nd
stuff," he said at last. "Maybe you've got a reason to dress up. How
would I know? I'm only a State Patrolman."

"Let's cut the monologue," Malone said savagely, "and get to business."

The patrolman stared. Then he said: "All right, sir. Yes, sir. I'm
Lieutenant Adams, Mr. Malone. Suppose you tell me what happened?"

Carefully and concisely, Malone told him the story of the Buick that had
pulled up beside them, and what had happened afterward.

Meanwhile, the other cops had been looking over the wreck. When Malone
had finished his story, Lieutenant Adams flipped his notebook shut and
looked over toward them. "I guess it's O.K., sir," he said. "As far as
I'm concerned, it's justifiable homicide. Self-defense. Any reason why
they'd want to kill you?"

Malone thought about the Golden Palace. That might be a reason--but it
might not. And why burden an innocent State Patrolman with the facts of
FBI life?

"Official," he said. "Your chief will get the report."

The patrolman nodded. "I'll have to take a deposition tomorrow, but--"

"I know," Malone said. "Thanks. Can we go on to our hotel now?"

"I guess," the patrolman said. "Go ahead. We'll take care of the rest of
this. You'll be getting a call later."

"Fine," Malone said. "Trace those hoods, and any connections they might
have had. Get the information to me as soon as possible."

Lieutenant Adams nodded. "You won't have to leave the state, will you?"
he asked. "I don't mean that you _can't_, exactly ... hell, you're FBI.
But it'd be easier--"

"Call Burris in Washington," Malone said. "He can get hold of me--and if
the Governor wants to know where we are, or the State's Attorney, put
them in touch with Burris, too. O.K.?"

"O.K.," Lieutenant Adams said. "Sure." He blinked at Malone. "Listen,"
he said. "About those costumes--"

"We're trying to catch Henry VIII for the murder of Anne Boleyn," Malone
said with a polite smile. "O.K.?"

"I was only asking," Lieutenant Adams said. "Can't blame a man for
asking, now, can you?"

Malone climbed into his front seat. "Call me later," he said. The car
started. "Back to the hotel, Sir Thomas," Malone said, and the car
roared off.

VII

Yucca Flats, Malone thought, certainly deserved its name. It was about
as flat as land could get, and it contained millions upon millions of
useless yuccas. Perhaps they were good for something, Malone thought,
but they weren't good for _him_.

The place might, of