and go to the stars!"

And there was a closeup of Mayor Cadigan standing pompous and
wrathful--and looking very diminutive--behind the emblem of his
opposition party.

Dick Joy was saying, "Eyewitnesses claim that this replica--obviously
one of the items stolen from the Museum of Natural History--suddenly
materialized here. Immediately prior to the alleged materialization a
man--whose photograph we show now--ostensibly bent down to tie a
shoelace, setting a shoebox beside him. He left the box, walking off
into the gathering crowd, and this mastodon _seemed_ to spring into
being where the shoebox had been.

"The mastodon replica has been examined. A report just handed me says
it is definitely that from the Museum and that it could not
conceivably have been contained in a shoebox. It's obviously a case of
mass hypnotism. The replica must have been trucked here. There's no
other possible explanation. Excuse me!"

Dick Joy turned away, then back.

"I have just been handed a notice that Mayor Cadigan wishes to say a
few words and I hereby introduce him, His Honor the Mayor, Joseph F.
Cadigan!"

His balding, fragmentarily curly-haired Honor glared.

"Friends," he said chokingly, "whatever madman is responsible for this
outrageous act will not go unpunished. I call upon the City's Finest
to track him down and bring him to justice.

"I am for justice, for equality and peace. I--"

His Honor was apparently determined to use all the time he could.
Being a newscast, it was for free.

I killed the stereo. And the visio rang. It was Phil Pollini, the C.
I. Chief.

"Monk," he said, "guess you've seen the stereo. Al's out to fix the
Mayor's wagon."

"Say that again," I said, having a brainstorm.

"Now, look--" he started.

"Maybe you've got something there, Chief," I cut in. "Cadigan's got
the superduper of all wagons--a seven passenger luxury limousine with
bulletproof glass, stereo, a bar, venetian blinds and heaven knows
what else. Hot and cold running androids, maybe. He prowls the
elevated highways with an 'In Conference' sign flashing over the
windshield. So's he can't be wire-tapped or miked, I guess. It'd be a
natch for Al Benson to go for."

Pollini grinned.

"So if you were Benson what'd you do to fix the Mayor's wagon?"

"Hitch it to a star," I said, "and the closest spot to a star would be
the observation platform of the Greater Empire State."

"You're probably right," the Chief said. "Get going!"