one
hand. He continued driving, even more carefully, until he was out of
the city.

It took quite a lot of time. Washington traffic was getting worse and
worse with every passing month, and the pedestrians were as nonchalant
as ever. As Malone turned a corner, a familiar face popped into view,
practically in front of his car. He swerved and got by without
committing homicide, and a cheerful voice said: "Thanks, sorry."

"It's okay, Chester," Malone said. The big man skipped back to the
sidewalk and watched the car go by. Malone knew him slightly, a
private eye who did some work on the fringes of Washington crime;
basically a nice guy, but a little too active for Malone's taste.

For a second he thought of asking the man to accompany him, but the
last thing Malone needed was muscle. What he wanted was brains, and he
even thought he might be developing some of those.

He was nearly sure of it by the time he finally did leave the city and
get out onto the highway that went south into the depths of Virginia.
And, while he drove, he began to use that brain, letting his reflexes
take over most of the driving problems now that the Washington traffic
tangle was behind him.

He took all his thoughts from behind the shield that had sheltered
them and arrayed them neatly before him. Everything was perfectly
clear; all he had to do now was explain it.

Malone had wondered, over the years, about the detectives in books.
They always managed to wrap everything up in the last chapter--and
that was all right. But they always had a whole crowd of suspects
listening to them, too. And Malone knew perfectly well that he could
never manage a set-up like that. People would be interrupting him.
Things would happen. Dogs would rush in and start a fight on the
floor. There would be earthquakes, or else somebody would suddenly
faint and interrupt him.

But now, at long last, he realized, he had his chance.

Nobody, he thought happily, could interrupt him. And he could explain
to his heart's content.

Because the members of the PRS were telepathic. And Malone, he thought
cheerfully, was not.

Somebody, he was sure, would be tuned in on him as he drove toward
their Virginia hiding place. And he hoped that that somebody would
alert everybody else, so they could all tune in and hear his grand
final explanation of everything.

_And a hearty good afternoon to everybody,_ he thought. _A very hearty
and happy and sunny good afternoon to a