more diplomatic way was to call up Atif Abdullah Aoud
and arrange for an appointment.

Malone made his decision in a flash. He flipped on the phone and
punched for a PLaza exchange.

The face that appeared on the screen was that of a fairly pretty, if
somewhat vapid, brunette. "Rodger, Willcoe, O'Vurr and Aoud, good
afternoon," she said.

Malone blinked.

"Who is calling, please?" the girl said. She snapped gum at the screen
and Malone winced and drew away.

"This is Kenneth J. Malone," he said from what he considered a safe
distance. "I want to talk to Mr. Aoud."

"Mr. Aoud?" she said in a high, unhelpful whine.

"That's right," Malone said patiently. "You can tell him that there
may be some government business coming his way."

"Oh," she said. "But Mr. Aoud isn't in."

Mr. Aoud wasn't in. Mr. Aoud was out. Malone turned that over in his
mind a few times, and decided to try and forget it just as quickly as
possible. "Then," he said, "let me talk to one of the other partners."

"Partners?" the girl said. She popped her gum again. Malone moved back
another inch.

"You know," he said. "The other people he works with. Rodger, or
Willcoe, or O'Vurr."

"Oh," the girl said. "Them."

"That's right," Malone said patiently.

"How about Mr. Willcoe?" the girl said after a second of deep and
earnest thought. "Would he do?"

"Why not let's try him and see?" Malone said.

"Okay," the girl said brightly. "Let's." She flashed Malone a dazzling
smile, only slightly impeded by the gum, and flipped off. Malone
stared at the blank screen for a few seconds, and then the girl's
voice said, invisibly: "Mr. Willcoe will speak to you now, Mr. Melon.
Thank you for waiting."

"I'm not--" Malone started to say, and then the face of Frederick
Willcoe appeared on the screen.

Willcoe was a thin, wrinkle-faced man with very pale skin. He seemed
to be in his sixties, and he looked as if he had just lost an
all-night bout with Count Dracula. Malone looked interestedly for
puncture marks, but failed to find any.

"Ah," Willcoe said, in a voice that sounded like crinkled paper. "Mr.
Melon. Good afternoon."

"I'm not Mr. Melon," Malone said testily.

Willcoe looked gently surprised, like a man who has discovered that
his evening sherry contains cholesterol. "Really?" he said. "Then I
must be on the wrong line. I beg your pardon."

"You're not on the wrong line," Malone said. "I am Mr. Melon in a
way." That didn't sound very