t back. All you had to do, he reflected, was to
think yourself somewhere else, and--bing!--you were there. If Malone
had been able to do it, it would not only have saved him a lot of time
and trouble, but also such things as cab fare and train fare and ...
oh, a lot of different things.

But he couldn't. And Dr. O'Connor hadn't found anyone else who could,
either. As far as Malone knew, nobody could teleport.

Except Mike Fueyo.

The cab stopped in front of FBI headquarters. "You some kind of secret
agent?" the cabbie said. "Like on 3-D?"

"Of course not," Malone said pleasantly. "I'm a foreign spy."

"Oh," the cabbie said. "Sure." He took his money with a somewhat
puzzled air, while Malone crossed the sidewalk and went into the
building.

Everyone was active. Malone pushed his way through arguing knots of
men until he reached the small office which he and Boyd had been
assigned. He had already decided not to tell Boyd about the
disappearing boy. That would only confuse him, and matters were
confused enough as they stood. Malone had no proof; he had only his
word and the word of a few baffled policemen, all of whom were
probably thoroughly confused by now.

Boyd had a job to do, and Malone had decided to let him go on doing
it. That, as a matter of fact, was what he was doing when Malone
entered the room.

He was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone. Malone couldn't
see the face on the screen, but Boyd was scowling at it fiercely.
"Sure," he said. "So some guy makes a fuss. That's what you're there
for."

"But he wants to sue the city," a voice said tinnily. "Or somebody,
anyhow."

"Let him sue," Boyd said. "We've got authority. Just get that car."

"Look," the voice said. "I--"

"I don't care now," Boyd snapped. "Get it. Then hand it over to the
pickup squad and say, 'Mr. Malone wants this car immediately.' They'll
know what to do. Got that?"

"Sure, Mr. Boyd," the voice said. "But I don't--"

"Never mind," Boyd said. "Go ahead and get the job done. The United
States of America is depending on you." With one last scowl, he hung
up and swung around to face Malone. "You gave me a great job," he
said. "I really love it, you know that?"

"It's got to be done," Malone said in a noncommittal voice. "How's it
going so far?"

Boyd closed his eyes for a second. "Twenty-three red 1972 Cadillacs to
date--which isn't bad, I suppose," he said. "And six calls like the
one you just heard. All from agen