olman said. "Why, we don't pay any attention out
here until a fella hits ten miles over the posted limit. That's okay."

"Fine," Malone said cheerily. "Then I can drive on?"

"Now, just hold it a second there," the patrolman said. "Let's see
your identification if you don't mind."

Malone held it out wordlessly. The patrolman, obviously intent on
finding out just what kind of paper the card was made of, who had
printed it and whether there were any germs on it, gave it a long,
careful scrutiny. Malone shifted slightly in his seat, counted to ten
and managed to say nothing.

Then the patrolman started reading the card aloud. "Kenneth J.
Malone," he said in a tone of some surprise. "Special Agent of the
FBI." He looked up. "That right?" he said. "What it says here?"

"That's right," Malone said. "And you can have my autograph later." He
regretted the last sentence as soon as it was out of his mouth, but
the patrolman didn't seem to notice.

"Then you're the man, all right," he said happily. "I caught your
plate number as you went on by me, back there."

"Plate number?" Malone said. "What am I supposed to have done?" He'd
overslept, he knew, but that was the only violation of even his
personal code that he could think of. And it didn't seem likely that
the Virginia Highway Patrol was sending out its men to arrest people
who overslept.

"Why, Mr. Malone," the patrolman said with honest surprise written all
over his Norman Rockwell face, "as far as I know you didn't do a thing
wrong."

"But--"

"They just told us to be on the watch for a black 1973 Lincoln with
your number, and see if you were driving it. They did say you'd
probably be driving it."

"Good," Malone said. "And I am. And I'd like to continue doing so." He
paused and then added, "But what happened?"

"Well," the patrolman said, in exactly the manner of a man starting
out to tell a long, interesting story about the Wars of the Spanish
Succession, "well, sir, it seems FBI Headquarters in Washington, they
got in touch with the Highway Patrol Headquarters, down in Richmond,
and Highway Patrol Headquarters--"

"Down in Richmond," Malone muttered resignedly.

"That's right," the patrolman said in a pleased voice. "Well, they
called all the local barracks, and then we got the message on our
radios." He stopped, exactly as if he thought he had finished.

Malone counted to ten again, made it twenty and then found that he was
capable of speech. "What?"