jerked his thumb toward the back stairs. This was plainly no time for +talk. + +From the floor above, they could hear the murmur of youthful voices. + +They started for the stairway. Fortunately, the building was of the +steel-and-concrete type; there were no wooden floors to creak and +groan beneath their feet. + +At the bottom of the stairs, they paused. Voices came down the +stairwell clearly, even words being defined in the silence. + +"...and quit harping on whose fault it was." Malone recognized Mike +Fueyo's voice. "That FBI guy was onto us, and we had to pull out; you +know that. We always figured we'd have to pull out some day. So why +not now?" + +"Yeah," another voice said. "But you didn't have to go and vanish +right under that Fed's nose. You been beating it into our heads not to +do that sort of stuff ever since we first found out we could make this +vanishing bit. And then you go and do it in front of a Fed. Sure, you +got a big bang out of it, but is it smart? I ask you--" + +"Yeah?" Mike said. "Listen, Silvo, they never would've got onto us if +it hadn't been for your stupid tricks. Slugging a cop on the dome. +Cracking up a car. You and your bug for speed!" + +Malone blinked. Then it hadn't been Miguel Fueyo who'd hit Sergeant +Jukovsky, but Silvo. Malone tried to remember the list of Silent +Spooks. Silvo Envoz--that was his name. + +"You slugged the FBI guy, Mike," Silvo said. "And now you got us all +on the run. That's your fault, Mike. I want to see my old lady." + +"I had to slug him," Mike said. "Listen, all Ramon's stuff was in that +Cadillac. What would've happened if he'd found all that stuff?" + +"So what happened anyway?" a third voice said (That was probably +Ramon Otravez, Malone thought.) "He found your stupid notebook, didn't +he? He went yelling to the cops, didn't he? We're running, ain't we? +So what's the difference?" + +"Shut up!" Mike roared. + +"You ain't telling me to shut up!" + +"Me either," Silvo yelled. "You think you're a great big big-shot! You +think you're king of the world!" + +"Who figured out the Vanish?" Mike screamed. "You'd all be a bunch of +bums if I hadn't showed you that! And you know it! You'd all--" + +"Don't give us that," Silvo said. "We'd have been able to do it, same +as you. Like you said, anybody who's got talent could do it. There +were guys you tried to teach--" + +"Sure," said a fourth voice. "Listen, Fueyo, you're so bright--so why +don't you try teaching it to somebody who don't have the talent?" + +"Yeah," said voice number five. "You think you could teach that flashy +sister of yours the Vanish?" + +"You shut up about my sister, Phil!" Mike screamed. + +"So what's so great about her?" + +"She got that book back from the Fed," Mike said. "That's what. It's +enough!" + +"Hell," a voice said, "any dame with a little--" + +"Shut your goddamn face before I shut it for you!" + +Malone couldn't tell who was yelling what at who after a minute. They +all seemed unhappy about being on the run from the police, and they +were all tired of being cooped up in a warehouse under Mike's orders. +Mike was the only person they could take it out on--and Mike was under +heavy attack. + +Two of the boys, surprisingly, seemed to side with him. The other five +were trying to outshout them. Malone wondered if it would become a +fight, and then realized that these kids could hardly fight each other +when the one who was losing could always fade out. + +He leaned over and whispered to Dorothea and Boyd, "Let's sneak up +there while the argument's going on." + +"But--" Boyd began. + +"Less chance of their noticing us," Malone explained, and Started +forward. + +They tiptoed up the stairs and got behind a pile of crates in the +shadows, while invective roared around them. This floor was lit by a +single small bulb hanging from a socket in the ceiling. The windows +were hung with heavy blankets to keep the light from shining out. + +The kids didn't notice anything except each other. Malone took a +couple of deep breaths and began to look around. + +All things considered, he thought, the kids had fixed the place up +pretty nicely. The unused warehouse had practically been made over +into an apartment. There were chairs, beds, tables, and everything +else in the line of furnishings for which the kids could conceivably +have any use. There were even some floor lamps scattered around, but +they weren't plugged in. Malone guessed that a job would have to be +done on the warehouse