Out Like a Light

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Greg Bergquist, Bruce Albrecht andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net

  [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding ScienceFiction April, May and June 1960. Extensive research did not uncover anyevidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minortypographical errors have been corrected without note.]

  OUT LIKE A LIGHT

  By MARK PHILLIPS

  =_Kenneth Malone--sometimes known as Sir Kenneth of The Queen's Own FBI--had had problems with telepathic spies, and more than somewhat nutty telepathic counterspies. But the case of the Vanishing Delinquents was at least as bad...._=

  Illustrated by Freas

  The sidewalk was as soft as a good bed. Malone lay curled on it thinkingabout nothing at all. He was drifting off into a wonderful dream and hedidn't want to interrupt it. There was this girl, a beautiful girl, morewonderful than anything he had ever imagined, with big blue eyes andlong blond hair and a figure that made the average pin-up girl look likea man. And she had her soft white hand on his arm, and she was lookingup at him with trust and devotion and even adoration in her eyes, andher voice was the softest possible whisper of innocence and promise.

  "I'd love to go up to your apartment with you, Mr. Malone," she said.

  Malone smiled back at her, gently but with complete confidence. "Call meKen," he said, noticing that he was seven feet tall and superblymuscled. He put his free hand on the girl's warm, soft shoulder and shewriggled with delight.

  "All right--Ken," she said. "You know, I've never met anyone like youbefore. I mean, you're so wonderful and everything."

  Malone chuckled modestly, realizing, in passing, how full and rich hisvoice had become. He felt a weight pressing over his heart, and knewthat it was his wallet, stuffed to bursting with thousand-dollar bills.

  But was this a time to think of money?

  No, Malone told himself. This was the time for adventure, for romance,for love. He looked down at the girl and put his arm around her waist.She snuggled closer.

  He led her easily down the long wide street to his car at the end of theblock. It stood in godlike solitude, a beautiful red Cadillac capable ofgoing a hundred and ten miles an hour in any gear, equipped with fullyautomatic steering and braking, and with stereophonic radio, a hi-fi anda 3-D set installed in both front and back seats. It was a 1972 job, buthe meant to trade it in on something even better when the 1973 modelscame out. In the meantime, he decided, it would do.

  He handed the girl in, went round to the other side and slid in underthe wheel. There was soft music playing, somewhere, and a magnificentsunset appeared ahead of them as Malone pushed a button on the dashboardand the red Cadillac started off down the wide, empty, wonderfully pavedstreet into the sunset while he--

  The red Cadillac?

  The sidewalk became a little harder, and Malone suddenly realized thathe was lying on it. Something terrible had happened; he knew that rightaway. He opened his eyes to look for the girl, but the sunset had becomemuch brighter; his head began to pound with the slow regularity of adead-march and he closed his eyes again in a hurry.

  The sidewalk swayed a little but he managed to keep his balance on itsomehow, and after a couple of minutes it was quiet again. His headhurt. Maybe that was the terrible thing that had happened, but Malonewasn't quite sure. As a matter of fact, he wasn't very sure aboutanything, and he started to ask himself questions to make certain he wasall there.

  He didn't feel all there. He felt as if several of his parts had beenreplaced with second-or even third-hand experimental models, andsomething had happened to the experiment. It was even hard to think ofany questions, but after a while he managed to come up with a few.

  _What is your name?_

  Kenneth Malone.

  _Where do you live?_

  Washington, D. C.

  _What is your work?_

  I work for the FBI.

  _Then what are you doing on a sidewalk in New York in broad daylight?_

  He tried to find an answer to that, but there didn't seem to be any, nomatter where he looked. The only thing he could think of was the redCadillac.

  And if the red Cadillac had anything to do with anything, Malone didn'tknow about it.

  Very slowly and carefully, he opened his eyes again, one at a time. Hediscovered that the light was not coming from the gorgeous Hollywoodsunset he had dreamed up. As a matter of fact, sunset was several hoursin the past, and it never looked very pretty in New York anyhow. It wasthe middle of the night, and Malone was lying under a convenient streetlamp.

  He closed his eyes again and waited patiently for his head to go away.

  A few minutes passed. It was obvious that his head had settled down fora long stay, and no matter how bad it felt, Malone told himself, it_was_ his head, after all. He felt a certain responsibility for it. Andhe couldn't just leave it lying around somewhere with its eyes closed.

  He opened the head's eyes once more, and this time he kept them open.For a long time he stared at the post of the street lamp, consideringit, and he finally decided that it looked sturdy enough to support ahundred and sixty-five pounds of FBI man, even with the head added in.He grabbed for the post with both hands and started to pull himselfupright, noticing vaguely that his legs had somehow managed to getunderneath him.

  As soon as he was standing, he wished he'd stayed on the nice horizontalsidewalk. His head was spinning dizzily and his mind was being suckeddown into the whirlpool. He held on to the post grimly and tried to stayconscious.

  * * * * *

  A long time, possibly two or three seconds, passed. Malone hadn't movedat all when the two cops came along.

