on with him. Dr. O'Connor,
who'd invented a telepathy detector, had been discussing further reaches
in his field.

"After all," he'd said, "if thoughts can bridge any distance whatever,
regardless of other barriers, there is no reason why matter could not do
likewise."

"How do you know?" Malone had asked him, "it doesn't. Or, anyhow, it
hasn't so far."

"There's no way to be sure of that." Dr. O'Connor had said sternly.
"After all, we have no reports of it--but that means little. Our search
has only begun."

"Oh," Malone said. "Sure."

"Matter, controlled by thought, might bridge distances instantaneously,"
Dr. O'Connor had said.

And he'd referred to something, some word....

_Teleportation._

That was it. Malone sat back. All you had to do, he reflected, was to
think yourself somewhere else, and--_bing!_--you were there. If Malone
had been able to do it, it would not only save him a lot of time and
trouble, but also such things as cab fare and train fare and ... oh, a
lot of different things.

But he couldn't. And Dr. O'Connor hadn't found anyone else who could,
either. As far as Malone knew, nobody could teleport.

Except Mike Fueyo.

The cab stopped in front of FBI Headquarters. "You some kind of secret
agent?" the cabbie said.

"Of course not," Malone said pleasantly. "I'm a foreign spy."

"Oh," the cabbie said. "Sure." He took his money with a somewhat puzzled
air, while Malone crossed the sidewalk and went into the building.

* * * * *

Everyone was active. Malone pushed his way through arguing knots of men
until he reached the small office which he and Boyd had been assigned.
He had already decided not to tell Boyd about the disappearing boy. That
would only confuse him--and matters were confused enough as they stood.
Malone had no proof; he had only his word and the word of a few baffled
policemen, all of whom were probably thoroughly confused by now.

Boyd had a job to do, and Malone had decided to let him go on doing it.
That, as a matter of fact, was what he was doing when Malone entered the
room.

He was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone. Malone couldn't
see the face on the screen, but Boyd was scowling at it fiercely.
"Sure," he said. "So some guy makes a fuss. That's what you're for."

"But he wants to sue the city," a voice said tinnily. "Or somebody."

"Let him sue," Boyd said. "We've got authority. Just get that car."

"Look," the v