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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/24444-8.txt b/24444-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..92daac8 --- /dev/null +++ b/24444-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8148 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Out Like a Light, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +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: Out Like a Light + +Author: Gordon Randall Garrett + +Release Date: January 28, 2008 [EBook #24444] +Last updated: January 22, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT LIKE A LIGHT *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Greg Bergquist, Bruce Albrecht and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science +Fiction April, May and June 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any +evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor +typographical errors have been corrected without note.] + +[Illustration] + +OUT LIKE A LIGHT + +By MARK PHILLIPS + + =_Kenneth Malone--sometimes known as Sir Kenneth of The Queen's Own + FBI--had had problems with telepathic spies, and more than somewhat + nutty telepathic counterspies. But the case of the Vanishing + Delinquents was at least as bad...._= + +Illustrated by Freas + +[Illustration] + +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 blond 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 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 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 policeman thought he was drunk. That wasn't right. He couldn't +let the police get the wrong impression of FBI agents. Now the man 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?" + +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," the smaller cop--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 instant 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. + +"The guy's heeled!" Sam said. "Watch him! Don't let him get away!" + +Malone considered getting away, and decided that he couldn't move. "It's +O.K.," he said. + +"O.K., hell," Sam said. "It's a .44 Magnum. What are you doing with a +gun, Mac?" He was no longer polite and friendly. "Why 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: "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 no 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 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. + + + + +II. + + +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. + +[Illustration] + +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 Burris +himself sat, 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 +least 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 kidnapping, 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 kidnappers 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 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 some time, 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. "O.K. 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 just 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--not Jukovsky, who didn't wake up for a couple of minutes +and so didn't see what happened next--after he 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. "It could happen. The start happened 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. It's not possible." + +[Illustration] + +"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." + +"O.K.," 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," Burris 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--and 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. +O.K.?" + +"Yes, sir," Malone said. + + + + +III. + + +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 'cap's 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 red robot-controlled 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 with a connecting bath over at the +Statler-Hilton Hotel. 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." + +"O.K.," Boyd said. "O.K. 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 Sixty-ninth 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. + +"Statler-Hilton Hotel," Boyd said grandly. + +The driver swung around to stare at them, blinked, and finally said: +"O.K., 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 know. 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 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 Sixty-ninth 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 from 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 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 joyriding, or +as some sort of prank. + +But a car or two every night? How many joyrides 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 Sixty-ninth +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 Motor Vehicle Bureau. 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 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 were 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. + + + + +IV. + + +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 +that 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 "Greensleaves" 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. + +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 +doctors calm hands, and swore subvocally. + +"Hold still," the doctor said. "Don't go wiggling your head around that +way. Just wait quietly until the demijel 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. + +[Illustration] + +"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." + +"When?" Malone said. + +"You're not badly hurt," the doctor said reprovingly. "You've got a +slight concussion, that's all." + +"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, O.K.?" + +"O.K.," 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. + +"O.K.," 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 O.K., 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 has 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 knew why the cop had mistaken it for his. + +There, right on the first page, was a carefully detailed drawing of a +1972 Cadillac. It had been painstakingly colored in with a red pencil. + +Malone stared at it for a second, and then went on to page two. This +page carried a list of names running down the left margin. + + _Ramon O. + + Mario G. + + Silvo E. + + Felipe A. + + Alvarez la B. + + Juan de los S. + + Ray del E._ + +That made sense, of a kind. It was a list of names. Whose names they +were, Malone didn't know; but at least he could see the list and +understand it. What puzzled him were the decorations. + +Following each name was a queer-looking squiggle. Each was slightly +different, and each bore some resemblance to a stick-figure, a +geometrical figure or just a childish scrawl. The whole parade reminded +Malone of pictures he had seen of Egyptian hieroglyphics. + +But the names didn't look Egyptian, and, anyhow, nobody used +hieroglyphics any more--did they? + +Malone found himself thinking: _Now what does that mean?_ He looked +across at the facing page. + +It contained a set of figures, all marked off in dollars and cents and +all added up neatly. One of the additions ended with the eye-popping sum +of $52,710.09, and Malone found that the sum made him slightly nervous. +This was high-powered figuring. + + * * * * * + +On to page three, he told himself. Drawings again, both on that page and +on the one facing it. Malone recognized an outboard motor, a +store-front, a suit of clothing hanging neatly on a hanger, a motor +scooter, a shotgun and an IBM Electrotyper. Whoever had done the work +was a reasonably accurate artist, if untrained; the various items were +easily recognizable and Malone could see a great deal of detail. + +That, of course, was fine. Only it made no more sense than the rest of +the notebook. + +Malone riffled through a few more pages, trying to make sense of the +contents. One page seemed to be a shopping list, with nothing more +revealing on it than _bread, bacon, eggs (1/2 doz.), peaches (frz.), +cigs., & ltr., fluid_. + +There was another list, farther on. This one said: _Hist. 2, Eng. 4, +Math. 3, Span. 2. What for Elec.?_ + +That cast the first glow of light. Whoever owned the notebook was a +student. Or a teacher, Malone thought; then, looking back at the +handwriting, he decided that the owner of the notebook had to be in high +school, certainly no farther along. + +He went on flipping pages. One of them said, in large black capitals: +=_HE'S BLUFFING!_= + +A note passed in class? There was not any way of making sure. + +Malone thought about the hypothetical student for a minute. Then +something in the riffling pages caught his eye. + +There were two names on the page he'd stopped at. + +The first was: _Lt. Peter Lynch, NYPD._ It was followed by two little +squiggles. + +The second was: _Mr. Kenneth J. Malone, FBI._ + +There were no squiggles after his own name, and Malone felt oddly +thankful for that, without knowing exactly why. But what did the names +mean? And who had-- + +"Uh ... Mr. Malone--" Bill said tentatively. "That _is_ your notebook, +isn't it?" + +"Oh," Malone said. He looked up at the cop and put on his most +ingratiating smile. "Sure," he said. "It's mine. Sure it is. Just +checking to see if I'd lost any pages. Not good. Losing pages out of a +notebook. Never. Have to check, you know. Procedure. Very secret." + +"Sure," Bill said uncertainly. + +Malone took a deep breath. "Thought I'd lost the notebook," he said. "I +appreciate your returning it." + +"Oh," Bill said, "that's O.K., Mr. Malone. 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 Sixty-ninth 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. + +What 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? + +"Statler-Hilton Hotel," 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. 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 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 +some time. 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. + +"O.K.," 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 +Sixty-ninth 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 good men. Maybe among the +best in their field." + +So Malone made his last call, to the firm of Leibowitz & 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. And--" + +"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?" + +"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 don't like it. After all, Malone--" + +Malone ignored him. "The Governor of New York promised his +co-operation," he said, "and he said he'd get in touch with the +Governors of New Jersey and Connecticut and get co-operation from that +angle. So we'll have 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 & 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 & 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." + +[Illustration] + +"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 there are, 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. + + + + +V. + + +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, a +huskily-built man sat. 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," Malone said. "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. 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. + +"What's so funny?" Malone demanded. + +He grabbed the wallet and turned it toward him. At once, of course, he +realized what had happened. He had not 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 QUEENS OWN F.B.I. + +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 at the +badge with it. At last he looked up. + +"I guess you are the FBI," he said. "But what was with the gag?" + +"It wasn'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 note mentally 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, when he'd been 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. "O.K.," 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." He opened it to the page with Lynch's name on it. + +Lynch opened his mouth, closed it and then took the notebook. He stared +at the 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 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 pages carefully. 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 +obligation. 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, social club, something like that," Lynch +said. "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: +Ramon Otravez, Mario Grito, Silvo Envoz, Felipe Altapor, Alvarez 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. +"There's only one name missing, as a matter of fact. Funny it isn't +there." + +Malone tried to look as if he knew what was going on. "Oh?" he said. + +"Yeah," Lynch said. "The Fueyo kid--Miguel Fueyo. Everybody calls him +Mike." + +While interesting, this did not provide much food for thought. "Why +should his name be on it especially?" Malone said. + +"Because he's the leader of the gang," Lynch said. "The boss. The big +shot." He pointed to the list of names. "Except for him, that's all of +them--the Silent Spooks." + +Malone considered the missing Mike Fueyo. + +He knew perfectly well, now, why Fueyo's name was not in the book. + +Who puts his own name on a list? + +The notebook was Fueyo's. It had to be. + + * * * * * + +Lynch was looking at him expectantly. Malone thought of a question and +asked it. "They know you?" he 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 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 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." + +"O.K.," 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. 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," 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 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 teen-agers. "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--" + +[Illustration] + +"You didn't?" the girl said. "If you didn't, you must be completely +blind." + +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 face was beginning to get a little tired, but he +retained the 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 could not 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 ran 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. + + + + +VI. + + +The building was just off Amsterdam, in the Eighties. It had been a +shining new development once, but it was beginning to slide downhill +now. The metal on the windowframes 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 windowboxes. 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 saw a glow of +tears behind them. Mike was her son. She did not seem surprised that the +police had taken him away, but she was determined to protect him. + +Malone's voice was very gentle. "Why did they arrest him?" he said. + +The woman shrugged, a single sharp gesture. "You ask me this?" + +"I'm not a cop," Malone said. "I'm from the FBI." + +"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 tears came. + +"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 goes 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, and said nothing as Malone charged up the +stairs 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?" + +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, why do you want to see the lieutenant? 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. + +"I'm in a hurry," Malone said. "Where are the cells? I want to see +Lieutenant Lynch." + +The desk sergeant nodded. "O.K.," 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," the sergeant said. "On duty. Can't leave the desk." He +cleared his throat and gave Malone a set of directions. + + * * * * * + +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. "1972 Red Cadillacs." + +"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--for very good reasons--unstrapped his .44 Magnum and handed it to +the lieutenant. + +He left reluctantly, with his men. + +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. I'd like to ask you a few--" + +"Gee, Mr. Malone," Mike broke in eagerly. "I'm glad you're here." + +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. + + + + +VII. + +[Illustration] + + +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 straitjacket. 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. + +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. If he had blacked out, +then Mike would have seen it as he went groggy, 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. + +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 really 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 Sixty-ninth 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 looked at 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 Seventieth 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 were 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 a 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." + +"How do you know?" Malone had asked him, "it doesn't. Or, anyhow, 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 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 save 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. + +"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 for." + +"But he wants to sue the city," a voice said tinnily. "Or somebody." + +"Let him sue," Boyd said. "We've got authority. Just get that car." + +"Look," the voice said. "I--" + +"I don't care how," 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 over 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 have you been doing?" Boyd said. "Drinking? 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." + + * * * * * + +The phone chimed. Boyd flipped up the mike and eyed the screen +balefully. "Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said crisply. "Who are +you?" + +A voice on the other end said: "What?" before the image on the screen +cleared. + +"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." + +[Illustration] + +"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 turned 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 semirobotic 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 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 has 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! I will never stop from 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" that night. + +The agent, a tall, thin man, who looked as if he suffered from chronic +stomach trouble, said, "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. + + + + +VIII. + + +He walked along Sixty-ninth 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 & 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 he 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 +Forty-seventh 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 SM 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 phone 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, +"which also 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 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 most friendly 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." + +"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." + +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 or keep him +in. + +But he was going to leave home. + +Malone said: "Hm-m-m," 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 up at the street sign, where the +words: "Avenue of the Americas" had been painted out, and "Sixth Avenue" +hand-lettered in. + +"They finally gave in," the painter told him. "But do you think they'll +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, anyway? 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 just 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 for 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_." + +"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 us poor, stupid policemen? Like, say, making +yourself vanish?" + +"I'll make the whole 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: "O.K., 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. "O.K.?" + +"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?" + +"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. + +"We'll talk about it later," Lynch said. "Farewell, old pal." + +"Flights of angels," Malone said, "sing thee to thy rest." + +[Illustration] + + * * * * * + +Malone replaced the microphone and headed for the door. Halfway there, +however, he stopped. He hadn't had a _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 Forty-second Street, turned left 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 _maître d'hôtel_ 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 _maître 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, behind him. 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 +_maître 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 had been 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 Sixty-ninth Street +and blessed several saints when he found that 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. + +"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 half a dozen drinks? Don't +answer. I think I can guess. But let's just take them one at a +time--O.K.?" 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 Forty-second 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." + +"Hm-m-m," 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. + + + + +IX. + + +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. It 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. Some time, 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? + +[Illustration] + +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 ... + +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 a 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 were 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 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. 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 anyway?" + +"An awful lot of impossible crimes," Malone said frankly. "How did I do, +John Henry?" + +"You did very well," Fernack said. "Too 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 these 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. + +"Quite 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 icepick. 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. 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. + +"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 +damnedest 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 explanations. 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 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 Sixty-ninth 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, eying Lynch's figure, dressed in a +pair of trousers and a T-shirt, speculatively, "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. Tell me, 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. "O.K.," 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. + +The 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. + + + + +X. + + +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 sorts 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 plants probably were. 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 of 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 ... ah ... 'oddball' +about the Spooks. Do you understand? Not just the fact that they never +drink liquor, you understand, 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 ... ah ... 'fit in' to 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 ... +ah ... 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've known 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. I--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 some time, 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 ... social groups say. The Spooks just ... just melt +through 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. + +[Illustration] + +"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 they were, the +Spooks I mean, 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. +But--" + +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, O.K.?" + +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 O.K., 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 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 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 fool, until +I've got some way of making sure they're there when the raid goes +through." + +Malone coughed gently. "O.K.," 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. "Just 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. I don't even want me to know about it, until it +stops sounding so nutty to me." + +"O.K., 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 re-appear +some place else. Walk through walls?" He shrugged. "How should I know? +But they can sure 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." + +"O.K.," 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." + + + + +XI. + + +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 Sixty-ninth +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." + +"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 when morning had come--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 getting the book back. + +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 have 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 have to +understand nothing. Good-by." + +"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. After all." + +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?" + +"Statler Hilton Hotel," 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. What 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 +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-by in a hurry and left. His next stop was the Xochitl, +the Mexican bar on Forty-sixth Street. He greeted the bartender warmly. + +[Illustration] + +"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 +other 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 department--" + +"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 +_maître d'_. Perhaps you'd like to check with him." + +"Sure," Malone said. The _maître 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 insisted. + +"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 +once. 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. + +Was it possible that she might have the book? + +It was. But, if so, how had she got it? + +Malone enumerated possibilities on his fingers. First, he could have +dropped it or something like that, and she could have picked it up. But +dropping the notebook was a chance he'd eliminated already. It just +didn't sound likely. + +Besides, if he were going to work on the dropping hypothesis, he might +as well start from anywhere, on the assumption that he had dropped it +anywhere on the street. + +But if he _had_ dropped it--second finger--and Dorothy had picked it +up, wouldn't she have given it back? + +She would have, Malone decided, unless she actually intended to steal +it. + +And if she had intended to steal it, she could just as easily have +lifted it out of his pocket in the first place. She didn't need to wait +for it to fall out conveniently, all by itself. + +Third finger: why would she steal the notebook? What good was it to her? +And how did she even know he had it? + +None of those questions seemed to have any answers. Of course, if she'd +been connected with the Silent Spooks in some way, it would explain a +little--but somehow Malone couldn't see Dorothy as a Silent Spook. + +Malone stared at his ring finger and pinky. He pressed the ring finger +down, thinking that perhaps Dorothy had picked the notebook up and just +forgotten to give it back. That was possible, even if not likely. + +Only it required that notebook dropping out again. + +The pinky went down. She might be some sort of a kleptomaniac, Malone +thought. + +That didn't look very probable. + +No, Malone decided, realizing that he had no more fingers left, it was +impossible to shake off the feeling that the girl had deliberately taken +the book for some definite purpose of her own. + +He decided to give her a call. + +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'd 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 frowned thoughtfully. _I wish somebody would tell me how to get +in touch with her_, he thought. _She might know more about that book +than I do._ + +The thought bothered him. But, to offset it, there was a nice new +feeling growing at the back of his mind. + +He felt as if he were going to know the answer soon enough. + +He felt as if he were going to be lucky again. + +In the meantime, he 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 _maître d'_ said, "but are you English?" + +"Am I what?" Malone said, spilling a little of his drink on the bar. + +"Are you English?" BeeBee inquired. + +"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 in the world for anyone 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 +patiently. + +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 at the face in the screen alone, 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 old 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 firmest +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 psychotic 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 want to +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." + +"All I can figure," Malone said, "is that Dorothy Francis picked my +pocket." + +"Exactly," 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." + +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. After a +pause he said: "What is that supposed to mean? What on Earth would she +want with it? Just to look at all the pretty pictures?" + +"Don't be silly," the Queen said, with some asperity. "She doesn't even +want to look at the thing. She doesn't care what's in it." + +Malone closed his eyes. "Riddle time," he murmured. "Great." Then he +sighed. "O.K.," he said. "What _does_ she want with it? She must have +some use for it. She isn't just a kleptomaniac or something--is she?" + +"Of course not," the Queen said. + +"Then she has a reason," Malone said. "Fine. But what is it? Is she an +auxiliary member of the Silent Spooks, or something like that? Don't +tell me she's Mike Fueyo's girl friend. I don't think I could take that. +It's too silly." + +"Naturally it's silly! Sir Kenneth, I--" She stopped, and her face lit +up suddenly with pleasure. "Now you're on the right track!" she said. +"You just keep right on with that line of thought." + +Malone blinked in awe. "You mean she's--" + +He didn't want to say it. But the evidence was all there. Dorothy's +appearance at the station. The remark Mrs. Fueyo had made when he went +to the apartment. + +It all fit. + +"That's right," the Queen said, a little sadly. "She's Dorothea +Francisca Fueyo--little Miguel Fueyo's older sister." + + + +XII. + +[Illustration] + + +Malone put in a great deal of time, he imagined, just staring at the +face of the little old lady in the screen. At last he said: "Her name is +Fueyo!" + +"I've told you so," the Queen said with some asperity. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +[Illustration] + +"I don't either," Malone said. "It hurt like ... it hurt quite a lot." + +"Certainly," the Queen said. "But, then, 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 one second, that it was +an Elizabethan belt-pouch. Talks with Her Majesty always had that +effect; after a time, Malone came to believe in her 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 what 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, apparently 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 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. + +"O.K.," 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-by 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 by the +simple expedient of 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 ... 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 the 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?" + +Malone exploded, "That's not the question. Drinks have nothing to do +with notebooks. I'm after notebooks. 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. + + + + +XIII. + + +By the time Malone reached the Statler Hilton Hotel 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. + +[Illustration] + +"You were expecting maybe Titus Moody?" Boyd called. + +"O.K.," 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 warmed. 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: + + md + ----- = K + ft2 + +Malone looked at it for some seconds. At last he said: "It's very +pretty. What is it?" + +"This," Dr. O'Connor said, in the 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." + +Malone said: "Hm-m-m," and stared at the equation again. Somehow, the +explanation was not very helpful. The value of _K_ was unknown. 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 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 as 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 visibly. "The limitations are several," he said. +"In the first place, there is the force represented by _f_ in the +equation. This seems to be entirely dependent on the ... ah ... strength +of the subject's personality. That is if we assume that the process is +at all parallel with the phenomena of psychokinesis and levitation. And +there are excellent theoretical reasons for so believing." + +"In other words," Malone said, "a man with a strong will would be able +to exert more force than a weaker-willed man?" + +"Correct," Dr. O'Connor said. "And another factor is the time, _t_. What +we are measuring here is the span of attention of the individual--the +ability of the subject's mind to concentrate on a given thing for a span +of time. Many people, for example, cannot keep their attention focused +on a single thought for more than a few milliseconds, it seems. They are +... ah ... 'scatter-brained,' as the saying is." + +His expression left no doubt that he included Malone in that group. +Malone tried not to look nervous. + +Then Dr. O'Connor scowled. "There is another factor which we feel should +be in the equation," he said, "but we have not yet found a precise way +to express it mathematically. You must realize that the mathematical +treatment of psionics is, as yet, in a relatively primitive stage." + +"Oh," Malone said. "Of course. Sure. But this other factor--" + +"It is what might be called the ... ah ... _volume_ of attention," Dr. +O'Connor said. "That is, the actual amount of space that can be +conceived of and held by the subject, during the time he is +concentrating." + +Malone blinked. + +"For most people," Dr. O'Connor said, "the awareness of the space +surrounding them is limited to a few inches of moving space, no more. To +put this in a purely physical matrix: one might say that the +'teleportation field' doesn't extend more than a few inches beyond the +skin of the subject. Thus, it would be difficult to teleport anything +really large unless one were able to increase the volume of attention, +or awareness. However, it is difficult to express this notion +mathematically." + +"I'll bet," Malone said. + + * * * * * + +Dr. O'Connor shot him a frozen glance. "One of our early attempts," he +said, "was simply to put this in as a volume factor, so that the +left-hand side of the equation, below the line, would read--" He +scribbled again on the paper and held it up: + + m d + ---- = K + d3ft2 + +"Unfortunately, as you can perhaps see," Dr. O'Connor said, "the +equation would not stand up under dimensional analysis." + +"Oh, sure," Malone said, adding sympathetically: "That's too bad. But +does that put a limit on how much a man could carry with him? I mean, he +couldn't take a whole building along, or anything like that, could he?" + +"I doubt it," Dr. O'Connor said gravely. "That would require a +tremendous volume of space for one to focus his entire attention on, as +a whole, for any useful length of time. It would require a type of mind +that I am not even sure exists." + +"In the case of a young, inexperienced boy," Malone said stubbornly, +"would you say that he could carry off anything heavy?" + +"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: "My hand's shaky." + +"Well," Malone said, "that's the story." + +"It sure is quite 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 teen-agers. 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 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 blond 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." + +"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 Malone said, "and his Safe and Loft Squad." + + + + +XIV. + + +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. + +[Illustration] + +Boyd whispered softly: "Do you think they have a lookout?" + +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. "O.K., Tom," he whispered. "This is +H-hour--M-minute--and S-second." + +"I can spell," 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. + +"O.K.?" 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 fat-headed 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 no 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 ... 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, all +right? 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. +But 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 across the roof quickly under the cold stars, 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 explosives 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 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 on to 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 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. Smart. Sure, you get 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 it. + +"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'd have happened if he'd found all that stuff?" + +"So what happened anyway?" another voice--Ramon?--said. "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 difference?" + +"Shut up!" Mike roared. + +"You ain't telling me to shut up!" (That was the third voice. Malone +thought; possibly Ramon Otravez.) + +"Me either!" Silvo yelled. "You think you're a great 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!" + +A voice said, "Any dame with a little--" + +"Shut your 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 invectives 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-bluing epithets out 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 a while." + +"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 +campatriots 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 reformed 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 vanish 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, hit and 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. + +[Illustration] + +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 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 would appear just in front of Boyd, who rushed +at him, arms outstretched. As Boyd had 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. + +The lieutenant suddenly 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 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 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: "Yi!" 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! 