hought about it, the more his mind spun. He was, he
realized, at an absolute, total, dead end.

Oh, there were things he could do. Malone knew that very well. He
could make a lot of noise and go through a lot of waste motion--that
was what it would amount to. He could have all the homes of all the
missing PRS members checked. That would result, undoubtedly, in the
discovery that the PRS members involved weren't in their homes. He
could have their files impounded, which would clutter everything with
a great many more pieces of paper, and none of the pieces of paper
would do any good to him. In general, he could have the entire FBI
chasing all over hell and gone--and finding nothing whatever.

No, it would be a waste of time, he told himself. That much was
certain.

And, though he probably had enough evidence to get the FBI in motion,
he had nowhere near enough to carry the case into court, much less
make a try at getting the case to stand up in court. That was one
thing he couldn't do, even if he wanted to: issue warrants for arrest
on any basis whatever.

But Malone was an FBI agent, and his motto was: "There's always a
way." No normal method of tracking down the PRS members, and finding
their present whereabouts, was going to work. They'd been covering
themselves for such an emergency, undoubtedly, for a good many years
and, due to telepathy, they certainly knew enough not to leave any
clues around, of any kind.

But nobody, Malone told himself, was perfect. There were clues lying
around somewhere, he was sure of that; there had to be. The problem
was, simply, to figure out where to look, and what to look for.

Somewhere, the clues were sitting quietly and waiting for him to find
them. The thought cheered him slightly, but not very much. Instead, he
went into the kitchen and started heating water for coffee. He thought
there might be a long night ahead of him, and sighed gently. But there
was no help for it. The work had to be done, and done quickly.

But when eight cigars had been reduced to ash, and what seemed like
several gallons of coffee had sloshed their way into Malone's interior
workings, his mind was as blank as a baby's. The lovely, opalescent
dawn began to show in the East, and Malone swore at it. Then, haggard,
red-eyed, confused, violently angry, and not one inch closer to a
solution, he fell into a fitful doze on his couch.

* * * * *

When he awoke the sun was high in the sky, and outside his