wiring to get the floor lamps in operation, and +the kids just hadn't got around to it yet. + +By now the boys were practically standing toe-to-toe, ripping +air-blueing epithets at each other. Not a single hand was lifted. + +Malone stared at them for a second, then turned to Dorothea. "We'll +wait till they calm down a little," he whispered. "Then you go out and +talk to them. Tell them we won't hurt them or lock them up or +anything. All we want to do is talk to them for awhile." + +"All right," she whispered back. + +"They can vanish any time they want to," Malone said, "so there's no +reason for them not to listen to--" + +He stopped suddenly, listening. Over the shouting, screaming, and +cursing of the kids, he heard motion on the floor below. + +Cops? + +It couldn't be, he told himself. But when he took out his radiophone, +his hands were shaking a little. + +Lynch's voice was already coming over it when Malone thumbed it on. + +"...so hang on, Malone! I repeat: We heard the ruckus, and we're +coming in! We're on our way! Hang on, Malone!" + +The voice stopped. There was a click. + +Malone stared at the handset, fascinated and horrified. He swallowed. +"No, Lynch!" he whispered, afraid to talk any louder for fear the kids +would hear him. "No! Don't come up. Go away. Repeat: Go away! Stay +away, Lynch!" + +It was no use. The radiophone was dead. + +Lynch, apparently thinking Malone's set had been smashed in the fight, +or else that Malone was unconscious, had shut his own receiver off. + +There was absolutely nothing that Malone could do. + +The kids were still yelling at the top of their voices, but the +thundering of heavy, flat feet galumphing up from the lower depths +couldn't be ignored for long. All the boys noticed it at about the +same time. They jerked their heads round to face the stairway. Malone +and his compatriots crouched lower behind the boxes. + +Mike Fueyo was the first to speak. "Don't vanish yet," he snapped. +"Let's see who it is." + +The internal dissent among the Silent Spooks disappeared as if it had +never been, as they faced a common foe. Once again they fell naturally +under Fueyo's leadership. "If it's cops," he said, "we'll give 'em the +grasshopper play we worked out. We'll show 'em." + +"They can't fool with us," another boy said. "Sure. The grasshopper +play." + +It was cops, all right. Lieutenant Lynch ran up the stairs waving his +billy in a heroic fashion, followed by a horde of blue-clad officers. + +"Where's Malone?" Lynch shouted as he came through the doorway. + +"Where's your what?" Mike yelled back, and the fight was on. + +Later, Malone thought that he should have been surprised, but he +wasn't. There wasn't any time to be surprised. The kids didn't +disappear. + +They spread out over the floor of the room easily and lightly, and the +cops charged them in a great blundering mass. + +Naturally, the kids winked out one by one--and re-formed in the center +of the cops' muddle. Malone saw one cop raise his billy and swing it +at Mike. Mike watched it come down and vanished at the last instant. +The cop's billy descended on the head of another cop, standing just +behind where Mike had been. + +The second cop, blinded by the blow on his head, swung back and hit +the first cop. Meanwhile, Mike was somewhere else. + +Malone stayed crouched behind the boxes. Dorothea stood up and +shouted, "Mike! Mike! We just want to talk to you!" + +Unfortunately, the police were making such a racket that this could +not be heard more than a foot or so from the speaker. Lynch himself +charged into the mass, swinging his billy and his free fist, and +laying others out one after the other. Pretty soon the floor was +littered with cops. Lynch was doing yeoman duty, but it was hard to +tell what side he was on. + +The vanishing trick Mike had worked out was being used by all of the +kids. Cops were hitting other cops, Lynch was hitting everybody, and +the kids were winking on and off all over the loft. It was a scene of +tremendous noise and carnage. + +Malone suddenly sprang to his feet and charged into the melee, +shouting at the top of his lungs and swinging both fists. The first +person he saw was one of the teen-agers, and he charged him with +abandon. + +He should, he reflected, have known better. The kid disappeared. +Malone caromed off the stomach of a policeman, received a blow on the +shoulder from his billy, and rebounded into the arms of a surprised +police officer at the edge