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

black 1973 Lincoln and see if you were driving it, and give you a message. That's all."

      "It's enough," Malone muttered. "He didn't have to send out the militia to round me up."

      "Oh, no, Mr. Malone," the patrolman said. "Not the militia. Highway Patrol. We don't rightly have any connection with the militia at all."

      "Glad to hear it," Malone said. He picked up the receiver of the car phone and waited for the buzz that would show that he was connected with Communications Central in Washington.

      It didn't come.

      "Oh, yes," the patrolman said suddenly. "I suppose that's why this Mr. Boyd, he couldn't call you on the car telephone, Mr. Malone. The message we got, it also says that the fella at the FBI garage in Washington just forgot to plug in that phone there."

      "Oh," Malone said. "Well, thanks for telling me."

      "You're right welcome, Mr. Malone," the patrolman said "You can plug it in now."

      "I intend to," Malone said through his teeth. He closed his eyes for a long second, and then opened them again. He saw the interested face of the patrolman looking down at him. Hurriedly, he turned away, felt underneath the dashboard until he found the dangling plug, and inserted it into its socket.

      The buzz now arrived.

      Malone heaved a great sigh and punched for Boyd's office. Then he looked around.

      The patrolman was still standing at the car window. He was looking down at Malone with an interested, slightly blank expression.

      Malone thought of several things to say, and chose the most harmless. "Thanks a lot," he told the patrolman. "I appreciate your stopping off to let me know."

      "Oh, that's all right, Mr. Malone," the patrolman said. "That was my orders, to do that. And even if they weren't, it was no trouble at all. Any time. I'd always be glad to do anything for the FBI."

      "Boyd here," a tinny voice from the phone said.

      Malone eyed the patrolman sourly. "Malone here," he said. "What's the trouble, Tom? I--No, wait a minute."

      "Ken!" Boyd's voice said. "I've been trying to--"

      "Hold it a second," Malone said. He opened his mouth, and then he saw a car go by. The patrolman hadn't seen it. Malone felt sorry for the driver, but not too sorry. "Say!" he said to the patrolman.

      "Yes, sir?" the patrolman said.

      "That boy was really going, wasn't he?" Malone said. "He must have been doing at least ninety."

      The patrolman jerked his head around to stare at the disappearing car. "Well--" he said, and then: "Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Malone. Thanks. I'll see you later." He raced for his machine, swung aboard and roared down the road, guiding with one hand and manipulating the controls of his radar set with the other.

      Malone waved him a cheery farewell, and got back to the phone.

      "Okay, Tom," he said. "Go ahead."

      "Who was that you were talking to?" Boyd asked.

      "Oh, just a motorcycle patrolman," Malone said. "He wanted to be helpful, so I told him to go chase a Buick."

      "Why a Buick?" Boyd said, interestedly.

      "Why not?" Malone said. "There happened to be one handy at the time. Now, what's on your mind?"

      "I've been searching all over hell for you," Boyd said. "I wish you'd just leave some word where you were going, and then I wouldn't have to--"

      "Damn it," Malone cut in. "Tom, just tell me what you want. In straightforward, simple language. It just took me ten minutes to pry a few idiotic facts out of a highway patrolman. Don't make me go through it all over again with you."

      "Okay, okay," Boyd said. "Keep your pants on. But here's the dope: I just flew in from New York, and I brought all the files on the case-- the stuff you left in your office in New York, remember?"

      "Right," Malone said. "Thanks."

      "And I think we may be able to get the Big Cheese," Boyd went on.

      "Manelli?" Malone said.

      "None other than the famous Cesare Antonio," Boyd said. "It seems two of his most valued lieutenants were found in a garage in Queens, practically weighted down with machine-gun bullets."

      Malone thought of Manelli, complaining sadly about the high overhead of murder. "And where does that get us?" he said.

      "Well," Boyd said, "whoever did the job forgot to search the bodies."

      "Oh-oh," Malone said.

      "Very much oh-oh," Boyd said. "They're loaded down, not only with lead, but with paper. There are documents linking Manelli right up to the International Truckers' Union--a direct tie-in with Mike Sand. And Sand now says he's tied in with the Great Lakes Transport Union in Chicago."

      "This sounds like a big one," Malone said.

      "You have no idea," Boyd said. "And in the middle of all this, Burris called."

      "Burris?" Malone said.

      "That's right," Boyd said. "He wants me to go on down to Florida and take over the investigation of the Flarion assassination. So it looks as if I'm going to miss most of the fun."

      "Too bad," Malone said.

      "But maybe not all," Boyd said. "It may tie in with the case we're working on. At least, that's what Burris thinks."

      "Yes," Malone said. "I can see why he thinks so. Did he have any message for me, by the way?"

      "Not exactly," Boyd said.

      Malone blinked. "Not exactly?" he said. "What's that supposed to mean?"

      "Well," Boyd said, "he says he does have something to tell you, but it'll wait until he sees you. Then, he says, he'll tell you personally."

      "Great," Malone said.

      "Maybe it's a surprise," Boyd said. "Maybe you're fired."

      "I wouldn't have the luck," Malone said. "But if I get any leads on the Flarion job, I'll let you know right away."

      "Sure," Boyd said. "Thanks. And--by the way, what are you doing now?"

      "Me?" Malone said. "I'm driving."

      "Yes, I know," Boyd said patiently. "To where, and why? Or is this another secret? Sometimes I think nobody loves me any more."

      "Oh, don't be silly," Malone said. "The entire city of Miami Beach is awaiting your arrival with bated breath."

      "But what are you doing?" Boyd said.

      Malone chose his words carefully. "I'm just checking a lead," he said at last. "I don't know if it's going to pan out or not, but I thought I'd drive down to Richmond and check on a name I've got. I'll call you about it in the morning, Tom, and let you know what the result is."

      "Oh," Boyd said. "Okay. Sure. So long, Ken."

      "So long," Malone said. He hung up the phone, put the car into gear again and roared off down U. S. Highway Number One. He didn't feel entirely happy about the way things had gone; he'd been forced to lie to Tom Boyd, and that just wasn't right.

      However, there was no help for it. It was actually better this way, he told himself hopefully. After all, the less Tom knew from now on, the better off he was going to be. The better off everyone would be.

      He went on through Fredericksburg without incident, but he didn't continue on to Richmond. Instead, he turned off U. S. 1 when he reached a little town called Thornburg, which was smaller than he had believed a town could be and live. He began following a secondary road out into the countryside.

      The countryside, of course, was filled with country, in the shape of hills, birds, trees, flowers, grass and other distractions to the passing motorist. It took Malone quite a bit longer than he expected to find the place he was looking for, and he finally came to the sad conclusion