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 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 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 everybody." + +"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 round, found +Dorothea and signaled to her. "Come on, Dorothea. Where's Boyd?" + +"Here I am," Boyd said, walking slowly across the big room to Malone. He +had one hand held to his chin. + +"What's the matter with you?" Malone asked. + +Boyd took his hand away. There was a bald spot the size of a quarter on +the point of his chin. "One of those kids," he said sadly, "has a hell +of a strong grip. Come on, Miss Fueyo. Come on, Malone. Let's get out of +here." + + + + +XV. + + +It is definitely not usual for the Director of the FBI to come stalking +into a local office of that same FBI without so much as an advance +warning or a by-your-leave. Such things are simply not done. + +Andrew J. Burris, however, was doing them. + +Three days after the Great Warehouse Fiasco, a startled A-in-C looked up +to see the familiar Burris figure stalk by his office, growling under +its breath. The A-in-C leaped to the interoffice phone, wondered whom he +ought to call first, and subsided, staring dully at the telephone screen +and thinking about retiring. + +The next appearance of the head of the FBI was in the office assigned to +Malone and Boyd. Burris came through the doorway without warning, his +countenance that of a harried and unhappy man. + +Malone looked up, blinked, and then readjusted his features to what he +imagined was a nice, bright smile. "Oh," he said. "Hello, chief. I've +been sort of expecting you." + +"I'll bet you have," Burris said. He set his brief case on Malone's desk +and pulled a sheaf of papers from it. "Do you see these?" he said, +waving them. "Inquiries. Complaints. Demands. From everybody. I've been +getting them for three days." + +"Sure are a lot of them," Malone said at random. + +"From Police Commissioner Fernack," Burris said. "From the mayor. From +the governor, in Albany. From everybody. And they all want an +explanation. They demand one." + +He sat down suddenly on Malone's desk, his anger gone. + +"Well--" Malone began. + +"Malone," Burris said plaintively, "I can stall them off for a while. I +can tell them all kinds of fancy stories. I don't mind. They don't +really need any explanation. But--" He paused, and then added: "I do!" + +Malone closed his eyes, decided things looked even worse that way, and +opened them again. "Just what sort of an explanation did you have in +mind, chief?" he said. + +"Any kind," Burris said instantly, "so long as it explains. I ... no." + +"No?" + +"No," Burris said. "I want the truth! Even if it doesn't explain +anything! Preferably, I want both--the truth and some explanations. If +possible. For three days, now, this area has been haunted by the Silent +Spooks. They've been stealing everything they could carry off! They've +got the whole city in an uproar!" + +"Well," Malone said. "Not exactly. The papers--" + +"I know," Burris said. "You've kept it out of the news. That's fine, and +I appreciate it, Malone. I really do. But I can't sit around and +appreciate it much longer. You've got to get those boys!" He bounced off +the desk and stood up again. "The longer they keep this up," he said, +"the harder it's going to be to square everything with the courts. Those +kids may end up getting killed! And how would that be?" + +"Terrible," Malone said honestly. + +"Something," Burris summed up, "has to be done." + +Malone thought for a second. "Chief," he said at last, "if you can think +of any way to nab them, I'll certainly be grateful." + +"Oh," Burris said. "Oh. No. No, Malone. This is your baby." He leaned +over and clapped Malone on the shoulder. "I have faith in you," he said. +"You cleared up that nutty telepath case and you can clear this one up, +too. But you've got to do it soon!" + +"I'm working on it," Malone said helplessly. "We might get a lead any +time now." + +"Good," Burris said. "Meanwhile, let's sit down and see if we can't +figure out a way to pacify the local bigwigs." + +Malone sighed wearily. + + * * * * * + +An hour later, he was even more tired. Letting himself into his room at +the hotel, he felt completely exhausted. He had spent most of the hour +tactfully trying to get away from Burris. It had not been the world's +easiest job. + +Dorothea Fueyo was sitting on the couch, waiting for him. + +Immediately, he felt much better. + +"You're late," Dorothea said accusingly. "I had to come up with the +duplicate key you gave me. And what are the bellboys going to think?" + +"They're going to think you had a duplicate key," Malone said. "Anyhow, +I'm sorry. I got delayed at the office. Burris came to town--delivering +seventeen ultimatums, forty-nine conflicting sets of orders and a +rousing lecture." + +"I could have come up to your office, then," Dorothea said, "instead of +compromising my reputation by sneaking up to your hotel room." + +"And what about _my_ reputation?" Malone said. "Besides, the office is +no place for what I have in mind." + +"Why, Mr. Malone!" + +Malone ignored the comment. "Did you bring the notebook?" he said. + +"Certainly." Dorothea handed a black, plastic-bound notebook over to +Malone. "But what's all this with a notebook? Going to keep score?" + +"Not exactly," Malone said. He took the notebook and leafed through it +idly. It was not Mike Fueyo's book; the boy himself had that now, and +there was little chance of getting it back again. This one belonged to +Dorothea--but, Malone thought, it could serve the same purpose. + +"What I have in mind," he said, "is something Mike said the other night, +just before the cops barged in. He said something about having tried to +teach you the Vanish. And that's why I asked you to come here. Did he +teach you?" + +"Well, he tried," Dorothea said. "But I couldn't do anything with it. I +haven't got the Talent, Mike says." She paused. "Is that why you figured +I had a notebook like his?" + +"Sure," Malone said. "It's the only thing that makes sense. Mike's +notebook was full of symbols--and that was all they could be. Symbols. +If you see what I mean." + +"Not exactly," Dorothea said. + +"Symbolism--anyhow, that's what Dr. O'Connor says--is one of the +primary factors in psionics." + +"Dr.... oh, yes," Dorothea said. "Westinghouse. I've heard about him." + +"Good," Malone said. "Anyhow, I decided the pictures in Mike's notebook +were just that--symbols. Things he wanted. And the little squiggles +after the names were symbols, too. You know," Malone said, "the boy's +pretty smart. Nobody else that I know of has ever figured out a way to +teach psionics--at least, not on that level. But Mike has." + +"He's a good boy," Dorothea said. "Basically." + +"Fine," Malone said. "Anyhow, if that were true, then the notebook was +some sort of guide. And if he tried to teach you the technique, then you +had to have a notebook, too. Clear?" + +"Perfectly," Dorothea said, "so what do you want me to do?" + +"Teach me," Malone said. + +There was a silence. + +"That's silly," Dorothea said. "How can I teach you something I can't do +myself? Besides, how do you know you have the Talent?" + +"As far as the second question goes, I don't know. But I can try, can't +I? And as far as the first question goes, that might not be so simple. +But I think it can be done--if you remember what Mike tried to teach +you." + +"Oh, I can remember all of that," she said, "but it's just that it +didn't do me any good. I couldn't use it." + +"A man who's paralyzed from the waist," Malone said hopefully, "can't +play football. But if he knows how the game's played, he can teach +others--anyhow, he can teach the fundamentals. Want to try?" + +Dorothea smiled. "All right, Ken," she said. "It's a great idea, at +that: the blind teaching the possibly-blind to read. Give me the +notebook, and I'll explain the first principles. Later, you'll have to +get a notebook of your own, because these symbols are very +personalized." + +Malone grinned and pulled a black book from his pocket. "I thought they +might be," he said. "I've already got one. Let's go." + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +Sweating, Malone stared grimly at the picture he had drawn on a page of +his notebook. He'd been trying the stunt for four days, and so far all +he had achieved was a nice profusion of perspiration. He was beginning +to feel like an ad for a Turkish bath. + +"No, Ken," Dorothea said patiently. "No. You can't do it that way. +You've got to _visualize_ it. That's how Mike could find red Cadillacs +so easily. All he had to do was--" + +"I know," Malone said, impatiently. "That's what the pictures are for. +But I'm no artist. This doesn't even look much _like_ my office." + +"It doesn't have to, Ken," Dorothea said. "All it has to do is give you +enough details to enable you to visualize your destination. The better +your memory is, the less detail you need. But you've got to grasp the +whole area in your mind." + +Malone lifted his eyes from the book and stared into the darkness +outside the window without seeing it. Midnight had come and gone a long +time ago, and he was still working. + +"If I don't crack this case pretty soon," he muttered, "Burris is going +to find a special new assignment for me--like investigating the social +life of a deserted space station." + +"Now, that's just what's bothering you," Dorothea said. "Get your mind +off Burris. You can't teleport when your mind is occupied with other +things." + +"Then how did the kids hop around so much during the fight at the +warehouse?" + +"Plenty of practice," Dorothea said. "They've been doing it longer than +you have. It's like playing the piano. The beginner has to concentrate, +but the expert can play a piece he's familiar with and hold a +conversation at the same time. Now stop worrying--and start +concentrating." + +Malone looked at the book again. With an effort, he forced everything +out of his mind except the picture. Burris' face came back once or +twice, but he managed to get rid of it. He looked at the lopsided +drawings that represented various items in the room, and made himself +concentrate solely on visualizing the objects themselves and their +surroundings. + +Then, as the picture became clearer and achieved more reality, he began +going over the other mental exercises that Dorothea had taught him. + +He heard a clock tick. + +It was gone. + +There was nothing but the picture, and the room it stood for ... nothing +... nothing.... + +The lights went out. + + * * * * * + +Malone blinked and jerked his head up from the notebook. "What hap--" he +began. + +And then he stopped. + +He was no longer in his hotel room at the Statler-Hilton. He was +standing in the middle of his office at FBI headquarters, Washington, +D.C. + +It had worked! + +Malone walked over to the wall switch and turned on the lights in the +darkened room. He looked around. He was definitely in his office. + +He was a teleport. + +He blinked and wondered briefly if he were dreaming. He pinched himself, +said: "Ow," and decided that the pain offered no certain proof. + +But he didn't feel like part of a dream. + +He felt real. So did the office. + +Just as he had promised Dorothea, he went to the phone and dialed the +Statler-Hilton. + +It took a minute for the long-distance circuits to connect him with +Manhattan. Then the pretty operator at the hotel was smiling at him from +the screen. "Statler-Hilton Hotel," she said. "May we help you?" + +"Ring Room 814," Malone said. "I'm probably asleep in it." + +"What?" the operator said. + +"Never mind," Malone said. "Just ring it." + +"Yes, sir." The screen went blank. + +The screen stayed blank for a long time. + +And then the operator was back. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "That room +doesn't answer." + +"You're sure?" Malone said. + +"Certainly." + +"Try it again," Malone said. + +The operator did so. She returned with the same answer. + +Malone frowned and hung up. It didn't sound right. Even a dream was +supposed to make more sense than this was making. There was something +wrong. + +He had to get back to the hotel room. + +There was only one trouble. He didn't have a picture of the room in his +notebook. + +Dorothea had said that it was almost impossible to go to a place one +hadn't been to before. Mike Fueyo had been able to pick up any red +Cadillac in the city because he'd concentrated solely on the symbol of a +red Cadillac. But he never knew which Cadillac he'd end up at. + +Malone closed his eyes and tried to remember the hotel room. He +half-wished he had a photograph of it, but Dorothea had told him that +photos wouldn't work. They were too complete; they required no effort of +the mind. Only a symbol would do. + +Of course, the job could be done without a symbol by somebody who'd had +plenty of practice. But Malone had made exactly one jump. Could he do +it the second time with nothing to work with except his own recollection +and visualization of the room? + +He didn't know, but he was certainly going to try. He had to. + +Something was wrong; something had happened to Dorothea. + +He tried to imagine what it could be, and then realized that such +thoughts were only delaying him by distracting his mind from its main +job. + +He kept his eyes tightly closed and tried to form the picture in his +mind. The couch--there. The dresser--over there. The easy-chair, the +rug, the walls, the table--wait a minute: he was losing the couch. +There. Now. The table, the desk--all there. In color. And in detail. + +Slowly they came, and he held them in place, visualizing his hotel room +just as he had visualized his office minutes before. He concentrated. +Harder. Harder. _Harder._ HAR-- + +"Sir Kenneth!" a voice said. "Will you please stop standing there with +your eyes closed and help me with this poor child? She's fainted." + +Malone's eyes popped open, but for a minute he wasn't entirely sure he'd +opened them. His visualization blended almost perfectly with the reality +of the room around him. There was only one jarring difference. + +He had certainly never visualized the richly-dressed figure of Queen +Elizabeth I standing in the center of the room. + +"Now, now," she said. "Thinking like that can only lead to confusion. +Come over here and help me." + + * * * * * + +Dorothea was on the couch. Between them, they managed to wake her +gently, and she sat up and stared around at them and the room. "I'm +sorry," she said dazedly. "It's just that I didn't expect you to turn +into a little old lady in Elizabethan costume. Just a bit +disconcerting." She blinked. "By the way, who is she?" + +"This," Malone said with a sense of some foreboding, "is Queen Elizabeth +I." + +"She's dead," Dorothea said decisively. + +"Not really, my dear," the Queen said. "Actually, you see ... well, it's +too long to explain now." She gave everybody a bland smile. + +"She's nuts, then," Dorothea said. "She is nuts, isn't she? Because if +she isn't, I am." + +"You're not crazy," Malone told her diplomatically. "But she--" He +stopped. How could he explain everything, in front of the Queen herself? + +"Don't worry about it," Her Majesty said. "Dorothea is a little +confused--but it hardly matters. Perhaps there are other things to do." + +"Sure," Malone said uncertainly. "By the way, how did you get here?" + +"Now, why do you ask that?" the Queen said. "You've already figured it +all out, Sir Kenneth." + +"I don't get it," Dorothea put in. + +"Simple," Malone said. "She's telepathic. She's been listening in on our +sessions for the past four days--she must have been. So now she can +teleport, too." + +Dorothea looked at the little old lady in awe. "But how could you come +to a place you'd never been to before?" + +"I got all the information I needed, my dear, out of Sir Kenneth's +mind." + +"Sir Kenneth?" Dorothea said. "Sir ... Ken? His mind?" + +"Never mind it," Malone said. "What do I do now?" + +Her Majesty said: "Don't worry about anything. And use your own psionic +talents. You can catch those dear boys now, you know. You're better than +they are." + +"Me?" Malone said. "But they've had--" + +"Practice, of course," the Queen said. "But you have a talent they +don't." + +"I do?" + +"Well," the Queen said, "you've been calling it 'luck' for years. You're +much too modest, Sir Kenneth. If you'll think back, you'll remember that +every time you had a bit of your so-called luck, it was because you were +at the right place at the right time. There's no other way to explain +the fact that you wandered at random through Greenwich Village--of all +places!--and just happened to end up at the very same red Cadillac that +young Mike was going to come to--_before he got there_!" + +Malone felt the back of his head. "That," he said, "was luck?" + +"You got the notebook, didn't you?" the Queen said. "But of course it +wasn't luck. It's prescience--the ability to predict the future. You've +had it all along, but you haven't been consciously using it. The only +way you'll ever catch those boys is to know where they're going to be +before they get there." + +Malone sat down heavily on the couch next to Dorothea. His mind was +whirling with a fine, dizzy rapidity. In a few seconds he was going to +try and grab the brass ring. + +"Oh, I'll help you," the Queen added. "Don't worry about that. I think I +can pick up Mike's mind, now that I'm closer to him. And if we can +figure out what their plans are, and where they're going to be, we can +nab them all, Sir Kenneth. Won't that be nice?" + +"Ducky," Malone said. "Simply ducky. All I have to do is predict the +future while you read minds and we both teleport. And Dorothea can sit +around sticking pins in dolls, I guess. Or--" + +"Well, now," the Queen said, "I don't know. Perhaps she just doesn't +have that talent. Besides, why would we want to do anything like that? +It seems to me--" + +"Never mind," Malone said hopelessly. "If we're going to do anything, +let's get started." + + * * * * * + +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 and +complete hunch--only now it wasn't a "hunch" any more, he reminded +himself; now it was prescience--was going to pay off. With him were Boyd +and two agents from the Sixty-ninth 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 wasn't a sound in the +room. Malone felt like screaming, but he managed to control himself with +an effort. + +There was no reason why the plan shouldn't work, Malone told himself. +According to all the theory he knew, it was fool proof. Her Majesty had +no doubts about it, either. She assured him that he had prescience, and +several other powers as well. Unfortunately, Malone wasn't quite as sure +as she was. + +Even if the theory seemed to back her up, he thought, there was still a +chance that she was wrong, and the theory was wrong, and everything was +wrong. His hunch--prescience, if you wanted to call it that, he +amended--said definitely that this would be the place the Spooks would +hit tonight. Her Majesty was quite sure of it. And Malone couldn't think +of a single really good reason why either of them 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-- + +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 and Malone had provided that lead-pipe cinch. They were sure +that Mike planned to raid the sporting-goods store with the rest of the +Spooks that night. + +But, of course, they might all 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. Malone was grateful for that. 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 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 over-elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint, +making sure there was no one 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. "O.K., now," he said. +"Let's move fast. We haven't got much time. We--" + +And that was all he said. + +Malone concentrated on just one thing: holding an image of the room, +with the eight Spooks in it. + +There was a long second of silence. + +Malone felt a bead of sweat trickle down his cheek. He held the image. + +"What's wrong?" the tallest boy said suddenly--Ramon Otravez, Malone +remembered. "What's wrong, Mike?" + +Mike let out his breath in a ragged sigh. "I ... don't know," he said +slowly. "I can't move--" + +"It's a trap!" another boy shouted. + +Malone bore down. He could feel power draining out of him, but he held +on, willing the boys to remain in the room, blanking out their own +teleportative abilities with his stronger ones. + +The eight boys stood, frozen, in the center of the lit room. + +Malone let another second go by, and then he stepped out from behind the +curtains. + +"Hello, boys," he said casually. + +Mike stared at him. "It's Malone," he said. + +"That's right," Malone said. "Hello, Mike. I've been waiting for you." + +Mike gulped. "You found us," he said. "Somebody talked." + +Malone shook his head. "Nobody talked," he said. Concentration was +getting easier; the longer the situation remained the same, the less +power it took to keep it that way. He wished he had brought a cigar, and +compromised by fishing out a cigarette and lighting it. + +Mike said: "But--" and was silent. + +"I knew where you were going to be," Malone said. "You see, I've got a +few--powers of my own, Mike." + +Ramon Otravez said: "He's kidding. It's some kind of a trick." + +"Shut up," Mike told him. + +"It's no trick," Malone said. "I've been waiting for you for quite a +while, boys." He paused. "And you can't move, can you? I've taken care +of that." + +"Some kind of gas," Mike said instantly. + +"Gas?" Malone said. "Nope." He shook his head. + +"Electricity," Mike said. It sounded desperate. "Some gimmick you've got +set up back there behind the curtain, to--" + +"No gimmick," Malone said. "It's just that I know a couple of tricks, +too--and I'm a little better at them than you are." The next minute was +going to be difficult, he knew, but it had to be done. He "froze" the +picture of the room in his mind and, at the same time, pictured himself +at the other side of the room. He made the effort, and at first nothing +happened. Then-- + +"You can do the Vanish," Mike said, very slowly and softly. + +"Oh, I can do more than that," Malone said cheerfully from the other +side of the room. "I can do the Vanish, and I can also keep you from +doing it. Right?" + +It hung in the balance for a second, but Malone was barely worried about +the final outcome. He'd beaten the boys, not with scientific gadgetry or +trickery, but at their own game. He'd done it simply, easily and +completely. And for boys who were sure they were something very special, +boys who'd never been beaten on their own grounds before, the shock was +considerable. + +Malone knew, even before Mike said: "I guess so," in a defeated voice, +that he had won. + +"Now," he said briskly, "you boys are going to come down to the FBI +offices with me. And you're not going to try any tricks--because you +can't get away with a thing, and you know you can't. I've just proven +that to you." + +"I guess you have," Mike said. + +Malone beckoned the three other men out of the back room and then, under +his watchful guidance, the procession started for the street. + + + + +XVI + + +"The only thing we had to worry about," Malone said, pouring some more +champagne into the hollow-stemmed glasses, "was whether the theory would +actually prove out in practice. From all we knew, it seemed logical that +I could concentrate on the room with the boys in it, and by that +concentration prevent them from teleporting out--but there's a lot we +don't know, too. And it didn't damage the kids any." + +Dorothea relaxed in her chair and looked around at the hotel room walls +with contentment. "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 good old 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 for only a year or so, he's certainly going to feel +penned in when he's stopped from going through them. Especially when +what stops him is just what he has--only more of the same. It might be a +little ego-crushing, and just a trifle claustrophobic." + +"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, sure. He's some kind of social worker, +isn't he? Only we never knew what kind." + +"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." + + * * * * * + +"Mike," Dorothea said. + +"Mike what?" + +"Mike," she repeated. "He's probably the happiest of all. After Mom and +I talked to him for a while, anyhow, and he began to ... to get used to +things. Now he's excited about being an FBI man." She looked worriedly +at Malone for a second. "You weren't kidding about that, were you?" she +asked. + +She looked very pretty when she was worried, Malone decided. He leaned +over and kissed her with great care. After a while he said: "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 +in to the special-case bracket. If he doesn't--well, he'll be doing some +kind of official work for the Government." + +"What about Her Majesty, or whatever she is?" Dorothea asked. "Is +she--convinced that teleportation's no good, the way Mike is?" + +Malone looked unhappy. "I wish you hadn't mentioned it," he said. + +"Then what will you do?" Dorothea said. + +"Burris has it all down pat," Malone said bitterly. "Since I'm the only +one who can predict where she's going to be, I'm going to be her +permanent bodyguard from now on. She's promised me that she won't go +teleporting all over the place--but we won't be able to keep her locked +up all the time, either. So: whither she goes, I go--first." + +"Well," Dorothea said, "don't feel bad. After all, you did what you set +out to do." + +"I suppose so," Malone said. + +"Sure you did," Dorothea said. "You got the boys. And they won't feel +so bad after they get used to it." + +"I suppose not," Malone said. "We had to prove one thing to them, +anyway. We can stop them at any time. You see, they've got to think +about teleporting, and as soon as they do that one of our +telepaths--like Her Majesty or me, I guess--will know what they're +thinking. And we can 'freeze' them. I mean, I can." + +"It sounds all right," Dorothea said. + +"Sure," Malone said. "After all, we did them quite a favor--getting them +out of all the trouble they'd gotten themselves into." + +"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 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," Malone said, "and they'll be pretty +useful. And, as I said before we started all this, if they try to run +away from Yucca Flats we'll just have to keep them 'frozen' all the +time. I mean, I will. 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 'frozen'--" + +"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. + +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?" + +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. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Out Like a Light, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT LIKE A LIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 24444-8.txt or 24444-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/4/4/24444/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Greg Bergquist, Bruce Albrecht and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + +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. 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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: Out Like a Light + +Author: Gordon Randall Garrett + +Release Date: January 28, 2008 [EBook #24444] +Last updated: January 22, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT LIKE A LIGHT *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Greg Bergquist, Bruce Albrecht and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="559" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p><!-- Page 1 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="tnote"><p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science +Fiction April, May and June 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any +evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor +typographical errors have been corrected without note.]</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image1.jpg" width="400" height="550" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h1>OUT LIKE A LIGHT</h1> + +<h2>By MARK PHILLIPS</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p class="justify"><b><i>Kenneth Malone—sometimes known as Sir Kenneth of The Queen's Own +FBI—had had problems with telepathic spies, and more than somewhat +nutty telepathic counterspies. But the case of the Vanishing +Delinquents was at least as bad....</i></b></p></div> + +<h4>Illustrated by Freas</h4><p><!-- Page 2 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image2.jpg" width="400" height="567" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p><!-- Page 3 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figdrop"> + +<img src="images/dropt.jpg" width="80" height="80" alt="T" title="T" /> +</div> +<p class="cap">he 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 blond 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.</p> + +<p>"I'd love to go up to your apartment with you, Mr. Malone," she said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"All right—Ken," she said. "You know, I've never met anyone like you +before. I mean, you're so wonderful and everything."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But was this a time to think of money?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>The red Cadillac?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The sidewalk swayed a little but he managed to keep his balance on it +somehow, and after a couple of min<!-- Page 4 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>utes 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><i>What is your name?</i></p> + +<p>Kenneth Malone.</p> + +<p><i>Where do you live?</i></p> + +<p>Washington, D. C.</p> + +<p><i>What is your work?</i></p> + +<p>I work for the FBI.</p> + +<p><i>Then what are you doing on a sidewalk in New York in broad daylight?</i></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And if the red Cadillac had anything to do with anything, Malone didn't +know about it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He closed his eyes again and waited patiently for his head to go away.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>was</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>A long time, possibly two or three seconds, passed. Malone hadn't moved +at all when the two cops came along.</p> + +<p>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<!-- Page 5 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> Malone and +tapped him on the shoulder, but Malone barely felt the touch. Then the +cop bellowed into Malone's ear.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter, buddy?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Who could tell?</p> + +<p>"Mallri," he said.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Sleep?" Malone said. "Home?"</p> + +<p>"Wherever you live, buddy," the big cop said. "Come on. Can't stand +around on the sidewalk all night."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But the policeman thought he was drunk. That wasn't right. He couldn't +let the police get the wrong impression of FBI agents. Now the man would +go around telling people that the FBI was always drunk and disorderly.</p> + +<p>"Not drunk," he said clearly.</p> + +<p>"Sure," the big cop said. "You're fine. Maybe just one too many, huh?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Slugged?" the big cop said.</p> + +<p>"Right." Malone remembered just in time not to nod his head.</p> + +<p>"How about a description, buddy?" the big cop said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>The big cop said: "Sam's right. You're bleeding, mister."</p> + +<p>"Good," Malone said.</p> + +<p>The big cop said: "Huh?"<!-- Page 6 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Get his wallet," the smaller cop—Sam—said. "I'll watch him."</p> + +<p>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 instant connection. When the hand +touched the bulky object strapped near Malone's armpit it stopped, +frozen, and then cautiously snaked the object out.</p> + +<p>"What's that, Bill?" Sam said.</p> + +<p>Bill looked up with the object in his hand. He seemed a little dazed. +"It's a gun," he said.</p> + +<p>"The guy's heeled!" Sam said. "Watch him! Don't let him get away!"</p> + +<p>Malone considered getting away, and decided that he couldn't move. "It's +O.K.," he said.</p> + +<p>"O.K., hell," Sam said. "It's a .44 Magnum. What are you doing with a +gun, Mac?" He was no longer polite and friendly. "Why you carrying a +gun?" he said.</p> + +<p>"I'm not carrying it," Malone said tiredly. "Bill is. Your pal."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Sam said: "A gun. He could of shot everybody."</p> + +<p>"Get his wallet," Bill said. "He can't hurt you now. I disarmed him."</p> + +<p>Malone began to feel slightly dangerous. Maybe he <i>was</i> 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.</p> + +<p>There was a little silence. Then Sam said: "Give him his gun back, +Bill," in a hushed and respectful tone.</p> + +<p>"Give him back his gun?" the big cop said. "You gone nuts, Sam?"</p> + +<p>Sam shook his head slowly. "Nope," he said. "But we made a terrible +mistake. Know who this guy is?"</p> + +<p>"He's heeled," Bill said. "That's all I want to know." He put the radio +away and gave all his attention to Malone.</p> + +<p>"He's FBI," Sam said. "The wallet says so. Badge and everything. And not +only that, Bill. He's Kenneth J. Malone."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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<!-- Page 7 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> +loved. Maybe now the cops would do something about his head and take him +away for burial.</p> + +<p>"Malone?" Bill said. "You mean the guy who's here about all those red +Cadillacs?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Sure, Mr. Malone," Bill said. "We'll be glad to help."</p> + +<p>"Anything at all," Sam said.</p> + +<p>Malone gave them what he hoped was a gracious and condescending smile. +"All right, then," he said. "Where the hell am I?"</p> + +<p>"In New York," Sam said.</p> + +<p>"I know that," Malone said tiredly. "Anywhere in particular, or just +sort of all over New York?"</p> + +<p>"Ninth Street," Bill said hurriedly. "Near the Village. Is that where +you were when they slugged you?"</p> + +<p>"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 no place for a self-respecting man to end up."</p> + +<p>"I know just what you mean," Sam said sympathetically. "Bohemians, they +call themselves. Crazy people."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Anyhow," Malone said, "I saw this red Cadillac."</p> + +<p>The cops looked around hurriedly and then looked back at Malone. Bill +started to say: "But there isn't any—"</p> + +<p>"I know," Malone said. "It's gone now. That's the trouble."</p> + +<p>"You mean somebody got in and drove it away?" Sam said.<!-- Page 8 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span></p> + +<p>"For all I know," Malone said, "it sprouted wings and flew away." He +paused. "When I saw it I decided to go over and have a look. Just in +case."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Well," Sam said, "the street was empty when we got here."</p> + +<p>"But a guy could have driven off in that red Cadillac before we got +here," Bill said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"There had to be," Bill said.</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "there wasn't."</p> + +<p>There was a little silence.</p> + +<p>"What happened then?" Sam said. "After you tried the door handle, I +mean."</p> + +<p>"Then?" Malone said. "Then, I went out like a light."</p> + +<p>A pair of headlights rounded the nearby corner. Bill looked up. "That's +the prowl car," he announced, and went over to meet it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"What's the trouble here?" he said in a harsh, high voice.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"Easier than doing a beat," Bill said mournfully. "And anyway," he added +in a low, penetrating whisper, "the guy's FBI."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Malone decided not to get into the argument. He was tired, and it was +late. He rested his head on the<!-- Page 9 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> back seat and tried to relax, but all +he could do was think about red Cadillacs.</p> + +<p>He wished he had never even heard of red Cadillacs.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II.</h2> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image3.jpg" width="350" height="398" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p><!-- Page 10 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> + +<p>Now, he wasn't at all sure what they spelled. Except that it was +definitely uncomfortable, and highly baffling.</p> + +<p>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 Burris +himself sat, looking both tired and somehow a little kindly.</p> + +<p>"You sent for me, chief?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"That's right." Burris nodded. "Malone, you've been working too hard +lately."</p> + +<p>Now, Malone thought, it was coming. The dismissal he'd always feared. At +least 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.</p> + +<p>Oh, well, Malone thought. Not being an FBI agent wouldn't be so bad. He +could always find another job.</p> + +<p>Only at the moment he couldn't think of one he liked.</p> + +<p>He decided to make one last plea.</p> + +<p>"I haven't been working so hard, chief," he said. "Not too hard, anyhow. +I'm in great shape. I—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Just because I'm what?" Malone said, feeling slightly faint.</p> + +<p>"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 kidnapping, and the way you wrapped up the +Transom counterfeit ring ... well, Malone, I think you need a little +relaxation."</p> + +<p>"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 kidnappers 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.</p> + +<p>"That's what I said," Burris told him. "Relaxation."</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>He stopped. Burris was frowning, and when Andrew J. Burris frowned<!-- Page 11 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> it +was a good idea to look attentive, interested and alert. "Now, Malone," +Burris said sadly, "I wasn't thinking about a vacation. You're not +scheduled for one until August, you know—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know, chief," Malone said. "But I thought—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," Malone said, feeling just a shade disappointed.</p> + +<p>"But I do think you deserve a rest," Burris said.</p> + +<p>"Well, if I—"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Well—" Malone said cautiously.</p> + +<p>"Good," Burris said. "I knew you would."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"It's really just a routine case," Burris said in an offhand tone. +"Nothing to it."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"That puts it in our jurisdiction," Malone said, feeling obvious.</p> + +<p>"Right," Burris said. "Right on the nose."</p> + +<p>"But the New York office—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Keep my eyes and nose what?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Open," Burris said. "And let me know about it."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It really made a very ugly picture.</p> + +<p>"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<!-- Page 12 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>And then again, maybe he was wrong. He stood at ease and waited to find +out.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I see," Malone said with a sinking feeling.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"That's right," Burris said. "Now, if you're going to understand what +happened, you've got to get the whole picture."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Only that isn't what I mean," Burris added suddenly.</p> + +<p>Malone blinked. "<i>What</i> isn't what you mean?" he said.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Think about what?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"About what I've been telling you," Burris snapped. "This car."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Sure you would," Burris said. "Anybody would. But listen to me."</p> + +<p>"All right, chief," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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 some time, 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."</p> + +<p>"Except who?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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 what<!-- Page 13 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>ever reason; they're +the only witnesses we've got."</p> + +<p>Burris stopped. Malone waited a few seconds and then said, as calmly as +he could: "Witnesses to what?"</p> + +<p>"To this whole business with Sergeant Jukovsky," Burris said.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"That's right," Burris said. "Except that he didn't."</p> + +<p>Malone sighed.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Good," Malone said involuntarily. "I mean, go on, chief," he added.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "it was parked. I suppose parked cars are usually +empty. What's special about this one?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"One of the other cops," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"One of the ... who?" Burris said. "No. Not the cops. Not at all."</p> + +<p>"Then something fell on him," Malone said. "O.K. Then whatever fell on +him ought to be—"</p> + +<p>"Malone," Burris said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, chief?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said. "But—"</p> + +<p>"Whatever it was," Burris said, "they didn't find it. But that isn't the +peculiar thing."</p> + +<p>"No?"</p> + +<p>"No," Burris said slowly. "Now—"</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute," Malone said. "They looked on the sidewalk and around +there. But did they think to search the car?"</p> + +<p>"They didn't get a chance," Bur<!-- Page 14 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>ris said. "Anyhow, not just then. Not +until they got around to picking up the pieces of the car uptown, at +125th Street."</p> + +<p>Malone closed his eyes. "Where was this precinct?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Midtown," Burris said. "In the Forties."</p> + +<p>"And the pieces of the car were eighty blocks away when they searched +it?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>Burris nodded.</p> + +<p>"All right," Malone said pleasantly. "I give up."</p> + +<p>"Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you," Burris said. "According to +the witnesses—not Jukovsky, who didn't wake up for a couple of minutes +and so didn't see what happened next—after he fell out of the car, the +motor started and the car drove off uptown."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"And the other two?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Great," Malone said. He felt a little tired. This trip was beginning to +sound less and less like a vacation.</p> + +<p>"Those two cops swear there was something—or somebody—driving the +car," Burris said. "And that isn't all."</p> + +<p>"It isn't?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"I've got it," Malone said, "but I don't exactly know what to do with +it."