"You're not mad, are you," she said, "because I stole your notebook?"
"Of course not," Malone said. "I said forget it, didn't I? Sit down
and help us out."
"Help you?" she said.
"That's right," Boyd said. "Help us figure out how to catch this bunch
of maniacs before they steal everything in New York."
Dorothea said, "Maniacs? I--" and Malone interrupted her in a hurry.
"Police Commissioner Fernack has called twice this morning already,"
he said. "He's screaming about all the burglaries that have been
occurring since midnight last night."
"Oh," Dorothea said. "You mean the Spooks? Mike and the others?
They've been stealing again?"
"They sure have, Miss Fueyo," Boyd said.
"I guess they're furnishing their new hideout," Malone said. "Wherever
it is. Only God knows."
"And even if He told us," Boyd said, "it wouldn't do us any good.
Chase 'em out of there, and they'd go somewhere else."
Malone stood up, fished for his cigarettes and lit one. "What we
need," he said, blowing out smoke, "is some way to trap 'em and hold
'em. And I don't see how we can do either."
"After last night," Dorothea said, "I really don't see--"
"Wait a minute," Boyd said. "You said _trap_, didn't you?" He looked
slowly and speculatively at Dorothea Fueyo.
A second passed.
"Oh, no, you don't!" she said. "Oh, no. Not on your life. I'll help
catch him if I can, because I know you don't mean to hurt him or the
others. But I wouldn't want Mike to know about it. You're not using me
as bait in any trap."
Boyd looked at Malone, shook his head slowly, and said disconsolately,
"Well, it was an idea." He returned his gaze to the floor.
The furtive gleam of the half bottle of bourbon on Malone's dresser
caught his eye. He'd had it sent up the night before, feeling the need
of some medicinal refreshment. Now it winked at him. He ignored it
resolutely. "Dorothea," he said.
"Yes?"
"Dorothea, do you have any idea how far one of those kids can go when
he teleports?"
"No," Dorothea said. "I really haven't any idea about any of it. Mike
tried to teach me once, but I guess I just don't have the talent."
"Oh," Malone said.
"I wish I could help," Dorothea said.
Silence fell, and gloom followed it.
Time ticked by. The bourbon bottle resumed its seductive winking.
"There is one thing," Dorothea said suddenly. "He did say one thing
about it."
"What?" Malone said eagerly.
"He said you couldn't teleport to some place you haven't been before.
You've got to be able to visualize where you're going."
Malone said, "Hmm." It seemed like the right answer. Dorothea's
statement was a fact, certainly, but he didn't see how the fact fit in
anywhere.
"He didn't mention anything about distance, and I don't think any of
the Spooks ever tested it for that," Dorothea said.
"There probably is a distance limit," Malone said. "At least if Dr.
O'Connor's theories are right. I just wish I knew what the limit was."
Silence fell again. Malone sighed. Dorothea sighed. Boyd sighed,
looked around at the others and muttered, "Damn thing's catching." He
got up and walked over to the dresser and picked up the bottle of
bourbon.
"You, too?" Malone murmured, but Boyd didn't hear him.
"I don't care if it is early in the morning," he said, resolutely. "I
need a drink. I need something to take the fog out of my head,
anyhow." He poured himself a shot, held the bottle aloft, and said,
"Dorothea? Malone?"
The girl shook her head.
Malone was tempted but he put Satan behind him with decision. "No," he
said firmly. "The way I feel now, one drink would probably immobilize
me."
Dorothea chuckled. "You sound just like Mike," she said.
"Mike doesn't drink in the morning either?" Malone said.
"Of course he doesn't," Boyd said. "Mike is a nice kid. A swell kid."
"You keep quiet," Dorothea shot at him. She turned back to Malone.
"Mike never drinks at all," she said. "He says it immobilizes
him--just what you said."
Somewhere in the black galactic depths of Malone's mind, a very small
hot star gulped, took a deep breath and became a supernova.
The light was tremendous! It shed beams over everything, beams of a
positively supernal brilliance. And in the all-pervasive brightness of
that single inner light, bits of data began to fall into place with
all the precision of aerial bombs, each falling neatly and exactly
into its own little predetermined bomb crater.
It was beautiful. It was magnificent. Malone felt all choked up.
None of the Silent Spooks drank. He remembered Kettleman telling him
that. And the Queen never touched the stuff either.
"What's wrong?" Boyd said.
"Malone, you look green."
"I feel green," Malone said. "I feel like newly sprung grass. I feel
as if I had just hatched out of something. I feel wonderful."
"It's the strain," Boyd said. "That's what it is, strain. You've
cracked at last."
Malone ignored him. "Tell me," he said to Dorothea with elaborate
casualness, "when your brother says that, what does he mean?"
"What?" she said. "Oh, I don't know. I--" She stopped and her eyes
widened. "You don't think that--"
"I don't know," Malone said. "But we can sure as hell find out."
Dorothea blinked. "What can you do?" she said. "I mean, to find out.
You can't force them to drink or anything, can you?"
"No," Malone said. "I can't do that. But it does give me an idea."
Boyd held his untasted drink in his hand, staring at Malone and the
girl. "What are you two talking about?" he said. "Or is this the
special Captain Midnight code? I left my code ring home this week."
"Boyd," Malone snapped, "get on the phone."
"Are you sure it will hold me?" Boyd said.
"I want you to call Dr. O'Connor at Yucca Flats," Malone said. "Shut
up and listen."
There was silence.