of the battle. + +"Who're you?" the officer gasped. + +"Malone," Malone said. + +"You on our side?" + +"How about you?" Malone said. + +"I'm a lieutenant here," the officer said. "In charge of the warehouse +precinct. I--" + +Malone and the lieutenant stepped nimbly aside as another cop careened +by them, waving his billy helplessly. They looked away as the crash +came. The cop had fallen over a table, and now lay with his legs in +the air, supported by the overturned table, blissfully unconscious. + +"We seem," Malone said, "to be in an area of some activity. Let's +move." + +They shifted away a few feet. Malone looked into the foray and saw +Boyd at work, roaring and going after the kids. One of them had +established a kind of game with him. He appeared just in front of +Boyd, who rushed at him, arms outstretched. As Boyd almost reached +him, the kid disappeared, and reappeared again just behind Boyd. He +tapped the FBI agent gently on the shoulder; Boyd turned and the +process was repeated. + +Boyd seemed to be getting winded. + +"Damn kids," the lieutenant muttered suddenly, and dashed back into +the fray. Malone looked around, saw Mike Fueyo flickering in and out +at the edges, and headed for him. + +A cop swung at Mike, missed, and hit Malone on the arm. Malone swore. +The cop backed off, looking in a bewildered fashion for his victim, +who was nowhere in sight. Then Malone caught sight of him, at the +other edge of the fight. He started to work his way around. + +He tried to avoid blows, but it wasn't always possible. A reeling cop +caught his lapel and tore it, and Lynch, indefatigable in battle, +managed to graze his chin with a blow meant for one of the +disappearing boys. Other cops were battling each other, going after +the kids and clutching empty air, cursing and screaming unheard orders +in the fracas. + +Malone ducked past Lynch, rubbed at his chin and looked for Mike. In +the tangle of bodies it was getting hard to see. There was the sound +of breaking ceramics as a floor lamp went over, and then a table +followed it, but Malone avoided both. He looked for Mike Fueyo. + +A cop clutched him around the middle, out of nowhere, said, "Sorry, +buddy. Who the hell are you?" and dove back into the mass of bodies. +Malone caught his breath and forged onward. + +There was Mike, at the edge of the fight, watching everything coolly. +No cop was near him. In the dim light the place looked like a scene +from hell, a special hell for policemen. + +Malone wove through battling hordes to the edge, and came out a few +feet away from Mike Fueyo. + +Fueyo didn't see him. He was looking at Boyd instead--still stumbling +back and forth as the teen-ager baiting him winked on and off in front +of him and behind him. He was laughing. + +Malone came up silently from behind. The trip seemed to take hours. He +was being very quiet, although he was reasonably sure that even if he +yelled he wouldn't be heard. But he didn't want to take the slightest +chance. + +He sprang on Mike, and attached the handcuffs to his wrist and to +Mike's wrist within ten seconds. + +"Ha!" he said involuntarily. "Now come with me!" + +He gave his end of the handcuffs a tremendous yank. + +He started to stagger, trailing an empty cuff behind him, flailing his +arms wildly. Ahead of him he could see a big cop with an upraised +billy. Malone tried to alter his course, but it was too late. He +skidded helplessly into the cop, who jerked round and swung the billy +automatically. Malone said: "Ugh," as he caught the blow on the +cheekbone, bounced off the cop and kept going. + +He careened past a blur of figures, trying to avoid hard surfaces and +other human beings. But there was-- + +Oh, no, Malone thought. Lynch. + +Lynch was ready to swing. His fist was cocked, and he was heading for +one of the teen-agers with murder in his eye. Malone knew their paths +were going to intersect. "Watch out," he yelled. "Watch out, it's me! +Stop me! Somebody stop me!" He went completely unheard. + +Lynch swung and missed, hitting a cop who had been hiding behind the +teen-ager. The cop went down to join the wounded, and Lynch roared +like a bull and swung around, looking for more enemies. + +That was when Malone hit him. + +Long afterward, he remembered Lynch's hat sailing through the air, and +landing in the center of a struggling mass of policemen. He remembered +Lynch saying, "So there you are!" and swinging before he looked. + +He remembered the blow on the