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"But they crashed," Malone said, remembering that the pieces were at +125th Street. "So—"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>was</i> somebody in the driver's seat now."</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute," Malone said. "One of these cops didn't see any<!-- Page 15 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>body at +all in the driver's seat when the car started off."</p> + +<p>"Right," Burris said.</p> + +<p>"But on the West Side Highway, he did see a driver," Malone said. He +thought for a minute. "It could happen. The start happened so fast he +could have been confused, or something."</p> + +<p>"There's another explanation," Burris said.</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said cheerfully. "We're all crazy. The whole world is +crazy."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Malone, who hadn't been thinking of asking anything, tried to look +clever. Burris regarded him owlishly for a second, and then went on:</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Like the driver of the Cadillac," Malone ventured.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"That's what I said," Malone said. "The driver of the Cadillac was +killed. In a fire like that—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"In the heat of those flames—" Malone began.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Malone let that stew in his mind for a few seconds. "But the cops +said—"</p> + +<p>"Whatever the cops said," Burris snapped, "there was nobody at all in +that Cadillac when it went off the embankment."</p> + +<p>"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. It's not possible."<!-- Page 16 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image4.jpg" width="350" height="312" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>"Ah," Burris said. "That's why I have another explanation."</p> + +<p>Malone shifted his feet. Maybe there <i>was</i> another explanation. But, he +told himself, it would have to be a good one.</p> + +<p>"Nobody expects a car to drive itself down a highway," Burris said.</p> + +<p>"That's right," Malone said. "That's why it's all impossible."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"O.K.," 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—"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Do I get three guesses?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>It did sound plausible, Malone thought. "Did the prowl car boys<!-- Page 17 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> find +any traces of it when they examined the wreckage?" he said.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose so," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Malone," Burris said, his voice filled with Devotion To One's Country +In The Face Of Great Obstacles, "Malone, I want you to find that +device!"</p> + +<p>"In the wreck?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>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—"</p> + +<p>"What red Cadillacs?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"The other ones that have been stolen. From Connecticut, mostly. One +from New Jersey, out near Passaic."</p> + +<p>"Have any of the others been moving around without drivers?" Malone +said.</p> + +<p>"Well," Burris said, "there's been no report of it. But who can tell?" +He gestured with both arms. "Anything is possible, Malone."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Now," Burris said, "all of the stolen cars are red 1972 Cadillacs. +There's got to be some reason for that—and 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."</p> + +<p>"They?" Malone said. "Who?"</p> + +<p>"Whoever is stealing the cars," Burris said patiently.</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "Sure. But—"</p> + +<p>"So get up to New York," Burris said, "keep your eyes open, and nose +around. Got it?"</p> + +<p>"I have now," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"And when that Cadillac is found, Malone, we want to take a look at it. +O.K.?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," Malone said.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III.</h2> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.<!-- Page 18 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 'cap's 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?</p> + +<p>So what was all this nonsense about red robot-controlled Cadillacs?</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>Malone looked up, blinked and grinned happily. "Boyd!" he said. "What +are you doing here? I haven't seen you since—"</p> + +<p>"Sure haven't," Boyd said. "I've been out west on a couple of cases. +Must be a year since we worked together."</p> + +<p>"Just about," Malone said. "But what are you doing in New York? +Vacationing?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly," Boyd said. "The chief called it sort of a vacation, +but—"</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "You're working with me."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Great," Malone said. "But I want to warn you about the vacation—"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said. "It's good to see you again. And when did you<!-- Page 19 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> get +pulled out of the Frisco office?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"You're a home office agent now?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," Malone said. "How about the local office here? Seen the boys +yet?"</p> + +<p>Boyd shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "I was waiting for you to show +up. But I did manage hotel rooms with a connecting bath over at the +Statler-Hilton Hotel. Nice place. You'll like it, Ken."</p> + +<p>"I'll love it," Malone said. "Especially that connecting bath. It would +have been terrible to have an unconnecting bath. Sort of distracting."</p> + +<p>"O.K.," Boyd said. "O.K. You know what I mean." He stared down at +Malone's hand. "You know you've still got your lighter on?" he added.</p> + +<p>Malone looked down at it and shut it off. "You asked me to hold it," he +said.</p> + +<p>"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 Sixty-ninth Street?"</p> + +<p>"Good idea," Malone said. "And besides, I could do with a clean shirt. +Not to mention a bath."</p> + +<p>"Trains get worse and worse," Boyd said, absently.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Statler-Hilton Hotel," Boyd said grandly.</p> + +<p>The driver swung around to stare at them, blinked, and finally said: +"O.K., Mac. You said it." He started with a terrific grinding of gears, +drove out of the Penn Station arch and went two blocks.</p> + +<p>"Here you are, Mac," he said, stopping the cab.</p> + +<p>Malone stared at Boyd with a reproachful expression.</p> + +<p>"So how was I to know?" Boyd said. "I didn't know. If I'd known it was +so close, we could've walked."</p> + +<p>"And saved half a buck," Malone said. "But don't let it bother you—this +is expense account money."</p> + +<p>"That's right," Boyd said. He beamed and tipped the driver heavily. The +cab drove off and Malone hailed the doorman, who equipped them with a +robot bellhop and sent them upstairs to their rooms.</p> + +<p>Three-quarters of an hour later, Boyd and Malone were in the offices<!-- Page 20 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> of +the Federal Bureau of Investigation, on East Sixty-ninth 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 from Pennsylvania, but Malone +couldn't see why.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Unfortunately, it had happened.</p> + +<p>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 knew where to get +duplicate keys.</p> + +<p>However, the ignition was invariably shorted across.</p> + +<p>This proved neatly that the criminal was not a very good lock-pick, and +did not know where to get duplicate keys.</p> + +<p>Query: why work so hard on the doors, and not work at all on the +ignition?</p> + +<p>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 joyriding, or +as some sort of prank.</p> + +<p>But a car or two every night? How many joyrides can one gang take? +Malone thought. And how long does it take to get tired of the same +prank?</p> + +<p>And why, Malone asked himself wearily for what was beginning to feel +like the ten thousandth time, why only red Cadillacs?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>That should have been a comfort<!-- Page 21 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>ing thought, Malone reflected. Somehow, +though it wasn't.</p> + +<p>After they'd finished with the files and personnel at Sixty-ninth +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 Motor Vehicle Bureau. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And, after that, a week passed. It was filled with ennui.</p> + +<p>Only one thing became clear. In spite of the almost identical <i>modus +operandi</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Not that he begrudged Boyd his fun. It was nice that one of them was +enjoying himself, anyway.</p> + +<p>It was just that Malone was beginning to get fidgety. He needed to be +doing something—even if it were only taking a walk.</p> + +<p>So he took a walk, and ended up, to his own surprise, downtown near +Greenwich Village.</p> + +<p>And then he'd been bopped on the head.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV.</h2> + + +<p>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<!-- Page 22 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>He was no longer morose and undirected. He had a purpose in life, and +that purpose filled him with cold determination. He was going to find +the robot-operated car—or whatever it turned out to be.</p> + +<p>The doctor, Malone noticed, was whistling "Greensleaves" 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He told himself: <i>No car in the world—not even a Cadillac—can get away +with beaning Kenneth J. Malone!</i></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The important thing was the car itself. Malone jerked a little under the +doctors calm hands, and swore subvocally.</p> + +<p>"Hold still," the doctor said. "Don't go wiggling your head around that +way. Just wait quietly until the demijel sets."</p> + +<p>Obediently, Malone froze. There was a crick in his neck, but he decided +he could stand it. "My head still hurts," he said accusingly.</p> + +<p>"Sure it still hurts," the doctor agreed.</p> + +<p>"But you—"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Blackjacks?" Malone said. "What blackjacks?"</p> + +<p>"The ones that hit you," the doctor said. "Or the one, anyhow."</p> + +<p>Malone blinked. Somehow, though he could manage a fuzzy picture of<!-- Page 23 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image5.jpg" width="350" height="237" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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?</p> + +<p>"I'm sure," the doctor said. "I've worked in Emergency in this hospital +long enough to recognize a blackjack wound."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The only trouble was that he didn't see what, if anything, it meant.</p> + +<p>The doctor stepped back and regarded Malone's head with something like +pride. "There," he said. "You'll be all right now."</p> + +<p>"When?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"You're not badly hurt," the doctor said reprovingly. "You've got a +slight concussion, that's all."</p> + +<p>"A concussion?"<!-- Page 24 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Fine," Malone said doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"That'll take care of you for tonight," the doctor said. "Get some sleep +and start in on the pills when you wake up, O.K.?"</p> + +<p>"O.K.," Malone said. It was going to make waking up something less than +a pleasure, but he wanted to get well, didn't he?</p> + +<p>Of course he did. If that Cadillac thought it was going to beat him....</p> + +<p>"You can stand up now," the doctor said.</p> + +<p>"O.K.," Malone said, trying it. "Thanks, doctor. I—"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>There was a knock at the door. The doctor jerked his head around.</p> + +<p>"Who's that?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Me," a bass voice said, unhelpfully.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"What?" Bill said, and opened the door wider. He came in and closed it +behind him. "It's O.K., Doc," he said to the attendant. "I'm a cop."</p> + +<p>"Been hurt?" the doctor said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Who's they?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Outside," Bill said. "The attendants out there. They said you were +still getting stitched up."</p> + +<p>"And quite right, too," Malone said solemnly.</p> + +<p>"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 has slain. "Here," he said, +waving the book.</p> + +<p>"Notebook?" Malone said. He stared at it. It was a small looseleaf book +bound in cheap black plastic.</p> + +<p>"We found it in the gutter," Bill said.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Bill said. "But the notebook was, so I brought it along to<!-- Page 25 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> you. +I thought you might need it or something." He handed it over to Malone +with a flourish.</p> + +<p>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. <i>Mine not to +question why</i>, Malone told himself with a shrug, and flipped the book +open.</p> + +<p>At once he knew why the cop had mistaken it for his.</p> + +<p>There, right on the first page, was a carefully detailed drawing of a +1972 Cadillac. It had been painstakingly colored in with a red pencil.</p> + +<p>Malone stared at it for a second, and then went on to page two. This +page carried a list of names running down the left margin.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Ramon O.</i></p> + +<p><i>Mario G.</i></p> + +<p><i>Silvo E.</i></p> + +<p><i>Felipe A.</i></p> + +<p><i>Alvarez la B.</i></p> + +<p><i>Juan de los S.</i></p> + +<p><i>Ray del E.</i></p></div> + +<p>That made sense, of a kind. It was a list of names. Whose names they +were, Malone didn't know; but at least he could see the list and +understand it. What puzzled him were the decorations.</p> + +<p>Following each name was a queer-looking squiggle. Each was slightly +different, and each bore some resemblance to a stick-figure, a +geometrical figure or just a childish scrawl. The whole parade reminded +Malone of pictures he had seen of Egyptian hieroglyphics.</p> + +<p>But the names didn't look Egyptian, and, anyhow, nobody used +hieroglyphics any more—did they?</p> + +<p>Malone found himself thinking: <i>Now what does that mean?</i> He looked +across at the facing page.</p> + +<p>It contained a set of figures, all marked off in dollars and cents and +all added up neatly. One of the additions ended with the eye-popping sum +of $52,710.09, and Malone found that the sum made him slightly nervous. +This was high-powered figuring.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>On to page three, he told himself. Drawings again, both on that page and +on the one facing it. Malone recognized an outboard motor, a +store-front, a suit of clothing hanging neatly on a hanger, a motor +scooter, a shotgun and an IBM Electrotyper. Whoever had done the work +was a reasonably accurate artist, if untrained; the various items were +easily recognizable and Malone could see a great deal of detail.</p> + +<p>That, of course, was fine. Only it made no more sense than the rest of +the notebook.</p> + +<p>Malone riffled through a few more pages, trying to make sense of the +contents. One page seemed to be a shopping list, with nothing more +revealing on it than <i>bread, bacon, eggs (½ doz.), peaches (frz.), +cigs., & ltr., fluid</i>.</p> + +<p>There was another list, farther on. This one said: <i>Hist. 2, Eng. 4, +Math. 3, Span. 2. What for Elec.?</i></p> + +<p>That cast the first glow of light. Whoever owned the notebook was a +student. Or a teacher, Malone<!-- Page 26 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> thought; then, looking back at the +handwriting, he decided that the owner of the notebook had to be in high +school, certainly no farther along.</p> + +<p>He went on flipping pages. One of them said, in large black capitals: +<b><i>HE'S BLUFFING!</i></b></p> + +<p>A note passed in class? There was not any way of making sure.</p> + +<p>Malone thought about the hypothetical student for a minute. Then +something in the riffling pages caught his eye.</p> + +<p>There were two names on the page he'd stopped at.</p> + +<p>The first was: <i>Lt. Peter Lynch, NYPD.</i> It was followed by two little +squiggles.</p> + +<p>The second was: <i>Mr. Kenneth J. Malone, FBI.</i></p> + +<p>There were no squiggles after his own name, and Malone felt oddly +thankful for that, without knowing exactly why. But what did the names +mean? And who had—</p> + +<p>"Uh ... Mr. Malone—" Bill said tentatively. "That <i>is</i> your notebook, +isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. He looked up at the cop and put on his most +ingratiating smile. "Sure," he said. "It's mine. Sure it is. Just +checking to see if I'd lost any pages. Not good. Losing pages out of a +notebook. Never. Have to check, you know. Procedure. Very secret."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Bill said uncertainly.</p> + +<p>Malone took a deep breath. "Thought I'd lost the notebook," he said. "I +appreciate your returning it."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Bill said, "that's O.K., Mr. Malone. Glad to do it."</p> + +<p>"You don't know what this means to me," Malone said truthfully.</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said. "I'll let you know. And thanks again."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Malone tried a few more steps and discovered that he could walk without +falling down. He thanked the doctor again.</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"I'll bet," Malone said hurriedly. "Well, I've got to be on my way. Just +send the bill to FBI Headquarters on Sixty-ninth Street." He closed the +door on the doctor's enthusiastic: "Yes, <i>sir</i>!" and went on down the +hallway and out into the street. At Seventh Avenue and Greenwich Avenue +he flagged a cab.</p> + +<p>What 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?<!-- Page 27 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Statler-Hilton Hotel," 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><i>A nice quiet vacation</i>, Malone thought bitterly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>That was important evidence. He decided to tell Boyd about it right +away.</p> + +<p>He went into the bathroom and tapped gently on the door to Boyd's +connecting room. The door swung open.</p> + +<p>Boyd, apparently, was still out painting the town—Malone considered the +word <i>red</i> and dropped the whole phrase with a sigh. At any rate, his +partner was nowhere in the room. He went back into his own room, closed +the door and got wearily ready for bed.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He turned over in bed, and tried to go back to sleep.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and then opened the +connecting door to Boyd's room softly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Come on," he said. "Wake up, Tommy-boy."</p> + +<p>Boyd's eyes did not open. In a voice as hollow as a zombie's, he said: +"My head. Hurts."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Boyd swore distantly, and Malone poked him again.<!-- Page 28 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The sun is up," Malone said, "and all the little pedestrians are +chirping. It is time to rise."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Now," Malone said, "isn't that better?"</p> + +<p>Boyd closed his eyes again. "No," he said.</p> + +<p>"Come on," Malone said. "We've got to be up and moving."</p> + +<p>"I'm up," Boyd said. His eyes flickered open. "But I can't move," he +added. "We had quite a time last night."</p> + +<p>"We?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 +some time. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"O.K.," Malone said. "Now we have to go downstairs."</p> + +<p>"You mean outside?" Boyd said. "Into all that noise?" He winced.</p> + +<p>"Bite the bullet," Malone said cheerfully. "Keep a stiff upper lip."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense," Boyd said, hunting for his coat with a doleful air. "Have +you ever seen anybody with a loose upper lip?"</p> + +<p>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 +Sixty-ninth Street.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Good," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Not only that," Burris told him. "They're good men. Maybe among the +best in their field."</p> + +<p>So Malone made his last call, to the firm of Leibowitz & Hardin, +Electronic Engineers.</p> + +<p>Then he beckoned to Boyd.<!-- Page 29 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> + +<p>"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. And—"</p> + +<p>"I need you now," Malone said. "I want you to take over part of this +plan."</p> + +<p>Boyd nodded sourly. "Oh, all right," he said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Great," Boyd said. "Do you have any idea how many cars there are in a +city this size?"</p> + +<p>"Well, we don't want all of them," Malone said. "Only red 1972 +Cadillacs."</p> + +<p>"It's still a lot," Boyd said.</p> + +<p>"If there were only three," Malone said, "we wouldn't have any +problems."</p> + +<p>"And wouldn't that be nice?" Boyd said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Me?" Boyd said. "All by myself?"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"I've got it," Boyd said, "but I don't like it. After all, Malone—"</p> + +<p>Malone ignored him. "The Governor of New York promised his +co-operation," he said, "and he said he'd get in touch with the +Governors of New Jersey and Connecticut and get co-operation from that +angle. So we'll have state and local police working with us."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Yesterday," Malone said.</p> + +<p>Boyd's eyebrows raised, then lowered. "Great," he said dully.</p> + +<p>"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 & Hardin for a complete checkup. I'll give you the address."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," Boyd said.</p> + +<p>"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...."</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute," Boyd said.</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"You mean I don't have to take the cars apart myself? You mean this +Leibowitz & Hardin, or whatever it is, will do it for me?"</p> + +<p>"Of course," Malone said wearily.<!-- Page 30 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> "You re not an auto technician or an +electronics man. You're an agent of the FBI."</p> + +<p>"I was beginning to wonder," Boyd said. "After all."</p> + +<p>"Anyhow," Malone said doggedly, "I talked to Leibowitz, and he says he +can give a car a complete check in about six hours, normally."<!-- Page 31 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image6.jpg" width="350" height="534" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>"Six hours?" Boyd stared. "That's going to take forever," he said.</p> + +<p>"Well, he can set up a kind of assembly-line process and turn out a car +every fifteen minutes. Any better?"</p> + +<p>Boyd nodded.</p> + +<p>"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 there are, sold to +people living in the area."</p> + +<p>"And while I'm doing all that," Boyd said, "what are you going to be +doing?"</p> + +<p>Malone looked at him and sighed. "I'll worry about that," he said. "Just +get started."</p> + +<p>"Suppose Leibowitz can't find anything?" Boyd said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Pretty good," Boyd said. "But suppose he doesn't?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Malone put a smile carefully on his face and told Boyd: "Get going." He +slammed his hat on his head.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He had time to go over to the precinct station in the West Eighties +first.</p> + +<p>He headed outside to get another taxi.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V.</h2> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Well, he told himself, there was only one way to find out.</p> + +<p>He opened the door.</p> + +<p>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, a +huskily-built man sat. He had steel-gray hair, a hard jaw and, Malone +noticed with surprise, a faint twinkle in his eye.</p> + +<p>"Lieutenant Lynch?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Right," Lynch said. "What's the trouble?"<!-- Page 32 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'm Kenneth J. Malone," Malone said. "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.</p> + +<p>"What's so funny?" Malone asked.</p> + +<p>Lynch laughed some more.</p> + +<p>"Oh, come on," Malone said bitterly. "After all, there's no reason to +treat an FBI agent like some kind of a—"</p> + +<p>"FBI agent?" Lynch said. "Listen, buster, this is the funniest gag I've +seen since I came on the Force. 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—"</p> + +<p>"You're a disgrace to the Irish," Malone said tartly.</p> + +<p>"A what?" Lynch said. "I'm not Irish."</p> + +<p>"You talk like an Irishman," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"I said you were a disgrace to the Irish," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"I was a—what?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Lynch looked as if he were about to get mad, and then he looked down at +Malone's wallet again and started to laugh.</p> + +<p>"What's so funny?" Malone demanded.</p> + +<p>He grabbed the wallet and turned it toward him. At once, of course, he +realized what had happened. He had not flipped it open to his badge at +all. He'd flipped it open, instead, to a card in the card-case:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p> +KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE<br /> +PRESENTS THAT Sir Kenneth<br /> +Malone, Knight, is hereby formally<br /> +installed with the title of<br /> + KNIGHT OF THE BATH<br /> +and this card shall signify his right<br /> +to that title and his high and respected<br /> +position as officer in and of<br /> + THE QUEENS OWN F.B.I.<br /> +</p> +</div> + +<p>In a very small voice, Malone said: "There's been a terrible mistake."</p> + +<p>"Mistake?" Lynch said.</p> + +<p>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 at the +badge with it. At last he looked up.</p> + +<p>"I guess you are the FBI," he said. "But what was with the gag?"</p> + +<p>"It wasn'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 +authen<!-- Page 33 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>tic telepath, about the best that had ever been found.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Malone made a note mentally 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 <i>everybody</i> in.</p> + +<p>Then he realized that he was beginning to believe everything again. +There had been times, when he'd been 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....</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Well?" Lynch said.</p> + +<p>"It's too long a story," Malone said. "And besides, it's not what I came +here about."</p> + +<p>Lynch shrugged again. "O.K.," he said. "Tell it your way."</p> + +<p>"First," Malone said, "what's your job?"</p> + +<p>"Me? Precinct Lieutenant."</p> + +<p>"Of this precinct?"</p> + +<p>Lynch stared. "What else?" he said.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I know," Malone said. "I've read the reports."</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"I'm sure you do a fine job," Malone said hastily. "But I want you to +look at the notebook." He opened it to the page with Lynch's name on it.</p> + +<p>Lynch opened his mouth, closed it and then took the notebook. He stared +at the page for a few seconds. "What's this?" he said at last. "Another +gag?"</p> + +<p>"No gag, lieutenant," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"It's your name and mine," Lynch said. "What is that supposed to mean?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"And it is," Lynch said, staring at<!-- Page 34 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> the notebook. He seemed to be +expecting it to rise and strike him.</p> + +<p>Malone said: "Have you got any idea who'd be writing about you and me?"</p> + +<p>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 pages carefully. When he +saw the list of names on the second page he stopped again, and stared. +This time he whistled under his breath.</p> + +<p>Very cautiously, Malone said: "Something?"</p> + +<p>"I'll be damned," Lynch said feelingly.</p> + +<p>"What's wrong?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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 +obligation. His mouth opened but nothing came out for a long time. At +last he managed to say: "<i>Kids?</i>"</p> + +<p>"That's right," Lynch said. "What did you think?"</p> + +<p>Malone shrugged helplessly.</p> + +<p>"Every single one of them," Lynch said. "Right from around here."</p> + +<p>There was a little silence.</p> + +<p>"Who are they?" Malone said carefully.</p> + +<p>"They're some kind of kid gang, social club, something like that," Lynch +said. "They call themselves the Silent Spooks."</p> + +<p>"The what?" It seemed to Malone that the name was just a little fancy, +even for a kid gang.</p> + +<p>"The Silent Spooks," Lynch said. "I can't help it. But here they are: +Ramon Otravez, Mario Grito, Silvo Envoz, Felipe Altapor, Alvarez 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. +"There's only one name missing, as a matter of fact. Funny it isn't +there."</p> + +<p>Malone tried to look as if he knew what was going on. "Oh?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Yeah," Lynch said. "The Fueyo kid—Miguel Fueyo. Everybody calls him +Mike."</p> + +<p>While interesting, this did not provide much food for thought. "Why +should his name be on it especially?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Because he's the leader of the gang," Lynch said. "The boss. The big +shot." He pointed to the list of names. "Except for him, that's all of +them—the Silent Spooks."</p> + +<p>Malone considered the missing Mike Fueyo.</p> + +<p>He knew perfectly well, now, why Fueyo's name was not in the book.</p> + +<p>Who puts his own name on a list?</p> + +<p>The notebook was Fueyo's. It had to be.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Lynch was looking at him expectantly. Malone thought of a question and +asked it. "They know you?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Sure they do," Lynch said. "They all know me. But do they know you?"</p> + +<p>Malone thought. "They could have<!-- Page 35 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> heard of me," he said at last, trying +to be as modest as possible.</p> + +<p>"I guess," Lynch said grudgingly.</p> + +<p>"How old are they?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Fourteen to seventeen," Lynch said. "Somewhere in there. You know how +these kid things run."</p> + +<p>"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—</p> + +<p>With a wrench, he brought his mind back to the subject at hand. "Do they +get into much trouble?" he said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>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 little of anything." He frowned.</p> + +<p>Malone said: "Something's got to be wrong. What is it?"</p> + +<p>"Well," Lynch said, "they do seem to have a lot of money to spend."</p> + +<p>Malone sat down in a chair across the desk, and leaned eagerly toward +Lynch. "Money?" he said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"O.K.," Malone said. "I won't tell you."</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Listen," Lynch said sadly. "Those kids spend more than I do. They do +better than that—they spend more than I <i>earn</i>." 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."</p> + +<p>"Like an expense account," Malone said idly. Lynch looked up. "Sorry," +Malone said. "I was thinking about something else."</p> + +<p>"I'll bet you were," Lynch said with unconcealed envy.</p> + +<p>"No," Malone said. "Really. Listen, I'll check with Internal Revenue on +that money. But have you got a list of the kids' addresses?"<!-- Page 36 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I can get one," Lynch said, and went to the door.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Be damned," said. "There does seem to be a connection, doesn't there?" +He held up the picture of the red Cadillac for Malone to see.</p> + +<p>"Sure does," Malone said. "That's why I want those addresses. If there +is a connection, I sure want to find out about it."</p> + +<p>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 teen-agers. "I'm going to get to the bottom of +this if it takes me all summer," he said, muttering to himself.</p> + +<p>"That's the spirit," he told himself. "Never say die."</p> + +<p>Then, realizing he had just said it, he frowned. Perhaps it hadn't +really counted. But, then again....</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He was on his way down the steps when he hit the girl.</p> + +<p>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 <i>touch</i> was quite the word.</p> + +<p><i>Bottom</i> certainly was. He had fallen backward and landed directly on +his <i>glutei maximi</i>, obeying the law regarding equal and opposite +reaction and several other laws involving falling bodies.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 "<i>rrr</i>" between +her teeth.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He smiled at her. She shook her head and sat up, still going "<i>rrr</i>." +Then she stopped and said, instead: "What do you think—"</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," Malone said in what<!-- Page 37 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> 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—"</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image7.jpg" width="350" height="356" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>"You didn't?" the girl said. "If you didn't, you must be completely +blind."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," Malone said. "I'm not blind. Not blind at all." He smiled at +her and stood up. His face was beginning to get a little tired, but he +retained the smile as he went over to her, extended a hand and pulled +her to her feet.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Her figure, including the shoulders, was on the slim side, but she was<!-- Page 38 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +very definitely all there. Malone could not 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.</p> + +<p>Again.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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 ran back the other way, meeting a whole new set going forward.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p><i>Dorothy.</i> 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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Not exactly a detective," he said.</p> + +<p>"Not exactly?" she said, looking puzzled. She looked positively glorious +when puzzled, Malone decided at once.</p> + +<p>"That is," he said carefully, "I do detect, but not for the city of New +York."</p> + +<p>"Oh," she said. "A private eye. Is that right?"</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "no."</p> + +<p>She looked even more puzzled. Malone hastened to explain before he got +to the point where conversation was impossible.</p> + +<p>"Federal Bureau of Investigation,"<!-- Page 39 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> he said. After a second he thought +of a clarification and added: "FBI."</p> + +<p>"Oh," the girl said. "<i>Oh.</i>"</p> + +<p>"But you can call me Ken," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"All right—Ken," she said. "And you call me Dorothy."</p> + +<p>"Sure," he said. He tried it out. "Dorothy." It felt swell.</p> + +<p>"Well—" she said after a second.</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "Were you looking for a detective? Because if I can +help in any way—"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly," Dorothy said. "Just a little routine business. I'll go on +in and—"</p> + +<p>Malone suddenly found himself talking without having any idea why he'd +started, or what he was going to say. At first he said: "<i>Urr</i>," 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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Dorothy appeared to consider for a moment. "Well," she said at last, +"how about 'The Hot Seat'?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But he swallowed bravely. "I'll do my best," he said. "Got any second +choice?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"I really didn't expect you to get tickets for 'The Hot Seat,'" she +said.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," Malone said, "is impossible." He grinned at her. "Meanwhile, +where can I pick you up? Your home?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"What?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Topp's," Dorothy said. "On Forty-second Street, just East of Broadway? +It's a restaurant."</p> + +<p>"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."<!-- Page 40 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Fine," Dorothy said.</p> + +<p>"How about making it at six?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><i>Mike Fueyo.</i></p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI.</h2> + + +<p>The building was just off Amsterdam, in the Eighties. It had been a +shining new development once, but it was beginning to slide downhill +now. The metal on the windowframes 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It was on the tenth floor: <i>Fueyo, J.</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The door swung open very suddenly and Malone stepped back.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I'm not looking for your daugh<!-- Page 41 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>ter," Malone said. "I'd like to talk to +Mike."</p> + +<p>"Mike?" Her expression grew even more suspicious. "You want to talk to +Mike?"</p> + +<p>"That's right," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Malone said: "Well, I—"</p> + +<p>"You want to ask me stupid questions," she said. "That is what you want +to do. I'm right?"</p> + +<p>"I only—"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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 windowboxes. 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.</p> + +<p>The woman cleared her throat and Malone's gaze came back to her. "I can +tell you nothing," she said.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to talk to you," Malone said again. "I want to talk to +Mike."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Joke?" Malone said. "You mean Mike's not here?"</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"I said so, didn't I?" the woman said. "You must be crazy or else +something." Her eyes were still cold<!-- Page 42 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> points, but Malone saw a glow of +tears behind them. Mike was her son. She did not seem surprised that the +police had taken him away, but she was determined to protect him.</p> + +<p>Malone's voice was very gentle. "Why did they arrest him?" he said.</p> + +<p>The woman shrugged, a single sharp gesture. "You ask me this?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not a cop," Malone said. "I'm from the FBI."</p> + +<p>"FBI?" the woman said.</p> + +<p>"It's all right," Malone said, with all the assurance he could muster. +"I only want to talk to him."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"But didn't they say anything about—"</p> + +<p>"They say?" the woman cried. "They say only they have orders from this +Lieutenant Lynch. He is lieutenant at police station."</p> + +<p>"I know," Malone said gently.</p> + +<p>"Lieutenant Lynch wants to ask Mike questions, so police come, take him +away." Her English was beginning to lose ground as tears came.</p> + +<p>"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 goes home to you. Right +away."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He stood staring at the door for a few seconds. Then he turned and +punched the elevator button savagely.</p> + +<p>There wasn't any time to lose.</p> + +<p>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, and said nothing as Malone charged up the +stairs to Lynch's office.</p> + +<p>It was empty.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"The lieutenant?"</p> + +<p>Malone fumed. "Who else?" he said. "Where is he?"</p> + +<p>"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, why do you want to see the lieutenant? You can't just go charging +in to—"</p> + +<p>Malone was down the stairs before he'd finished. He went up to the +desk.<!-- Page 43 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> + +<p>The desk sergeant looked down. "What's it this time?" he said.