A Spaceship Named: 45 Sci-Fi Novels & Stories in One Volume. Randall Garrett

strips. Pogo was busily staving off an approaching wedding between Albert Alligator and a new character named Tranquil Portly, who appeared to be a brown bear. He was running into some resistance, though, from a wolflike character who planned to abscond with Albert's cigars while Albert was honeymooning. This character, Don Coyote by name, looked like a trouble-maker, and Malone vowed to keep a careful eye on him.

      And then there were other headlines:

      FUSION POWER SOON COMMERCIALLY AVAILABLE SAYS AEC HEAD Sees Drastic Cut in Power Rates

      UN POLICE CONTINGENT OKAYED: MILLION MEN TO FORM 1ST GROUP Member Countries Pledge $20 Billion in Support Moneys

      OFFICIAL STATES: "WE'RE AHEAD AFTER 17 YEARS!" US Space Program Tops Russian Achievements

      ARMED FORCES TO TOUGHEN TRAINING PROGRAM IN 1974 Gen. Foote: "Our aim is to train fighting men, not to run a country club."

      GOVERNMENT TO SAVE $1 BILLION ANNUALLY? Senator Hits Duplication of Effort in Government, Vows Immediate Reform

      Malone read that one a little more carefully, because it looked, at first sight, like one of the bad-news items. There had been government-spending reforms before, almost all of which had resulted in confusion, panic, loss of essential services--and twice as many men on the payroll, since the government now had to hire useless efficiency experts, accountants and other such supernumerary workers.

      But this time, the reform looked as if it might do some good. Of course, he told himself sadly, it was still too early to tell.

      The senator involved was Deeks, of Massachusetts, who was also in the news because of a peculiar battle he had had with Senator Furbisher of Vermont. Congress, Malone noted, was still acting up. Furbisher claimed that the moneys appropriated for a new Vermont dam were really being used for the dam. But Deeks had somehow come into possession of several letters written by a cousin of Furbisher's, detailing some of the graft that was going on in the senator's home state. Furbisher was busily denying everything, but his cousin was just as busy confessing all to anybody who would listen. It was building up into an extremely interesting fracas, and, Malone thought, it would have been even funnier than Pogo except that it was happening in the Congress of the United States.

      He heaved a sigh, folded up the paper and entered the building that housed the New York contingent of the FBI.

      Boyd was waiting in his office when he arrived.

      "Well, there, Kenneth," he said. "And how are all our little Slavic brothers?"

      "Unreasonable," Malone said, "and highly unpleasant."

      "You refer, no doubt," Boyd said, "to the Meeneestyerstvoh Vnootrenikh Dyehl?"

      "Gesundheit," Malone said kindly.

      "The MVD," Boyd said. "I've been studying for days to pull it on you when you got back."

      Malone nodded. "Very well, then," he said in a stately, orotund tone. "Say it again."

      "Damn it," Boyd said, "I can't say it again."

      "Cheer up," Malone said. "Maybe some day you'll learn. Meantime, Thomas, did you get the stuff we talked about?"

      Boyd nodded. "I think I got enough of it," he said. "Anyhow, there is a definite trend developing. Come on into the private office, and I'll show you."

      There, on Boyd's massive desk, were several neat piles of paper.

      "It looks like enough," Malone said. "As a matter of fact, it looks like too much. Haven't we been through all this before?"

      "Not like this, we haven't," Boyd said. "Information from all over, out of the everywhere, into the here." He picked up a stack of papers and handed them to Malone.

      "What's this?" Malone said.

      "That," Boyd said, "is a report on the Pacific Merchant Sailors' Brotherhood."

      "Goody," Malone said doubtfully.

      Boyd came over, pulling at his beard thoughtfully, and took the top few sheets out of Malone's hands. "The report," he said, looking down at the sheets, "includes the checks we made on the office of the president of the Brotherhood, as well as the Los Angeles local and the San Francisco local."

      "Only two?" Malone said. "That seems as if you've been lying down on the job."

      "They're the top two in membership," Boyd said. "But listen to this: the president and three of his underlings resigned day before yesterday, and not quite in time. The law--by which I mean us, and a good many other people--is hot on their tails. It seems somebody accidentally mixed up a couple of envelopes."

      "Sounds like a case for the Post Office," Malone said brightly.

      "Not these envelopes," Boyd said. "There was a letter that was supposed to go to the head of the San Francisco local, dealing with a second set of books--not the ones used for tax purposes, but the real McCoy. The letter didn't get to the San Francisco man. Instead, it went to the attorney general of the state of California."

      "Lovely," Malone said. "Meanwhile, what was San Francisco doing?"

      Boyd smiled. "San Francisco was getting confused," he said. "Like everybody else. The San Francisco man got a copy of an affidavit dealing with merchant-ship tonnage. That was supposed to go to the attorney general."

      "Good work," Malone said. "So when the Frisco boys woke up to what was happening--"

      "They called the head man, and he put two and two together, resigned and went into hiding. Right now, he's probably living an undercover life as a shoe salesman in Paris, Kentucky."

      "And, after all," Malone added, "why not? It's a peaceful life."

      "The attorney general, of course, impounded the second set of books," Boyd went on. "A grand jury is hearing charges now."

      "You know," Malone said reflectively, "I almost feel sorry for the man. Almost, but not quite."

      "I see what you mean," Boyd said. "It is a hell of a thing to happen."

      "On the other hand--" Malone leafed through the papers in a hurry, then put them back on Boyd's desk with a sigh of relief. "I've got the main details now," he said. "I can go through the thing more thoroughly later. Anything else?"

      "Oh, lots," Boyd said. "And all in the same pattern. The FPM, for instance, literally dropped one in our laps."

      "Literally?" Malone said. "What was the Federation of Professional Musicians doing in your lap?"

      "Not mine," Boyd said hastily. "Not mine. But it seems that some secretary put a bunch of file folders on the windowsill of their second-floor offices, and they fell off. At the same time, an agent was passing underneath, slipped on a banana peel and sat down on the sidewalk. Bingo, folders in lap."

      "Wonderful," Malone said. "The hand of God."

      "The hand of something, for sure," Boyd said. "Those folders contain all the ammunition we've ever needed to get after the FPM. Kickbacks, illegal arrangements with nightclubs, the whole works. We're putting it together now, but it looks like a long, long term ahead for our friends from the FPM."

      And Boyd went to his desk, picked up a particularly large stack of papers. "This," he said, "is really hot stuff."

      "What do you call the others?" Malone said. "Crime on ice?"

      "The new show at the Winter Garden," Boyd said blithely. "Don't miss it if you can."

      "Sure," Malone said. "So what's so hot?"

      Boyd smiled. "The police departments of seven major cities," he said. "They're all under attack either by the local prosecuting attorney or the state's attorney general. It seems there's a little graft and corruption going on."

      "This," Malone said, "is not news."

      "It is to the people concerned," Boyd said. "Four police chiefs have resigned, along with great handfuls of inspectors, captains and lieutenants. It's making a lovely wingding all over the country, Ken."

      "I'll