chin. + +And then he remembered falling, and falling, and falling. Somewhere +there was a voice: "Where the hell are they? They've disappeared for +good." + +And then, for long seconds, nothing. + +He woke up with a headache, but it wasn't too bad. Surprisingly, not +much time had passed; he got up and dusted off his trousers, looking +around at the battlefield. Wounded and groaning cops were lying all +over. The room was a shambles; the walking wounded--which comprised +the rest of the force--were stumbling around in a slow, hopeless sort +of fashion. + +Lynch was standing next to him. "Malone," he said, "I'm sorry. I hit +you, didn't I?" + +"Uh-huh," Malone said. "You seemed to be hitting every body." + +"I was _trying_ for the kids," Lynch said. + +"So was I," Malone said. "I got the cuffs on one and yanked him along, +but he disappeared and left me with the cuffs." + +"Great," Lynch said. "Hell of a raid." + +"Very jolly," Malone agreed. "Fun and games were had by all." + +A cop stumbled up, handed Lynch his cap and disappeared without a +word. Lynch stared mournfully at it. The emblem was crushed, and the +cap looked rather worn and useless. He put it on his head, where it +assumed the rakish tilt of a hobo's favorite tam-o'-shanter, and said, +"I hope you're not thinking of blaming _me_ for this fiasco." + +"Not at all," Malone said nobly. He hurt all over, but on reflection +he thought that he would probably live. "It was nobody's fault." +Except, he thought, his own. If he'd only told Lynch to come in when +called for--and under no other circumstances--this wouldn't have +happened. He looked around at the remains of New York's Finest, and +felt guilty. + +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 around, 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." + + + 13 + +"Logically," Malone said, "there has to be _some_ way to catch them." +He looked around the hotel room as though he expected to find an +answer painted in big black letters on the wall. "Logically," he said +again, and tried to think of what came next. He liked the sound of the +word, but that was as far as it went. + +"That's fine," Boyd said. He sat on a chair, staring gloomily at the +floor and rubbing the bald spot on his chin with a single, sad, +inquisitive forefinger. "There has to be an answer. You're probably +right. But what the hell is it?" + +Malone started to answer, and then wondered what he had been going to +say. He sunk himself in thought. There was a knock at the door. "Who's +there?" he called, glad of any relief at all. + +"It's me," a small voice said. "Dorothea." + +"Come in," Malone said. + +The door opened. Dorothea came in, shut the door behind her, and +looked around the room a little awkwardly. + +"Did you get a good night's sleep?" Malone said. + +She nodded. "I guess so," she said. "Sure. It was nice of you to get +me a room for the night. I mean, I guess I was--well..." + +"Forget it," Malone said grandly. "You were upset and tired, that's +all. Hell, in the car on the way back here last night, you fainted." + +"I did not faint," she said. + +"Well," Malone said, "you sure looked like--" + +"I was tired," Dorothea said. + +Malone shrugged. "Okay. You were tired." + +"You're not mad, are you," she said, "because I stole your notebook?" + +"Of course not," Malone said. "I said forget it, didn't I? Sit down +and help us out." + +"Help you?" she said. + +"That's right," Boyd said. "Help us figure out how to catch this bunch +of maniacs before they steal everything in New York." + +Dorothea said, "Maniacs? I--" and Malone interrupted her in a hurry. + +"Police Commissioner Fernack has called twice this morning already," +he said. "He's screaming about all the burglaries that have been +occurring since midnight last night." + +"Oh," Dorothea said. "You mean the Spooks? Mike and the others? +They've been stealing again?" + +"They sure have, Miss Fueyo," Boyd said. + +"I guess they're furnishing their new hideout," Malone said. "Wherever +it is. Only God knows." + +"And even if He told us," Boyd said, "it wouldn't do us any good. +Chase 'em out of there, and they'd go somewhere else." + +Malone stood up, fished for his cigarettes and lit one. "What we +need," he said, blowing out smoke, "is some way to trap 'em and hold +'em. And I don't see how we can do either." + +"After last night," Dorothea said, "I really don't see--" + +"Wait a minute," Boyd said. "You said _trap_, didn't you?" He looked +slowly and