  One of them was a big man with a brassy voice and a face that looked asif it had been overbaked in a waffle-iron. He came up behind Malone andtapped him on the shoulder, but Malone barely felt the touch. Then thecop bellowed into Malone's ear.

  "What's the matter, buddy?"

  Malone appreciated the man's sympathy. It was good to know that you hadfriends. But he wished, remotely, that the cop and his friend, a shorterand thinner version of the beat patrolman, would go away and leave himin peace. Maybe he could lie down on the sidewalk again and get a coupleof hundred years' rest.

  Who could tell?

  "Mallri," he said.

  "You're all right?" the big cop said. "That's fine. That's great. So whydon't you go home and sleep it off?"

  "Sleep?" Malone said. "Home?"

  "Wherever you live, buddy," the big cop said. "Come on. Can't standaround on the sidewalk all night."

  Malone shook his head, and decided at once never to do it again. He hadsome kind of rare disease, he realized. His brain was loose, and theinside of his skull was covered with sandpaper. Every time his headmoved, the brain jounced against some of the sandpaper.

  But the policeman thought he was drunk. That wasn't right. He couldn'tlet the police get the wrong impression of FBI agents. Now the man wouldgo around telling people that the FBI was always drunk and disorderly.

  "Not drunk," he said clearly.

  "Sure," the big cop said. "You're fine. Maybe just one too many, huh?"

  "No," Malone said. The effort exhausted him and he had to catch hisbreath before he could say anything else. But the cops waited patiently.At last he said: "Somebody slugged me."

  "Slugged?" the big cop said.

  "Right." Malone remembered just in time not to nod his head.

  "How about a description, buddy?" the big cop said.

  "Didn't see him," Malone said. He let go of the post with one hand,keeping a precarious grip with the other. He stared at his watch. Thehands danced back and forth, but he focused on them after a while. Itw
as 1:05. "Happened just--a few minutes ago," he said. "Maybe you cancatch him."

  The big cop said: "Nobody around here. The place is deserted--except foryou, buddy." He paused and then added: "Let's see some identification,huh? Or did he take your wallet?"

  Malone thought about getting the wallet, and decided against it. Themotions required would be a little tricky, and he wasn't sure he couldmanage them without letting go of the post entirely. At last he decidedto let the cop get his wallet. "Inside coat pocket," he said.

  The other policeman blinked and looked up. His face was a studied blank."Hey, buddy," he said. "You know you got blood on your head?"

  The big cop said: "Sam's right. You're bleeding, mister."

  "Good," Malone said.

  The big cop said: "Huh?"

  "I thought maybe my skull was going to explode from high bloodpressure," Malone said. It was beginning to be a little easier to talk."But as long as there's a slow leak, I guess I'm out of danger."

  "Get his wallet," the smaller cop--Sam--said. "I'll watch him."

  A hand went into Malone's jacket pocket. It tickled a little bit, butMalone didn't think of objecting. Naturally enough, the hand andMalone's wallet did not make an instant connection. When the handtouched the bulky object strapped near Malone's armpit it stopped,frozen, and then cautiously snaked the object out.

  "What's that, Bill?" Sam said.

  Bill looked up with the object in his hand. He seemed a little dazed."It's a gun," he said.

  "The guy's heeled!" Sam said. "Watch him! Don't let him get away!"

  Malone considered getting away, and decided that he couldn't move. "It'sO.K.," he said.

  "O.K., hell," Sam said. "It's a .44 Magnum. What are you doing with agun, Mac?" He was no longer polite and friendly. "Why you carrying agun?" he said.

  "I'm not carrying it," Malone said tiredly. "Bill is. Your pal."

  Bill backed away from Malone, putting the Magnum in his pocket andkeeping the FBI agent covered with his own Police Positive. At the sametime, he fished out the personal radio every patrolman carried in hisuniform, and began calling for a prowl car in a low, somewhat nervousvoice.

  Sam said: "A gun. He could of shot everybody."

  "Get his wallet," Bill said. "He can't hurt you now. I disarmed him."

  Malone began to feel slightly dangerous. Maybe he _was_ a famousgangster. He wasn't sure. Maybe all this about being an FBI agent wasjust a figment of his imagination. Blows on the head did funny things."I'll drill everybody full of holes," he said in a harsh, underworldsort of voice, but it didn't sound very convincing. Sam approached himgently and fished out his wallet with great care, as if Malone were aticking bomb ready to go off any second.

  There was a little silence. Then Sam said: "Give him his gun back,Bill," in a hushed and respectful tone.

  "Give him back his gun?" the big cop said. "You gone nuts, Sam?"

  Sam shook his head slowly. "Nope," he said. "But we made a terriblemistake. Know who this guy is?"

  "He's heeled," Bill said. "That's all I want to know." He put the radioaway and gave all his attention to Malone.

  "He's FBI," Sam said. "The wallet says so. Badge and everything. And notonly that, Bill. He's Kenneth J. Malone."

  * * * * *

  Well, Malone thought with relief, that settled that. He wasn't agangster after all. He was just the FBI agent he had always known andloved. Maybe now the cops would do something about his head and take himaway for burial.

