"There's only one thing I want," Lynch said. "I want to be able to
move as soon as possible."
"Well, sure," Malone said apologetically.
"And that means I'm going to have to be informed," Lynch said. "I want
to know what's going on, as fast as possible."
Malone nodded gently. "Sure," he said. "I'll tell you everything that
happens--as soon as I know myself. But right now, I haven't got a
thing for you. All I have is a kind of theory, and it's pretty
screwy."
He stopped. Lynch looked up at him. "How screwy can it get?" he said.
"The facts are nutty enough."
"You have absolutely no idea," Malone assured him. "I'm not even
saying a word about this, not until I prove it out one way or another.
I'm not even thinking about it--not until it stops sounding so nutty
to me."
"Okay, Malone," Lynch said. "I can see a piece of it, if no more. The
Fueyo kid vanishes mysteriously--never mind all that about you getting
him out of the interrogation room by some kind of confidential method.
There isn't any confidential method. I know that better than you do."
"I had to say something, didn't I?" Malone asked apologetically.
"So the kid disappears," Lynch said, brushing Malone's question away
with a wave of his hand. "So now I hear all this stuff from Kettleman.
And it begins to add up. The kids can disappear somehow, and reappear
some place else. Walk through walls?" He shrugged. "How should I know?
But they can sure as hell do something like it."
"Something," Malone said. "Like I said, it sounds screwy."
"I don't like it," Lynch said.
Malone nodded. "Nobody likes it," he said. "But keep it under your
hat. I'll give you everything I have--whenever I have anything. And by
the way--"
"Yes?" Lynch said.
"Thanks for giving me and Kettleman a chance to talk," Malone said.
"Even if you had reasons of your own."
"Oh," Lynch said. "You mean the recording."
"I was a little suspicious," Malone said. "I didn't think you'd give
Kettleman to me without getting _something_ for yourself."
"Would you?" Lynch said.
Malone shrugged. "I'm not crazy either," he said.
Lynch picked up a handful of papers. "I've got all this work to do,"
he said. "So I'll see you later."
"Okay," Malone said.
"And if you need my help, buddy-boy," Lynch said, "just yell. Right?"
"I'll yell," Malone said. "Don't worry about that. I'll yell loud
enough to get myself heard in Space Station One."
9
The afternoon was bright and sunny, but it didn't match Malone's mood.
He got a cab outside the precinct station and headed for 69th Street,
dining off his nails en route. When he hit the FBI headquarters, he
called Washington and got Burris on the line.
He made a full report to the FBI chief, including his wild theory and
everything else that had happened. "And there was this notebook," he
said, and reached into his jacket pocket for it.
The pocket was empty.
"What notebook?" Burris said.
Malone tried to remember if he'd left the book in his room. He
couldn't quite recall. "This book I picked up," he said, and described
it. "I'll send it on, or bring it in when the case is over."
"All right," Burris said.
Malone went on with his description of what had happened. When he'd
finished, Burris heaved a great sigh.
"My goodness," he said. "Last year it was telepathic spies, and this
year it's teleporting thieves. Malone, I hate to think about next
year."
"I wish you hadn't said that," Malone said sadly.
Burris blinked. "Why?" he said.
"Oh, just because," Malone said. "I haven't even had time to think
about next year yet. But I'll think about it now."
"Well, maybe it won't be so bad," Burris said.
Malone shook his head. "No, Chief," he said. "You're wrong. It'll be
worse."
"This is bad enough," Burris said.
"It's a great vacation," Malone said.
"Please," Burris said. "Did I have any idea--"
"Yes," Malone said.
Burris' eyes closed. "All right, Malone," he said after a little
pause. "Let's get back to the report. At least it explains the red
Cadillac business. Sergeant Jukovsky was hit by a boy who vanished.
Vanished. My God."
"I was hit by a boy who vanished, too," Malone said bitterly. "But of
course I'm just an FBI agent. Expendable. Nobody cares about--"
"Don't say that, Malone," Burris said. "You're one of my most valuable
agents."
Malone tried to stop himself from beaming, but he couldn't. "Well,
Chief," he began, "I--"
"Vanishing boys," Burris muttered. "What are you going to do with
them, Malone?"
"I was hoping you might have some kind of suggestion," Malone said.
"Me?"
"Well," Malone said, "I suppose I'll figure it out. When I catch them.
But I did want something from you, Chief."
"Anything, Malone," Burris said. "Anything at all."
"I want you to get hold of Dr. O'Connor, out at Yucca Flats, if you
can. He's the best psionics man Westinghouse has right now, and I
might need him."
"If you say so," Burris said doubtfully.
"Well," Malone said, "these kids are teleports. And maybe there's some
way to stop a teleport. Give him a good hard kick in the psi, for
instance."
"In the what?"
"Never mind," Malone said savagely. "But if I'm going to get any
information on what makes teleports tick, I'm going to have to get it
from Dr. O'Connor. Right?"
"Right," Burris said.
"So get in touch with Dr. O'Connor," Malone said.
"I'll have him call you," Burris said. "Meanwhile--well, meanwhile
just carry on, Malone. I've got every confidence in you."
"Thanks," Malone growled.
"If anybody can crack a case like this," Burris said, "it's you."
"I suppose it had better be," Malone said, and rang off.
Then he started to think. The notebook wasn't in his pockets. He
checked every one, even the jacket pocket where he usually kept a
handkerchief and nothing else. It wasn't anywhere on his person.
Had he left it in his room?
He thought about that for several minutes, and finally decided that he
hadn't. He hadn't taken it out of his pocket, for one thing, and if it
had fallen to the ground he couldn't have helped seeing it. Of course
he'd put his wallet, keys, change, and other such items on the
dresser, and then replaced them in his pockets in the morning. But he
could remember how they'd looked on the dresser.
The notebook hadn't been there among them.
Now that he came to think of it, when had he seen the notebook last?
He'd shown it to Lieutenant Lynch during the afternoon, and then he'd
put it back in his pocket, and he hadn't looked for it again.
So it had to be somewhere in one of the bars he'd visited, or at the
theater where he and Dorothy had seen _The Hot Seat_.
Proud of himself for this careful and complete job of deduction, he
strolled out and, giving Boyd and the Agent-in-Charge one small smile
each, to remember him by, he went into the sunlight, trying to decide
which place to check first.
He settled on the theater because it was most probable. After all,
people were always losing things in theaters. Besides, if he started
at the theater, and found the notebook there, he could then go on to a
bar to celebrate. If he found the notebook in a bar, he didn't much
relish the idea of going on to an empty theater in the middle of the
afternoon to celebrate.
Shaking his head over this flimsy structure of logic, he headed down
to _The Hot Seat_. He banged on the lobby doors for a while without
any good result, and finally leaned against one of the side doors,
which opened. Malone fell through, recovered his balance, and found
himself facing an old bewhiskered man with a dustpan, a broom, and a
surprised expression.
"I'm looking for a notebook," Malone said.
"Try a stationery store, youngster," the old man said. "I thought I'd
heard 'em all, but--"
"No," Malone said. "You don't understand."
"I don't got to understand," the old man said. "That's what's so
restful about this here job. I just got to sweep up. I don't got to
understand nothing. Good-bye."
"I'm looking for a notebook I lost here last night," Malone said
desperately.
"Oh," the old man said. "Lost and Found. That's different. You come
with me."
The old man led Malone in silence to a cave deep in the bowels of the
theater, where he went behind a little desk, took up a pencil as if it
were a club, held it poised over a sheet of grimy paper, and said,
"Name?"