_"Zwieback!"_ Malone said, bowed carefully to Dorothy and drained his
glass with a flourish.
7
It started a million years ago.
In that distant past, a handful of photons deep in the interior of Sol
began their random journey to the photosphere. They had been born as
ultrahard gamma radiation, and they were positively bursting with
energy, attempting to push their respective ways through the dense
nucleonic gas that had been their womb. Within millimicroseconds, they
had been swallowed up by the various particles surrounding
them--swallowed, and emitted again, as the particles met in violent
collision.
And then the process was repeated. After a thousand thousand years,
and billions on billions of such repetitions, the handful of photons
reached the relatively cool photosphere of the sun. But the long
battle had taken some of the drive out of them; over the past million
years, even the strongest had become only hard ultraviolet, and the
weakest just sputtered out in the form of long radio waves.
But now, at last, they were free! And in the first flush of this
newfound freedom, they flung themselves over ninety-three million
miles of space, traveling at one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles
a second, and making the entire trip in less than eight and one-half
minutes.
They struck the earth's ionosphere, and their numbers diminished. The
hard ultraviolet was gobbled up by ozone; much of the blue was
scattered through the atmosphere. The remainder bore steadily onward.
Down through the air they came, only slightly weakened this time. They
hit the glass of a window in the Hotel New Yorker, losing more of
their members in the plunge.
And, a few feet from the glass, they ended their million-year epic by
illuminating a face.
The face responded to them with something less than pleasure. It was
clear that the face did not like being illuminated. The light was very
bright, much too bright. It seemed to be searing its way through the
face's closed eyelids, right past the optic nerves into the brain-pan
itself. The face twisted in a sudden spasm, as if its brain were
shriveling with heat. Its owner thoughtfully turned over, and the face
sought the seclusion and comparative darkness of a pillow.
Unfortunately, the motion brought the face's owner to complete
wakefulness. He did not want to be awake, but he had very little
choice in the matter. Even though his face was no longer being
illuminated, he could feel other rays of sunlight eating at the back
of his head. He put the pillow over his head and felt more comfortable
for a space, but this slight relief passed, too.
He thought about mausoleums. Mausoleums were nice, cool, dark places
where there was never any sun or heat, and never any reason to wake
up. Maybe, he told himself cunningly, if he went to sleep again he
would wake up dead, in a mausoleum. That, he thought, would be nice.
Death was nice and pleasant. Unfortunately, he realized, he was not
dead. And there was absolutely no chance of his ever getting back to
sleep. He finally rolled over again, being very careful to avoid any
more poisonous sunlight. Getting up was an even more difficult
process, but Malone knew it had to be managed. Somehow he got his feet
firmly planted on the floor and sat up.
It had been a remarkable feat, he told himself. He deserved a medal.
That reminded him of the night before. He had been thinking quite a
lot about the medals he deserved for various feats. He had even
awarded some of them to himself, in the shape of liquid decoctions.
He remembered all that quite well. There were a lot of cloudy things
in his mind, but from all the testimony he could gather, he imagined
that he'd had quite a time the night before. Quite a wonderful time,
as a matter of fact.
Not that that reflection did anything for him now. As he opened his
eyes, one at a time, he thought of Boyd. Once, long ago, ages and ages
ago, he had had to wake Boyd up, and he recalled how rough he had been
about it. That had been unforgivable.
He made a mental note to apologize to Boyd the next time he saw
him--if he could ever see again. Now, he knew how Boyd had felt. And
it was terrible.
Still sitting on the bed, he told himself that, in spite of
everything, he was lucky. To judge by his vague memories, he'd had
quite a time the night before, and if the hangover was payment for it,
then he was willing to accept the payment. Almost. Because it had
really been a terrific time. The only nagging thought in his mind was
that there had been something vital he'd forgotten.
"Tickets," he said aloud, and was surprised that his voice was
audible. As a matter of fact, it was too audible; the noise made him
wince slightly. He shifted his position very quietly.
And he hadn't forgotten the tickets. No. He distinctly remembered
going to see _The Hot Seat_, and finding seats, and actually sitting
through the show with Dorothy at his side. He couldn't honestly say
that he remembered much of the show itself, but that couldn't be the
important thing he'd forgotten. By no means.