</p> + +<p>"I'm in a hurry," Malone said. "Where are the cells? I want to see +Lieutenant Lynch."</p> + +<p>The desk sergeant nodded. "O.K.," he said. "But the lieutenant ain't in +any of the cells. He's back in Interrogation with some kid."</p> + +<p>"Take me there," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"I'll show you," the sergeant said. "On duty. Can't leave the desk." He +cleared his throat and gave Malone a set of directions.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 <i>1</i> stenciled on it. Malone +opened it and looked inside.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Seated in three of the chairs were Lieutenant Lynch and two other police +officers. In the fourth chair, facing them, was a young boy.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He had the strangest impression that he had seen the boy somewhere +before. But he couldn't remember when or where.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Lynch was talking.</p> + +<p>"... 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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Lynch stirred a little impatiently, and his voice began to carry a new +bite. "I'm talking about Cadillacs," he said. "1972 Red Cadillacs."</p> + +<p>"It's a nice car," Mike said.</p> + +<p>"What do you know about them?" Lynch said.</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"The Cadillacs," Lynch said, "were—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Lynch said sourly. "Sure. Sure."</p> + +<p>"I'd like to ask him a couple of<!-- Page 44 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> questions," Malone said. "Alone."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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—for very good reasons—unstrapped his .44 Magnum and handed it to +the lieutenant.</p> + +<p>He left reluctantly, with his men.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Now, Mike—" he began, and was interrupted.</p> + +<p>The door opened. Lieutenant Lynch said: "If you need us, Malone, just +yell."</p> + +<p>"You'll hear me," Malone promised. The door shut.</p> + +<p>He turned back to the boy. "Now, Mike," he began again, "my name is +Malone, and I'm with the FBI. I'd like to ask you a few—"</p> + +<p>"Gee, Mr. Malone," Mike broke in eagerly. "I'm glad you're here."</p> + +<p>Malone said: "Well, I—"</p> + +<p>"These cops here have been giving me a pretty rough deal, you know?" +Mike said.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure they—" Malone began.</p> + +<p>"But I've been looking for you," Mike went on. "See, I wanted to say +something to you. Something real important."</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"Well—" Mike began, and stopped.</p> + +<p>"You don't have to be afraid of me, Mike," Malone said. "Just tell me +whatever's on your mind."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Mike said. "It's this."</p> + +<p>He took a deep breath. Malone clenched his fists. Now it was coming. Now +he would hear the all-important fact. He waited.</p> + +<p>Mike stuck out his tongue and blew the longest, loudest, brassiest and +juiciest Bronx cheer that Malone had ever heard.</p> + +<p>Then, almost instantly, the room was empty except for Malone himself.</p> + +<p>Mike was gone.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Mike Fueyo had vanished, utterly and instantaneously. He'd gone out like +a light.<!-- Page 45 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> + +<p><!-- Page 46 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII.</h2> +<div class="figright" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/image8.jpg" width="200" height="682" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<div class="figdrop"> + +<img src="images/dropt.jpg" width="80" height="80" alt="T" title="T" /> +</div> +<p class="cap">hirty 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.</p> + +<p>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<!-- Page 47 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>He had always distrusted doctors anyhow.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It was a nice theory, and it was even comforting, in a way. There was +only one thing wrong with it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>There was absolutely nothing else in the room.</p> + +<p>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 <i>had</i> happened?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Come to think of it, that made pretty good sense. If he had blacked out, +then Mike would have seen it as he went groggy, 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Well, well," Malone said.</p> + +<p>Lynch recovered his balance and glared at the FBI agent. He said +nothing.</p> + +<p>"Where is he?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Where is he?" Lynch repeated, and blinked. "Where's <i>who</i>?"<!-- Page 48 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> + +<p>Malone shook his head impatiently. "Fueyo," he said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Therefore, he hadn't come out through the door.</p> + +<p>Malone took a deep breath.</p> + +<p>"What are you talking about?" Lynch said. "Isn't the kid in there with +you? What's happened?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"You <i>what</i>?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," Lynch said bitterly. "After all, I was the one who—"</p> + +<p>"You called him in for questioning, didn't you, lieutenant?" Malone +said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I did, and I—"</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "I questioned him."</p> + +<p>There was a little silence. Then Lynch asked, in a strangled voice: +"What did he say?"</p> + +<p>"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 really carry it +off.</p> + +<p>"But—"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Wait!" Lynch said. He flung open the door of the interrogation room. +There was no doubt that it was empty. "Wait! Malone!"</p> + +<p>Malone turned slowly, trying to look calm and in control of the +situation. "Yes?" he said.</p> + +<p>Lynch looked at him with puzzled, pleading eyes. "Malone, <i>how</i> 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?"</p> + +<p>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.<!-- Page 49 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> + +<p>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 <i>good</i> 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.</p> + +<p>But that wasn't important now. As the cab tooled along down Broadway +toward Sixty-ninth Street, Malone closed his eyes and began going over +the whole thing in his mind.</p> + +<p>Mike Fueyo had vanished.</p> + +<p>Of that, Malone told himself, there was no shadow of doubt. No probable, +possible shadow of doubt.</p> + +<p>No possible doubt—as a matter of fact—whatever.</p> + +<p>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 looked at it admiringly for a long time.</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, that was all he could think of to do, as the cab +turned up Seventieth Street and headed east. He certainly didn't have +any answers for it.</p> + +<p>But it was a lovely question:</p> + +<p><i>Where does that leave Kenneth J. Malone?</i></p> + +<p>And, possibly even more important:</p> + +<p><i>Where was Miguel Fueyo?</i></p> + +<p>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 were pretty sure he could get +away with it.</p> + +<p>Malone remembered the raspberry and winced slightly. The cab driver +called back: "Anything wrong, buddy?"</p> + +<p>"Everything," Malone said. "But don't worry about it."</p> + +<p>The cab driver shrugged and turned back to the wheel. Malone went back +to Mike Fueyo.</p> + +<p>The kid could make himself vanish at will.</p> + +<p>Invisibility?</p> + +<p>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 a presence actually leaving the room. If +Mike had become invisible and stayed, Malone was sure he wouldn't have +felt the boy leave.</p> + +<p>Mike had not just become invisible. (And what do I mean, "just"? Malone +asked himself unhappily.) He had gone—elsewhere.</p> + +<p>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.<!-- Page 50 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> + +<p>Never mind where, Malone told himself. <i>How?</i></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?" Malone had asked him, "it doesn't. Or, anyhow, it +hasn't so far."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "Sure."</p> + +<p>"Matter, controlled by thought, might bridge distances instantaneously," +Dr. O'Connor had said.</p> + +<p>And he'd referred to something, some word....</p> + +<p><i>Teleportation.</i></p> + +<p>That was it. Malone sat back. All you had to do, he reflected, was to +think yourself somewhere else, and—<i>bing!</i>—you were there. If Malone +had been able to do it, it would not only save him a lot of time and +trouble, but also such things as cab fare and train fare and ... oh, a +lot of different things.</p> + +<p>But he couldn't. And Dr. O'Connor hadn't found anyone else who could, +either. As far as Malone knew, nobody could teleport.</p> + +<p>Except Mike Fueyo.</p> + +<p>The cab stopped in front of FBI Headquarters. "You some kind of secret +agent?" the cabbie said.</p> + +<p>"Of course not," Malone said pleasantly. "I'm a foreign spy."</p> + +<p>"Oh," the cabbie said. "Sure." He took his money with a somewhat puzzled +air, while Malone crossed the sidewalk and went into the building.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 for."<!-- Page 51 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But he wants to sue the city," a voice said tinnily. "Or somebody."</p> + +<p>"Let him sue," Boyd said. "We've got authority. Just get that car."</p> + +<p>"Look," the voice said. "I—"</p> + +<p>"I don't care how," 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?"</p> + +<p>"Sure, Mr. Boyd," the voice said. "But I don't—"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"It's got to be done," Malone said in a noncommittal voice. "How's it +going so far?"</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"At this time of day?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"New York," Boyd said, and shrugged. "Things are funny here."</p> + +<p>Malone nodded. "What did you do about them?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Told the agent to take the car and give 'em a pass to a movie," Boyd +said.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Disassembly," Boyd said. "Leibowitz has started it going. He borrowed +the use of a big auto repair shop over 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?"</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "I'm not absolutely sure yet."</p> + +<p>"That's a nice, helpful answer," Boyd said. "In the best traditions of +the FBI."</p> + +<p>"I can't help it," Malone said. "It's true."</p> + +<p>"Well, what have you been doing?" Boyd said. "Drinking? Living it up +while I sit here and talk to people about Cadillacs?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly," Malone said. "I've been ... well, doing more or less what +Burris told me to do. Nosing around. Keeping my eyes open."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The phone chimed. Boyd flipped up the mike and eyed the screen +balefully. "Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said crisply. "Who are +you?"</p> + +<p>A voice on the other end said: "What?" before the image on the screen +cleared.<!-- Page 52 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh," a voice said. It was a very calm, quiet voice. "Hello, Boyd."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Is Mr. Malone in?" Leibowitz said. "I really wanted to talk to him."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image9.jpg" width="350" height="385" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>"Sure," Boyd said. "Just a second."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"How's everything coming, Dr. Leibowitz?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"That's wonderful," Malone said.<!-- Page 53 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said. "But anything you can do to speed it up—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"The first car has just been turned off the assembly line," Leibowitz +said. "And I'm afraid, Mr. Malone, that there's nothing odd about it at +all."</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "we can't expect to hit the jackpot with our first +try."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"I'll call you at once, of course," Leibowitz said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure you're not," Leibowitz said.</p> + +<p>"But," Malone said, "why does it take so long? I'd think it would be +fairly easy to spot a robotic or a semirobotic brain capable of +controlling a car."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>For no reason at all, Malone suddenly thought of Dorothy again. "A coat +of paint?" he said in a disturbed tone.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"But a coat of paint isn't very much," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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<!-- Page 54 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "Sure. But you <i>can</i> find the circuits, if they're +there?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Enormous, huh?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Of course," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I see," Malone, who didn't, said desperately. "In other words, unless +something radically new has been developed, you can find the circuits."</p> + +<p>"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 the credit for this."</p> + +<p>"No?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Malone said: "Well, so long as one of you—"</p> + +<p>"Sal's a real crackerjack," Leibowitz said enthusiastically. "He has an +intuitive feel about these things. It's really amazing to watch him go +to work."</p> + +<p>"It must be," Malone said politely.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Of course, Mr. Malone," Leibowitz said. "I wouldn't have bothered you +except for the production speed-up here."</p> + +<p>"I understand," Malone said. "It's perfectly all right. I'll be hearing +from you, then?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly, Mr. Malone," Leibowitz said.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Malone cut the circuit at once and started to turn away, but he never +got the chance. It started to chime again at once.</p> + +<p>"Federal Bureau of Investigation," Malone said as he flipped up the +re<!-- Page 55 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>ceiver. 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."</p> + +<p>There was no immediate answer from the other party. Instead, the screen +slowly cleared, showing Malone the picture of a woman he recognized +instantly.</p> + +<p>It was Juanita Fueyo—Mike's mother.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mr. Malone," she said, "thank you so much! You got my Mike back +from the police!"</p> + +<p>Malone gulped. "I did?" he said. "Well, I—"</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>"Leaving?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And what good would that do?</p> + +<p>So, instead, he just sat and stared while Mrs. Fueyo went right on.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said. "But I—"</p> + +<p>"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! I will never stop from praying for you because you +help me!" Her voice and face changed abruptly. "Excuse me now," she +said. "I must go back to work."</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "if I—"</p> + +<p>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!"</p> + +<p>And the image faded and died.</p> + +<p>Boyd tapped Malone on the shoulder. "I didn't know you were involved in +an advice column for the lovelorn," he said.</p> + +<p>"I'm not," Malone said sourly.</p> + +<p>Boyd sighed. "I'll bite," he said. "Who was that?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Very funny," Boyd said. "I am screaming with laughter."</p> + +<p>"Just get back to work, Tommy-boy," Malone said, "and leave everything +to me."</p> + +<p>He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. Lighting a +cigarette<!-- Page 56 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>—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" that night.</p> + +<p>The agent, a tall, thin man, who looked as if he suffered from chronic +stomach trouble, said, "You must be crazy. Are they all like that in +Washington?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>He flicked his cigarette in the air and left, grinning. Five steps away +the grin disappeared and a frown took its place.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII.</h2> + + +<p>He walked along Sixty-ninth 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>had</i> 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.</p> + +<p>That, of course, meant that there would be no secret machines found in +the red Cadillacs Leibowitz & 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<!-- Page 57 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>And, third, it kept Boyd decently busy, and out of Malone's hair.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Unfortunately, he was now left with a new and unusual question:</p> + +<p><i>How do you catch a teleport?</i></p> + +<p>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 he gave Malone a +small, inquisitive stare and looked away without a word.</p> + +<p>Malone mumbled: "Sorry," and looked up at the street sign. He was at +Forty-seventh 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 SM carefully worked into his shirt. Second Mistake, Malone +thought wildly, muttered: "Sorry," again and turned west, feeling fairly +grateful to the unfortunate bystander.</p> + +<p>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 phone call in a +hurry.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Commissioner," Malone said, "I called to ask you to do me a favor."</p> + +<p>There was caution hidden in the calm and quiet voice. "Well," Fernack +said, "what is it, Malone?"</p> + +<p>"Can you have all the robberies for a given period run through the +computer?" Malone said. "I need some dope."</p> + +<p>"Depends on the given period," Fernack said. "I can't do it for 1774."</p> + +<p>"What would I need data on robberies in 1774 for?" Malone said, honestly +interested.</p> + +<p>"I never question the FBI," Fernack said soberly. "But what dates do you +want?"</p> + +<p>"The past year, maybe the past year and a half."</p> + +<p>"And what data?"</p> + +<p>"I want every reported crime that<!-- Page 58 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> hasn't been solved," Malone said, +"which also 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."</p> + +<p>"Every unsolved crime?" Fernack said. "Now, hold your horses, Malone. +I'm not at all sure that—"</p> + +<p>"Don't worry about a thing, commissioner," Malone said. "This is +confidential."</p> + +<p>"You know how I'd feel about this if word ever got out to—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Fernack said. "Sure. But confidential, Malone."</p> + +<p>"You have my word," Malone said sincerely.</p> + +<p>Fernack said: "Well—"</p> + +<p>"How fast can you get the dope?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Fernack cleared his throat and asked delicately: "Mind telling me what +all this is for?"</p> + +<p>Malone offered up a little prayer before answering, and when he did +answer it was in his softest and most friendly tones: "I'd rather not +say just now, John Henry."</p> + +<p>"But Malone—" Fernack's voice sounded a little strained, and his jaw +set just a trifle. "If you—"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Great," Malone said. "Then I'll see you later."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Happily, the reward was convenient to hand. He went to the bar and<!-- Page 59 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +beckoned the bartender over to him. "Bourbon and soda," he said. "And a +medal, if possible."</p> + +<p>"What?" the bartender said.</p> + +<p>"A medal," Malone said. "For conduct beyond reproach."</p> + +<p>The bartender nodded sadly. "Maybe you just ought to go home, Mac," he +said. "Sleep it off."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Oh, well. Malone drank his drink and went out into the afternoon +sunlight.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Of course, money was easy for Mike to get. With a shudder, Malone +thought he was beginning to realize just <i>how</i> 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 or keep him +in.</p> + +<p>But he was going to leave home.</p> + +<p>Malone said: "Hm-m-m," 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 up at the street sign, where the +words: "Avenue of the Americas" had been painted out, and "Sixth Avenue" +hand-lettered in.</p> + +<p>"They finally gave in," the painter told him. "But do you think they'll +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.</p> + +<p>Malone didn't have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. And +how cheap could a pretzel be, anyway? Malone didn't remember ever having +seen an especially tight-fisted one.</p> + +<p>New York, he decided for the fifteenth time, was a strange place.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He found one in a Mexican bar named the Xochitl, across the street from +the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin. It was just 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.<!-- Page 60 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> + +<p>He dialed the number for Lieutenant Lynch's precinct, and then found +himself connected with a new desk sergeant.</p> + +<p>"I'm Malone," he said. "I want to talk to Lynch."</p> + +<p>"Glad to know you, Malone," the desk sergeant said pleasantly. "Only +<i>Lieutenant</i> Lynch doesn't want to subscribe to the Irish <i>Echo</i>."</p> + +<p>"I'm the FBI." He showed his badge.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"We were kids together," Malone said. "We're brothers. Siamese twins. +Put him on the phone."</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute," said the desk sergeant. "I'll check."</p> + +<p>The screen went blank for two agonizing minutes before it cleared again +to show Lynch's face.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Mr. Malone," Lynch said formally. "Have you found some new +little trick to show us poor, stupid policemen? Like, say, making +yourself vanish?"</p> + +<p>"I'll make the whole police force vanish," Malone said, "in a couple of +minutes. I called to ask a favor."</p> + +<p>"Anything," Lynch said. "Anything within my poor power. Whatever I have +is yours. Whither thou goest—"</p> + +<p>"Knock it off," Malone said, and then grinned. After all, there was no +sense in making an enemy out of Lynch.</p> + +<p>Lynch blinked, took a deep breath, and said in an entirely different +voice: "O.K., Malone. What's the favor?"</p> + +<p>"Do you still have that list of Silent Spooks?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Sure I do," Lynch said. "Why? I gave you a copy of it."</p> + +<p>"I can't do this job," Malone said "You'll have to."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," Lynch said, and saluted.</p> + +<p>"Just listen," Malone said. "I want you to check up on every kid on that +list."</p> + +<p>"And what are we supposed to do when we find them?" Lynch said.</p> + +<p>"That's the trouble," Malone said. "You won't."</p> + +<p>"And why not?"</p> + +<p>"I'll lay you ten to one," Malone said, "that every one of them has +skipped out. Left home. Without giving a forwarding address."</p> + +<p>Lynch nodded slowly. "Ten to one?" he said. "Want to make that a money +bet? Or does the FBI frown on gambling?"</p> + +<p>"Ten dollars to your one," Malone said. "O.K.?"</p> + +<p>"Made," Lynch said. "You've got the bet ... just for the hell of it, +understand."</p> + +<p>"Oh, sure," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"And where can I call you to collect?"</p> + +<p>Malone shook his head. "You can't," he said. "I'll call you."</p> + +<p>"I will wait with anxiety," Lynch said. "But it had better be before +eight. I get off then."</p> + +<p>"If I can make it," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"If you can't," Lynch said, "call me at home." He gave Malone the +number, and then added: "Whatever<!-- Page 61 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> information I get, I can keep for my +own use this time, can't I?"</p> + +<p>"You've already got all the information you're going to get. I just gave +it to you."</p> + +<p>"That," Lynch said, "we'll see."</p> + +<p>"I'll call to collect my money," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"We'll talk about it later," Lynch said. "Farewell, old pal."</p> + +<p>"Flights of angels," Malone said, "sing thee to thy rest."</p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image10.jpg" width="350" height="520" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Malone replaced the microphone and headed for the door. Halfway there, +however, he stopped. He hadn't had a <i>tequila</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Only a small one, though. He told himself that he would order one +<i>tequila</i> and quit. Besides, he had to meet Dorothy.</p> + +<p><!-- Page 62 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> + +<p>He sat down on one of the tall bar stools. The bartender bustled over +and eyed him speculatively.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tequila con limon</i>" he said negligently.</p> + +<p>"Ah," the bartender said. "<i>Si, senor</i>."</p> + +<p>Malone waited with ill-concealed impatience. At last it arrived.</p> + +<p>Malone took the small glass of <i>tequila</i> 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 <i>tequila</i>, licked off +the salt and bit his teeth into the lemon slice.</p> + +<p>It felt better than good; it felt wonderful. He hadn't had such a good +time in years.</p> + +<p>He had three more before he left the Xochitl.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He hoped he could find it.</p> + +<p>He headed downtown toward Forty-second Street, turned left 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.</p> + +<p>He pushed open the glass door of the place and went in.</p> + +<p>The <i>maître d'hôtel</i> 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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>The <i>maître d'</i> 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. <i>Always be careful +of your facts</i>, he admonished himself a little fuzzily.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>So why did women keep him waiting?<!-- Page 63 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> + +<p>He heard her voice before he saw her, behind him. But she wasn't talking +to him.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Milty," she said. "How's everything?"</p> + +<p>Malone turned around to get a look at Milty. He turned out to be the +<i>maître d'</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He heard her say: "Oh. Excuse me, Milty. There's my man." She came over +and sat down next to him.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Hi," she said. "Did you get the tickets?"</p> + +<p><i>Tickets!</i></p> + +<p>Malone knew there had been something he'd forgotten, and now he knew +what it was. "Oh," he said. "Sure. Just a second. I've got to check up."</p> + +<p>"Check up?"</p> + +<p>"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 Sixty-ninth Street +and blessed several saints when he found that A-in-C was still there.</p> + +<p>"Tickets," Malone said.</p> + +<p>The Agent-in-Charge blinked at him. "What tickets?" he said.</p> + +<p>"The 'Hot Seat' tickets," Malone said. "Did you get 'em?"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"I'm grateful," Malone said. "I'm hysterical with gratitude."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"I can't express my gratitude," Malone told him. "Where are they? Where +do I pick them up?"</p> + +<p>"Box office," the A-in-C said sourly. "I tell you, everybody in +Washington must be nuts. The things I have to go through—"</p> + +<p>"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.<!-- Page 64 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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'."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Nothing," Malone said. "A mere absolute nothing."</p> + +<p>"Nothing, the man says," Dorothy muttered. "My goodness. And modest, +too. Tell me: how do you do, Mr. Malone?"</p> + +<p>"Me?" Malone said. "Very well, so far." He finished his drink. "And +you?"</p> + +<p>"I work at it," she said cryptically. "May I have another drink?"</p> + +<p>Malone gave her a grin. "Another?" he said. "Have two. Have a dozen."</p> + +<p>"And what," she said, "would I do with half a dozen drinks? Don't +answer. I think I can guess. But let's just take them one at a +time—O.K.?" She signaled to the bartender. "Wally, I'll have a Martini. +And Mr. Malone will have whatever it is he has, I imagine."</p> + +<p>"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 Forty-second Street and Broadway might +take a bit of doing—and all was well with the world.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After all, this <i>was</i> supposed to be a vacation, wasn't it?</p> + +<p>"Well, Mr. Malone," Dorothy said, when the drinks had arrived.</p> + +<p>"Very well indeed," Malone said, raising his. "And just call me Ken. +Didn't I tell you that once before?"</p> + +<p>"You did," she said. "And I asked you to call me Dorothy. Not Dotty. Try +and remember that."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Now," she said. "There you go doing it."</p> + +<p>"Doing what?"</p> + +<p>"Calling me that name."</p> + +<p>"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?"<!-- Page 65 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Ah," Malone said doubtfully. "And what do—"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"I never watch 3-D," Malone said, crestfallen.</p> + +<p>"Fine," Dorothy said unexpectedly. "You have excellent taste."</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "it's just that I never seem to get the time—"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Gladly," Malone said. "The inmost secrets of the FBI are yours for the +asking."</p> + +<p>"Hm-m-m," Dorothy said slowly. "What do you do as an FBI agent, anyhow? +Dig up spies?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"No," Dorothy said. "Not yet, anyway. But I was expecting it."</p> + +<p>"You were?" Malone said, disappointed.</p> + +<p>"Certainly," Dorothy said. "You've been drinking. As a matter of fact, +you've managed to get quite a head start."</p> + +<p>Malone hung his head guiltily. "True," he said in a low voice. "Too +true. Much too true."</p> + +<p>Dorothy nodded, downed her drink and waved to the bartender. "Wally, +bring me a double this time."</p> + +<p>"A double?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," Dorothy said. "I've got to do some fast catching-up on Mr. +Malone here."</p> + +<p>"Call me Ken," Malone muttered.</p> + +<p>"Don't be silly," Dorothy told him. "Wally hardly knows you. He'll call +you Mr. Malone, and like it."</p> + +<p>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—"</p> + +<p>"Yes?" Dorothy said.</p> + +<p>"Better have a triple," Malone muttered.</p> + +<p>Dorothy's eyebrows rose slightly.</p> + +<p>"Because I intend to have another one," Malone added.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX.</h2> + + +<p>It started a million years ago.</p> + +<p>In that distant past, a handful of<!-- Page 66 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And, a few feet from the glass, they ended their million-year epic by +illuminating a face.</p> + +<p>The face responded to them with something less than pleasure. It was +clear that the face did not like being illuminated. It 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Death was nice and pleasant. Unfortunately, he realized, he was not +dead. And there was absolutely no chance of his ever getting back to<!-- Page 67 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +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.</p> + +<p>It had been a remarkable feat, he told himself. He deserved a medal.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He had heard that it was a good show, though. Some time, he reminded +himself, he would have to get tickets and actually see it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<!-- Page 68 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> and headed for home. Had he taken a taxi?</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image11.jpg" width="350" height="286" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Yes, Malone decided, he had. He even remembered that.</p> + +<p>Then what had he forgotten?</p> + +<p>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 ...</p> + +<p>He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock in the morning. He had +completely forgotten to call Fernack and Lynch.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He checked Boyd's room after a while. But his partner wasn't home. +<i>Probably at work already</i>, Malone thought, <i>while I lie here useless +and helpless</i>. He thought of a sermon on the Evils of Alcohol, and +decided he'd better read it to himself instead of delivering it to Boyd.</p> + +<p>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 were careful about it. Before he left, he +took a look at himself in the mirror.</p> + +<p>Well, he told himself, that was nice.<!-- Page 69 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He looked even better than he felt.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He thought wistfully about a hair of the hound, decided against it with +great firmness, and sat down to phone.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"Me?" Fernack said sourly. "I'm in great shape. Tiptop. Malone, how did +you—"</p> + +<p>"Any news for me?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>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 anyway?"</p> + +<p>"An awful lot of impossible crimes," Malone said frankly. "How did I do, +John Henry?"</p> + +<p>"You did very well," Fernack said. "Too well. Listen, Malone, how could +you know about anything like this?"</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Great," Malone said.</p> + +<p>Fernack stared. "What?" he said.</p> + +<p>"I mean—" Malone stopped, thought of an answer and tried it: "I mean, +that checks out my guess. My information. Sources."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"You have no idea how strange," Malone said truthfully.</p> + +<p>"I'm beginning to," Fernack said. "And if I ever find out that you had +anything to do with this—"</p> + +<p>"Me?"</p> + +<p>"And don't look innocent," Fernack said. "It doesn't succeed in looking +anything but horrible. You remind me of a convicted murderer<!-- Page 70 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> trying to +steal thirty cents from the prison chaplain."</p> + +<p>"What would I have to do with all these crimes?" Malone said. "And what +kind of crimes were they, anyway?"</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"Don't be silly, commissioner," Malone said. "How about these crimes? +What kind were they?"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Malone stared. "<i>All</i> the liquor?" he said in a dazed voice.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"That's a lot of liquor," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Quite a lot," Fernack said. "Some of the bars have gone broke, not +being insured against the losses."</p> + +<p>The thought of thousands of bottles of liquor—millions of bottles—went +through Malone's mind like an icepick. He could almost see them, handle +them, taste them. "Hair of the dog," he muttered. "What hair. What a +dog."</p> + +<p>"What did you say, Malone?"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," Fernack said. "Bars are only part of it. Malone, why are you +asking me to tell you this?"</p> + +<p>"Because I want to know," Malone said patiently.</p> + +<p>"I still think—" Fernack began, and then said: "Never mind. But it +hasn't been only bars. Supermarkets. Homes. Cleaning and tailoring +shops. Jewelers. Malone, you name it, and it's been hit."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Malone!"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Malone, how much do you know?" Fernack said.</p> + +<p>"I'll make a general rule for you," Malone said. "Any place that fits +the<!-- Page 71 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> following description is safe: It's got a secure lock on it, and +it's too small for a human being to get into."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Instead, Fernack said: "You know, Malone, you remind me of an old friend +of mine."</p> + +<p>"Really?" Malone said pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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 +damnedest 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 explanations. 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.</p> + +<p>"Well?" Malone said at last.</p> + +<p>"And you're always so 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.</p> + +<p>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 Sixty-ninth Street. By messenger. So long."</p> + +<p>He cut the circuit just as Fernack started: "Now, Malone—"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Malone had Lynch's home number. He dialed it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "Hello."</p> + +<p>"Hi, there," Lynch said with enormous cheerfulness. "Old buddy-boy. Old +pal. Old friend."</p> + +<p>"What's wrong?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"As a matter of fact," Malone said,<!-- Page 72 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> eying Lynch's figure, dressed in a +pair of trousers and a T-shirt, speculatively, "you're right."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>There was a second of silence.</p> + +<p>"All right," Lynch said at last, looking crestfallen. "I owe you a buck. +Every last one of those kids has skipped out on us."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"I spent all night tracing them," Lynch said. "Got nowhere. Nowhere at +all. Tell me, Malone, how did you know—"</p> + +<p>"Classified," Malone said. "Very classified. But you're sure they're all +gone? Vanished?"</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>Malone shook his head gently. "No," he said. "I—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, never mind," Lynch said.</p> + +<p>"But I—"</p> + +<p>"Look, Malone," Lynch said, "there's a guy who wants to talk to you."</p> + +<p>"One of the Silent Spooks?" Malone said hopefully.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Social worker?" Malone said. "He works with the kids, right?"</p> + +<p>"I guess," Lynch said. "His name's Kettleman. Albert Kettleman."</p> + +<p>Malone nodded. "O.K.," he said. "I'll be right over."</p> + +<p>"Hey," Lynch said, "hold on. He's not here now. What do you think this +is—my house or a reception center?"</p> + +<p>"Sorry," Malone said wearily. "Where and when?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Sorry to hear it," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"I'll bet you are," Lynch told him bitterly.</p> + +<p>Malone shrugged. "Anyway," he said, "I'll see you at three, right?"</p> + +<p>"Right," Lynch said, and Malone flipped off.</p> + +<p>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.<!-- Page 73 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Silent Spooks were all teleports.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The Spooks didn't get into trouble.</p> + +<p>They didn't have to.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Malone got up, feeling slightly dazed, and left the hotel.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X.</h2> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Dr. Leibowitz had found all sorts 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 plants probably were. Of course, there had been +personal effects, too—maps and lucky dolls and, just once, a single +crutch.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>At a quarter of 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.</p> + +<p>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<!-- Page 74 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Well, the Silent Spooks," Malone said. "That's right."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Well," Kettleman said tentatively, "the boys themselves have sort of a +word for it. They'd say that there was something ... ah ... 'oddball' +about the Spooks. Do you understand? Not just the fact that they never +drink liquor, you understand, but—"</p> + +<p>"Something strange," Malone said. "Is that what you mean."</p> + +<p>"Ah," Kettleman said. "<i>Strange.</i> 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 ... ah ... 'fit in' to this picture."