speculatively at Dorothea Fueyo. + +A second passed. + +"Oh, no, you don't!" she said. "Oh, no. Not on your life. I'll help +catch him if I can, because I know you don't mean to hurt him or the +others. But I wouldn't want Mike to know about it. You're not using me +as bait in any trap." + +Boyd looked at Malone, shook his head slowly, and said disconsolately, +"Well, it was an idea." He returned his gaze to the floor. + +The furtive gleam of the half bottle of bourbon on Malone's dresser +caught his eye. He'd had it sent up the night before, feeling the need +of some medicinal refreshment. Now it winked at him. He ignored it +resolutely. "Dorothea," he said. + +"Yes?" + +"Dorothea, do you have any idea how far one of those kids can go when +he teleports?" + +"No," Dorothea said. "I really haven't any idea about any of it. Mike +tried to teach me once, but I guess I just don't have the talent." + +"Oh," Malone said. + +"I wish I could help," Dorothea said. + +Silence fell, and gloom followed it. + +Time ticked by. The bourbon bottle resumed its seductive winking. + +"There is one thing," Dorothea said suddenly. "He did say one thing +about it." + +"What?" Malone said eagerly. + +"He said you couldn't teleport to some place you haven't been before. +You've got to be able to visualize where you're going." + +Malone said, "Hmm." It seemed like the right answer. Dorothea's +statement was a fact, certainly, but he didn't see how the fact fit in +anywhere. + +"He didn't mention anything about distance, and I don't think any of +the Spooks ever tested it for that," Dorothea said. + +"There probably is a distance limit," Malone said. "At least if Dr. +O'Connor's theories are right. I just wish I knew what the limit was." + +Silence fell again. Malone sighed. Dorothea sighed. Boyd sighed, +looked around at the others and muttered, "Damn thing's catching." He +got up and walked over to the dresser and picked up the bottle of +bourbon. + +"You, too?" Malone murmured, but Boyd didn't hear him. + +"I don't care if it is early in the morning," he said, resolutely. "I +need a drink. I need something to take the fog out of my head, +anyhow." He poured himself a shot, held the bottle aloft, and said, +"Dorothea? Malone?" + +The girl shook her head. + +Malone was tempted but he put Satan behind him with decision. "No," he +said firmly. "The way I feel now, one drink would probably immobilize +me." + +Dorothea chuckled. "You sound just like Mike," she said. + +"Mike doesn't drink in the morning either?" Malone said. + +"Of course he doesn't," Boyd said. "Mike is a nice kid. A swell kid." + +"You keep quiet," Dorothea shot at him. She turned back to Malone. +"Mike never drinks at all," she said. "He says it immobilizes +him--just what you said." + +Somewhere in the black galactic depths of Malone's mind, a very small +hot star gulped, took a deep breath and became a supernova. + +The light was tremendous! It shed beams over everything, beams of a +positively supernal brilliance. And in the all-pervasive brightness of +that single inner light, bits of data began to fall into place with +all the precision of aerial bombs, each falling neatly and exactly +into its own little predetermined bomb crater. + +It was beautiful. It was magnificent. Malone felt all choked up. + +None of the Silent Spooks drank. He remembered Kettleman telling him +that. And the Queen never touched the stuff either. + +"What's wrong?" Boyd said. + +"Malone, you look green." + +"I feel green," Malone said. "I feel like newly sprung grass. I feel +as if I had just hatched out of something. I feel wonderful." + +"It's the strain," Boyd said. "That's what it is, strain. You've +cracked at last." + +Malone ignored him. "Tell me," he said to Dorothea with elaborate +casualness, "when your brother says that, what does he mean?" + +"What?" she said. "Oh, I don't know. I--" She stopped and her eyes +widened. "You don't think that--" + +"I don't know," Malone said. "But we can sure as hell find out." + +Dorothea blinked. "What can you do?" she said. "I mean, to find out. +You can't force them to drink or anything, can you?" + +"No," Malone said. "I can't do that. But it does give me an idea." + +Boyd held his untasted drink in his hand, staring at Malone and the +girl. "What are you two talking about?" he said. "Or is this the +special Captain Midnight code? I left my code ring home this week." + +"Boyd," Malone snapped, "get on the phone." + +"Are you sure it will hold