yet," Malone said. "But I'll let you know at once if there are
any further developments. Thanks very much, Mr. Teal."

"A pleasure, Mr. Malone," Teal said. "A pleasure." And then, still
masticating, he switched off.

And that, Malone told himself, was definitely that. Of course the
British PRS hadn't gone underground; why should they? The British
police weren't on to them, as Scotland Yard showed. And, no matter
what opinions Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I might hold in the matter,
the FBI had absolutely no jurisdiction in the British Isles.

Malone buried his face in his hands, thought about a cigar and decided
that even a cigar might make him feel worse. Where were they? What
were they doing now? What did they plan to do?

Where had they gone?

"Out of the everywhere," he said in a hollow, sepulchral voice, "into
the here."

But where was the here?

He tried to make up his mind whether or not that made sense.
Superficially, it sounded like plain bad English, but he wasn't sure
of anything any more. Things were getting much too confused.

There was a knock at the door.

Malone, without any hope at all, called: "Come in," and the door
opened.

The agent-in-charge came in, and dropped a dollar on Malone's desk.

"So you checked," Malone said.

"I checked," the A-in-C said sadly. "The boys went through the entire
damned building. Not a sign of her. Not even a trace."

"There wouldn't be one," Malone said, shoving the dollar back to
waiting hands. "Take the money; I knew what would happen. It was a
sucker bet."

"Well, I feel like the sucker, all right," the A-in-C said. "I don't
know how she did it."

"I do," Malone said quietly. "Teleportation."

The A-in-C whistled. "Well," he said, "it was a great secret as long
as it was FBI property. But now, friend, all hell is going to bust
loose."

"It already has," Malone said hollowly.

"Great," the A-in-C said. "What now?"

"Now," Malone said, "I am going to go back to Washington. Take care of
poor little old New York for me."

He closed his eyes, and vanished.

When he opened them, he was in his Washington apartment. He went over
to the big couch and sat down, feeling that if he were going to curse
he might as well be comfortable while he did it. But when the air was
bright blue, some minutes later, he didn't feel any better. Cursing
was not the answer.

Nothing seemed to be.

What was his next move?

Where did he go from here?

The more he t