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."