erned. It's my partner, Mr.
Hardin, who takes care of all the engineering details."

Malone said: "Well, so long as one of you--"

"Sal's a real crackerjack," Leibowitz said enthusiastically. "He has an
intuitive feel about these things. It's really amazing to watch him go
to work."

"It must be," Malone said politely.

"Oh, it really is," Leibowitz said. "And it's because of Sal that I can
make the guarantee I do make: that if there are any unusual circuits in
those cars, we can find them."

"Thanks," Malone said. "I'm sure you'll do the job. And we need that
information. Don't bother to send along a detailed report, though,
unless you find something out of the ordinary."

"Of course, Mr. Malone," Leibowitz said. "I wouldn't have bothered you
except for the production speed-up here."

"I understand," Malone said. "It's perfectly all right. I'll be hearing
from you, then?"

"Certainly, Mr. Malone," Leibowitz said.

* * * * *

Malone cut the circuit at once and started to turn away, but he never
got the chance. It started to chime again at once.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation," Malone said as he flipped up the
receiver. He wanted badly to copy Boyd's salutation, but he found that
he just didn't have the gall to do it, and said sadly instead: "Malone
speaking."

There was no immediate answer from the other party. Instead, the screen
slowly cleared, showing Malone the picture of a woman he recognized
instantly.

It was Juanita Fueyo--Mike's mother.

Malone stared at her. It seemed to him as if a couple of hours passed
while he tried to find his voice. Of course, she'd looked up the FBI
number in the phone book, and found him that way. But she was about the
last person on Earth from whom he'd expected a call.

"Oh, Mr. Malone," she said, "thank you so much! You got my Mike back
from the police!"

Malone gulped. "I did?" he said. "Well, I--"

"But Mr. Malone--you must help me again! Because now my Mike says he
must not stay at home! He is leaving, he is leaving right away!"

"Leaving?" Malone said.

He thought of a thousand things to do. He could send a squad of men to
arrest Mike. And Mike could disappear while they were trying to get hold
of him. He could go down himself--and be greeted, if he knew Mike Fueyo,
with another giant economy-size raspberry. He could try to plead with
Mike on the phone.

And what good would that do?

So, instead, he just sat and star