getting his information out ofthe country.
He doubted that it would turn up anything, but it was a chance. AndMalone hoped desperately for it, because he was beginning to be surethat the field agents were never going to turn up any telepathicimbeciles.
He was right. They never did.
3
The telephone rang.
Malone rolled over on the couch and muttered four words under hisbreath. Was it absolutely necessary for someone to call him at sevenin the morning?
He grabbed at the receiver with one hand, and picked up his cigar fromthe ashtray with the other. It was bad enough to be awakened from asound sleep--but when a man hadn't been sleeping at all, it was evenworse.
He'd been sitting up since before five that morning, worrying aboutthe telepathic spy, and at the moment he wanted sleep more than hewanted phone calls.
"Gur?" he said, sleepily and angrily, thankful that he'd never had avisiphone installed in his apartment. A taste for blondes wasapparently hereditary. At any rate, Malone felt he had inherited itfrom his father, and he didn't want any visible strangers calling himat odd hours to interfere with his process of collection and research.
He blinked at the audio circuit, and a feminine voice said: "Mr.Kenneth J. Malone?"
"Who's this?" Malone said peevishly, beginning to discover himselfcapable of semirational English speech.
"Long distance from San Francisco," the voice said.
"It certainly is," Malone said. "Who's calling?"
"San Francisco is calling," the voice said primly.
Malone repressed a desire to tell the voice that he didn't want totalk to St. Francis, not even in Spanish, and said instead: _"Who_ inSan Francisco?"
There was a momentary hiatus, and then the voice said: "Mr. ThomasBoyd is calling, sir. He says this is a scramble call."
Malone took a drag from his cigar and closed his eyes. Obviously thecall was a scramble. If it had been clear, the man would have dialeddirect, instead of going through what Malone now recognized as anoperator.
"Mr. Boyd says he is the Agent-in-Charge of the San Francisco officeof the FBI," the voice offered.
"And quite right, too," Malone told her. "All right. Put him on."
"One moment," There was a pause, a click, another pause and thenanother click. At last the operator said: "Your party is ready, sir."
Then there was still another pause.
Malone stared at the audio receiver. He began to whistle _When IrishEyes Are Smiling_.
_... And the sound of Irish laughter...._ "Hello? Malone?"
"I'm here, Tom," Malone said guiltily. "This is me. What's thetrouble?"
"Trouble?" Boyd said. "There isn't any trouble. Well, not really. Ormaybe it is. I don't know."
Malone scowled at the audio receiver, and for the first time wished hehad gone ahead and had a video circuit put in, so that Boyd could seethe horrendous expression on his face.
"Look," he said. "It's seven here and that's too early. Out there,it's four, and that's practically ridiculous. What's so important?"
He knew perfectly well that Boyd wasn't calling him just for the funof it. The man was a damned good agent. But why a call at this hour?
Malone muttered under his breath. Then, self-consciously, he squashedout his cigar and lit a cigarette while Boyd was saying: "Ken, I thinkwe may have found what you've been looking for."
It wasn't safe to say too much, even over a scrambled circuit. ButMalone got the message without difficulty.
"Yeah?" he said, sitting up on the edge of the couch. "You sure?"
"Well," Boyd said, "no. Not absolutely sure. Not absolutely. But it isworth your taking a personal look, I think."
"Ah," Malone said cautiously. "An imbecile?"
"No," Boyd said flatly. "Not an imbecile. Definitely not an imbecile.As a matter of fact, a hell of a fat long way from an imbecile."
Malone glanced at his watch and skimmed over the airline timetables inhis mind. "I'll be there nine o'clock, your time," he said. "Have acar waiting for me at the field."
* * * * *
As usual, Malone managed to sleep better on the plane than he'd beenable to do at home. He slept so well, in fact, that he was stillgroggy when he stepped into the waiting car.
"Good to see you, Ken," Boyd said briskly, as he shook Malone's hand.
"You, too, Tom," Malone said sleepily. "Now what's all this about?" Helooked around apprehensively. "No bugs in this car, I hope?" he said.
Boyd gunned the motor and headed toward the San Francisco Freeway."Better not be," he said, "or I'll fire me a technician or two."
"Well, then," Malone said, relaxing against the upholstery, "where isthis guy, and who is he? And how did you find him?"
Boyd looked uncomfortable. It was, somehow, both an awe-inspiring anda slightly risible sight. Six feet one and one-half inches tall in hisflat feet, Boyd posted around over two hundred and twenty pounds ofbone, flesh and muscle. He swung a pot-belly of startling proportionsunder the silk shirting he wore, and his face, with its wide nose,small eyes and high forehead, was half highly mature, half startlinglychildlike. In an apparent effort to erase those childlike qualities,Boyd sported a fringe of beard and a moustache which reminded Maloneof somebody he couldn't quite place.
But whoever the somebody was, his hair hadn't been black, as Boyd'swas...
He decided it didn't make any difference. Anyhow, Boyd was speaking.
"In the first place," he said, "it isn't a guy. In the second, I'm notexactly sure who it is. And in the third, Ken, I didn't find it."
There was a little silence.
"Don't tell me," Malone said. "It's a telepathic horse, isn't it? Tom,I just don't think I could stand a telepathic horse...."
"No," Boyd said hastily. "No. Not at all. No horse. It's a dame. Imean a lady." He looked away from the road and flashed a glance atMalone. His eyes seemed to be pleading for something--understanding,possibly, Malone thought. "Frankly," Boyd said, "I'd rather not tellyou anything about her just yet. I'd rather you met her first. Thenyou could make up your own mind. All right?"
"All right," Malone said wearily. "Do it your own way. How far do wehave to go?"
"Just about an hour's drive," Boyd said. "That's all."
Malone slumped back in the seat and pushed his hat over his eyes."Fine," he said. "Suppose you wake me up when we get there."
But, groggy as he was, he couldn't sleep. He wished he'd had somecoffee on the plane. Maybe it would have made him feel better.
Then again, coffee was only coffee. True, he had never acquired hisfather's taste for gin (and imagined, therefore, that it wasn'thereditary, like a taste for blondes), but there was always bourbon.
He thought about bourbon for a few minutes. It was a nice thought. Itwarmed him and made him feel a lot better. After a while, he even feltawake enough to do some talking.
He pushed his hat back and struggled to a reasonable sitting position."I don't suppose you have a drink hidden away in the car somewhere?"he said tentatively. "Or would the technicians have found that, too?"
"Better not have," Boyd said in the same tone as before, "or I'll firea couple of technicians." He grinned without turning. "It's in thedoor compartment, next to the forty-five cartridges and the Tommy-gun."
Malone opened the compartment in the thick door of the car andextracted a bottle. It was Christian Brothers Brandy instead of thebourbon he had been thinking about, but he discovered that he didn'tmind at all. It went down as smoothly as milk.
Boyd glanced at it momentarily as Malone screwed the top back on.
"No," Malone said in answer to the unspoken question. "You'redriving." Then he settled back again and tipped his hat forward.
He didn't sleep a wink. He was perfectly sure of that. But it wasn'tover two seconds later that Boyd said: "We're here, Ken. Wake up."
"Whadyamean, wakeup," Malone said. "I wasn't asleep." He thumbed hishat back and sat up rapid
ly. "Where's 'here?'"
"Bayview Neuropsychiatric Hospital," Boyd said. "This is where Dr.Harman works, you know."
"No," Malone said. "As a matter of fact, I don't know. You didn't tellme--remember? And who is Dr. Harman, anyhow?"
The car was moving up a long, curving driveway toward a large, lawn-surrounded building. Boyd spoke without