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I see," Malone said, feeling that something was expected of him. +"That's fine."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Of course," Malone said. "Certainly."</p> + +<p>"I've worked with many of the organizations in this neighborhood," +Kettleman said. "And I've been quite<!-- Page 75 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> 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?"</p> + +<p>He looked penitent. Malone said: "It's all right. I don't mind." He +shifted positions on the hard chair.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Really?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Very peculiar indeed," Kettleman said. "My, yes. All of the other ... +ah ... social groups are afraid of them."</p> + +<p>"Big, huh?" Malone said. "Big, strong boys who—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, my no," Kettleman said. "My goodness, no. All of the Spooks are +rather slight, as a matter of fact. They've got <i>something,</i> but it +isn't strength."</p> + +<p>"My goodness," Malone said tiredly.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Frankly," Malone said, "I'm inclined to agree with you. But what is +this something that frightens everyone else?"</p> + +<p>Kettleman leaned even closer. "I'm not sure," he said softly. "I can't +say for certain, Mr. Malone. I've only heard rumors."</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "rumors might—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure," Malone said patiently. "But what did this particular rumor +say?"</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's quite true," Malone said, solemn-faced.</p> + +<p>"It's ... what?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly true," Malone said. "We've known all that."</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"You see, this information isn't new to us," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Oh," Kettleman said. "No. Of course not. My. It's ... rather +disconcerting to think about, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"There," Malone said, "I agree with you."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Kettleman fell silent. Malone offered him a cigarette, but the social<!-- Page 76 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +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."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure we all appreciate that," Malone said at random, wondering +exactly what he meant.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Certainly," Malone said, wondering what startling new fact was on its +way now.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Betray them—? Mr. Kettleman," Malone said, "just what are you trying +to tell me?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Kettleman said. "Well. I—The Spooks do have a sort of secret +meeting place, you know. And they meet there."</p> + +<p>He stopped. Malone said: "Where is it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's a big empty warehouse," Kettleman said. "I really feel +terrible about this. They're meeting there tonight some time, or that's +what the rumors say. I shouldn't be telling you—"</p> + +<p>"Of course you should," Malone said, trying to sound reassuring. "Don't +worry about a thing, Mr. Kettleman. Tonight?"</p> + +<p>"That's right," Kettleman said eagerly. He grinned and then looked +morosely down at his hands.</p> + +<p>"Do you know where this warehouse is?" Malone said. "If any of the other +little social groups use it—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"But do the Spooks—" Malone began.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," Kettleman moaned. "They don't have a key. At least, that's +what the other ... social groups say. The Spooks just ... just melt +through the walls, or something like that."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Kettleman," Malone said, "where is this warehouse?"</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't be telling you this," Kettleman said.</p> + +<p>Malone sighed. "Please. Mr. Ket<!-- Page 77 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>tleman. You know we're working for the +good of those boys, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I—"</p> + +<p>"Sure we are," Malone said. "So you can tell me."</p> + +<p>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—"</p> + +<p>"Don't worry about it, Mr. Kettleman," Malone said. "We'll take care of +the Spooks."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Kettleman said. "Yes. Sure."</p> + +<p>He got up. Malone said: "There's just one more thing, Mr. Kettleman."</p> + +<p>"Yes?" The big man's voice had reached the high, breathy pitch of a +fife.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image12.jpg" width="350" height="254" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>"Do you have any idea what time the Spooks usually meet?"</p> + +<p>"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. Ma<!-- Page 78 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>lone, I thought, after all, that since he was +asking me questions ... you know, questions about where they were, the +Spooks I mean, and all of that ... since he was asking me questions—"</p> + +<p>"Yes?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"I thought perhaps I ought to tell you about them," Kettleman said. +"Where they were, and all of that."</p> + +<p>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!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Of course," Malone said, going to the door and opening it. "Thanks +again, Mr. Kettleman."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The things an FBI agent had to go through!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said. "Hello there, lieutenant."</p> + +<p>Lynch looked up, his face a mask of surprise. "Oh," he said. "It's you. +Through with Kettleman?"</p> + +<p>"I'm through," Malone said. "As if you didn't know." He looked at Lynch +for a long minute, and then said: "Lieutenant—"</p> + +<p>Lynch had gone right back to his papers. He looked up again with a bland +expression. "Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Lieutenant, how reliable is Kettleman?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"How would I know?" Lynch said. "After all, you were down there<!-- Page 79 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> 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. +But—"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Well, thanks," Lynch said. "But I don't see what this has to do with—"</p> + +<p>"I just don't want you trying to kid your buddy-boy," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Kid you?" Lynch said. "I don't get it."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Me?" Lynch said. "Why would I—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, cut it out," Malone said impatiently. "Let's not play games, O.K.?"</p> + +<p>There was a second of silence.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to fight you," Malone said wearily. "So you've got the +stuff recorded. That's your business."</p> + +<p>"My business?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said cheerfully, "as long as you don't try to use it."</p> + +<p>"Now, Malone—" Lynch began.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Malone, I—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't think of—"</p> + +<p>"You wanted information," Malone said. "Fine. That's all right with me. +You got the information, and that's O.K., 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 +<i>How To Be A Beat Cop</i>. In Kew Gardens. It's nice and lonely out there +now, Lynch. You'd love it."</p> + +<p>"Malone," Lynch said tiredly.</p> + +<p>"Don't give me any arguments," Malone said. "I don't want any +arguments."</p> + +<p>"I won't argue with you, Malone," Lynch said. "I've been trying to tell +you something."</p> + +<p>Malone stepped away from the desk. "All right," he said. "Go ahead."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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<!-- Page 80 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> 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."</p> + +<p>Malone said: "Well, all I—"</p> + +<p>"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 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 I was going to find down there?"</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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 fool, until +I've got some way of making sure they're there when the raid goes +through."</p> + +<p>Malone coughed gently. "O.K.," he said at last. "Sorry."</p> + +<p>"There's only one thing I want," Lynch said. "I want to be able to move +as soon as possible."</p> + +<p>"Well, sure," Malone said apologetically.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>He stopped. Lynch looked up at him. "Just how screwy can it get?" he +said. "The facts are nutty enough."</p> + +<p>"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. I don't even want me to know about it, until it +stops sounding so nutty to me."</p> + +<p>"O.K., 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."</p> + +<p>"I had to say something, didn't I?" Malone asked apologetically.</p> + +<p>"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 re-appear +some place else. Walk through walls?" He shrugged. "How should I know? +But they can sure do something like it."</p> + +<p>"Something," Malone said. "Like I said, it sounds screwy."</p> + +<p>"I don't like it," Lynch said.</p> + +<p>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—"</p> + +<p>"Yes?" Lynch said.</p> + +<p>"Thanks for giving me and Kettleman a chance to talk," Malone said.<!-- Page 81 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +"Even if you had reasons of your own."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Lynch said. "You mean the recording."</p> + +<p>"I was a little suspicious," Malone said. "I didn't think you'd give +Kettleman to me without getting <i>something</i> for yourself."</p> + +<p>"Would you?" Lynch said.</p> + +<p>Malone shrugged. "I'm not crazy either," he said.</p> + +<p>Lynch picked up a handful of papers. "I've got all this work to do," he +said. "So I'll see you later."</p> + +<p>"O.K.," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"And if you need my help, buddy-boy," Lynch said, "just yell—right?"</p> + +<p>"I'll yell," Malone said. "Don't worry about that. I'll yell loud enough +to get myself heard in Space Station One."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI.</h2> + + +<p>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 Sixty-ninth +Street, dining off his nails en route. When he hit the FBI Headquarters, +he called Washington and got Burris on the line.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The pocket was empty.</p> + +<p>"What notebook?" Burris said.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"All right," Burris said.</p> + +<p>Malone went on with his description of what had happened. When he'd +finished, Burris heaved a great sigh.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I wish you hadn't said that," Malone said sadly.</p> + +<p>Burris blinked. "Why?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, just because," Malone said. "I haven't even had time to think about +next year, yet. But I'll think about it now."</p> + +<p>"Well, maybe it won't be so bad," Burris said.</p> + +<p>Malone shook his head. "No, chief," he said. "You're wrong. It'll be +worse."</p> + +<p>"This is bad enough," Burris said.</p> + +<p>"It's a great vacation," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Please," Burris said. "Did I have any idea—"</p> + +<p>"Yes," Malone said.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"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—"<!-- Page 82 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't say that, Malone," Burris said. "You're one of my most valuable +agents."</p> + +<p>Malone tried to stop himself from beaming, but he couldn't. "Well, +chief," he began, "I—"</p> + +<p>"Vanishing boys," Burris muttered. "What are you going to do with them, +Malone?"</p> + +<p>"I was hoping you might have some kind of suggestion," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Me?"</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "I suppose I'll figure it out—when I catch them. +But I did want something from you, chief."</p> + +<p>"Anything, Malone," Burris said. "Anything at all."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"If you say so," Burris said doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"In the what?"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Right," Burris said.</p> + +<p>"So get in touch with Dr. O'Connor," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"I'll have him call you," Burris said. "Meanwhile ... well, meanwhile +just carry on, Malone. I've got every confidence in you."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," Malone growled.</p> + +<p>"If anybody can crack a case like this," Burris said, "it's you."</p> + +<p>"I suppose it had better be," Malone said, and rang off.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Had he left it in his room?</p> + +<p>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 when morning had come—but he +could remember how they'd looked on the dresser.</p> + +<p>The notebook hadn't been there among them.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>Proud of himself for this careful and complete job of deduction, he +strolled out and, giving Boyd and<!-- Page 83 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> 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 getting the book back.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I'm looking for a notebook," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Try a stationery store, youngster," the old man said. "I thought I'd +heard 'em all, but—"</p> + +<p>"No," Malone said. "You don't understand."</p> + +<p>"I don't have 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 have to +understand nothing. Good-by."</p> + +<p>"I'm looking for a notebook I lost here last night," Malone said +desperately.</p> + +<p>"Oh," the old man said. "Lost and Found. That's different. You come with +me."</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>Malone said: "I just want to find a notebook."</p> + +<p>"Got to give me your name, youngster," the old man said solemnly. "It's +the rules here. After all."</p> + +<p>Malone sighed: "Kenneth Malone," he said. "And my address is—"</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"Statler Hilton Hotel," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"In Manhattan?" the old man said.</p> + +<p>"That's right," Malone said wearily.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Fascinated in spite of himself, Malone said: "That's impossible."</p> + +<p>"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<!-- Page 84 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> before you start talking about +impossibilities. What a strange-looking beast. And then there was the +time—"</p> + +<p>"About the notebook," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Notebook?" the old man said.</p> + +<p>"I lost a notebook," Malone said. "I was hoping that—"</p> + +<p>"Description?" the old man said, and poised his pencil again.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Who's he?" the old man said.</p> + +<p>"He's a cop," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"My, my," the old man said. "Valuable notebook, with a cop's name in it +and all. You a cop, youngster?"</p> + +<p>Malone shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Too bad," the old man said obscurely. "I like cops." He stood up. "You +said black plastic? Black?"</p> + +<p>"That's right," Malone said. "Do you have it here?"</p> + +<p>"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, <i>and</i> no notebooks."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "Well ... wait a minute."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>With difficulty, Malone leashed his temper. "Why did I have to describe +the notebook?" he said. "You haven't got any notebooks at all."</p> + +<p>"That's right," the old man said cheerfully.</p> + +<p>"But you made me describe—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Saving Topp's for last, he started at the Ad Lib, where a surprised bald +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?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe they hate rain," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>Malone said good-by in a hurry and left. His next stop was the<!-- Page 85 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> Xochitl, +the Mexican bar on Forty-sixth Street. He greeted the bartender warmly.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/image13.jpg" width="200" height="639" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>"Ah," the bartender told him. "You come back. We look for you."</p> + +<p>"Look for me?" Malone said. "You mean you found my notebook?"</p> + +<p>"Notesbook?" the bartender said.</p> + +<p>"A little black plastic book," Malone said, making motions, "about so +big. And it——"</p> + +<p>"Not find," the bartender said. "You lose him?"</p> + +<p>"Sure I lost him," Malone said. "I mean, <i>it</i>. Would I be looking for it +if I hadn't lost it?"</p> + +<p>"Who knows?" the bartender said, and shrugged.</p> + +<p>"But you said you were looking for me," Malone said. "What about?"</p> + +<p>"Oh," the bartender said. "I only say that. Make customer feel good, +think we miss him. Customers like, so we do. What your name?"</p> + +<p>"Pizarro," Malone said disgustedly, and went away.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Wally," he said gaily.</p> + +<p>The bartender stared at him. "I'm not Wally," he said. "Wally's the +other barman. My name's Ray."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said, feeling deflat<!-- Page 86 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>ed. "Well, I've come about a +notebook."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir?" Ray said.</p> + +<p>"I lost the notebook here yesterday evening, between six and eight. If +you'll just take me to the Lost and Found department—"</p> + +<p>"One moment, sir," Ray said, and left him standing at the bar, all +alone.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>maître d'</i>. Perhaps you'd like to check with him."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said. The <i>maître d'</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Ray introduced them. "This gentleman wants to know about a notebook," he +told BeeBee.</p> + +<p>"Notebook?" BeeBee said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"It's got to be here," Malone insisted.</p> + +<p>"Well," BeeBee said, "it isn't. Maybe you left it some place else. Maybe +it's home now."</p> + +<p>"It isn't," Malone said. "And I've tried every place else."</p> + +<p>"New York's a big city, Mr. Malone," BeeBee said.</p> + +<p>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 +once. There was no way to tell for sure.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Was it possible that she might have the book?</p> + +<p>It was. But, if so, how had she got it?</p> + +<p>Malone enumerated possibilities on his fingers. First, he could have +dropped it or something like that, and she could have picked it up. But +dropping the notebook was a chance he'd eliminated already. It just +didn't sound likely.</p> + +<p>Besides, if he were going to work on the dropping hypothesis, he might +as well start from anywhere, on the assumption that he had dropped it +anywhere on the street.</p> + +<p>But if he <i>had</i> dropped it—second finger—and Dorothy had picked<!-- Page 87 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> it +up, wouldn't she have given it back?</p> + +<p>She would have, Malone decided, unless she actually intended to steal +it.</p> + +<p>And if she had intended to steal it, she could just as easily have +lifted it out of his pocket in the first place. She didn't need to wait +for it to fall out conveniently, all by itself.</p> + +<p>Third finger: why would she steal the notebook? What good was it to her? +And how did she even know he had it?</p> + +<p>None of those questions seemed to have any answers. Of course, if she'd +been connected with the Silent Spooks in some way, it would explain a +little—but somehow Malone couldn't see Dorothy as a Silent Spook.</p> + +<p>Malone stared at his ring finger and pinky. He pressed the ring finger +down, thinking that perhaps Dorothy had picked the notebook up and just +forgotten to give it back. That was possible, even if not likely.</p> + +<p>Only it required that notebook dropping out again.</p> + +<p>The pinky went down. She might be some sort of a kleptomaniac, Malone +thought.</p> + +<p>That didn't look very probable.</p> + +<p>No, Malone decided, realizing that he had no more fingers left, it was +impossible to shake off the feeling that the girl had deliberately taken +the book for some definite purpose of her own.</p> + +<p>He decided to give her a call.</p> + +<p>He took the drink from Ray and slid off the bar stool. Two steps away he +remembered one more little fact.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And she'd 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?</p> + +<p>At any rate, he could check listings under Dorothy Francis, he told +himself.</p> + +<p>He did so.</p> + +<p>There were lots and lots of people named Dorothy Francis, in Manhattan +and in all the other boroughs.</p> + +<p>Malone frowned thoughtfully. <i>I wish somebody would tell me how to get +in touch with her</i>, he thought. <i>She might know more about that book +than I do.</i></p> + +<p>The thought bothered him. But, to offset it, there was a nice new +feeling growing at the back of his mind.</p> + +<p>He felt as if he were going to know the answer soon enough.</p> + +<p>He felt as if he were going to be lucky again.</p> + +<p>In the meantime, he 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.</p> + +<p>"Pardon me," the <i>maître d'</i> said, "but are you English?"</p> + +<p>"Am I what?" Malone said, spill<!-- Page 88 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>ing a little of his drink on the bar.</p> + +<p>"Are you English?" BeeBee inquired.</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "No. Irish. Very Irish."</p> + +<p>"That's nice," BeeBee said.</p> + +<p>Malone stared at him. "I think it's fine," he said, "but I'd love to +know why you asked me."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Malone waited two breaths. "Will you please tell me," he said slowly, +"what it is you're talking about?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly," BeeBee said with aplomb. "There's a call for you in the +upstairs booth. A long-distance call, personal."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "Who'd know I was—" He stopped, thinking hard. There +was no way in the world for anyone to know he was in Topp's. Therefore, +nobody could be calling him. "They've got the wrong name," he said +decisively.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," BeeBee said. "I heard them quite distinctly. You <i>are</i> Sir +Kenneth Malone, aren't you?"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 +patiently.</p> + +<p>After a while an operator said: "Person to person call, Sir Kenneth, +from Yucca Flats. Will you take this call?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Looking at the face in the screen alone, 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 old red schoolhouses of the dim past. The face positively +radiated kindliness, and friendship, and peace.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She was, Malone knew, completely insane.</p> + +<p>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 firmest<!-- Page 89 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +conviction in the mind of Miss Rose Thompson.</p> + +<p>She was, she insisted, Elizabeth Tudor, rightful Queen of England.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She was probably the happiest psychotic on Earth.</p> + +<p>Malone stared at her. For a second he could think of nothing to say but: +"My God." He said it.</p> + +<p>"Not at all, Sir Kenneth," the little old lady said. "Your Queen."</p> + +<p>Malone took a deep breath. "Good afternoon, Your Majesty," he said.</p> + +<p>"Good afternoon, Sir Kenneth," she said, and waited. After a second +Malone figured out what she was waiting for.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>But why?</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you why, Sir Kenneth," the little old lady said. "I'm worried +about you."</p> + +<p>"Worried? About me, Your Majesty?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And he didn't like to think about it.</p> + +<p>"Don't be disturbed," the Queen<!-- Page 90 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> said. "Please. I only want to help you, +Sir Kenneth; you know that."</p> + +<p>"Well, of course I do," Malone said. "But—"</p> + +<p>"Heavens to Betsy," she said. "Sir Kenneth, what kind of a detective are +you?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>So she insisted on the surface pretense that Malone was going through, +treating her like a Queen.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"That's very nice of you, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "But I want to +ask you again: what kind of detective are you? Haven't you got any +common sense at all?"</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>"Well," the Queen said, "at the very least you ought to <i>act</i> 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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Outside of the obvious," the Queen said, "that you've been missing your +notebook—or, rather, Mike Fueyo's notebook."</p> + +<p>"Yes?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"You certainly have," the Queen said. "Don't you see what happened to +that notebook? You've been missing the only possible explanation."</p> + +<p>"All I can figure," Malone said, "is that Dorothy Francis picked my +pocket."</p> + +<p>"Exactly," the Queen said. "Now, if you'd only wear proper clothing, and +a proper pouch at your belt—"</p> + +<p>"I'd be stared at," Malone said. "In court clothing—"</p> + +<p>"No one in New York would stare at you," the Queen said. "They'd think +it was what they call an advertising stunt."</p> + +<p>"Anyhow," Malone said, "I wasn't wearing court clothing. So that made it +easy for her to steal the notebook."</p> + +<p>Her Majesty gave him a bright smile. "There!" she said.</p> + +<p>"There, what?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"I knew you could do it," the<!-- Page 91 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> Queen said. "All you had to do was apply +your intelligence and you'd come up with just the fact you needed."</p> + +<p>"What fact?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"That Miss Francis has your notebook," the Queen said. "You just told +me."</p> + +<p>"All right," Malone said, and stopped, and took a deep breath. After a +pause he said: "What is that supposed to mean? What on Earth would she +want with it? Just to look at all the pretty pictures?"</p> + +<p>"Don't be silly," the Queen said, with some asperity. "She doesn't even +want to look at the thing. She doesn't care what's in it."</p> + +<p>Malone closed his eyes. "Riddle time," he murmured. "Great." Then he +sighed. "O.K.," he said. "What <i>does</i> she want with it? She must have +some use for it. She isn't just a kleptomaniac or something—is she?"</p> + +<p>"Of course not," the Queen said.</p> + +<p>"Then she has a reason," Malone said. "Fine. But what is it? Is she an +auxiliary member of the Silent Spooks, or something like that? Don't +tell me she's Mike Fueyo's girl friend. I don't think I could take that. +It's too silly."</p> + +<p>"Naturally it's silly! Sir Kenneth, I—" She stopped, and her face lit +up suddenly with pleasure. "Now you're on the right track!" she said. +"You just keep right on with that line of thought."</p> + +<p>Malone blinked in awe. "You mean she's—"</p> + +<p>He didn't want to say it. But the evidence was all there. Dorothy's +appearance at the station. The remark Mrs. Fueyo had made when he went +to the apartment.</p> + +<p>It all fit.</p> + +<p>"That's right," the Queen said, a little sadly. "She's Dorothea +Francisca Fueyo—little Miguel Fueyo's older sister."<!-- Page 92 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> + +<p><!-- Page 93 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII.</h2> +<div class="figright" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/image14.jpg" width="200" height="636" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<div class="figdrop"> + +<img src="images/dropm.jpg" width="80" height="80" alt="M" title="M" /> +</div> +<p class="cap">alone put in a great deal of time, he imagined, just staring at the +face of the little old lady in the screen. At last he said: "Her name is +Fueyo!"</p> + +<p>"I've told you so," the Queen said with some asperity.</p> + +<p>"I know," Malone said. "But—"</p> + +<p>"You're excited," the Queen said. "You're stunned. Goodness, you don't +need to tell me that, Sir Kenneth. I know."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"That's exactly right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said.</p> + +<p>"Then she ... swiped the book to protect her little brother," Malone +said. "Oh, boy."</p> + +<p>"Exactly, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said uncomfortably. "Sure."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>is</i> her younger brother, after all."</p> + +<p>"He sure is," Malone said. "He's a great kid, little Mike."</p> + +<p>"You see," the Queen continued imperturbably, "Mike told her about +losing the notebook the other night—when he struck you."</p> + +<p>"When he struck me," Malone said. "Oh, yes. He struck me all right."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"No," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Now, understand me," the Queen said. "I do not think that his striking +you was a very nice act."<!-- Page 94 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/image15.jpg" width="200" height="639" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>"I don't either," Malone said. "It hurt like ... it hurt quite a lot."</p> + +<p>"Certainly," the Queen said. "But, then, he didn't hurt the car any, and +he didn't want to. He just wanted to ride around in it for a while."</p> + +<p>"He likes red Cadillacs," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," the Queen said. "He thinks they're wonderful."</p> + +<p>"Good for him," Malone said sourly.</p> + +<p>"Well, now," the Queen said. "You just go right on over to her house. Of +course, she doesn't live with an aunt."</p> + +<p>"No," Malone said. "She lives with Mike and his mother."</p> + +<p>"Why not?" the Queen said. "She's part of the family."</p> + +<p>Malone nodded silently.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"She's a swell girl," Malone said morosely. "And I'll ... hey. Wait a +minute."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sir Kenneth?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," the Queen said. "But I can read <i>you</i>, 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 +Ken<!-- Page 95 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>neth, you had a real <i>rapport</i> with each other. My goodness, yes."</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "we—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "But Mike—"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Well," the Queen said, "no. Toward morning you were getting so fuzzy I +just didn't bother."</p> + +<p>"I can understand that," Malone said. "I nearly didn't bother myself."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>Malone blushed quietly.</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"I know," Malone said. "Don't tell me about it. All right?"</p> + +<p>"Of course, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said, "if you wish it."</p> + +<p>"Basically, I'm a nice boy," Malone said. "Sure I am." He paused. "Do +you have any more pertinent information, Your Majesty?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"I'll bet," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"But I did manage," she said, and winked. "I won't have that sort of +trouble again."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Quite right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "And good-bye for now."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He reached into his pocket—half-convinced, for one second, that it was +an Elizabethan belt-pouch. Talks with Her Majesty always had that +effect; after a time, Malone came to believe in her strange, bright +world. But he shook off the lingering effects of her psychosis, fished +out some coins and thought for a minute.</p> + +<p>So Dorothy—Dorothea—had lifted the notebook. That was some help,<!-- Page 96 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +certainly. It let him know something more about the enemy he was facing. +But it wasn't really a lot of help.</p> + +<p>What did he do now?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But what good was that going to do him?</p> + +<p>He knew what 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>If possible.</p> + +<p>"Good afternoon, John Henry," he said sunnily, when the commissioner's +face was finally on the screen. "Can you get me some more information?"</p> + +<p>Fernack stared at him sourly. "Depends," he said.</p> + +<p>"On what?" Malone said, telling himself he wasn't going to get +irritated, and knowing perfectly well that he was lying.</p> + +<p>"On what kind of information you want," Fernack said.</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "there's a warehouse I want to know some more +about. Who the owner is, for one thing, and—"</p> + +<p>Fernack nodded. "I've got it," he said. He fished, apparently 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."</p> + +<p>"Lynch?" Malone said. "But he—"</p> + +<p>"Lynch works for me, Malone," Fernack said. "Remember that."</p> + +<p>"But he said he'd—"</p> + +<p>"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 <i>am</i> his boss, remember."</p> + +<p>"Great." Malone said. "Now, John Henry—"</p> + +<p>"Hold it, Malone," Fernack said. "I'd like a little information, too, +you know. I'd like to know just what is going on, if it isn't too much +trouble."</p> + +<p>"It's not that. John Henry," Malone said earnestly. "Really. It's just +that I—"</p> + +<p>"All this about vanishing boys," Fernack said. "Disappearing into thin +air. All this nonsense."</p> + +<p>"It isn't nonsense," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"All right," Fernack said indulgently. "Boys disappear every day like +that. Sure they do." He leaned toward the screen and his voice was<!-- Page 97 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> as +hard as his face. "Malone, are these kids mixed up with those impossible +robberies you had me looking up?"</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "I think so. But I doubt if you could prove it."</p> + +<p>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—"</p> + +<p>"I'm not suppressing any evidence," Malone said. "I don't think <i>you</i> +could prove a connection. I don't think <i>I</i> could prove a connection. I +don't think <i>anybody</i> could—not right now."</p> + +<p>Fernack leaned back, apparently mollified.</p> + +<p>"John Henry," Malone said, "I want to ask you to keep your hands off +this case. To let me handle it my way."</p> + +<p>Fernack nodded absently. "Sure, Malone," he said.</p> + +<p>"<i>What?</i>"</p> + +<p>"I said sure," Fernack said. "Isn't that what you wanted?"</p> + +<p>"Well, yes," Malone said, "but—"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>He stopped. Malone leaned against the back wall of the phone booth and +lit a cigarette.</p> + +<p>"Andy Burris called me less than half an hour ago," Fernack said.</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Never mind the jokes," Fernack said bitterly.</p> + +<p>"O.K.," 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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Don't do that," he said.</p> + +<p>"What?" Fernack said.</p> + +<p>Malone realized in one awful sec<!-- Page 98 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>ond 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?</p> + +<p>In the end he merely said: "Nothing," and let it go at that.</p> + +<p>"Well, anyhow," Fernack said, "do you want anything else?"</p> + +<p>"Not right now," Malone said. "I'll let you know, though. And—thanks, +John Henry. No matter why you're doing this, thanks."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>That, Malone reflected, was the second time a cop had suggested his +yelling if he got into trouble.</p> + +<p>Hadn't the police force ever heard of telephones?</p> + +<p>He said good-by and flipped off.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The evening rush had begun, and Malone found himself a stool by the +simple expedient of 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.</p> + +<p>How, he asked himself, do you go about catching a person who can vanish +away like so much smoke?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It sounded just a little too messy.</p> + +<p>Then, of course, there were handcuffs.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But how close to a teleport did the things he carried have to be?</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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<!-- Page 99 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> you +stayed behind and wondered how long it would take to bleed to death?</p> + +<p>Or what?</p> + +<p>All the questions were intriguing ones. Malone sighed, wishing he knew +the answer to even one of them.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Anyhow, he knew something about that last item.</p> + +<p>He even knew who had his notebook.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>No.</p> + +<p>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 ... he'd go after them and make them give it back.</p> + +<p>Sure he would.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>After all, she thought Mike Fueyo was basically a nice kid.</p> + +<p>So what did she know?</p> + +<p>He closed his eyes. There he was, in the Fueyo apartment, talking to +Dorothea.</p> + +<p>"Dorothea," he muttered. "You filched my notebook."</p> + +<p>That didn't sound very effective. And besides, it wasn't really his +notebook. He tried again.</p> + +<p>"Dorothea, you pinched your brother's notebook."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Dorothea," he muttered, "you borrowed your brother's notebook."</p> + +<p>That was too patronizing. Malone told himself that he sounded like a +character straight out of the 3-D screens, and settled himself gamely +for another try.</p> + +<p>"Dorothea, you <i>have</i> your brother's notebook."</p> + +<p>To which the obvious answer was: "Yes, I do, and so what?"</p> + +<p>Or, possibly: "How do you know?"</p> + +<p>And Malone thought about answering that one. "Queen Elizabeth told me," +was the literal truth, but somehow it didn't sound like it. And<!-- Page 100 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> he +couldn't find another answer to give the girl.</p> + +<p>"Dorothea," he said, and a voice from nowhere added:</p> + +<p>"Will you have another drink?"</p> + +<p>Malone exploded, "That's not the question. Drinks have nothing to do +with notebooks. I'm after notebooks. Can't you understand—" Belatedly, +he looked up.</p> + +<p>There was Ray, the barman.</p> + +<p>"Oh," he said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Ray," Malone said with feeling, "you are an eminently reasonable +fellow. I accept your solution. Nay, more. I endorse your solution. +Wholeheartedly."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>So, he asked himself, why embarrass everybody by trying to get it back?</p> + +<p>Of course, it <i>was</i> 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.</p> + +<p>He sighed and glanced at his watch. It was fifteen minutes of six.</p> + +<p>Now, he knew what his next move was going to be.</p> + +<p>He was going to go back to his hotel and change his clothes.</p> + +<p>That is, he amended, as soon as he finished the drink that Ray was +setting up in front of him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII.</h2> + + +<p>By the time Malone reached the Statler Hilton Hotel 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He let himself into his room, and was taking off his shoes with a +grate<!-- Page 101 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>ful 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.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image16.jpg" width="350" height="316" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>"You were expecting maybe Titus Moody?" Boyd called.</p> + +<p>"O.K.," Malone said. "Come on in."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Listen," Boyd said, "did you call the office after you left this +afternoon?"