He had heard that it was a good show, though. Sometime, he reminded
himself, he would have to get tickets and actually see it.
He checked through the evening. Drinks. Dinner ... he had had dinner,
hadn't he? Yes, he had. He recalled a broiled sea bass looking up at
him with mournful eyes. He couldn't have dreamed anything like that.
And then the theater, and after that some more drinks ... and so on,
and so on, and so on, right to his arrival back in his hotel room, at
four-thirty in the morning, on a bright, boiled cloud.
He even remembered arguing with Dorothy about taking her home. She'd
won that round by ducking into a subway entrance, and he had turned
around after she'd left him and headed for home. Had he taken a taxi?
Yes, Malone decided, he had. He even remembered that.
Then what had he forgotten?
He had met Dorothy, he told himself, starting all over again in an
effort to locate the gaps, at six o'clock, right after phoning...
"My God!" Malone said, and winced. He looked at his watch. It was ten
o'clock in the morning. He had completely forgotten to call Fernack
and Lynch.
Hangover or no hangover, Malone told himself grimly, there was work to
be done. Somehow, he managed to get to his feet and start moving.
He checked Boyd's room after a while. But his partner wasn't home.
_Probably at work already_, Malone thought, _while I lie here useless
and helpless._ He thought of the Sermon on the Evils of Alcohol, and
decided he'd better read it to himself instead of delivering it to
Boyd.
But he didn't waste any time with it. By ten-fifteen he was showered
and shaved, his teeth were brushed, and he was dressed. He felt, he
estimated, about fifteen hundred per cent better. That was still
lousy, but it wasn't quite as bad as it had been. He could move around
and talk and even think a little, if he was careful about it. Before
he left, he took a look at himself in the mirror.
Well, he told himself, that was nice.
It hardly showed at all. He looked tired, to be sure, but that was
almost normal. The eyes weren't bloodshot red, and didn't seem to bug
out at all, although Malone would have sworn that they were bleeding
all over his face. His head was its normal size, as near as he
remembered; it was not swollen visibly, or pulsing like a jellyfish at
every move.
He looked even better than he felt.
He started for the door, and then stopped himself. There was no need
to go out so early; he could start work right in his own hotel room
and not even have to worry about the streets of New York, the cars or
the pedestrians for a while.
He thought wistfully about a hair of the hound, decided against it
with great firmness, and sat down to the phone.
He dialed a number, and the face of Commissioner Fernack appeared
almost at once. Malone forced himself to smile cheerfully, reasonably
sure that he was going to crack something as he did it. "Hello, John
Henry," he said in what he hoped was a good imitation of a happy,
carefree voice. "And how are you this lovely morning?"
"Me?" Fernack said sourly. "I'm in great shape. Tiptop. Dancing in the
goddamn daisies. Malone, how did you--"
"Any news for me?" Malone said.
Fernack waited a long time before he answered, and when he did his
voice was dangerously soft and calm. "Malone," he said, "when you
asked for this survey, just what kind of news did you expect to get?"
"A godawful lot of impossible crimes," Malone said frankly. "How did I
do, John Henry?"
"You did damn well," Fernack said. "Too damn well. Listen, Malone, how
could you know about anything like this?"
Malone blinked. "Well," he said, "we have our sources. Confidential.
Top secret. I'm sure you understand, Commissioner." Hurriedly, he
added, "What does the breakdown look like?"
"It looks like hell," Fernack said. "About eight months ago, according
to the computer, there was a terrific upswing in certain kinds of
crime. And since then it's been pretty steady, right at the top of the
swing. Hasn't moved down hardly at all."
"Great," Malone said.
Fernack stared. "What?" he said.
"I mean--" Malone stopped, thought of an answer and tried it. "I mean,
that checks out my guess. My information. Sources."
Fernack seemed to weigh risks in his mind. "Malone, I know you're
FBI," he said at last. "But this sounds pretty fishy to me. Pretty
strange."
"You have no idea how strange," Malone said truthfully.
