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

wasn't a gag," Malone said. "It's just—" He thought of the little old lady in Yucca Flats, the little old lady who had been the prime mover in the last case he and Boyd had worked on together. Without the little old lady, the case might never have been solved—she was an authentic telepath, about the best that had ever been found.

      But with her, Boyd and Malone had had enough troubles. Besides being a telepath, she was quite thoroughly insane. She had one fixed delusion: she believed she was Queen Elizabeth I.

      She was still at Yucca Flats, along with the other telepaths Malone's investigation had turned up. And she still believed, quite calmly, that she was Good Queen Bess. Malone had been knighted by her during the course of the investigation. This new honor had come to him through the mail; apparently she had decided to ennoble some of her friends still further.

      Malone made a note mentally to ask Boyd if he'd received one. After all, there couldn't be too many Knights of the Bath. There was no sense in letting everybody in.

      Then he realized that he was beginning to believe everything again. There had been times, when he'd been working with the little old lady, when he had been firmly convinced that he was, in fact, the swaggering, ruthless swordsman, Sir Kenneth Malone. And even now....

      "Well?" Lynch said.

      "It's too long a story," Malone said. "And besides, it's not what I came here about."

      Lynch shrugged again. "O.K.," he said. "Tell it your way."

      "First," Malone said, "what's your job?"

      "Me? Precinct Lieutenant."

      "Of this precinct?"

      Lynch stared. "What else?" he said.

      "Who knows?" Malone said. He found the black notebook and passed it across to Lynch. "I'm on this red Cadillac business, you know," he said by way of introduction.

      "I've been hearing about it," Lynch said. He picked up the notebook without opening it and held it like a ticking bomb. "And I mean hearing about it," he said. "We haven't had any trouble at all in this precinct."

      "I know," Malone said. "I've read the reports."

      "Listen, not a single red Cadillac has been stolen from here, or been reported found here. We run a tight precinct here, and let me tell you—"

      "I'm sure you do a fine job," Malone said hastily. "But I want you to look at the notebook." He opened it to the page with Lynch's name on it.

      Lynch opened his mouth, closed it and then took the notebook. He stared at the page for a few seconds. "What's this?" he said at last. "Another gag?"

      "No gag, lieutenant," Malone said.

      "It's your name and mine," Lynch said. "What is that supposed to mean?"

      Malone shrugged. "Search me," he said. "The notebook was found only a couple of feet away from another car theft, last night." That was the simplest way he could think of to put it. "So I asked the Commissioner who Peter Lynch was, and he told me it was you."

      "And it is," Lynch said, staring at the notebook. He seemed to be expecting it to rise and strike him.

      Malone said: "Have you got any idea who'd be writing about you and me?"

      Lynch shook his head. "If I had any ideas I'd feel a lot better," he said. He wet his finger and turned the notebook pages carefully. When he saw the list of names on the second page he stopped again, and stared. This time he whistled under his breath.

      Very cautiously, Malone said: "Something?"

      "I'll be damned," Lynch said feelingly.

      "What's wrong?" Malone said.

      The police lieutenant looked up. "I don't know if it's wrong or what," he said. "It gives me sort of the willies. I know every one of these kids."

      Malone took out a pill and swallowed it in a hurry. He felt exactly as if he had been given another concussion, absolutely free and without any obligation. His mouth opened but nothing came out for a long time. At last he managed to say: "Kids?"

      "That's right," Lynch said. "What did you think?"

      Malone shrugged helplessly.

      "Every single one of them," Lynch said. "Right from around here."

      There was a little silence.

      "Who are they?" Malone said carefully.

      "They're some kind of kid gang, social club, something like that," Lynch said. "They call themselves the Silent Spooks."

      "The what?" It seemed to Malone that the name was just a little fancy, even for a kid gang.

      "The Silent Spooks," Lynch said. "I can't help it. But here they are: Ramon Otravez, Mario Grito, Silvo Envoz, Felipe Altapor, Alvarez la Barba, Juan de los Santos and Ray del Este. Right down the line." He looked up from the notebook with a blank expression on his face. "There's only one name missing, as a matter of fact. Funny it isn't there."

      Malone tried to look as if he knew what was going on. "Oh?" he said.

      "Yeah," Lynch said. "The Fueyo kid—Miguel Fueyo. Everybody calls him Mike."

      While interesting, this did not provide much food for thought. "Why should his name be on it especially?" Malone said.

      "Because he's the leader of the gang," Lynch said. "The boss. The big shot." He pointed to the list of names. "Except for him, that's all of them—the Silent Spooks."

      Malone considered the missing Mike Fueyo.

      He knew perfectly well, now, why Fueyo's name was not in the book.

      Who puts his own name on a list?

      The notebook was Fueyo's. It had to be.

      Lynch was looking at him expectantly. Malone thought of a question and asked it. "They know you?" he said.

      "Sure they do," Lynch said. "They all know me. But do they know you?"

      Malone thought. "They could have heard of me," he said at last, trying to be as modest as possible.

      "I guess," Lynch said grudgingly.

      "How old are they?" Malone said.

      "Fourteen to seventeen," Lynch said. "Somewhere in there. You know how these kid things run."

      "The Silent Spooks," Malone said meditatively. It was a nice name, in a way; you just had to get used to it for a while. When he had been a kid, he'd belonged to a group that called itself the East Division Street Kids. There just wasn't much romance in a name like that. Now, the Silent Spooks—

      With a wrench, he brought his mind back to the subject at hand. "Do they get into much trouble?" he said.

      "Well, no," Lynch said reluctantly. "As a matter of fact, they don't. For a bunch like that, around here, they're pretty well-behaved, as far as that goes."

      "What do you mean?" Malone said.

      Lynch's face took on a delicately unconcerned appearance. "I don't know," he said. "They just don't get into neighborhood trouble. Maybe a scrap now and then—nothing big, though. Or maybe one of them cuts a class at school or argues with his teacher. But there's nothing unusual, and little of anything." He frowned.

      Malone said: "Something's got to be wrong. What is it?"

      "Well," Lynch said, "they do seem to have a lot of money to spend."

      Malone sat down in a chair across the desk, and leaned eagerly toward Lynch. "Money?" he said.

      "Money," Lynch said. "New clothes. Cigarettes. Malone, three of them are even supporting their parents. Old Jose Otravez—Ramon's old man—quit his job a couple of months ago, and hasn't worked since. Spends all his time in bars, and never runs out of dough—and don't tell me you can do that on Unemployment Insurance. Or Social Security payments."

      "O.K.," Malone said. "I won't tell you."

      "And