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

      "Here's what I'm going to do," Burris said, and paused. Malone felt a little unsure as to exactly what his chief was talking about, but by now he knew better than to ask a lot of questions. Sooner or later, Burris would probably explain himself. And if he didn't, then there was no use worrying about it. That was just the way Burris acted.

      "Suppose I gave you a chance to take it easy for a while," Burris said. "You could catch up on your sleep, see some shows, have a couple of drinks during the evening, take girls out for dinner—you know. Something like that. How would you like it?"

      "Well—" Malone said cautiously.

      "Good," Burris said. "I knew you would."

      Malone opened his mouth, thought briefly and closed it again. After all, it did sound sort of promising, and if there was a catch in it he'd find out about it soon enough.

      "It's really just a routine case," Burris said in an offhand tone. "Nothing to it."

      "Oh," Malone said.

      "There's this red Cadillac," Burris said. "It was stolen from a party in Connecticut, out near Danbury, and it showed up in New York City. Now, the car's crossed a state line."

      "That puts it in our jurisdiction," Malone said, feeling obvious.

      "Right," Burris said. "Right on the nose."

      "But the New York office—"

      "Naturally, they're in charge of everything," Burris said. "But I'm sending you out as sort of a special observer. Just keep your eyes open and nose around and let me know what's happening."

      "Keep my eyes and nose what?" Malone said.

      "Open," Burris said. "And let me know about it."

      Malone tried to picture himself with his eyes and nose open, and decided he didn't look very attractive that way. Well, it was only a figure of speech or something. He didn't have to think about it.

      It really made a very ugly picture.

      "But why a special observer?" he said after a second. Burris could read the reports from the New York office, and probably get more facts than any single agent could find out just wandering around a strange city. It sounded as if there were something, Malone told himself, just a tiny shade rotten in Denmark. It sounded as if there were going to be something in the nice, easy assignment he was getting that would make him wish he'd gone lion-hunting in Darkest Africa instead.

      And then again, maybe he was wrong. He stood at ease and waited to find out.

      "Well," Burris said, "it is just a routine case. Just like I said. But there seems to be something a little bit odd about it."

      "I see," Malone said with a sinking feeling.

      "Here's what happened," Burris said hurriedly, as if he were afraid Malone was going to change his mind and refuse the assignment. "This red Cadillac I told you about was reported stolen from Danbury. Three days later, it turned up in New York City—parked smack across the street from a precinct police station. Of course it took them a while to wake up, but one of the officers happened to notice the routine report on stolen cars in the area, and he decided to go across the street and check the license number on the car. Then something funny happened."

      "Something funny?" Malone asked. He doubted that, whatever it was, it was going to make him laugh. But he kept his face a careful, receptive blank.

      "That's right," Burris said. "Now, if you're going to understand what happened, you've got to get the whole picture."

      "Sure," Malone said.

      "Only that isn't what I mean," Burris added suddenly.

      Malone blinked. "What isn't what you mean?" he said.

      "Understanding what happened," Burris said. "That's the trouble. You won't understand what happened. I don't understand it and neither does anybody else. So what do you think about it?"

      "Think about what?" Malone said.

      "About what I've been telling you," Burris snapped. "This car."

      Malone took a deep breath. "Well," he said, "this officer went over to check the license plate. It seems like the right thing to do. It's just what I'd have done myself."

      "Sure you would," Burris said. "Anybody would. But listen to me."

      "All right, chief," Malone said.

      "It was just after dawn—early in the morning." Malone wondered briefly if there were parts of the world where dawn came, say, late in the afternoon or during the evening some time, but he said nothing. "The street was deserted," Burris went on. "But it was pretty light out, and the witnesses are willing to swear that there was nobody on that street for a block in either direction. Except them, of course."

      "Except who?" Malone said.

      "Except the witnesses," Burris said patiently. "Four cops, police officers who were standing on the front steps of the precinct station, talking. They were waiting to go on duty, or anyhow that's what the report said. It's lucky they were there, for whatever reason; they're the only witnesses we've got."

      Burris stopped. Malone waited a few seconds and then said, as calmly as he could: "Witnesses to what?"

      "To this whole business with Sergeant Jukovsky," Burris said.

      The sudden introduction of a completely new name confused Malone for an instant, but he recovered gamely. "Sergeant Jukovsky was the man who investigated the car," he said.

      "That's right," Burris said. "Except that he didn't."

      Malone sighed.

      "Those four officers—the witnesses—they weren't paying much attention to what looked like the routine investigation of a parked car," Burris said. "But here's their testimony. They were standing around talking when this Sergeant Jukovsky came out of the station, spoke to them in passing, and went on across the street. He didn't seem very worried or alarmed about anything."

      "Good," Malone said involuntarily. "I mean, go on, chief," he added.

      "Ah," Burris said. "All right. Well. According to Jukovsky, he took a look at the plate and found the numbers checked the listing he had for a stolen Connecticut car. Then he walked around to take a look inside the car. It was empty. Get that, Malone. The car was empty."

      "Well," Malone said, "it was parked. I suppose parked cars are usually empty. What's special about this one?"

      "Wait and see," Burris said ominously. "Jukovsky swears the car was empty. He tried the doors, and they were all locked but one, the front door on the curb side, the driver's door. So he opened it, and leaned over to have a look at the odometer to check the mileage. And something clobbered him on the back of the head."

      "One of the other cops," Malone said.

      "One of the ... who?" Burris said. "No. Not the cops. Not at all."

      "Then something fell on him," Malone said. "O.K. Then whatever fell on him ought to be—"

      "Malone," Burris said.

      "Yes, chief?"

      "Jukovsky woke up on the sidewalk with the other cops all around him. There was nothing on that sidewalk but Jukovsky. Nothing could have fallen on him; it hadn't landed anywhere, if you see what I mean."

      "Sure," Malone said. "But—"

      "Whatever it was," Burris said, "they didn't find it. But that isn't the peculiar thing."

      "No?"

      "No," Burris said slowly. "Now—"

      "Wait a minute," Malone said. "They looked on the sidewalk and around there. But did they think to search the car?"

      "They didn't get a chance," Burris said. "Anyhow, not just then. Not until they got around to picking up the pieces of the car uptown, at 125th Street."

      Malone closed his eyes. "Where was this precinct?" he said.

      "Midtown,"