  "Malone?" Bill said. "You mean the guy who's here about all those redCadillacs?"

  "Sure," Sam said. "So give him his gun back." He looked at Malone."Listen, Mr. Malone," he said. "We're sorry. We're sorry as hell."

  "That's all right," Malone said absently. He moved his head slowly andlooked around. His suspicions were confirmed. There wasn't a redCadillac anywhere in sight, and from the looks of the street there neverhad been. "It's gone," he said, but the cops weren't listening.

  "We better get you to a hospital," Bill said. "As soon as the prowl cargets here we'll take you right on down to St. Vincent's. Can you tell uswhat happened? Or is it--classified?"

  Malone wondered what could be classified about a blow on the head, anddecided not to think about it. "I can tell you," he said, "if you'llanswer one question for me."

  "Sure, Mr. Malone," Bill said. "We'll be glad to help."

  "Anything at all," Sam said.

  Malone gave them what he hoped was a gracious and condescending smile."All right, then," he said. "Where the hell am I?"

  "In New York," Sam said.

  "I know that," Malone said tiredly. "Anywhere in particular, or justsort of all over New York?"

  "Ninth Street," Bill said hurriedly. "Near the Village. Is that whereyou were when they slugged you?"

  "I guess so," Malone said. "Sure." He nodded, and immediately rememberedthat he shouldn't have. He closed his eyes until the pain had softenedto agony, and then opened them again. "I was getting pretty tired ofsitting around waiting for something to break on this case," he said,"and I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk. I ended up in GreenwichVillage--which is no place for a self-respecting man to end up."

  "I know just what you mean," Sam said sympathetically. "Bohemians, theycall themselves. Crazy people."

  "Not the people," Malone said. "The streets. I got sort of lost."Chicago, he reflected, was a long way from the easiest city in the worldto get around in. And he supposed you could even get confused inWashington if you tried hard enough. But he knew those cities. He couldfind his way around in them. Greenwich Village was different.

  It was harder to navigate in than the trackless forests of the Amazon.The Village had tracks, all right--thousands of tracks. Only none ofthem led anywhere in particular.

  "Anyhow," Malone said, "I saw this red Cadillac."

  The cops looked around hurriedly and then looked back at Malone. Billstarted to say: "But there isn't any--"

  "I know," Malone said. "It's gone now. That's the trouble."

  "You mean somebody got in and drove it away?" Sam said.

  "For all I know," Malone said, "it sprouted wings and flew away." Hepaused. "When I saw it I decided to go over and have a look. Just incase."

  "Sure," Bill said. "Makes sense." He stared at his partner as if defyinghim to prove it didn't make sense. Malone didn't really care.

  "There wasn't anybody else on the street," he said, "so I walked overand tried the door. That's all. I didn't even open the car or anything.And I'll swear there was nobody behind me."

  "Well," Sam said, "the street was empty when we got here."

  "But a guy could have driven off in that red Cadillac before we gothere," Bill said.

  "Sure," Malone said. "But where did he come from? I figured maybesomebody dropped something by mistake--a safe or something. Becausethere wasn't anybody behind me."

  "There had to be," Bill said.

  "Well," Malone said, "there wasn't."

  There was a little silence.

  "What happened then?" Sam said. "After you tried the door handle, Imean."

  "Then?" Malone said. "Then, I went out like a light."

  A pair of headlights rounded the nearby corner. Bill looked up. "That'sthe prowl car," he announced, and went over to meet it.

  The driver was a solidly-built little man with the face of a Pekingese.His partner, a tall man who looked as if he'd have been much morecomfortable in a ten-gallon Stetson instead of the regulation blue cap,leaned out at Bill, Sam and Malone.

  "What's the trouble here?" he said in a harsh, high voice.

  "No trouble," Bill said, and went over to the car. He began talking tothe two cops inside in a low, urgent voice. Meanwhile, Sam got his armaround Malone and began pulling him away from the lamp post.

  Malone was a little unwilling to let go, at first. But Sam was strongerthan he looked. He convoyed the FBI agent carefully to the rear door ofthe prowl car, opened it and levered Malone gently to a seat inside,
just as Bill said: "So with the cut and all, we figured he ought to goover to St. Vincent's. You people were already on the way, so we didn'tbother with ambulances."

  The driver snorted. "Next time you want taxi service," he said, "youjust call us up. What do you think, a prowl car's an easy life?"

  "Easier than doing a beat," Bill said mournfully. "And anyway," he addedin a low, penetrating whisper, "the guy's FBI."

  "So the FBI's got all kinds of equipment," the driver said. "The latest.Why don't he whistle up a helicopter or a jet?" Then, apparentlydeciding that further invective would get him nowhere, he settled backin his seat, said: "Aah, forget it," and started the car with a smallbut perceptible jerk.

  Malone decided not to get into the argument. He was tired, and it waslate. He rested his head on the back seat and tried to relax, but allhe could do was think about red Cadillacs.

  He wished he had never even heard of red Cadillacs.