The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

an old friend of mine."

      "Really?" Malone said pleasantly.

      "You certainly do," Fernack said. "There's just one small difference. You're an FBI man, and he's a crook. If that's a difference."

      "It is," Malone said. "And on behalf of the FBI, I resent the allegation. And, as a matter of fact, defy the allegator. But that's neither here nor there," he continued. "If that's the difference, what are the similarities?"

      Fernack drew in a deep, hissing breath, and when he spoke his voice was as calm and quiet as a coiled cobra. "The both of you come up with the damnedest answers to things. Things I never knew about or even cared about before. Things I wish I'd never heard of. Things that don't have any explanations. And—" He stopped, his face dark in the screen. Malone wondered what color it was going to turn, and decided on purple as a good choice.

      "Well?" Malone said at last.

      "And you're always so right it makes me sick," Fernack finished flatly. He rubbed a hand through his hair and stared into the screen at Malone. "How did you know all this stuff?" he said.

      Malone waited one full second, while Fernack got darker and darker on the screen. When he judged that the color was right, he said quietly: "I'm prescient. And thanks a lot, John Henry; just send the reports to me personally, at Sixty-ninth Street. By messenger. So long."

      He cut the circuit just as Fernack started: "Now, Malone—"

      With a satisfied, somewhat sheepish smile, Malone dialed another number. This time a desk sergeant told him politely that Lynch wasn't at the precinct, and wouldn't arrive until noon.

      Malone had Lynch's home number. He dialed it.

      It was a long wait before the lieutenant answered, and he didn't look much like a police officer when his face finally showed up on the screen. His hair was uncombed and he was unshaven. His eyes were slightly bleary, but he was definitely awake.

      "Oh," Malone said. "Hello."

      "Hi, there," Lynch said with enormous cheerfulness. "Old buddy-boy. Old pal. Old friend."

      "What's wrong?" Malone said.

      "Wrong?" Lynch said. "Nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wanted to thank you for not waking me up last night. I only waited for your call until midnight. Then I decided I just wasn't very important to you. You obviously had much bigger things on your mind."

      "As a matter of fact," Malone said, eying Lynch's figure, dressed in a pair of trousers and a T-shirt, speculatively, "you're right."

      "That's what I thought," Lynch said. "And I decided that, since you were so terribly busy, it could wait until I woke up. Or even until I got down to the station. How about it—buddy-boy?"

      "Listen, Lynch," Malone said, "we made a bet. Ten to one. I just want to know if I can come down to collect or not."

      There was a second of silence.

      "All right," Lynch said at last, looking crestfallen. "I owe you a buck. Every last one of those kids has skipped out on us."

      "Good," Malone said. He wondered briefly just what was good about it, and decided he'd rather have lost the money to Lynch. But facts, he reflected, were facts. Thoroughly nasty facts.

      "I spent all night tracing them," Lynch said. "Got nowhere. Nowhere at all. Tell me, Malone, how did you know—"

      "Classified," Malone said. "Very classified. But you're sure they're all gone? Vanished?"

      Lynch's face reddened. "Sure I'm sure," he said. "Every last one of them is gone. And what more do you want me to do about it?" He paused, then added: "What do you expect, Malone? Miracles?"

      Malone shook his head gently. "No," he said. "I—"

      "Oh, never mind," Lynch said.

      "But I—"

      "Look, Malone," Lynch said, "there's a guy who wants to talk to you."

      "One of the Silent Spooks?" Malone said hopefully.

      Lynch shook his head and made a growling noise. "Don't be silly," he said. "It's just that this guy might have some information—but he won't say anything to me about it. He's a social worker or something like that."

      "Social worker?" Malone said. "He works with the kids, right?"

      "I guess," Lynch said. "His name's Kettleman. Albert Kettleman."

      Malone nodded. "O.K.," he said. "I'll be right over."

      "Hey," Lynch said, "hold on. He's not here now. What do you think this is—my house or a reception center?"

      "Sorry," Malone said wearily. "Where and when?"

      "How about three o'clock at the precinct station?" Lynch said, "I can have him there by then, and you can get together and talk." He paused. "Nobody likes the cops," he said. "People hear the FBI's mixed up in this, and they figure the cops are all second-stringers or something."

      "Sorry to hear it," Malone said.

      "I'll bet you are," Lynch told him bitterly.

      Malone shrugged. "Anyway," he said, "I'll see you at three, right?"

      "Right," Lynch said, and Malone flipped off.

      He sat there for a few seconds grinning quietly. His brain throbbed like an overheated motor, but he didn't really mind any more. His theory had been justified, and that was the most important thing.

      The Silent Spooks were all teleports.

      Eight of them—eight kids on the loose, stealing everything they could lay their hands on, and completely safe. How could you catch a boy who just disappeared when you started for him? No wonder their names hadn't appeared on the police blotter, Malone thought.

      The Spooks didn't get into trouble.

      They didn't have to.

      They could get into any place big enough to hold them, take what they wanted and just disappear. They'd been doing it for about eight months, according to the figures Malone had received from Fernack; maybe teleportative ability didn't develop until you were around fourteen or fifteen.

      But it had developed in these kids—and they were using it in the most obvious way. They had a sure method of getting away from the cops, and a sure method of taking anything they wanted. No wonder they had so much money.

      Malone got up, feeling slightly dazed, and left the hotel.

      X

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      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