</p> + +<p>"No," Malone admitted. "Why? What happened?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I do, I guess," Malone said. "Who from?" Looking at Boyd, a<!-- Page 102 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>And—more surprising—why she'd called him at FBI headquarters, when she +must have known that he wasn't there.</p> + +<p>"Dr. O'Connor," Boyd said.</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said, somewhat relieved. "At Yucca Flats."</p> + +<p>Boyd nodded. "Right," he said. "You're to call Operator Nine."</p> + +<p>"Thanks." Malone went over to the phone, remembered his shoes and put +them down carefully on the floor. "Anything else of importance?" he +asked.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Good," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Malone sighed. "I didn't think he'd find one," he said.</p> + +<p>"You didn't?"</p> + +<p>"No," Malone said.</p> + +<p>Boyd stabbed at him with the scissors again. "Then why did you cause all +that trouble?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Because I thought we might find electro-psionic brains," Malone said +wearily. "Or one, anyhow."</p> + +<p>"But you just said—"</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"Give me Operator Nine," Malone said.</p> + +<p>There was a buzz, a click and a new voice which said: "Operator Ni-yun. +May we help you?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I understand you called me," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"It's good to see you, too," Malone lied.<!-- Page 103 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span></p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Unless my theories are away off," Malone said, "I've done a lot better +than that. I've found eight of them."</p> + +<p>"Eight!" Dr. O'Connor's smile grew perceptibly warmed. It now stood at +about thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. "That is really excellent, Mr. +Malone. You have done a fine job."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"When can you deliver them?" O'Connor said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"You see," Malone said, "they're kids. Juvenile delinquents, or +something like that. But they are teleports, that's for sure."</p> + +<p>"I see," Dr. O'Connor said.</p> + +<p>"So we've got to nab them," Malone said. "And for that I need all the +information I can get."</p> + +<p>Dr. O'Connor nodded slowly. "I'll be happy," he said, "to give you any +information I can provide."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Malone took a deep breath, and plunged. "How does this teleportation bit +work, anyhow?" he said.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>It said:</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table summary="formula" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="4" border="0"> +<tr> + <td style="border-bottom: 1pt black solid; text-align: center;">md</td> + <td style="text-align: center; vertical-align: middle;" rowspan="2">=</td> + <td rowspan="2" style="vertical-align: middle;">K</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td style="text-align: center">ft<sup>2</sup></td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> + + +<p>Malone looked at it for some seconds. At last he said: "It's very +pretty. What is it?"</p> + +<p>"This," Dr. O'Connor said, in the tone of voice that meant You Should +Have Known All Along, But You're Just Hopeless, "is the basic formula +for the phenomenon, where <i>m</i> is the mass in grams, <i>d</i> is the distance +in centimeters, <i>f</i> is the force in dynes and <i>t</i> is the time in +seconds. <i>K</i> is a<!-- Page 104 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> constant whose value is not yet known."</p> + +<p>Malone said: "Hm-m-m," and stared at the equation again. Somehow, the +explanation was not very helpful. The value of <i>K</i> was unknown. He +understood that much, all right but it didn't seem to do him any good.</p> + +<p>"As you can see," Dr. O'Connor went on, "the greater the force, and the +longer time it is applied, the greater distance any 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."</p> + +<p>"Ah," Malone said, feeling that something was expected of him, but not +being quite sure what.</p> + +<p>Dr. O'Connor frowned. "I must admit," he said, "that the uncertainty as +to the constant <i>k</i>, 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—"</p> + +<p>"Never mind that now," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said, feeling as if he'd been caught without his homework, +"of course. But if you don't mind—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mr. Malone?" Dr. O'Connor said smoothly.</p> + +<p>"What I want to know," Malone said, "is this: what are the limitations +of this ... uh ... phenomenon?"</p> + +<p>Dr. O'Connor brightened visibly. "The limitations are several," he said. +"In the first place, there is the force represented by <i>f</i> in the +equation. This seems to be entirely dependent on the ... ah ... strength +of the subject's personality. That is if we assume that the process is +at all parallel with the phenomena of psychokinesis and levitation. And +there are excellent theoretical reasons for so believing."</p> + +<p>"In other words," Malone said, "a man with a strong will would be able +to exert more force than a weaker-willed man?"</p> + +<p>"Correct," Dr. O'Connor said. "And another factor is the time, <i>t</i>. What +we are measuring here is the span of attention of the individual—the +ability of the subject's mind to concentrate on a given thing for a span +of time. Many people, for example, cannot keep their attention focused +on a single thought for more than a few milliseconds, it seems. They are +... ah ... 'scatter-brained,' as the saying is."</p> + +<p>His expression left no doubt that he included Malone in that group. +Malone tried not to look nervous.</p> + +<p>Then Dr. O'Connor scowled. "There is another factor which we feel should +be in the equation," he said, "but we have not yet found a precise way +to express it mathematically. You must realize that the<!-- Page 105 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> mathematical +treatment of psionics is, as yet, in a relatively primitive stage."</p> + +<p>"Oh," Malone said. "Of course. Sure. But this other factor—"</p> + +<p>"It is what might be called the ... ah ... <i>volume</i> of attention," Dr. +O'Connor said. "That is, the actual amount of space that can be +conceived of and held by the subject, during the time he is +concentrating."</p> + +<p>Malone blinked.</p> + +<p>"For most people," Dr. O'Connor said, "the awareness of the space +surrounding them is limited to a few inches of moving space, no more. To +put this in a purely physical matrix: one might say that the +'teleportation field' doesn't extend more than a few inches beyond the +skin of the subject. Thus, it would be difficult to teleport anything +really large unless one were able to increase the volume of attention, +or awareness. However, it is difficult to express this notion +mathematically."</p> + +<p>"I'll bet," Malone said.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Dr. O'Connor shot him a frozen glance. "One of our early attempts," he +said, "was simply to put this in as a volume factor, so that the +left-hand side of the equation, below the line, would read—" He +scribbled again on the paper and held it up:</p> + +<div class="center"> +<table summary="formula" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="4" border="0"> +<tr> + <td style="border-bottom: 1pt black solid; text-align: center;">md</td> + <td style="text-align: center; vertical-align: middle;" rowspan="2">=</td> + <td rowspan="2" style="vertical-align: middle;">K</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td style="text-align: center">d<sup>3</sup>ft<sup>2</sup></td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> + + +<p>"Unfortunately, as you can perhaps see," Dr. O'Connor said, "the +equation would not stand up under dimensional analysis."</p> + +<p>"Oh, sure," Malone said, adding sympathetically: "That's too bad. But +does that put a limit on how much a man could carry with him? I mean, he +couldn't take a whole building along, or anything like that, could he?"</p> + +<p>"I doubt it," Dr. O'Connor said gravely. "That would require a +tremendous volume of space for one to focus his entire attention on, as +a whole, for any useful length of time. It would require a type of mind +that I am not even sure exists."</p> + +<p>"In the case of a young, inexperienced boy," Malone said stubbornly, +"would you say that he could carry off anything heavy?"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"I think so," Malone said. "But look here: suppose you handcuffed him +to, say, a radiator or a jail cell bar."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Could he get away?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Of course," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"That's why I'm so very anxious<!-- Page 106 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> to get those subjects," Dr. O'Connor +said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I appreciate that, Mr. Malone," O'Connor said gravely.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"I see your problem," Dr. O'Connor said. "Believe me, Mr. Malone. I do +see your problem."</p> + +<p>"And is there a way out?" Malone said. "I mean a way I can hold on to +them for—"</p> + +<p>"At present," Dr. O'Connor said heavily, "I have no suggestions. I lack +data."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"There does appear to be something of a dilemma here," Dr. O'Connor +admitted sadly.</p> + +<p>"Dilemma is putting it mildly," Malone said.</p> + +<p>Dr. O'Connor opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again and said: "I +agree."</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "maybe one of us will think of something. If +anything does occur to you, let me know at once."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"What's the matter with you?" Malone said. "Sick?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not sick," Boyd said carefully. "At least I don't think I'm sick. +It's hard to tell."</p> + +<p>"What's wrong?"</p> + +<p>"Teleporting?" Boyd said. "Juvenile delinquents?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Boyd said: "Oh," chopped a small section out of the center of his beard +and added: "My hand's shaky."<!-- Page 107 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "that's the story."</p> + +<p>"It sure is quite a story," Boyd said. "And I don't want you to think I +don't believe it. Because I don't."</p> + +<p>"It's true," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"That doesn't affect me," Boyd said. "I'll go along with the gag. But +enough is enough. Vanishing teen-agers. Ridiculous."</p> + +<p>"Just so you go along with me," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll go along," Boyd said. "This is my vacation, too, isn't it? +What's the next move, Mastermind?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Malone," Boyd said.</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"You mean we're going down to the warehouse <i>tonight</i>?" Boyd said.</p> + +<p>Malone nodded.</p> + +<p>"I might have known," Boyd said. "I might have known."</p> + +<p>"Tom," Malone said. "What's wrong?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"What happened?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>Boyd stared at him. "You happened," he said. "You and the teen-agers and +the warehouse happened. Three days' work—ruined."</p> + +<p>Malone scratched his head, found out that his head still hurt and put +his hand down again. "What work?" he said.</p> + +<p>"For three days," Boyd said, "I've been taking this blond 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."</p> + +<p>"And tonight—" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"A sandwich," Boyd said with great dignity, "is not my idea of something +to eat."</p> + +<p>"Look, Tom—" Malone began.</p> + +<p>"All right, all right," Boyd said tiredly. "Duty is duty. I'll go call +her."</p> + +<p>"Fine," Malone said. "And meanwhile, I'll get us a little insurance."</p> + +<p>"Insurance?"</p> + +<p>"John Henry Fernack," Malone Malone said, "and his Safe and Loft Squad."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV.</h2> + + +<p>The warehouse was locked up tight, all right, Malone thought. In the dim +light that surrounded the neighborhood, it stood like a single<!-- Page 108 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/image17.jpg" width="200" height="642" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Boyd whispered softly: "Do you think they have a lookout?"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"They don't have to," Boyd said. "They do quite enough for me. Do you +realize that, right now, I could be—"</p> + +<p>"Break it up," Malone said. He took a small handset from his pocket and +pressed the stud. "Lynch?" he whispered.</p> + +<p>A tinny voice came from the earpiece. "Here, Malone."</p> + +<p>"Have you got them located yet?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>First, they had to know whether there was anybody in the building at +all.<!-- Page 109 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> + +<p>Second, they had to be able to locate anyone in the building with +precision.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Thanks," Malone said. "How about that fix?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>A long time passed, perhaps ten seconds.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"It's a shame these things won't pick up the actual words at a +distance," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Just a general feeling of noise is all we get," Lynch said. "But it +does some good."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said. "Now listen carefully: Boyd and I are going in. +Alone."</p> + +<p>Lynch's voice whispered: "Right."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Check," Lynch said.</p> + +<p>Malone pocketed the radiophone. "O.K., Tom," he whispered. "This is +H-hour—M-minute—and S-second."</p> + +<p>"I can spell," Boyd muttered. "Let's move in."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"O.K.?" he whispered.</p> + +<p>"Check," Boyd said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 fol<!-- Page 110 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>lowed a few feet behind him along the +carefully planned route.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>"Hey, Malone," Boyd whispered. "It's—"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Shut up!" Malone hissed in her ear. "I won't hurt you."</p> + +<p>The struggle stopped immediately. Malone gently eased his hand off the +girl's mouth. She turned and looked at him.</p> + +<p>"Kenneth Malone," she said, "you look like a man from Mars."</p> + +<p>"Dorothea!" Malone gasped. "What are you doing here? Looking for your +brother?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind that," she said. "You play too rough. I'm going home to +mother."</p> + +<p>"Answer me!" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"All right," Dorothea said. "You must know anyhow, since you're here. +Yes, I'm looking for that fat-headed brother of mine. But now I suppose +it's too late. He'll ... he'll go to prison."</p> + +<p>Her voice broke. Malone found his shoulder suddenly occupied by a crying +face.</p> + +<p>"No," he said quickly. "No. Please. He won't."</p> + +<p>"Really?"</p> + +<p>Boyd whispered: "Malone, what is this? It's no place for a date. And +I—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"But you—"</p> + +<p>"Please," Malone said. "Believe me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Ken," Dorothea said, raising her head. "Do you ... do you mean it?"</p> + +<p>"Sure I mean it," Malone said. "What have I been saying? The Government +needs these kids."</p> + +<p>"The Government?"</p> + +<p>"It's nothing to worry about," Malone said. "Just go on home now, all +right? I'll call you tomorrow. Late tonight, if I can. All right?"</p> + +<p>"No," Dorothea said. "It's not all right. Not at all."</p> + +<p>"But—"</p> + +<p>Boyd hissed: "Malone!"</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Now, look," Malone began.<!-- Page 111 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> + +<p>Dorothea grinned in the darkness. "If you don't take me along," she said +quietly, "I'll scream and warn them."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Of course there wouldn't, he thought. He was going to see to that.</p> + +<p>"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. +But be quiet!"</p> + +<p>Boyd whispered: "Malone, what's going on?"</p> + +<p>"She's coming with us," Malone said, pointing to Dorothea.</p> + +<p>Boyd shrugged. "Malone," he said, "who do you think you are? The Pied +Piper of Hamelin?"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>They moved across the roof quickly under the cold stars, 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.</p> + +<p>But there was a single, heavy, fireproof emergency exit. It would have +taken power machinery or explosives to open that door from the outside +without a key, although from the inside it would open easily.</p> + +<p>Fortunately, Malone had a key.</p> + +<p>He took it out and stepped aside. "Give that lock the works," he +whispered to Boyd.</p> + +<p>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 cracks around +the door.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>From the floor above, they could hear the murmur of youthful voices.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>At the bottom of the stairs, they paused. Voices came down the stairwell +clearly, even words being defined in the silence.</p> + +<p>"... And quit harping on whose fault it was." Malone recognized Mike +Fueyo's voice. "That FBI guy<!-- Page 112 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> was on to 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?"</p> + +<p>"Yeah," another voice said. "But you didn't have to go and vanish right +under that Fed's nose. You been beating 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. Smart. Sure, you get a +big bang out of it, but is it smart? I ask you—"</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>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 it.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I had to slug him," Mike said. "Listen, all Ramon's stuff was in that +Cadillac. What'd have happened if he'd found all that stuff?"</p> + +<p>"So what happened anyway?" another voice—Ramon?—said. "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 difference?"</p> + +<p>"Shut up!" Mike roared.</p> + +<p>"You ain't telling me to shut up!" (That was the third voice. Malone +thought; possibly Ramon Otravez.)</p> + +<p>"Me either!" Silvo yelled. "You think you're a great big-shot, you think +you're king of the world!"</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Yeah!" said voice number five. "You think you could teach that flashy +sister of yours the Vanish?"</p> + +<p>"You shut up about my sister, Phil!" Mike screamed.</p> + +<p>"So what's so great about her?"</p> + +<p>"She got that book back from the Fed," Mike said. "That's what. It's +enough!"</p> + +<p>A voice said, "Any dame with a little—"</p> + +<p>"Shut your face before I shut it for you!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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.<!-- Page 113 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He leaned over and whispered to Dorothea and Boyd: "Let's sneak up there +while the argument's going on."</p> + +<p>"But—" Boyd began.</p> + +<p>"Less chance of their noticing us," Malone explained, and started +forward.</p> + +<p>They tiptoed up the stairs and got behind a pile of crates in the +shadows, while invectives 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.</p> + +<p>The kids didn't notice anything except each other. Malone took a couple +of deep breaths and began to look around.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>By now, the boys were practically standing toe to toe, ripping +air-bluing epithets out at each other. Not a single hand was lifted.</p> + +<p>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 a while."</p> + +<p>"All right," she whispered back.</p> + +<p>"They can vanish any time they want to," Malone said, "so there's no +reason for them not to listen to—"</p> + +<p>He stopped suddenly, listening. Over the shouting, screaming and cursing +of the kids, he heard motion on the floor below.</p> + +<p>Cops?</p> + +<p>It couldn't be, he told himself. But when he took out his radiophone, +his hands were shaking a little.</p> + +<p>Lynch's voice was already coming over it when Malone thumbed it on.</p> + +<p>"... So hang on, Malone! I repeat: we heard the ruckus, and we're coming +in! We're on our way! Hang on, Malone!"</p> + +<p>The voice stopped. There was a click.</p> + +<p>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—"</p> + +<p>It was no use. The radiophone was dead.<!-- Page 114 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> + +<p>Lynch, apparently thinking Malone's set had been smashed in the fight, +or else that Malone was unconscious, had shut his own receiver off.</p> + +<p>There was absolutely nothing that Malone could do.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 +campatriots crouched lower behind the boxes.</p> + +<p>Mike Fueyo was the first to speak. "Don't vanish yet!" he snapped. +"Let's see who it is."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"They can't fool with us," another boy said. "Sure. The Grasshopper +Play."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Where's Malone?" Lynch shouted as he came through the doorway.</p> + +<p>"Where's your what?" Mike yelled back, and the fight was on.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Naturally, the kids winked out one by one—and reformed 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 vanish at the last instant. The +cop's billy descended on the head of another cop, standing just behind +where Mike had been.</p> + +<p>The second cop, hit and blinded by the blow on his head, swung back and +hit the first cop. Meanwhile, Mike was somewhere else.</p> + +<p>Malone stayed crouched behind the boxes. Dorothea stood up and shouted: +"Mike! Mike! We just want to talk to you!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Malone suddenly sprang to his<!-- Page 115 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/image18.jpg" width="350" height="363" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Who're you?" the officer gasped.</p> + +<p>"Malone," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"You on our side?"</p> + +<p>"How about you?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"I'm a lieutenant here," the officer said. "In charge of warehouse +precinct. I—"</p> + +<p>Malone and the lieutenant stepped nimbly aside as another cop careened +by them, waving his billy helplessly.<!-- Page 116 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>"We seem," Malone said, "to be in an area of some activity. Let's move."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 would appear just in front of Boyd, who rushed +at him, arms outstretched. As Boyd had 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.</p> + +<p>Boyd seemed to be getting winded.</p> + +<p>The lieutenant suddenly dashed back into the fray. Malone looked around, +saw Mike Fueyo flickering in and out at the edges, and headed for him.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>A cop clutched him around the middle, out of nowhere, said: "Sorry, +buddy, who are you?" and dove back into the mass of bodies. Malone +caught his breath and forged onward.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He sprang on Mike and attached<!-- Page 117 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> the handcuffs to his wrist, and to +Mike's wrist, within seconds.</p> + +<p>"Ha!" he said involuntarily. "Now come with me!"</p> + +<p>He gave his end of the handcuffs a tremendous yank.</p> + +<p>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: "Yi!" as he caught the blow on the +cheekbone, bounced off the cop and kept going.</p> + +<p>He careened past a blur of figures, trying to avoid hard surfaces and +other human beings. But there was—</p> + +<p>Oh, no, Malone thought.</p> + +<p>Lynch.</p> + +<p>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! Stop me! Somebody stop me!"</p> + +<p>He went completely unheard.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>That was when Malone hit him.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He remembered the blow on the chin.</p> + +<p>And then, he remembered falling, and falling, and falling. Somewhere +there was a voice: "Where are they? They've disappeared for good."</p> + +<p>And then, for long seconds, nothing.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>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 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.</p> + +<p>Lynch was standing next to him. "Malone," he said, "I'm sorry. I hit +you, didn't I?"</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh," Malone said. "You seemed to be hitting everybody."</p> + +<p>"I was <i>trying</i> for the kids," Lynch said.</p> + +<p>"So was I," Malone said. "I got the cuffs on one and yanked him +along—but he disappeared and left me with the cuffs."</p> + +<p>"Great," Lynch said. "Hell of a raid."</p> + +<p>"Very jolly," Malone agreed. "Fun and games were had by all."</p> + +<p>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.<!-- Page 118 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> 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 <i>me</i> for this fiasco."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Some days," Lynch said, "it just doesn't pay to get up."</p> + +<p>"Sure," the local man said, "but what do I do now?"</p> + +<p>"Make your reports."</p> + +<p>"But—"</p> + +<p>"To the Commissioner," Lynch said, "and to nobody else. If this gets +into the papers, heads will roll."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Just see that this doesn't get out," Lynch said.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"And probably replaced with the FBI," Lynch said morosely. He looked at +Malone. "Nothing personal, you understand," he said.</p> + +<p>"Of course," Malone said. "We can't do any more here, can we?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Fine," Malone said. "I've got work to do." He looked round, found +Dorothea and signaled to her. "Come on, Dorothea. Where's Boyd?"</p> + +<p>"Here I am," Boyd said, walking slowly across the big room to Malone. He +had one hand held to his chin.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with you?" Malone asked.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV.</h2> + + +<p>It is definitely not usual for the Director of the FBI to come stalking +into a local office of that same FBI without so much as an advance +warning or a by-your-leave. Such things are simply not done.<!-- Page 119 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> + +<p>Andrew J. Burris, however, was doing them.</p> + +<p>Three days after the Great Warehouse Fiasco, a startled A-in-C looked up +to see the familiar Burris figure stalk by his office, growling under +its breath. The A-in-C leaped to the interoffice phone, wondered whom he +ought to call first, and subsided, staring dully at the telephone screen +and thinking about retiring.</p> + +<p>The next appearance of the head of the FBI was in the office assigned to +Malone and Boyd. Burris came through the doorway without warning, his +countenance that of a harried and unhappy man.</p> + +<p>Malone looked up, blinked, and then readjusted his features to what he +imagined was a nice, bright smile. "Oh," he said. "Hello, chief. I've +been sort of expecting you."</p> + +<p>"I'll bet you have," Burris said. He set his brief case on Malone's desk +and pulled a sheaf of papers from it. "Do you see these?" he said, +waving them. "Inquiries. Complaints. Demands. From everybody. I've been +getting them for three days."</p> + +<p>"Sure are a lot of them," Malone said at random.</p> + +<p>"From Police Commissioner Fernack," Burris said. "From the mayor. From +the governor, in Albany. From everybody. And they all want an +explanation. They demand one."</p> + +<p>He sat down suddenly on Malone's desk, his anger gone.</p> + +<p>"Well—" Malone began.</p> + +<p>"Malone," Burris said plaintively, "I can stall them off for a while. I +can tell them all kinds of fancy stories. I don't mind. They don't +really need any explanation. But—" He paused, and then added: "I do!"</p> + +<p>Malone closed his eyes, decided things looked even worse that way, and +opened them again. "Just what sort of an explanation did you have in +mind, chief?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Any kind," Burris said instantly, "so long as it explains. I ... no."</p> + +<p>"No?"</p> + +<p>"No," Burris said. "I want the truth! Even if it doesn't explain +anything! Preferably, I want both—the truth and some explanations. If +possible. For three days, now, this area has been haunted by the Silent +Spooks. They've been stealing everything they could carry off! They've +got the whole city in an uproar!"</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said. "Not exactly. The papers—"</p> + +<p>"I know," Burris said. "You've kept it out of the news. That's fine, and +I appreciate it, Malone. I really do. But I can't sit around and +appreciate it much longer. You've got to get those boys!" He bounced off +the desk and stood up again. "The longer they keep this up," he said, +"the harder it's going to be to square everything with the courts. Those +kids may end up getting killed! And how would that be?"</p> + +<p>"Terrible," Malone said honestly.</p> + +<p>"Something," Burris summed up, "has to be done."</p> + +<p>Malone thought for a second. "Chief," he said at last, "if you can think +of any way to nab them, I'll certainly be grateful."<!-- Page 120 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh," Burris said. "Oh. No. No, Malone. This is your baby." He leaned +over and clapped Malone on the shoulder. "I have faith in you," he said. +"You cleared up that nutty telepath case and you can clear this one up, +too. But you've got to do it soon!"</p> + +<p>"I'm working on it," Malone said helplessly. "We might get a lead any +time now."</p> + +<p>"Good," Burris said. "Meanwhile, let's sit down and see if we can't +figure out a way to pacify the local bigwigs."</p> + +<p>Malone sighed wearily.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>An hour later, he was even more tired. Letting himself into his room at +the hotel, he felt completely exhausted. He had spent most of the hour +tactfully trying to get away from Burris. It had not been the world's +easiest job.</p> + +<p>Dorothea Fueyo was sitting on the couch, waiting for him.</p> + +<p>Immediately, he felt much better.</p> + +<p>"You're late," Dorothea said accusingly. "I had to come up with the +duplicate key you gave me. And what are the bellboys going to think?"</p> + +<p>"They're going to think you had a duplicate key," Malone said. "Anyhow, +I'm sorry. I got delayed at the office. Burris came to town—delivering +seventeen ultimatums, forty-nine conflicting sets of orders and a +rousing lecture."</p> + +<p>"I could have come up to your office, then," Dorothea said, "instead of +compromising my reputation by sneaking up to your hotel room."</p> + +<p>"And what about <i>my</i> reputation?" Malone said. "Besides, the office is +no place for what I have in mind."</p> + +<p>"Why, Mr. Malone!"</p> + +<p>Malone ignored the comment. "Did you bring the notebook?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Certainly." Dorothea handed a black, plastic-bound notebook over to +Malone. "But what's all this with a notebook? Going to keep score?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly," Malone said. He took the notebook and leafed through it +idly. It was not Mike Fueyo's book; the boy himself had that now, and +there was little chance of getting it back again. This one belonged to +Dorothea—but, Malone thought, it could serve the same purpose.</p> + +<p>"What I have in mind," he said, "is something Mike said the other night, +just before the cops barged in. He said something about having tried to +teach you the Vanish. And that's why I asked you to come here. Did he +teach you?"</p> + +<p>"Well, he tried," Dorothea said. "But I couldn't do anything with it. I +haven't got the Talent, Mike says." She paused. "Is that why you figured +I had a notebook like his?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said. "It's the only thing that makes sense. Mike's +notebook was full of symbols—and that was all they could be. Symbols. +If you see what I mean."</p> + +<p>"Not exactly," Dorothea said.</p> + +<p>"Symbolism—anyhow, that's what Dr. O'Connor says—is one of the<!-- Page 121 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +primary factors in psionics."</p> + +<p>"Dr.... oh, yes," Dorothea said. "Westinghouse. I've heard about him."</p> + +<p>"Good," Malone said. "Anyhow, I decided the pictures in Mike's notebook +were just that—symbols. Things he wanted. And the little squiggles +after the names were symbols, too. You know," Malone said, "the boy's +pretty smart. Nobody else that I know of has ever figured out a way to +teach psionics—at least, not on that level. But Mike has."</p> + +<p>"He's a good boy," Dorothea said. "Basically."</p> + +<p>"Fine," Malone said. "Anyhow, if that were true, then the notebook was +some sort of guide. And if he tried to teach you the technique, then you +had to have a notebook, too. Clear?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly," Dorothea said, "so what do you want me to do?"</p> + +<p>"Teach me," Malone said.</p> + +<p>There was a silence.</p> + +<p>"That's silly," Dorothea said. "How can I teach you something I can't do +myself? Besides, how do you know you have the Talent?"</p> + +<p>"As far as the second question goes, I don't know. But I can try, can't +I? And as far as the first question goes, that might not be so simple. +But I think it can be done—if you remember what Mike tried to teach +you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I can remember all of that," she said, "but it's just that it +didn't do me any good. I couldn't use it."</p> + +<p>"A man who's paralyzed from the waist," Malone said hopefully, "can't +play football. But if he knows how the game's played, he can teach +others—anyhow, he can teach the fundamentals. Want to try?"</p> + +<p>Dorothea smiled. "All right, Ken," she said. "It's a great idea, at +that: the blind teaching the possibly-blind to read. Give me the +notebook, and I'll explain the first principles. Later, you'll have to +get a notebook of your own, because these symbols are very +personalized."</p> + +<p>Malone grinned and pulled a black book from his pocket. "I thought they +might be," he said. "I've already got one. Let's go."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/image19.jpg" width="200" height="627" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>Sweating, Malone stared grimly at the picture he had drawn on a page of +his notebook. He'd been trying the stunt for four days, and so far all +he had achieved was a nice profusion of perspiration. He was beginning +to feel like an ad for a Turkish bath.</p> + +<p>"No, Ken," Dorothea said patiently. "No. You can't do it that way. +You've got to <i>visualize</i> it. That's how Mike could find red Cadillacs +so easily. All he had to do was—"</p> + +<p>"I know," Malone said, impatiently. "That's what the pictures are for. +But I'm no artist. This doesn't even look much <i>like</i> my office."</p> + +<p>"It doesn't have to, Ken," Dorothea said. "All it has to do is give you +enough details to enable you to visualize your destination. The better +your memory is, the less detail you need. But you've got to grasp the +whole area in your mind."</p> + +<p>Malone lifted his eyes from the<!-- Page 122 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> book and stared into the darkness +outside the window without seeing it. Midnight had come and gone a long +time ago, and he was still working.</p> + +<p>"If I don't crack this case pretty soon," he muttered, "Burris is going +to find a special new assignment for me—like investigating the social +life of a deserted space station."</p> + +<p>"Now, that's just what's bothering you," Dorothea said. "Get your mind +off Burris. You can't teleport when your mind is occupied with other +things."</p> + +<p>"Then how did the kids hop around so much during the fight at the +warehouse?"</p> + +<p>"Plenty of practice," Dorothea said. "They've been doing it longer than +you have. It's like playing the piano. The beginner has to concentrate, +but the expert can play a piece he's familiar with and hold a +conversation at the same time. Now stop worrying—and start +concentrating."</p> + +<p>Malone looked at the book again. With an effort, he forced everything +out of his mind except the picture. Burris' face came back once or +twice, but he managed to get rid of it. He looked at the lopsided +drawings that represented various items in the room, and made himself +concentrate solely on visualizing the objects themselves and their +surroundings.</p> + +<p>Then, as the picture became clearer and achieved more reality, he began +going over the other mental exercises that Dorothea had taught him.</p> + +<p>He heard a clock tick.<!-- Page 123 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was gone.</p> + +<p>There was nothing but the picture, and the room it stood for ... nothing +... nothing....</p> + +<p>The lights went out.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Malone blinked and jerked his head up from the notebook. "What hap—" he +began.</p> + +<p>And then he stopped.</p> + +<p>He was no longer in his hotel room at the Statler-Hilton. He was +standing in the middle of his office at FBI headquarters, Washington, +D.C.</p> + +<p>It had worked!</p> + +<p>Malone walked over to the wall switch and turned on the lights in the +darkened room. He looked around. He was definitely in his office.</p> + +<p>He was a teleport.</p> + +<p>He blinked and wondered briefly if he were dreaming. He pinched himself, +said: "Ow," and decided that the pain offered no certain proof.</p> + +<p>But he didn't feel like part of a dream.</p> + +<p>He felt real. So did the office.</p> + +<p>Just as he had promised Dorothea, he went to the phone and dialed the +Statler-Hilton.</p> + +<p>It took a minute for the long-distance circuits to connect him with +Manhattan. Then the pretty operator at the hotel was smiling at him from +the screen. "Statler-Hilton Hotel," she said. "May we help you?"</p> + +<p>"Ring Room 814," Malone said. "I'm probably asleep in it."</p> + +<p>"What?" the operator said.</p> + +<p>"Never mind," Malone said. "Just ring it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir." The screen went blank.</p> + +<p>The screen stayed blank for a long time.</p> + +<p>And then the operator was back. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "That room +doesn't answer."</p> + +<p>"You're sure?" Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Certainly."</p> + +<p>"Try it again," Malone said.</p> + +<p>The operator did so. She returned with the same answer.</p> + +<p>Malone frowned and hung up. It didn't sound right. Even a dream was +supposed to make more sense than this was making. There was something +wrong.</p> + +<p>He had to get back to the hotel room.</p> + +<p>There was only one trouble. He didn't have a picture of the room in his +notebook.</p> + +<p>Dorothea had said that it was almost impossible to go to a place one +hadn't been to before. Mike Fueyo had been able to pick up any red +Cadillac in the city because he'd concentrated solely on the symbol of a +red Cadillac. But he never knew which Cadillac he'd end up at.</p> + +<p>Malone closed his eyes and tried to remember the hotel room. He +half-wished he had a photograph of it, but Dorothea had told him that +photos wouldn't work. They were too complete; they required no effort of +the mind. Only a symbol would do.</p> + +<p>Of course, the job could be done without a symbol by somebody who'd had +plenty of practice. But Malone<!-- Page 124 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> had made exactly one jump. Could he do +it the second time with nothing to work with except his own recollection +and visualization of the room?</p> + +<p>He didn't know, but he was certainly going to try. He had to.</p> + +<p>Something was wrong; something had happened to Dorothea.</p> + +<p>He tried to imagine what it could be, and then realized that such +thoughts were only delaying him by distracting his mind from its main +job.</p> + +<p>He kept his eyes tightly closed and tried to form the picture in his +mind. The couch—there. The dresser—over there. The easy-chair, the +rug, the walls, the table—wait a minute: he was losing the couch. +There. Now. The table, the desk—all there. In color. And in detail.