feeling slightly dazed, and left the hotel.

X.

By three o'clock, he was again among the living. Maybe his occupations
had had something to do with it; he'd spent about four hours supervising
Operation Dismemberment, and then listening to the reports on the
dismantled Cadillacs. It was nice, peaceful, unimportant work, but there
just wasn't anything else to do. FBI work was ninety-five per cent
marking time, anyway; Malone felt grateful that there was any action at
all in what he was doing.

Dr. Leibowitz had found all sorts of things in the commandeered
Caddies--everything from guns and narcotics to pornographic pictures in
lots of three hundred, for shipment into New York City from the suburbs
where the processing plants probably were. Of course, there had been
personal effects, too--maps and lucky dolls and, just once, a single
crutch.

Malone wondered about that for quite a while. Who'd just walk off and
leave one crutch in a car? But people did things like that all the time,
he finally told himself heavily. There wasn't any explanation for it,
and there probably never would be.

But in spite of the majestic assortment of valuables found in the cars,
there was no sign of anything remotely resembling an electro-psionic
brain. Dr. Leibowitz had found just about everything--except what he was
looking for.

At a quarter of three, Malone gave up. The search wasn't quite finished,
but he'd heard enough to last him for a long time. He grabbed a cab
downstairs and went over to Lynch's office to meet Kettleman.

The "social worker or something" was a large, balding man about six feet
tall. Malone estimated his weight as close to two hundred and fifty
pounds, and he looked every pound of it; his face was round without
being chubby, and his body was stocky and hard. He wore black-rimmed
glasses, and he was going bald in front. His face was like a mask: it
was held in a gentle, almost eager expression that Malone would have
sworn had nothing to do with the way Kettleman felt underneath.

Lynch performed the introductions, escorted the two of them to one of
the interrogation rooms at the rear of the station, and left them there,
with: "If either of you guys comes up with anything, let me know," for a
parting shot.

Kettleman blinked slowly behind his glasses. "Mr. Malone," he said, "I
understand that the FBI is interested in one of the ... ah ...
adolescent social groups with which I work."

"Well, the Sile