me?" Boyd said. + +"I want you to call Dr. O'Connor at Yucca Flats," Malone said. "Shut +up and listen." + +There was silence. + +Finally Boyd said, "I don't hear anything." + +"Never mind," Malone said. "I mean listen to me. I know it's pretty +early out where O'Connor is, but that doesn't matter now. Wake him up. +Wake everybody up, for all I care." + +"Malone," Boyd said carefully, "are you sure you haven't gone nuts?" + +Malone grinned cheerfully. "No," he said. "Are you? Now listen: find +out what effect drugs have on psionic abilities." + +"Drugs?" Boyd said, and then his eyes lit up. "My God!" he said. "We +might have something, at that!" + +"Get the Queen up too," Malone said. "Ask her the same question. I +hope we do have something." + +"So do I," Dorothea said. + +"And if we get the information we're hoping to get, I want Her Majesty +on the first plane to New York," Malone said. "I don't care what +strings you have to pull to get that done. Call Burris if you have to. +It'll be worth it." Malone paused. "Hell," he said, "call him anyway +and tell him what's happened. But get the Queen here!" + +"Right!" Boyd said. He dove for the phone and started dialing. +Suddenly he looked around. "Hey!" he yelled. "Where are you going?" + +Malone, one hand on the door, turned. "Down to see Fernack," he said. +"I've got to make some arrangements. I'm betting we're right, Tom!" He +charged out the door, slamming it. A second passed and it opened +again. Malone's head popped back in. "Dorothea," he said. "When Tom +gets off the phone call your mother. Tell her you're going to be away +for a day or two--two at the most--and she's not to worry. We'll need +you, and her, too, to talk to Mike when the time comes. So stick +around." + +Then he was gone. + + * * * * * + +Twelve hours later, Kenneth J. Malone was sitting quietly in a small +room at the rear of a sporting-goods store on upper Madison Avenue, +trying to remain calm and hoping that the finest, most beautiful hunch +he had ever had in his life was going to pay off. With him were Boyd +and two agents from the 69th Street office. They were sitting quietly +too, but there was a sense of enormous excitement in the air. Malone +wanted to get up and walk around, but he didn't dare. He clamped his +hands in his lap and sat tight. + +They waited in silence, not daring to talk. There was no sound except +for the faint whoosh of their breathing through the gas masks they +were wearing, and the muffled hiss from a tank nearby. + +There was no reason why the plan shouldn't work. Malone told himself. + +It looked foolproof. But he didn't believe it would work. This was the +time, he assured himself, that his luck ran out. He'd been lucky for +too long, and now the wheel was going to turn and he'd be lost. All he +could do was wait for it, and hope. + +Her Majesty had said definitely that this would be the place the +Spooks would hit tonight. She had no doubts about it. And Malone +couldn't think of a single reason why she might be wrong. But maybe +he'd got the address mixed up. Maybe the Spooks were somewhere else +right now, robbing what they pleased, safe from capture.... + +His hunch about drugs had been correct, or at least everybody had said +it was correct. Dr. O'Connor had assured Boyd that the deleterious +effects of drugs on psionic abilities had been known ever since the +early days of Dr. Rhine's pioneering work, more than twenty years +before. And Good Queen Bess had admitted the same thing. She never +drank, she said, because on the one occasion when she'd tried it, +she'd lost her telepathic ability, and "My goodness, it was just like +going blind." + +Burris had had to put on the pressure, but it had worked. The Queen +had been flown to New York, under psychiatric guard just as soon as +possible after Boyd's phone call, and she'd been able to pick up Mike +Fueyo without any trouble at all as soon as she was within the same +city, and close enough to him. + +It doesn't do much good to know where a teleporter _is_, Malone +thought. But it's extremely handy to know where he's _going to be_. +And if you also know what he plans to do when he gets where he's +going, you've got an absolute lead-pipe cinch to work with. + +The Queen had provided that lead-pipe cinch. Reading Mike's mind, +she'd told Malone that he planned to raid the sporting-goods store +with the rest of the Spooks that night. Lucky again, Malone thought; +he might have had to wait two or three days before