The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

precision.

      The silence of the downtown warehouse district helped. They had several specially designed, highly sensitive directional microphones aimed at the building from carefully selected spots around the area, trying to pick up the muffled sounds of speech or motion within the warehouse. The watchmen in buildings nearby had been warned off for the time being so that their footsteps wouldn't occlude any results.

      Malone waited, feeling nervous and cold. Finally Lynch's voice came through again. "We're getting something, all right," he said. "There are obviously several people in there. You were right, Malone."

      "Thanks," Malone said. "How about that fix?"

      "Hold it a second," Lynch said. Wind swept off the river at Malone and Boyd. Malone closed his eyes and shivered. He could smell fish and iodine and waste, the odor of the Hudson as it passes the city. Across the river lights sparkled warmly. Here there was nothing but darkness.

      A long time passed, perhaps ten seconds.

      Then Lynch's voice was back: "Sergeant McNulty says they're on the top floor, Malone," he said. "Can't tell how many for sure. But they're talking and moving around."

      "It's a shame these things won't pick up the actual words at a distance," Malone said.

      "Just a general feeling of noise is all we get," Lynch said. "But it does some good."

      "Sure," Malone said. "Now listen carefully: Boyd and I are going in. Alone."

      Lynch's voice whispered: "Right."

      "If those mikes pick up any unusual ruckus—any sharp increase in the noise level—come running," Malone said. "Otherwise, just sit still and wait for my signal. Got that?"

      "Check," Lynch said.

      Malone pocketed the radiophone. "O.K., Tom," he whispered. "This is H-hour—M-minute—and S-second."

      "I can spell," Boyd muttered. "Let's move in."

      "Wait a minute," Malone said. He took his goggles and brought them down over his eyes, adjusting the helmet on his head. Boyd did the same. Malone flicked on the infrared flashlight he held in his hand.

      "O.K.?" he whispered.

      "Check," Boyd said.

      Thanks to the goggles, both of them could see the normally invisible beams of the infrared flashlight. They'd equipped themselves to move in darkness without betraying themselves, and they'd be able to see where a person without equipment would be blind.

      Malone stayed well within the shadows as he moved silently around to the alley behind the warehouse and then to a narrow passageway that led to the building next door. Boyd followed a few feet behind him along the carefully planned route.

      Malone unlocked the small door that led into the ground floor of the building adjoining. As he did so he heard a sound behind him and called: "Tom?"

      "Hey, Malone," Boyd whispered. "It's—"

      Before there was any outcry, Malone rushed back. Boyd was struggling with a figure in the dimness. Malone grabbed the figure and clamped his hand over its mouth. It bit him. He swore in a low voice, and clamped the hand over the mouth again.

      It hadn't taken him more than half a second to realize what, whoever it was who struggled in his arms, it wasn't a boy.

      "Shut up!" Malone hissed in her ear. "I won't hurt you."

      The struggle stopped immediately. Malone gently eased his hand off the girl's mouth. She turned and looked at him.

      "Kenneth Malone," she said, "you look like a man from Mars."

      "Dorothea!" Malone gasped. "What are you doing here? Looking for your brother?"

      "Never mind that," she said. "You play too rough. I'm going home to mother."

      "Answer me!" Malone said.

      "All right," Dorothea said. "You must know anyhow, since you're here. Yes, I'm looking for that fat-headed brother of mine. But now I suppose it's too late. He'll ... he'll go to prison."

      Her voice broke. Malone found his shoulder suddenly occupied by a crying face.

      "No," he said quickly. "No. Please. He won't."

      "Really?"

      Boyd whispered: "Malone, what is this? It's no place for a date. And I—"

      "Oh, shut up," Malone told him in a kindly fashion. He turned back to Dorothea. "I promise he won't," he said. "If I can just talk to your brother, make him listen to reason, I think we can get him and the others off. Believe me."

      "But you—"

      "Please," Malone said. "Believe me."

      "Oh, Ken," Dorothea said, raising her head. "Do you ... do you mean it?"

      "Sure I mean it," Malone said. "What have I been saying? The Government needs these kids."

      "The Government?"

      "It's nothing to worry about," Malone said. "Just go on home now, all right? I'll call you tomorrow. Late tonight, if I can. All right?"

      "No," Dorothea said. "It's not all right. Not at all."

      "But—"

      Boyd hissed: "Malone!"

      Malone ignored him. He had a bigger fight on his hands. "I'm not going home," Dorothea announced. "I'm going in there with you. After all," she added, "I can talk more sense into Mike's head than you can."

      "Now, look," Malone began.

      Dorothea grinned in the darkness. "If you don't take me along," she said quietly, "I'll scream and warn them."

      Malone surrendered at once. He had no doubt at all that Dorothea meant what she said. And, after all, the girl might really be some use to them. And there probably wouldn't be much danger.

      Of course there wouldn't, he thought. He was going to see to that.

      "All right," he said. "Come along. Stick close to us, and don't worry about the darkness. We can see, even if you can't, so let us guide you. But be quiet!"

      Boyd whispered: "Malone, what's going on?"

      "She's coming with us," Malone said, pointing to Dorothea.

      Boyd shrugged. "Malone," he said, "who do you think you are? The Pied Piper of Hamelin?"

      Malone wheeled and went ahead. Opening the door, he played his I-R flashlight on the room inside and he, Boyd and Dorothea trailed in, going through rooms piled with huge boxes. They went up an iron stairway to the second floor, and so on up to the roof.

      They moved across the roof quickly under the cold stars, to the wall of the warehouse, which was two stories higher than the building they were on. Of course, there were no windows in the warehouse wall facing them, except on the top story.

      But there was a single, heavy, fireproof emergency exit. It would have taken power machinery or explosives to open that door from the outside without a key, although from the inside it would open easily.

      Fortunately, Malone had a key.

      He took it out and stepped aside. "Give that lock the works," he whispered to Boyd.

      Boyd took a lubricant gun from his pocket and fired three silent shots of special oil into the lock. Then he shot the hinges, and cracks around the door.

      They waited for a minute or two while the oil, forced in under pressure, did its work. Then Malone fitted the key carefully into the lock and turned it, slowly and delicately. The door swung open in silence. Malone slipped inside, followed by Boyd and Dorothea Fueyo.

      Infrared equipment went on again, and the eerie illumination spread over their surroundings. Malone tapped Boyd on the shoulder and jerked his thumb toward the back stairs. This was plainly no time for talk.

      From the floor above, they could hear the murmur of youthful voices.

      They