</p> + +<p>Slowly they came, and he held them in place, visualizing his hotel room +just as he had visualized his office minutes before. He concentrated. +Harder. Harder. <i>Harder.</i> HAR—</p> + +<p>"Sir Kenneth!" a voice said. "Will you please stop standing there with +your eyes closed and help me with this poor child? She's fainted."</p> + +<p>Malone's eyes popped open, but for a minute he wasn't entirely sure he'd +opened them. His visualization blended almost perfectly with the reality +of the room around him. There was only one jarring difference.</p> + +<p>He had certainly never visualized the richly-dressed figure of Queen +Elizabeth I standing in the center of the room.</p> + +<p>"Now, now," she said. "Thinking like that can only lead to confusion. +Come over here and help me."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Dorothea was on the couch. Between them, they managed to wake her +gently, and she sat up and stared around at them and the room. "I'm +sorry," she said dazedly. "It's just that I didn't expect you to turn +into a little old lady in Elizabethan costume. Just a bit +disconcerting." She blinked. "By the way, who is she?"</p> + +<p>"This," Malone said with a sense of some foreboding, "is Queen Elizabeth +I."</p> + +<p>"She's dead," Dorothea said decisively.</p> + +<p>"Not really, my dear," the Queen said. "Actually, you see ... well, it's +too long to explain now." She gave everybody a bland smile.</p> + +<p>"She's nuts, then," Dorothea said. "She is nuts, isn't she? Because if +she isn't, I am."</p> + +<p>"You're not crazy," Malone told her diplomatically. "But she—" He +stopped. How could he explain everything, in front of the Queen herself?</p> + +<p>"Don't worry about it," Her Majesty said. "Dorothea is a little +confused—but it hardly matters. Perhaps there are other things to do."</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said uncertainly. "By the way, how did you get here?"</p> + +<p>"Now, why do you ask that?" the Queen said. "You've already figured it +all out, Sir Kenneth."</p> + +<p>"I don't get it," Dorothea put in.<!-- Page 125 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Simple," Malone said. "She's telepathic. She's been listening in on our +sessions for the past four days—she must have been. So now she can +teleport, too."</p> + +<p>Dorothea looked at the little old lady in awe. "But how could you come +to a place you'd never been to before?"</p> + +<p>"I got all the information I needed, my dear, out of Sir Kenneth's +mind."</p> + +<p>"Sir Kenneth?" Dorothea said. "Sir ... Ken? His mind?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind it," Malone said. "What do I do now?"</p> + +<p>Her Majesty said: "Don't worry about anything. And use your own psionic +talents. You can catch those dear boys now, you know. You're better than +they are."</p> + +<p>"Me?" Malone said. "But they've had—"</p> + +<p>"Practice, of course," the Queen said. "But you have a talent they +don't."</p> + +<p>"I do?"</p> + +<p>"Well," the Queen said, "you've been calling it 'luck' for years. You're +much too modest, Sir Kenneth. If you'll think back, you'll remember that +every time you had a bit of your so-called luck, it was because you were +at the right place at the right time. There's no other way to explain +the fact that you wandered at random through Greenwich Village—of all +places!—and just happened to end up at the very same red Cadillac that +young Mike was going to come to—<i>before he got there</i>!"</p> + +<p>Malone felt the back of his head. "That," he said, "was luck?"</p> + +<p>"You got the notebook, didn't you?" the Queen said. "But of course it +wasn't luck. It's prescience—the ability to predict the future. You've +had it all along, but you haven't been consciously using it. The only +way you'll ever catch those boys is to know where they're going to be +before they get there."</p> + +<p>Malone sat down heavily on the couch next to Dorothea. His mind was +whirling with a fine, dizzy rapidity. In a few seconds he was going to +try and grab the brass ring.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll help you," the Queen added. "Don't worry about that. I think I +can pick up Mike's mind, now that I'm closer to him. And if we can +figure out what their plans are, and where they're going to be, we can +nab them all, Sir Kenneth. Won't that be nice?"</p> + +<p>"Ducky," Malone said. "Simply ducky. All I have to do is predict the +future while you read minds and we both teleport. And Dorothea can sit +around sticking pins in dolls, I guess. Or—"</p> + +<p>"Well, now," the Queen said, "I don't know. Perhaps she just doesn't +have that talent. Besides, why would we want to do anything like that? +It seems to me—"</p> + +<p>"Never mind," Malone said hopelessly. "If we're going to do anything, +let's get started."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Twelve hours later, Kenneth J. Malone was sitting quietly in a small +room at the rear of a sporting-goods<!-- Page 126 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> store on upper Madison Avenue, +trying to remain calm and hoping that the finest, most beautiful and +complete hunch—only now it wasn't a "hunch" any more, he reminded +himself; now it was prescience—was going to pay off. With him were Boyd +and two agents from the Sixty-ninth 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.</p> + +<p>They waited in silence, not daring to talk. There wasn't a sound in the +room. Malone felt like screaming, but he managed to control himself with +an effort.</p> + +<p>There was no reason why the plan shouldn't work, Malone told himself. +According to all the theory he knew, it was fool proof. Her Majesty had +no doubts about it, either. She assured him that he had prescience, and +several other powers as well. Unfortunately, Malone wasn't quite as sure +as she was.</p> + +<p>Even if the theory seemed to back her up, he thought, there was still a +chance that she was wrong, and the theory was wrong, and everything was +wrong. His hunch—prescience, if you wanted to call it that, he +amended—said definitely that this would be the place the Spooks would +hit tonight. Her Majesty was quite sure of it. And Malone couldn't think +of a single really good reason why either of them 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—</p> + +<p>It doesn't do much good to know where a teleporter <i>is</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>The Queen and Malone had provided that lead-pipe cinch. They were sure +that Mike planned to raid the sporting-goods store with the rest of the +Spooks that night.</p> + +<p>But, of course, they might all just be riding for some kind of horrible, +unforeseen fall—</p> + +<p>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. Malone was grateful for that. 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 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.</p> + +<p>And it was going to happen any minute, he told himself nervously. In +just a few minutes, everything would be over.</p> + +<p>Malone held his breath.</p> + +<p>Then he saw the figure walk slow<!-- Page 127 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>ly by the glass front of the shop, +looking in with over-elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint, +making sure there was no one left in it.</p> + +<p>Mike Fueyo.</p> + +<p>Malone tried to breathe, and couldn't.</p> + +<p>Seconds ticked by.</p> + +<p>And then—almost magically—they appeared. Eight of them, almost +simultaneously, in the center of the room.</p> + +<p>Mike Fueyo spoke in a low, controlled voice. "O.K., now," he said. +"Let's move fast. We haven't got much time. We—"</p> + +<p>And that was all he said.</p> + +<p>Malone concentrated on just one thing: holding an image of the room, +with the eight Spooks in it.</p> + +<p>There was a long second of silence.</p> + +<p>Malone felt a bead of sweat trickle down his cheek. He held the image.</p> + +<p>"What's wrong?" the tallest boy said suddenly—Ramon Otravez, Malone +remembered. "What's wrong, Mike?"</p> + +<p>Mike let out his breath in a ragged sigh. "I ... don't know," he said +slowly. "I can't move—"</p> + +<p>"It's a trap!" another boy shouted.</p> + +<p>Malone bore down. He could feel power draining out of him, but he held +on, willing the boys to remain in the room, blanking out their own +teleportative abilities with his stronger ones.</p> + +<p>The eight boys stood, frozen, in the center of the lit room.</p> + +<p>Malone let another second go by, and then he stepped out from behind the +curtains.</p> + +<p>"Hello, boys," he said casually.</p> + +<p>Mike stared at him. "It's Malone," he said.</p> + +<p>"That's right," Malone said. "Hello, Mike. I've been waiting for you."</p> + +<p>Mike gulped. "You found us," he said. "Somebody talked."</p> + +<p>Malone shook his head. "Nobody talked," he said. Concentration was +getting easier; the longer the situation remained the same, the less +power it took to keep it that way. He wished he had brought a cigar, and +compromised by fishing out a cigarette and lighting it.</p> + +<p>Mike said: "But—" and was silent.</p> + +<p>"I knew where you were going to be," Malone said. "You see, I've got a +few—powers of my own, Mike."</p> + +<p>Ramon Otravez said: "He's kidding. It's some kind of a trick."</p> + +<p>"Shut up," Mike told him.</p> + +<p>"It's no trick," Malone said. "I've been waiting for you for quite a +while, boys." He paused. "And you can't move, can you? I've taken care +of that."</p> + +<p>"Some kind of gas," Mike said instantly.</p> + +<p>"Gas?" Malone said. "Nope." He shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Electricity," Mike said. It sounded desperate. "Some gimmick you've got +set up back there behind the curtain, to—"</p> + +<p>"No gimmick," Malone said. "It's just that I know a couple of tricks,<!-- Page 128 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +too—and I'm a little better at them than you are." The next minute was +going to be difficult, he knew, but it had to be done. He "froze" the +picture of the room in his mind and, at the same time, pictured himself +at the other side of the room. He made the effort, and at first nothing +happened. Then—</p> + +<p>"You can do the Vanish," Mike said, very slowly and softly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I can do more than that," Malone said cheerfully from the other +side of the room. "I can do the Vanish, and I can also keep you from +doing it. Right?"</p> + +<p>It hung in the balance for a second, but Malone was barely worried about +the final outcome. He'd beaten the boys, not with scientific gadgetry or +trickery, but at their own game. He'd done it simply, easily and +completely. And for boys who were sure they were something very special, +boys who'd never been beaten on their own grounds before, the shock was +considerable.</p> + +<p>Malone knew, even before Mike said: "I guess so," in a defeated voice, +that he had won.</p> + +<p>"Now," he said briskly, "you boys are going to come down to the FBI +offices with me. And you're not going to try any tricks—because you +can't get away with a thing, and you know you can't. I've just proven +that to you."</p> + +<p>"I guess you have," Mike said.</p> + +<p>Malone beckoned the three other men out of the back room and then, under +his watchful guidance, the procession started for the street.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI</h2> + + +<p>"The only thing we had to worry about," Malone said, pouring some more +champagne into the hollow-stemmed glasses, "was whether the theory would +actually prove out in practice. From all we knew, it seemed logical that +I could concentrate on the room with the boys in it, and by that +concentration prevent them from teleporting out—but there's a lot we +don't know, too. And it didn't damage the kids any."</p> + +<p>Dorothea relaxed in her chair and looked around at the hotel room walls +with contentment. "Mike seemed pretty normal—except that he had that +awful <i>trapped</i> feeling."</p> + +<p>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 good old 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 for only a year or so, he's certainly going to feel +penned in when he's stopped from going through them. Especially when +what stops him is just what he has—only more of the same. It might be a +little ego-crushing, and just a trifle claustrophobic."</p> + +<p>"The main thing is," Dorothea said, "that everybody's so happy. +Commissioner Fernack, even—with Mr. Burris promising to give him a +medal."</p> + +<p>"And Lynch," Malone said reflectively. "He'll get a promotion out of<!-- Page 129 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +this for sure. And good old Kettleman."</p> + +<p>"Kettleman," Dorothea said. "Oh, sure. He's some kind of social worker, +isn't he? Only we never knew what kind."</p> + +<p>"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 <i>was</i> the essential clue. You know," he added +reflectively, "one thing puzzles me about that man."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Well," Malone said, "he worked in your neighborhood. You knew him."</p> + +<p>"Of course I did," Dorothea said. "We all knew Kettleman."</p> + +<p>"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—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Malone laughed. "Nope," he said. "He hasn't."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Mike," Dorothea said.</p> + +<p>"Mike what?"</p> + +<p>"Mike," she repeated. "He's probably the happiest of all. After Mom and +I talked to him for a while, anyhow, and he began to ... to get used to +things. Now he's excited about being an FBI man." She looked worriedly +at Malone for a second. "You weren't kidding about that, were you?" she +asked.</p> + +<p>She looked very pretty when she was worried, Malone decided. He leaned +over and kissed her with great care. After a while he said: "You were +saying?"</p> + +<p>"Was I?" Dorothea said. "Oh, yes. I was. About Mike being an FBI man."</p> + +<p>"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 +in to the special-case bracket. If he doesn't—well, he'll be doing some +kind of official work for the Government."</p> + +<p>"What about Her Majesty, or whatever she is?" Dorothea asked. "Is +she—convinced that teleportation's no good, the way Mike is?"</p> + +<p>Malone looked unhappy. "I wish you hadn't mentioned it," he said.</p> + +<p>"Then what will you do?" Dorothea said.</p> + +<p>"Burris has it all down pat," Malone said bitterly. "Since I'm the only +one who can predict where she's going to be, I'm going to be her +permanent bodyguard from now on. She's promised me that she won't go +teleporting all over the place—but we won't be able to keep her locked +up all the time, either. So: whither she goes, I go—first."</p> + +<p>"Well," Dorothea said, "don't feel bad. After all, you did what you set +out to do."</p> + +<p>"I suppose so," Malone said.</p> + +<p>"Sure you did," Dorothea said.<!-- Page 130 --><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> "You got the boys. And they won't feel +so bad after they get used to it."</p> + +<p>"I suppose not," Malone said. "We had to prove one thing to them, +anyway. We can stop them at any time. You see, they've got to think +about teleporting, and as soon as they do that one of our +telepaths—like Her Majesty or me, I guess—will know what they're +thinking. And we can 'freeze' them. I mean, I can."</p> + +<p>"It sounds all right," Dorothea said.</p> + +<p>"Sure," Malone said. "After all, we did them quite a favor—getting them +out of all the trouble they'd gotten themselves into."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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 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.</p> + +<p>"All for the boys?" Dorothea said.</p> + +<p>"Well, they'll be at Yucca Flats," Malone said, "and they'll be pretty +useful. And, as I said before we started all this, if they try to run +away from Yucca Flats we'll just have to keep them 'frozen' all the +time. I mean, I will. Little as we want to. They can be of some use that +way, too. The Government isn't doing all this for nothing."</p> + +<p>"But keeping them 'frozen'—"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"You know," Dorothea said, "you're pretty wonderful, Mr. Malone."</p> + +<p>Malone didn't answer her. He just kissed her again.</p> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>Malone kissed her again. "What kind of a reward do you want?"</p> + +<p>She sighed. "Oh, well," she said, "I suppose this is good enough."</p> + +<p>"Good enough?" Malone said. "Just good enough?"</p> + +<p>His lips met hers for the fifth time. She reached one hand gently out to +the light switch and pushed it.</p> + +<p>The lights went out.</p> + + +<h3>THE END</h3> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Out Like a Light, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT LIKE A LIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 24444-h.htm or 24444-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/4/4/24444/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Greg Bergquist, Bruce Albrecht and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + +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. 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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: Out Like a Light + +Author: Gordon Randall Garrett + +Release Date: January 28, 2008 [EBook #24444] +Last updated: January 22, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT LIKE A LIGHT *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Greg Bergquist, Bruce Albrecht and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science +Fiction April, May and June 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any +evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor +typographical errors have been corrected without note.] + +[Illustration] + +OUT LIKE A LIGHT + +By MARK PHILLIPS + + =_Kenneth Malone--sometimes known as Sir Kenneth of The Queen's Own + FBI--had had problems with telepathic spies, and more than somewhat + nutty telepathic counterspies. But the case of the Vanishing + Delinquents was at least as bad...._= + +Illustrated by Freas + +[Illustration] + +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 blond 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 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 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 policeman thought he was drunk. That wasn't right. He couldn't +let the police get the wrong impression of FBI agents. Now the man 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?" + +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," the smaller cop--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 instant 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. + +"The guy's heeled!" Sam said. "Watch him! Don't let him get away!" + +Malone considered getting away, and decided that he couldn't move. "It's +O.K.," he said. + +"O.K., hell," Sam said. "It's a .44 Magnum. What are you doing with a +gun, Mac?" He was no longer polite and friendly. "Why 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: "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 no 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 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. + + + + +II. + + +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. + +[Illustration] + +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 Burris +himself sat, 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 +least 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 kidnapping, 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 kidnappers 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 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 some time, 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. "O.K. 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 just 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--not Jukovsky, who didn't wake up for a couple of minutes +and so didn't see what happened next--after he 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. "It could happen. The start happened 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. It's not possible." + +[Illustration] + +"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." + +"O.K.," 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," Burris 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--and 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. +O.K.?" + +"Yes, sir," Malone said. + + + + +III. + + +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 'cap's 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 red robot-controlled 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 with a connecting bath over at the +Statler-Hilton Hotel. 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." + +"O.K.," Boyd said. "O.K. 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 Sixty-ninth 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. + +"Statler-Hilton Hotel," Boyd said grandly. + +The driver swung around to stare at them, blinked, and finally said: +"O.K., 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 know. 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 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 Sixty-ninth 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 from 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 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 joyriding, or +as some sort of prank. + +But a car or two every night? How many joyrides 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 Sixty-ninth +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 Motor Vehicle Bureau. 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 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 were 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. + + + + +IV. + + +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 +that 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 "Greensleaves" 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. + +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 +doctors calm hands, and swore subvocally. + +"Hold still," the doctor said. "Don't go wiggling your head around that +way. Just wait quietly until the demijel 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. + +[Illustration] + +"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." + +"When?" Malone said. + +"You're not badly hurt," the doctor said reprovingly. "You've got a +slight concussion, that's all." + +"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, O.K.?" + +"O.K.," 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. + +"O.K.," 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 O.K., 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 has 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 knew why the cop had mistaken it for his. + +There, right on the first page, was a carefully detailed drawing of a +1972 Cadillac. It had been painstakingly colored in with a red pencil. + +Malone stared at it for a second, and then went on to page two. This +page carried a list of names running down the left margin. + + _Ramon O. + + Mario G. + + Silvo E. + + Felipe A. + + Alvarez la B. + + Juan de los S. + + Ray del E._ + +That made sense, of a kind. It was a list of names. Whose names they +were, Malone didn't know; but at least he could see the list and +understand it. What puzzled him were the decorations. + +Following each name was a queer-looking squiggle. Each was slightly +different, and each bore some resemblance to a stick-figure, a +geometrical figure or just a childish scrawl. The whole parade reminded +Malone of pictures he had seen of Egyptian hieroglyphics. + +But the names didn't look Egyptian, and, anyhow, nobody used +hieroglyphics any more--did they? + +Malone found himself thinking: _Now what does that mean?_ He looked +across at the facing page. + +It contained a set of figures, all marked off in dollars and cents and +all added up neatly. One of the additions ended with the eye-popping sum +of $52,710.09, and Malone found that the sum made him slightly nervous. +This was high-powered figuring. + + * * * * * + +On to page three, he told himself. Drawings again, both on that page and +on the one facing it. Malone recognized an outboard motor, a +store-front, a suit of clothing hanging neatly on a hanger, a motor +scooter, a shotgun and an IBM Electrotyper. Whoever had done the work +was a reasonably accurate artist, if untrained; the various items were +easily recognizable and Malone could see a great deal of detail. + +That, of course, was fine. Only it made no more sense than the rest of +the notebook. + +Malone riffled through a few more pages, trying to make sense of the +contents. One page seemed to be a shopping list, with nothing more +revealing on it than _bread, bacon, eggs (1/2 doz.), peaches (frz.), +cigs., & ltr., fluid_. + +There was another list, farther on. This one said: _Hist. 2, Eng. 4, +Math. 3, Span. 2. What for Elec.?_ + +That cast the first glow of light. Whoever owned the notebook was a +student. Or a teacher, Malone thought; then, looking back at the +handwriting, he decided that the owner of the notebook had to be in high +school, certainly no farther along. + +He went on flipping pages. One of them said, in large black capitals: +=_HE'S BLUFFING!_= + +A note passed in class? There was not any way of making sure. + +Malone thought about the hypothetical student for a minute. Then +something in the riffling pages caught his eye. + +There were two names on the page he'd stopped at. + +The first was: _Lt. Peter Lynch, NYPD._ It was followed by two little +squiggles. + +The second was: _Mr. Kenneth J. Malone, FBI._ + +There were no squiggles after his own name, and Malone felt oddly +thankful for that, without knowing exactly why. But what did the names +mean? And who had-- + +"Uh ... Mr. Malone--" Bill said tentatively. "That _is_ your notebook, +isn't it?" + +"Oh," Malone said. He looked up at the cop and put on his most +ingratiating smile. "Sure," he said. "It's mine. Sure it is. Just +checking to see if I'd lost any pages. Not good. Losing pages out of a +notebook. Never. Have to check, you know. Procedure. Very secret." + +"Sure," Bill said uncertainly. + +Malone took a deep breath. "Thought I'd lost the notebook," he said. "I +appreciate your returning it." + +"Oh," Bill said, "that's O.K., Mr. Malone. 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 Sixty-ninth 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. + +What 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? + +"Statler-Hilton Hotel," 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. 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 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 +some time. 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. + +"O.K.," 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 +Sixty-ninth 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 good men. Maybe among the +best in their field." + +So Malone made his last call, to the firm of Leibowitz & 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. And--" + +"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?" + +"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 don't like it. After all, Malone--" + +Malone ignored him. "The Governor of New York promised his +co-operation," he said, "and he said he'd get in touch with the +Governors of New Jersey and Connecticut and get co-operation from that +angle. So we'll have 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 & 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 & 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." + +[Illustration] + +"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 there are, 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. + + + + +V. + + +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, a +huskily-built man sat. 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," Malone said. "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. 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. + +"What's so funny?" Malone demanded. + +He grabbed the wallet and turned it toward him. At once, of course, he +realized what had happened. He had not 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 QUEENS OWN F.B.I. + +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 at the +badge with it. At last he looked up. + +"I guess you are the FBI," he said. "But what was with the gag?" + +"It wasn'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 note mentally 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, when he'd been 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. "O.K.," 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." He opened it to the page with Lynch's name on it. + +Lynch opened his mouth, closed it and then took the notebook. He stared +at the 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 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 pages carefully. 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 +obligation. 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, social club, something like that," Lynch +said. "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: +Ramon Otravez, Mario Grito, Silvo Envoz, Felipe Altapor, Alvarez 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. +"There's only one name missing, as a matter of fact. Funny it isn't +there." + +Malone tried to look as if he knew what was going on. "Oh?" he said. + +"Yeah," Lynch said. "The Fueyo kid--Miguel Fueyo. Everybody calls him +Mike." + +While interesting, this did not provide much food for thought. "Why +should his name be on it especially?" Malone said. + +"Because he's the leader of the gang," Lynch said. "The boss. The big +shot." He pointed to the list of names. "Except for him, that's all of +them--the Silent Spooks." + +Malone considered the missing Mike Fueyo. + +He knew perfectly well, now, why Fueyo's name was not in the book. + +Who puts his own name on a list? + +The notebook was Fueyo's. It had to be. + + * * * * * + +Lynch was looking at him expectantly. Malone thought of a question and +asked it. "They know you?" he 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 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 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." + +"O.K.," 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. 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," 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 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 teen-agers. "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--" + +[Illustration] + +"You didn't?" the girl said. "If you didn't, you must be completely +blind." + +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 face was beginning to get a little tired, but he +retained the 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 could not 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 ran 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. + + + + +VI. + + +The building was just off Amsterdam, in the Eighties. It had been a +shining new development once, but it was beginning to slide downhill +now. The metal on the windowframes 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 windowboxes. 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 saw a glow of +tears behind them. Mike was her son. She did not seem surprised that the +police had taken him away, but she was determined to protect him. + +Malone's voice was very gentle. "Why did they arrest him?" he said. + +The woman shrugged, a single sharp gesture. "You ask me this?" + +"I'm not a cop," Malone said. "I'm from the FBI." + +"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 tears came. + +"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 goes 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, and said nothing as Malone charged up the +stairs 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?" + +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, why do you want to see the lieutenant? 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. + +"I'm in a hurry," Malone said. "Where are the cells? I want to see +Lieutenant Lynch." + +The desk sergeant nodded. "O.K.," 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," the sergeant said. "On duty. Can't leave the desk." He +cleared his throat and gave Malone a set of directions. + + * * * * * + +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. "1972 Red Cadillacs." + +"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--for very good reasons--unstrapped his .44 Magnum and handed it to +the lieutenant. + +He left reluctantly, with his men. + +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. I'd like to ask you a few--" + +"Gee, Mr. Malone," Mike broke in eagerly. "I'm glad you're here." + +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. + + + + +VII. + +[Illustration] + + +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 straitjacket. 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. + +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. If he had blacked out, +then Mike would have seen it as he went groggy, 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. + +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 really 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 Sixty-ninth 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 looked at 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 Seventieth 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 were 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 a 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." + +"How do you know?" Malone had asked him, "it doesn't. Or, anyhow, 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 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 save 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. + +"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 for." + +"But he wants to sue the city," a voice said tinnily. "Or somebody." + +"Let him sue," Boyd said. "We've got authority. Just get that car." + +"Look," the voice said. "I--" + +"I don't care how," 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 over 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 have you been doing?" Boyd said. "Drinking? 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." + + * * * * * + +The phone chimed. Boyd flipped up the mike and eyed the screen +balefully. "Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said crisply. "Who are +you?" + +A voice on the other end said: "What?" before the image on the screen +cleared. + +"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." + +[Illustration] + +"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 turned 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 semirobotic 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 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 has 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! I will never stop from 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" that night. + +The agent, a tall, thin man, who looked as if he suffered from chronic +stomach trouble, said, "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. + + + + +VIII. + + +He walked along Sixty-ninth 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 & 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 he 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 +Forty-seventh 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 SM 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 phone 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, +"which also 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 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 most friendly 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." + +"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." + +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 or keep him +in. + +But he was going to leave home. + +Malone said: "Hm-m-m," 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 up at the street sign, where the +words: "Avenue of the Americas" had been painted out, and "Sixth Avenue" +hand-lettered in. + +"They finally gave in," the painter told him. "But do you think they'll +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, anyway? 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 just 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 for 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_." + +"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 us poor, stupid policemen? Like, say, making +yourself vanish?" + +"I'll make the whole 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: "O.K., 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. "O.K.?" + +"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?" + +"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. + +"We'll talk about it later," Lynch said. "Farewell, old pal." + +"Flights of angels," Malone said, "sing thee to thy rest." + +[Illustration] + + * * * * * + +Malone replaced the microphone and headed for the door. Halfway there, +however, he stopped. He hadn't had a _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 Forty-second Street, turned left 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, behind him. 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 had been 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 Sixty-ninth Street +and blessed several saints when he found that 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. + +"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 half a dozen drinks? Don't +answer. I think I can guess. But let's just take them one at a +time--O.K.?" 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 Forty-second 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." + +"Hm-m-m," 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. + + + + +IX. + + +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. It 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. Some time, 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? + +[Illustration] + +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 ... + +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 a 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 were 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 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. 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 anyway?" + +"An awful lot of impossible crimes," Malone said frankly. "How did I do, +John Henry?" + +"You did very well," Fernack said. "Too 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 these 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. + +"Quite 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 icepick. 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. 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. + +"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 +damnedest 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 explanations. 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 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 Sixty-ninth 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, eying Lynch's figure, dressed in a +pair of trousers and a T-shirt, speculatively, "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. Tell me, 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. "O.K.," 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. + +The 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. + + + + +X. + + +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 sorts 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 plants probably were. 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 of 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 ... ah ... 'oddball' +about the Spooks. Do you understand? Not just the fact that they never +drink liquor, you understand, 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 ... ah ... 'fit in' to 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 ... +ah ... 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've known 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. I--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 some time, 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 ... social groups say. The Spooks just ... just melt +through 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. + +[Illustration] + +"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 they were, the +Spooks I mean, 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. +But--" + +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, O.K.?" + +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 O.K., 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 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 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 fool, until +I've got some way of making sure they're there when the raid goes +through." + +Malone coughed gently. "O.K.," 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. "Just 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. I don't even want me to know about it, until it +stops sounding so nutty to me." + +"O.K., 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 re-appear +some place else. Walk through walls?" He shrugged. "How should I know? +But they can sure 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." + +"O.K.," 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." + + + + +XI. + + +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 Sixty-ninth +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." + +"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 when morning had come--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 getting the book back. + +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 have 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 have to +understand nothing. Good-by." + +"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. After all." + +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?" + +"Statler Hilton Hotel," 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. What 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 +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-by in a hurry and left. His next stop was the Xochitl, +the Mexican bar on Forty-sixth Street. He greeted the bartender warmly. + +[Illustration] + +"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 +other 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 department--" + +"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 _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 insisted. + +"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 +once. 