the Spooks set up a +robbery. + +But, of course, he might just be riding for some kind of horrible, +unforeseen fall. + +The main part of the sporting-goods store was fairly well lit, even at +night, though it was by no means brightly illuminated. There were +show-window lights on, and the street lamp from outside cast a nice +glow. But the back room was dark, and the four men there were well +concealed. A curtain closed the room off, and Malone watched the front +of the store through a narrow opening in it. He stared through it +until his eyes ached, afraid to blink in case he missed the appearance +of the Spooks. Everything had to go off just right, precisely on +schedule. + +And it was going to happen any minute, he told himself nervously. In +just a few minutes, everything would be over. + +Malone held his breath. + +Then he saw the figure walk slowly by the glass front of the shop, +looking in with elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint, making +sure there were none left in it. + +Mike Fueyo. + +Malone tried to breathe, and couldn't. + +Seconds ticked by. + +And then--almost magically--they appeared. Eight of them, almost +simultaneously, in the center of the room. + +Mike Fueyo spoke in a low, controlled voice. "Okay, now," he said. +"Let's move fast. We--" + +And that was all he said. + +The odorless anesthetic gas that filled the room had its sudden +effect. Fueyo dropped out like a light. + +The other seven followed him within seconds. Ramon Otravez, the +tallest of them, stayed on his feet a little longer than the rest, +obviously trying with all his strength to teleport himself out of +danger, but the effects of the fast-working gas had already been felt. +He was, literally, too stunned to move. + +He too slumped to the floor. + +For a second after that, none of the men in the rear room moved. + +Then Malone said, "All right, boys. Let's get them out of here. They +can't stay too long in this atmosphere." The men started forward into +the front room, toward the still bodies. "Boyd," Malone said. "Get out +front and wave the ambulance over here. I'll get the air-conditioners +working and stop the gas." + +He reached down and turned off the valve on the gently hissing tank of +anesthetic gas that sat on the floor near him. "You guys get the +kids," he said. "And let's make it fast, okay?" + + + 14 + +"The one thing we had to worry about," Malone said, pouring some more +champagne into the two hollow-stemmed glasses, "was whether it was +possible to give them just enough synthecaine. Too little, and they'd +still be able to teleport. Too much, and they'd be too groggy." + +Dorothea relaxed in her chair and looked around at the hotel room +walls with contentment. She looked like the proverbial cat who has +swallowed the cream. "It looked to me as if it worked," she said. +"Mike seemed pretty normal--except that he had that awful _trapped_ +feeling." + +Malone handed her one of the filled glasses with an air. He was +beginning slowly to feel less like the nervous, uncertain Kenneth J. +Malone, and more and more like Sir Kenneth Malone. "I can see why he +felt trapped," he said. "If a guy's been unhampered by four walls all +the time, even only for a year or so, he's certainly going to feel +penned in when he loses the ability to get through them. It might be +just a little claustrophobic." He grinned, proud of himself. +"Claustrophobic," he said again. "My tongue and palate are in +excellent condition." + +"The main thing is," Dorothea said, "that everybody's so happy. +Commissioner Fernack, even--with Mr. Burris promising to give him a +medal." + +"And Lynch," Malone said reflectively. "He'll get a promotion out of +this for sure. And good old Kettleman." + +"Kettleman?" Dorothea said. "Oh, the funny fat man. He's some kind of +social worker or something." + +"And now he's getting a scroll from the FBI," Malone said. "A citation +for coming up with the essential clue in this case. Even though he +didn't know it _was_ the essential clue. You know," he added +reflectively, "one thing puzzles me about that man." + +"Yes?" + +"Well," Malone said, "he worked in your neighborhood. You knew him." + +"Of course I did," Dorothea said. "We all knew Kettleman." + +"He said he had a lot of success as a social worker," Malone said. +"Now, I've met him. And talked with him. And I just can't picture--" + +"Oh," Dorothea said. "We keep him around--kept him around, I mean--as +a sort of joke. A pet, or