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."