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. + +Was it possible that she might have the book? + +It was. But, if so, how had she got it? + +Malone enumerated possibilities on his fingers. First, he could have +dropped it or something like that, and she could have picked it up. But +dropping the notebook was a chance he'd eliminated already. It just +didn't sound likely. + +Besides, if he were going to work on the dropping hypothesis, he might +as well start from anywhere, on the assumption that he had dropped it +anywhere on the street. + +But if he _had_ dropped it--second finger--and Dorothy had picked it +up, wouldn't she have given it back? + +She would have, Malone decided, unless she actually intended to steal +it. + +And if she had intended to steal it, she could just as easily have +lifted it out of his pocket in the first place. She didn't need to wait +for it to fall out conveniently, all by itself. + +Third finger: why would she steal the notebook? What good was it to her? +And how did she even know he had it? + +None of those questions seemed to have any answers. Of course, if she'd +been connected with the Silent Spooks in some way, it would explain a +little--but somehow Malone couldn't see Dorothy as a Silent Spook. + +Malone stared at his ring finger and pinky. He pressed the ring finger +down, thinking that perhaps Dorothy had picked the notebook up and just +forgotten to give it back. That was possible, even if not likely. + +Only it required that notebook dropping out again. + +The pinky went down. She might be some sort of a kleptomaniac, Malone +thought. + +That didn't look very probable. + +No, Malone decided, realizing that he had no more fingers left, it was +impossible to shake off the feeling that the girl had deliberately taken +the book for some definite purpose of her own. + +He decided to give her a call. + +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'd 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 frowned thoughtfully. _I wish somebody would tell me how to get +in touch with her_, he thought. _She might know more about that book +than I do._ + +The thought bothered him. But, to offset it, there was a nice new +feeling growing at the back of his mind. + +He felt as if he were going to know the answer soon enough. + +He felt as if he were going to be lucky again. + +In the meantime, he 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 inquired. + +"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 in the world for anyone 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 +patiently. + +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 at the face in the screen alone, 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 old 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 firmest +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 psychotic 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 want to +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." + +"All I can figure," Malone said, "is that Dorothy Francis picked my +pocket." + +"Exactly," 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." + +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. After a +pause he said: "What is that supposed to mean? What on Earth would she +want with it? Just to look at all the pretty pictures?" + +"Don't be silly," the Queen said, with some asperity. "She doesn't even +want to look at the thing. She doesn't care what's in it." + +Malone closed his eyes. "Riddle time," he murmured. "Great." Then he +sighed. "O.K.," he said. "What _does_ she want with it? She must have +some use for it. She isn't just a kleptomaniac or something--is she?" + +"Of course not," the Queen said. + +"Then she has a reason," Malone said. "Fine. But what is it? Is she an +auxiliary member of the Silent Spooks, or something like that? Don't +tell me she's Mike Fueyo's girl friend. I don't think I could take that. +It's too silly." + +"Naturally it's silly! Sir Kenneth, I--" She stopped, and her face lit +up suddenly with pleasure. "Now you're on the right track!" she said. +"You just keep right on with that line of thought." + +Malone blinked in awe. "You mean she's--" + +He didn't want to say it. But the evidence was all there. Dorothy's +appearance at the station. The remark Mrs. Fueyo had made when he went +to the apartment. + +It all fit. + +"That's right," the Queen said, a little sadly. "She's Dorothea +Francisca Fueyo--little Miguel Fueyo's older sister." + + + +XII. + +[Illustration] + + +Malone put in a great deal of time, he imagined, just staring at the +face of the little old lady in the screen. At last he said: "Her name is +Fueyo!" + +"I've told you so," the Queen said with some asperity. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +[Illustration] + +"I don't either," Malone said. "It hurt like ... it hurt quite a lot." + +"Certainly," the Queen said. "But, then, 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 one second, that it was +an Elizabethan belt-pouch. Talks with Her Majesty always had that +effect; after a time, Malone came to believe in her 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 what 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, apparently 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 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. + +"O.K.," 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-by 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 by the +simple expedient of 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 ... 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 the 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?" + +Malone exploded, "That's not the question. Drinks have nothing to do +with notebooks. I'm after notebooks. 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. + + + + +XIII. + + +By the time Malone reached the Statler Hilton Hotel 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. + +[Illustration] + +"You were expecting maybe Titus Moody?" Boyd called. + +"O.K.," 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 warmed. 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: + + md + ----- = K + ft2 + +Malone looked at it for some seconds. At last he said: "It's very +pretty. What is it?" + +"This," Dr. O'Connor said, in the 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." + +Malone said: "Hm-m-m," and stared at the equation again. Somehow, the +explanation was not very helpful. The value of _K_ was unknown. 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 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 as 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 visibly. "The limitations are several," he said. +"In the first place, there is the force represented by _f_ in the +equation. This seems to be entirely dependent on the ... ah ... strength +of the subject's personality. That is if we assume that the process is +at all parallel with the phenomena of psychokinesis and levitation. And +there are excellent theoretical reasons for so believing." + +"In other words," Malone said, "a man with a strong will would be able +to exert more force than a weaker-willed man?" + +"Correct," Dr. O'Connor said. "And another factor is the time, _t_. What +we are measuring here is the span of attention of the individual--the +ability of the subject's mind to concentrate on a given thing for a span +of time. Many people, for example, cannot keep their attention focused +on a single thought for more than a few milliseconds, it seems. They are +... ah ... 'scatter-brained,' as the saying is." + +His expression left no doubt that he included Malone in that group. +Malone tried not to look nervous. + +Then Dr. O'Connor scowled. "There is another factor which we feel should +be in the equation," he said, "but we have not yet found a precise way +to express it mathematically. You must realize that the mathematical +treatment of psionics is, as yet, in a relatively primitive stage." + +"Oh," Malone said. "Of course. Sure. But this other factor--" + +"It is what might be called the ... ah ... _volume_ of attention," Dr. +O'Connor said. "That is, the actual amount of space that can be +conceived of and held by the subject, during the time he is +concentrating." + +Malone blinked. + +"For most people," Dr. O'Connor said, "the awareness of the space +surrounding them is limited to a few inches of moving space, no more. To +put this in a purely physical matrix: one might say that the +'teleportation field' doesn't extend more than a few inches beyond the +skin of the subject. Thus, it would be difficult to teleport anything +really large unless one were able to increase the volume of attention, +or awareness. However, it is difficult to express this notion +mathematically." + +"I'll bet," Malone said. + + * * * * * + +Dr. O'Connor shot him a frozen glance. "One of our early attempts," he +said, "was simply to put this in as a volume factor, so that the +left-hand side of the equation, below the line, would read--" He +scribbled again on the paper and held it up: + + m d + ---- = K + d3ft2 + +"Unfortunately, as you can perhaps see," Dr. O'Connor said, "the +equation would not stand up under dimensional analysis." + +"Oh, sure," Malone said, adding sympathetically: "That's too bad. But +does that put a limit on how much a man could carry with him? I mean, he +couldn't take a whole building along, or anything like that, could he?" + +"I doubt it," Dr. O'Connor said gravely. "That would require a +tremendous volume of space for one to focus his entire attention on, as +a whole, for any useful length of time. It would require a type of mind +that I am not even sure exists." + +"In the case of a young, inexperienced boy," Malone said stubbornly, +"would you say that he could carry off anything heavy?" + +"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: "My hand's shaky." + +"Well," Malone said, "that's the story." + +"It sure is quite 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 teen-agers. 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 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 blond 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." + +"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 Malone said, "and his Safe and Loft Squad." + + + + +XIV. + + +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. + +[Illustration] + +Boyd whispered softly: "Do you think they have a lookout?" + +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. "O.K., Tom," he whispered. "This is +H-hour--M-minute--and S-second." + +"I can spell," 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. + +"O.K.?" 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 fat-headed 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 no 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 ... 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, all +right? 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. +But 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 across the roof quickly under the cold stars, 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 explosives 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 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 on to 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 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. Smart. Sure, you get 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 it. + +"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'd have happened if he'd found all that stuff?" + +"So what happened anyway?" another voice--Ramon?--said. "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 difference?" + +"Shut up!" Mike roared. + +"You ain't telling me to shut up!" (That was the third voice. Malone +thought; possibly Ramon Otravez.) + +"Me either!" Silvo yelled. "You think you're a great 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!" + +A voice said, "Any dame with a little--" + +"Shut your 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 invectives 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-bluing epithets out 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 a while." + +"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 +campatriots 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 reformed 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 vanish 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, hit and 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. + +[Illustration] + +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 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 would appear just in front of Boyd, who rushed +at him, arms outstretched. As Boyd had 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. + +The lieutenant suddenly 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 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 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: "Yi!" 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! 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 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 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 everybody." + +"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 round, found +Dorothea and signaled to her. "Come on, Dorothea. Where's Boyd?" + +"Here I am," Boyd said, walking slowly across the big room to Malone. He +had one hand held to his chin. + +"What's the matter with you?" Malone asked. + +Boyd took his hand away. There was a bald spot the size of a quarter on +the point of his chin. "One of those kids," he said sadly, "has a hell +of a strong grip. Come on, Miss Fueyo. Come on, Malone. Let's get out of +here." + + + + +XV. + + +It is definitely not usual for the Director of the FBI to come stalking +into a local office of that same FBI without so much as an advance +warning or a by-your-leave. Such things are simply not done. + +Andrew J. Burris, however, was doing them. + +Three days after the Great Warehouse Fiasco, a startled A-in-C looked up +to see the familiar Burris figure stalk by his office, growling under +its breath. The A-in-C leaped to the interoffice phone, wondered whom he +ought to call first, and subsided, staring dully at the telephone screen +and thinking about retiring. + +The next appearance of the head of the FBI was in the office assigned to +Malone and Boyd. Burris came through the doorway without warning, his +countenance that of a harried and unhappy man. + +Malone looked up, blinked, and then readjusted his features to what he +imagined was a nice, bright smile. "Oh," he said. "Hello, chief. I've +been sort of expecting you." + +"I'll bet you have," Burris said. He set his brief case on Malone's desk +and pulled a sheaf of papers from it. "Do you see these?" he said, +waving them. "Inquiries. Complaints. Demands. From everybody. I've been +getting them for three days." + +"Sure are a lot of them," Malone said at random. + +"From Police Commissioner Fernack," Burris said. "From the mayor. From +the governor, in Albany. From everybody. And they all want an +explanation. They demand one." + +He sat down suddenly on Malone's desk, his anger gone. + +"Well--" Malone began. + +"Malone," Burris said plaintively, "I can stall them off for a while. I +can tell them all kinds of fancy stories. I don't mind. They don't +really need any explanation. But--" He paused, and then added: "I do!" + +Malone closed his eyes, decided things looked even worse that way, and +opened them again. "Just what sort of an explanation did you have in +mind, chief?" he said. + +"Any kind," Burris said instantly, "so long as it explains. I ... no." + +"No?" + +"No," Burris said. "I want the truth! Even if it doesn't explain +anything! Preferably, I want both--the truth and some explanations. If +possible. For three days, now, this area has been haunted by the Silent +Spooks. They've been stealing everything they could carry off! They've +got the whole city in an uproar!" + +"Well," Malone said. "Not exactly. The papers--" + +"I know," Burris said. "You've kept it out of the news. That's fine, and +I appreciate it, Malone. I really do. But I can't sit around and +appreciate it much longer. You've got to get those boys!" He bounced off +the desk and stood up again. "The longer they keep this up," he said, +"the harder it's going to be to square everything with the courts. Those +kids may end up getting killed! And how would that be?" + +"Terrible," Malone said honestly. + +"Something," Burris summed up, "has to be done." + +Malone thought for a second. "Chief," he said at last, "if you can think +of any way to nab them, I'll certainly be grateful." + +"Oh," Burris said. "Oh. No. No, Malone. This is your baby." He leaned +over and clapped Malone on the shoulder. "I have faith in you," he said. +"You cleared up that nutty telepath case and you can clear this one up, +too. But you've got to do it soon!" + +"I'm working on it," Malone said helplessly. "We might get a lead any +time now." + +"Good," Burris said. "Meanwhile, let's sit down and see if we can't +figure out a way to pacify the local bigwigs." + +Malone sighed wearily. + + * * * * * + +An hour later, he was even more tired. Letting himself into his room at +the hotel, he felt completely exhausted. He had spent most of the hour +tactfully trying to get away from Burris. It had not been the world's +easiest job. + +Dorothea Fueyo was sitting on the couch, waiting for him. + +Immediately, he felt much better. + +"You're late," Dorothea said accusingly. "I had to come up with the +duplicate key you gave me. And what are the bellboys going to think?" + +"They're going to think you had a duplicate key," Malone said. "Anyhow, +I'm sorry. I got delayed at the office. Burris came to town--delivering +seventeen ultimatums, forty-nine conflicting sets of orders and a +rousing lecture." + +"I could have come up to your office, then," Dorothea said, "instead of +compromising my reputation by sneaking up to your hotel room." + +"And what about _my_ reputation?" Malone said. "Besides, the office is +no place for what I have in mind." + +"Why, Mr. Malone!" + +Malone ignored the comment. "Did you bring the notebook?" he said. + +"Certainly." Dorothea handed a black, plastic-bound notebook over to +Malone. "But what's all this with a notebook? Going to keep score?" + +"Not exactly," Malone said. He took the notebook and leafed through it +idly. It was not Mike Fueyo's book; the boy himself had that now, and +there was little chance of getting it back again. This one belonged to +Dorothea--but, Malone thought, it could serve the same purpose. + +"What I have in mind," he said, "is something Mike said the other night, +just before the cops barged in. He said something about having tried to +teach you the Vanish. And that's why I asked you to come here. Did he +teach you?" + +"Well, he tried," Dorothea said. "But I couldn't do anything with it. I +haven't got the Talent, Mike says." She paused. "Is that why you figured +I had a notebook like his?" + +"Sure," Malone said. "It's the only thing that makes sense. Mike's +notebook was full of symbols--and that was all they could be. Symbols. +If you see what I mean." + +"Not exactly," Dorothea said. + +"Symbolism--anyhow, that's what Dr. O'Connor says--is one of the +primary factors in psionics." + +"Dr.... oh, yes," Dorothea said. "Westinghouse. I've heard about him." + +"Good," Malone said. "Anyhow, I decided the pictures in Mike's notebook +were just that--symbols. Things he wanted. And the little squiggles +after the names were symbols, too. You know," Malone said, "the boy's +pretty smart. Nobody else that I know of has ever figured out a way to +teach psionics--at least, not on that level. But Mike has." + +"He's a good boy," Dorothea said. "Basically." + +"Fine," Malone said. "Anyhow, if that were true, then the notebook was +some sort of guide. And if he tried to teach you the technique, then you +had to have a notebook, too. Clear?" + +"Perfectly," Dorothea said, "so what do you want me to do?" + +"Teach me," Malone said. + +There was a silence. + +"That's silly," Dorothea said. "How can I teach you something I can't do +myself? Besides, how do you know you have the Talent?" + +"As far as the second question goes, I don't know. But I can try, can't +I? And as far as the first question goes, that might not be so simple. +But I think it can be done--if you remember what Mike tried to teach +you." + +"Oh, I can remember all of that," she said, "but it's just that it +didn't do me any good. I couldn't use it." + +"A man who's paralyzed from the waist," Malone said hopefully, "can't +play football. But if he knows how the game's played, he can teach +others--anyhow, he can teach the fundamentals. Want to try?" + +Dorothea smiled. "All right, Ken," she said. "It's a great idea, at +that: the blind teaching the possibly-blind to read. Give me the +notebook, and I'll explain the first principles. Later, you'll have to +get a notebook of your own, because these symbols are very +personalized." + +Malone grinned and pulled a black book from his pocket. "I thought they +might be," he said. "I've already got one. Let's go." + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +Sweating, Malone stared grimly at the picture he had drawn on a page of +his notebook. He'd been trying the stunt for four days, and so far all +he had achieved was a nice profusion of perspiration. He was beginning +to feel like an ad for a Turkish bath. + +"No, Ken," Dorothea said patiently. "No. You can't do it that way. +You've got to _visualize_ it. That's how Mike could find red Cadillacs +so easily. All he had to do was--" + +"I know," Malone said, impatiently. "That's what the pictures are for. +But I'm no artist. This doesn't even look much _like_ my office." + +"It doesn't have to, Ken," Dorothea said. "All it has to do is give you +enough details to enable you to visualize your destination. The better +your memory is, the less detail you need. But you've got to grasp the +whole area in your mind." + +Malone lifted his eyes from the book and stared into the darkness +outside the window without seeing it. Midnight had come and gone a long +time ago, and he was still working. + +"If I don't crack this case pretty soon," he muttered, "Burris is going +to find a special new assignment for me--like investigating the social +life of a deserted space station." + +"Now, that's just what's bothering you," Dorothea said. "Get your mind +off Burris. You can't teleport when your mind is occupied with other +things." + +"Then how did the kids hop around so much during the fight at the +warehouse?" + +"Plenty of practice," Dorothea said. "They've been doing it longer than +you have. It's like playing the piano. The beginner has to concentrate, +but the expert can play a piece he's familiar with and hold a +conversation at the same time. Now stop worrying--and start +concentrating." + +Malone looked at the book again. With an effort, he forced everything +out of his mind except the picture. Burris' face came back once or +twice, but he managed to get rid of it. He looked at the lopsided +drawings that represented various items in the room, and made himself +concentrate solely on visualizing the objects themselves and their +surroundings. + +Then, as the picture became clearer and achieved more reality, he began +going over the other mental exercises that Dorothea had taught him. + +He heard a clock tick. + +It was gone. + +There was nothing but the picture, and the room it stood for ... nothing +... nothing.... + +The lights went out. + + * * * * * + +Malone blinked and jerked his head up from the notebook. "What hap--" he +began. + +And then he stopped. + +He was no longer in his hotel room at the Statler-Hilton. He was +standing in the middle of his office at FBI headquarters, Washington, +D.C. + +It had worked! + +Malone walked over to the wall switch and turned on the lights in the +darkened room. He looked around. He was definitely in his office. + +He was a teleport. + +He blinked and wondered briefly if he were dreaming. He pinched himself, +said: "Ow," and decided that the pain offered no certain proof. + +But he didn't feel like part of a dream. + +He felt real. So did the office. + +Just as he had promised Dorothea, he went to the phone and dialed the +Statler-Hilton. + +It took a minute for the long-distance circuits to connect him with +Manhattan. Then the pretty operator at the hotel was smiling at him from +the screen. "Statler-Hilton Hotel," she said. "May we help you?" + +"Ring Room 814," Malone said. "I'm probably asleep in it." + +"What?" the operator said. + +"Never mind," Malone said. "Just ring it." + +"Yes, sir." The screen went blank. + +The screen stayed blank for a long time. + +And then the operator was back. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "That room +doesn't answer." + +"You're sure?" Malone said. + +"Certainly." + +"Try it again," Malone said. + +The operator did so. She returned with the same answer. + +Malone frowned and hung up. It didn't sound right. Even a dream was +supposed to make more sense than this was making. There was something +wrong. + +He had to get back to the hotel room. + +There was only one trouble. He didn't have a picture of the room in his +notebook. + +Dorothea had said that it was almost impossible to go to a place one +hadn't been to before. Mike Fueyo had been able to pick up any red +Cadillac in the city because he'd concentrated solely on the symbol of a +red Cadillac. But he never knew which Cadillac he'd end up at. + +Malone closed his eyes and tried to remember the hotel room. He +half-wished he had a photograph of it, but Dorothea had told him that +photos wouldn't work. They were too complete; they required no effort of +the mind. Only a symbol would do. + +Of course, the job could be done without a symbol by somebody who'd had +plenty of practice. But Malone had made exactly one jump. Could he do +it the second time with nothing to work with except his own recollection +and visualization of the room? + +He didn't know, but he was certainly going to try. He had to. + +Something was wrong; something had happened to Dorothea. + +He tried to imagine what it could be, and then realized that such +thoughts were only delaying him by distracting his mind from its main +job. + +He kept his eyes tightly closed and tried to form the picture in his +mind. The couch--there. The dresser--over there. The easy-chair, the +rug, the walls, the table--wait a minute: he was losing the couch. +There. Now. The table, the desk--all there. In color. And in detail. + +Slowly they came, and he held them in place, visualizing his hotel room +just as he had visualized his office minutes before. He concentrated. +Harder. Harder. _Harder._ HAR-- + +"Sir Kenneth!" a voice said. "Will you please stop standing there with +your eyes closed and help me with this poor child? She's fainted." + +Malone's eyes popped open, but for a minute he wasn't entirely sure he'd +opened them. His visualization blended almost perfectly with the reality +of the room around him. There was only one jarring difference. + +He had certainly never visualized the richly-dressed figure of Queen +Elizabeth I standing in the center of the room. + +"Now, now," she said. "Thinking like that can only lead to confusion. +Come over here and help me." + + * * * * * + +Dorothea was on the couch. Between them, they managed to wake her +gently, and she sat up and stared around at them and the room. "I'm +sorry," she said dazedly. "It's just that I didn't expect you to turn +into a little old lady in Elizabethan costume. Just a bit +disconcerting." She blinked. "By the way, who is she?" + +"This," Malone said with a sense of some foreboding, "is Queen Elizabeth +I." + +"She's dead," Dorothea said decisively. + +"Not really, my dear," the Queen said. "Actually, you see ... well, it's +too long to explain now." She gave everybody a bland smile. + +"She's nuts, then," Dorothea said. "She is nuts, isn't she? Because if +she isn't, I am." + +"You're not crazy," Malone told her diplomatically. "But she--" He +stopped. How could he explain everything, in front of the Queen herself? + +"Don't worry about it," Her Majesty said. "Dorothea is a little +confused--but it hardly matters. Perhaps there are other things to do." + +"Sure," Malone said uncertainly. "By the way, how did you get here?" + +"Now, why do you ask that?" the Queen said. "You've already figured it +all out, Sir Kenneth." + +"I don't get it," Dorothea put in. + +"Simple," Malone said. "She's telepathic. She's been listening in on our +sessions for the past four days--she must have been. So now she can +teleport, too." + +Dorothea looked at the little old lady in awe. "But how could you come +to a place you'd never been to before?" + +"I got all the information I needed, my dear, out of Sir Kenneth's +mind." + +"Sir Kenneth?" Dorothea said. "Sir ... Ken? His mind?" + +"Never mind it," Malone said. "What do I do now?" + +Her Majesty said: "Don't worry about anything. And use your own psionic +talents. You can catch those dear boys now, you know. You're better than +they are." + +"Me?" Malone said. "But they've had--" + +"Practice, of course," the Queen said. "But you have a talent they +don't." + +"I do?" + +"Well," the Queen said, "you've been calling it 'luck' for years. You're +much too modest, Sir Kenneth. If you'll think back, you'll remember that +every time you had a bit of your so-called luck, it was because you were +at the right place at the right time. There's no other way to explain +the fact that you wandered at random through Greenwich Village--of all +places!--and just happened to end up at the very same red Cadillac that +young Mike was going to come to--_before he got there_!" + +Malone felt the back of his head. "That," he said, "was luck?" + +"You got the notebook, didn't you?" the Queen said. "But of course it +wasn't luck. It's prescience--the ability to predict the future. You've +had it all along, but you haven't been consciously using it. The only +way you'll ever catch those boys is to know where they're going to be +before they get there." + +Malone sat down heavily on the couch next to Dorothea. His mind was +whirling with a fine, dizzy rapidity. In a few seconds he was going to +try and grab the brass ring. + +"Oh, I'll help you," the Queen added. "Don't worry about that. I think I +can pick up Mike's mind, now that I'm closer to him. And if we can +figure out what their plans are, and where they're going to be, we can +nab them all, Sir Kenneth. Won't that be nice?" + +"Ducky," Malone said. "Simply ducky. All I have to do is predict the +future while you read minds and we both teleport. And Dorothea can sit +around sticking pins in dolls, I guess. Or--" + +"Well, now," the Queen said, "I don't know. Perhaps she just doesn't +have that talent. Besides, why would we want to do anything like that? +It seems to me--" + +"Never mind," Malone said hopelessly. "If we're going to do anything, +let's get started." + + * * * * * + +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 and +complete hunch--only now it wasn't a "hunch" any more, he reminded +himself; now it was prescience--was going to pay off. With him were Boyd +and two agents from the Sixty-ninth 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 wasn't a sound in the +room. Malone felt like screaming, but he managed to control himself with +an effort. + +There was no reason why the plan shouldn't work, Malone told himself. +According to all the theory he knew, it was fool proof. Her Majesty had +no doubts about it, either. She assured him that he had prescience, and +several other powers as well. Unfortunately, Malone wasn't quite as sure +as she was. + +Even if the theory seemed to back her up, he thought, there was still a +chance that she was wrong, and the theory was wrong, and everything was +wrong. His hunch--prescience, if you wanted to call it that, he +amended--said definitely that this would be the place the Spooks would +hit tonight. Her Majesty was quite sure of it. And Malone couldn't think +of a single really good reason why either of them 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-- + +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 and Malone had provided that lead-pipe cinch. They were sure +that Mike planned to raid the sporting-goods store with the rest of the +Spooks that night. + +But, of course, they might all 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. Malone was grateful for that. 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 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 over-elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint, +making sure there was no one 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. "O.K., now," he said. +"Let's move fast. We haven't got much time. We--" + +And that was all he said. + +Malone concentrated on just one thing: holding an image of the room, +with the eight Spooks in it. + +There was a long second of silence. + +Malone felt a bead of sweat trickle down his cheek. He held the image. + +"What's wrong?" the tallest boy said suddenly--Ramon Otravez, Malone +remembered. "What's wrong, Mike?" + +Mike let out his breath in a ragged sigh. "I ... don't know," he said +slowly. "I can't move--" + +"It's a trap!" another boy shouted. + +Malone bore down. He could feel power draining out of him, but he held +on, willing the boys to remain in the room, blanking out their own +teleportative abilities with his stronger ones. + +The eight boys stood, frozen, in the center of the lit room. + +Malone let another second go by, and then he stepped out from behind the +curtains. + +"Hello, boys," he said casually. + +Mike stared at him. "It's Malone," he said. + +"That's right," Malone said. "Hello, Mike. I've been waiting for you." + +Mike gulped. "You found us," he said. "Somebody talked." + +Malone shook his head. "Nobody talked," he said. Concentration was +getting easier; the longer the situation remained the same, the less +power it took to keep it that way. He wished he had brought a cigar, and +compromised by fishing out a cigarette and lighting it. + +Mike said: "But--" and was silent. + +"I knew where you were going to be," Malone said. "You see, I've got a +few--powers of my own, Mike." + +Ramon Otravez said: "He's kidding. It's some kind of a trick." + +"Shut up," Mike told him. + +"It's no trick," Malone said. "I've been waiting for you for quite a +while, boys." He paused. "And you can't move, can you? I've taken care +of that." + +"Some kind of gas," Mike said instantly. + +"Gas?" Malone said. "Nope." He shook his head. + +"Electricity," Mike said. It sounded desperate. "Some gimmick you've got +set up back there behind the curtain, to--" + +"No gimmick," Malone said. "It's just that I know a couple of tricks, +too--and I'm a little better at them than you are." The next minute was +going to be difficult, he knew, but it had to be done. He "froze" the +picture of the room in his mind and, at the same time, pictured himself +at the other side of the room. He made the effort, and at first nothing +happened. Then-- + +"You can do the Vanish," Mike said, very slowly and softly. + +"Oh, I can do more than that," Malone said cheerfully from the other +side of the room. "I can do the Vanish, and I can also keep you from +doing it. Right?" + +It hung in the balance for a second, but Malone was barely worried about +the final outcome. He'd beaten the boys, not with scientific gadgetry or +trickery, but at their own game. He'd done it simply, easily and +completely. And for boys who were sure they were something very special, +boys who'd never been beaten on their own grounds before, the shock was +considerable. + +Malone knew, even before Mike said: "I guess so," in a defeated voice, +that he had won. + +"Now," he said briskly, "you boys are going to come down to the FBI +offices with me. And you're not going to try any tricks--because you +can't get away with a thing, and you know you can't. I've just proven +that to you." + +"I guess you have," Mike said. + +Malone beckoned the three other men out of the back room and then, under +his watchful guidance, the procession started for the street. + + + + +XVI + + +"The only thing we had to worry about," Malone said, pouring some more +champagne into the hollow-stemmed glasses, "was whether the theory would +actually prove out in practice. From all we knew, it seemed logical that +I could concentrate on the room with the boys in it, and by that +concentration prevent them from teleporting out--but there's a lot we +don't know, too. And it didn't damage the kids any." + +Dorothea relaxed in her chair and looked around at the hotel room walls +with contentment. "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 good old 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 for only a year or so, he's certainly going to feel +penned in when he's stopped from going through them. Especially when +what stops him is just what he has--only more of the same. It might be a +little ego-crushing, and just a trifle claustrophobic." + +"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, sure. He's some kind of social worker, +isn't he? Only we never knew what kind." + +"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." + + * * * * * + +"Mike," Dorothea said. + +"Mike what?" + +"Mike," she repeated. "He's probably the happiest of all. After Mom and +I talked to him for a while, anyhow, and he began to ... to get used to +things. Now he's excited about being an FBI man." She looked worriedly +at Malone for a second. "You weren't kidding about that, were you?" she +asked. + +She looked very pretty when she was worried, Malone decided. He leaned +over and kissed her with great care. After a while he said: "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 +in to the special-case bracket. If he doesn't--well, he'll be doing some +kind of official work for the Government." + +"What about Her Majesty, or whatever she is?" Dorothea asked. "Is +she--convinced that teleportation's no good, the way Mike is?" + +Malone looked unhappy. "I wish you hadn't mentioned it," he said. + +"Then what will you do?" Dorothea said. + +"Burris has it all down pat," Malone said bitterly. "Since I'm the only +one who can predict where she's going to be, I'm going to be her +permanent bodyguard from now on. She's promised me that she won't go +teleporting all over the place--but we won't be able to keep her locked +up all the time, either. So: whither she goes, I go--first." + +"Well," Dorothea said, "don't feel bad. After all, you did what you set +out to do." + +"I suppose so," Malone said. + +"Sure you did," Dorothea said. "You got the boys. And they won't feel +so bad after they get used to it." + +"I suppose not," Malone said. "We had to prove one thing to them, +anyway. We can stop them at any time. You see, they've got to think +about teleporting, and as soon as they do that one of our +telepaths--like Her Majesty or me, I guess--will know what they're +thinking. And we can 'freeze' them. I mean, I can." + +"It sounds all right," Dorothea said. + +"Sure," Malone said. "After all, we did them quite a favor--getting them +out of all the trouble they'd gotten themselves into." + +"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 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," Malone said, "and they'll be pretty +useful. And, as I said before we started all this, if they try to run +away from Yucca Flats we'll just have to keep them 'frozen' all the +time. I mean, I will. 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 'frozen'--" + +"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. + +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?" + +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. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Out Like a Light, by Gordon Randall Garrett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT LIKE A LIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 24444.txt or 24444.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/4/4/24444/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Greg Bergquist, Bruce Albrecht and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + +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. 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