"I'm beginning to," Fernack said. "And if I ever find out that you had
anything to do with this--"
"Me?"
"And don't look innocent," Fernack said. "It doesn't succeed in
looking anything but horrible. You remind me of a convicted murderer
trying to steal thirty cents from the prison chaplain."
"What would I have to do with all these crimes?" Malone said. "And
what kind of crimes were they, anyway?"
"What you'd have to do with them," Fernack said, "is an unanswered
question. And so long as it remains unanswered, Malone, you're safe.
But when I come up with enough facts to answer it--"
"Don't be silly. Commissioner," Malone said. "How about those crimes?
What kind were they?"
"Burglaries," Fernack said. "And I have a hunch you know that well
enough. Most of them were just burglaries--locked barrooms, for
instance, early in the morning. There's never any sign of tampering
with the locks, no sign of breaking and entering, no sign of any
alarms being tampered with in any way. But the money's gone from the
cash register, and all of the liquor is gone too."
Malone stared. "_All_ the liquor?" he said in a dazed voice.
"Well," Fernack said, "all of it that's in plain sight, anyway. Except
for the open bottles. Disappeared. Gone. Without a trace. And most of
the time the extra stock's gone too, from the basement or wherever
they happen to keep it."
"That's a lot of liquor," Malone said.
"A hell of a lot," Fernack said. "Some of the bars have gone broke,
not being insured against the losses."
The thought of thousands of bottles of liquor--millions of
bottles--went through Malone's mind like an ice pick. He could almost
see them, handle them, taste them. "Hair of the dog," he muttered.
"What hair. What a dog."
"What did you say, Malone?"
"Nothing," Malone said hastily. "Nothing at all." After a second
another query occurred to him. "You mean to tell me that only bars
were robbed? Nothing else?"
"Oh, no," Fernack said. "Bars are only part of it. Malone, why are you
asking me to tell you this?"
"Because I want to know," Malone said patiently.
"I still think--" Fernack began, and then said, "Never mind.. But it
hasn't been only bars. Supermarkets. Homes. Cleaning and tailoring
shops. Jewelers. Hell, Malone, you name it and it's been hit."
Malone tried valiantly to resist temptation, but he was not at his
best, and he lost. "All right," he said. "I will name it. Here's a
list of places that haven't even been touched by the rising crime
wave. Banks, for one."
"Malone!"
"Safes that have been locked, for another," Malone went on. "Homes
with wall safes, though that's not quite accurate. The homes may have
been robbed, but the safes won't have been touched."
"Malone, how much do you know?" Fernack said. "My God, man--"
"I'll make a general rule for you," Malone said. "Any place that fits
the following description is safe: it's got a secure lock on it, and
it's too small for a human being to get into."
Fernack opened his mouth, shut it, and stared downward, obviously
scanning some papers lying on the desk in front of him. Malone waited
patiently for the explosion, but it never came.
Instead, Fernack said, "You know, Malone, you remind me of an old
friend of mine."
"Really?" Malone said pleasantly.
"You certainly do," Fernack said. "There's just one small difference.
You're an FBI man, and he's a crook. If that's a difference."
"It is," Malone said. "And on behalf of the FBI, I resent the
allegation. And, as a matter of fact, defy the allegator. But that's
neither here nor there," he continued. "If that's the difference, what
are the similarities?"
Fernack drew in a deep, hissing breath, and when he spoke his voice
was as calm and quiet as a coiled cobra. "The both of you come up with
the goddamnedest answers to things. Things I never knew about or even
cared about before. Things I wish I'd never heard of. Things that
don't have any explanation. And--" He stopped, his face dark in the
screen. Malone wondered what color it was going to turn, and decided
on purple as a good choice.
"Well?" Malone said at last.
"And you're always so goddamned right it makes me sick," Fernack
finished flatly. He rubbed a hand through his hair and stared into the
screen at Malone. "How did you know all this stuff?" he said.
Malone waited one full second, while Fernack got darker and darker on
the screen. When he judged that the color was right, he said quietly,
"I'm prescient. And thanks a lot, John Henry; just send the reports to
me personally, at 69th Street. By messenger. So long."