a mascot. Of course, he never did catch on. +I don't suppose he has yet." + +Malone laughed. "Nope," he said. "He hasn't." + +"And even your friend is happy," Dorothea said. + +"Boyd?" Malone said. "Sure. He called his blonde and she was just +thrilled at the adventures of an FBI agent, and he's with her now." + +"You sound jealous," Dorothea said. + +"The hell I am," Malone said, and proceeded to prove his point. Some +minutes later they relaxed. + +"Mike," Dorothea said. "What?" + +"Mike," she said. "He's probably the happiest of all. After Mom and I +talked to him for a while, anyhow, and he began to lose that--that +_trapped_ feeling. Now he's all excited about being an FBI man." She +looked worriedly at Malone for a second. "You weren't kidding about +that, were you?" she said. + +She looked very pretty when she was worried. Malone leaned over and +kissed her with great care. After a second, the kiss seemed to gain +momentum on its own, and all restraint went by the wayside. A long +time passed. + +Then, as Malone pulled away and began to recover his breath, he said +weakly, "You were saying?" + +"Was I?" Dorothea said. "Oh, yes. I was. About Mike being an FBI man." + +"Oh," Malone said. "Well, normally you've got to be a lawyer or an +accountant, but there are a few special cases. And maybe Mike would +fit into the special-case bracket. If he doesn't--well, he'll be doing +some sort of official work for the Government. You can be sure of +that." + +"That woman in the costume--the one you call Your Majesty--certainly +threw a scare into the boys," Dorothea said. + +"Well," Malone said, "we had to prove one thing to them. We can pick +them up at any time. You see, they've got to think about where they're +teleporting, and as soon as they do that one of our telepaths--like +the Queen--will know where they're going to be. And we can crack +down." + +"That's what she said," Dorothea said. + +"Right," Malone said. "After all, we did them quite a favor--getting +them out of all the trouble they'd gotten themselves into. If they try +to--" + +"That reminds me, Ken," Dorothea said. "All the things that were +stolen. The liquor and all of that, Money. What's going to happen to +that?" + +"Well," Malone said, "everything that can be returned--and that +includes most of the liquor, because they hadn't had a chance to get +rid of it to the bootleggers around this area--will be returned. What +can't be returned--money, stuff that they've used, broken, or +sold--well, I don't exactly know about that. It might take a special +act of Congress," he said brightly. + +"All for the boys?" Dorothea said. + +"Well, they'll be at Yucca Flats, and they'll be pretty useful," +Malone said. "And, as I was saying, if they try to run away from Yucca +Flats, we'll just have to keep them drugged all the time, little as we +want to. They can be of some use that way, too. The Government isn't +doing all this for nothing." + +"But keeping them drugged--" + +"I said we didn't want to do it. And I don't think we'll have to. +They'll be well taken care of, don't worry. Some of the best +psychiatrists and doctors are out there. And Mike and the others--if +they can show they're trustworthy--can come home every weekend, or +even every night if they can teleport that far." Malone paused. "But +it isn't charity," he added. "We need people with specialized psionic +abilities--and, for a variety of reasons, they're pretty hard to +find." + +"You know," Dorothea said, "you're pretty wonderful, Mr. Malone." + +Malone didn't answer her. He just kissed her again, not caring +particularly whether or not the kiss went wild. + +Dorothea pushed him gently away. "I'm envious," she announced. +"Everybody gets a reward but me. Do I get left out just because I +swiped your notebook?" + +Malone kissed her again. "What kind of a reward do you want?" he +asked. + +She sighed. "Oh, well," she said. "I suppose this is good enough." + +"Good enough?" Malone said. "Just good enough?" + +His lips met hers for the fifth time. She reached one hand gently out +to the light switch and pushed it. + +The lights went out. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Impossibles, by +Gordon Randall Garrett and Laurence Mark Janifer + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMPOSSIBLES *** + +***** This file should be named 22338.txt or 22338.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/3/3/22338/ + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |