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

Malone—" Fernack's voice sounded a little strained, and his jaw set just a trifle. "If you—"

      Malone knew perfectly well how Fernack reacted when he didn't get a bit of information he wanted. And this was no time to set off any fireworks in the commissioner's office. "Look, John Henry," he said gently, "I'll tell you as soon as I can. Honest. But this is classified information—it's not my fault."

      Fernack said: "But—" and apparently realized that argument was not going to do him any good. "All right, Malone," he said at last. "I'll have it for you as soon as possible."

      "Great," Malone said. "Then I'll see you later."

      "Sure," Fernack said. He paused, as if he were about to open the controversy just once more. But all he said was: "So long, Malone."

      Malone breathed a great sigh of relief and flipped the phone off. He stepped out of the booth feeling so proud of himself that he could barely walk. Not only had he managed to calm down Commissioner Fernack, he had also walked right past a bar on the way to the phone. He had performed several acts, he felt, above and beyond the call of duty, and he told himself that he deserved a reward.

      Happily, the reward was convenient to hand. He went to the bar and beckoned the bartender over to him. "Bourbon and soda," he said. "And a medal, if possible."

      "What?" the bartender said.

      "A medal," Malone said. "For conduct beyond reproach."

      The bartender nodded sadly. "Maybe you just ought to go home, Mac," he said. "Sleep it off."

      New Yorkers, Malone decided as the bartender went off to get his drink, had no sense of humor. Back in Chicago—where he'd been more or less weaned on gin, and discovered that, unlike his father, he didn't much care for the stuff—and even in Washington, people didn't go around accusing you of drunkenness just because you made some harmless little pleasantry.

      Oh, well. Malone drank his drink and went out into the afternoon sunlight.

      He considered the itinerary of the Magical Miguel Fueyo. He had gone straight home from the police station, apparently, and had then told his mother that he was going to leave home. But he had promised to send her money.

      Of course, money was easy for Mike to get. With a shudder, Malone thought he was beginning to realize just how easy. Houdini had once boasted that no bank vault could hold him. In Mike Fueyo's case, that was just doubly true. The vault could neither hold him out or keep him in.

      But he was going to leave home.

      Malone said: "Hm-m-m," to himself, cleared his throat and tried it again. By now he was at the corner of the block, where he nearly collided with a workman who was busily stowing away a gigantic ladder, a pot of paint and a brush. Malone looked up at the street sign, where the words: "Avenue of the Americas" had been painted out, and "Sixth Avenue" hand-lettered in.

      "They finally gave in," the painter told him. "But do you think they'll buy new signs? Nah. Cheap. That's all they are. Cheap as pretzels." He gave Malone a friendly push with one end of the ladder and disappeared into the crowd.

      Malone didn't have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. And how cheap could a pretzel be, anyway? Malone didn't remember ever having seen an especially tight-fisted one.

      New York, he decided for the fifteenth time, was a strange place.

      He walked downtown for a block, still thinking about Mike Fueyo, and absently turned west again. Between Sixth and Seventh, he had another attack of brilliance and began looking for another phone booth.

      He found one in a Mexican bar named the Xochitl, across the street from the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin. It was just a coincidence that he had landed in another bar, he told himself hopefully, but he didn't quite believe it. To prove it to himself, he headed straight for the phone booths again and put in his call, ignoring the blandishments of several rows of sparkling bottles which he passed on the way.

      He dialed the number for Lieutenant Lynch's precinct, and then found himself connected with a new desk sergeant.

      "I'm Malone," he said. "I want to talk to Lynch."

      "Glad to know you, Malone," the desk sergeant said pleasantly. "Only Lieutenant Lynch doesn't want to subscribe to the Irish Echo."

      "I'm the FBI." He showed his badge.

      The desk sergeant took a good long look at it. "Maybe you are, and maybe you aren't," he said at last. "Does the lieutenant know you?"

      "We were kids together," Malone said. "We're brothers. Siamese twins. Put him on the phone."

      "Wait a minute," said the desk sergeant. "I'll check."

      The screen went blank for two agonizing minutes before it cleared again to show Lynch's face.

      "Hello, Mr. Malone," Lynch said formally. "Have you found some new little trick to show us poor, stupid policemen? Like, say, making yourself vanish?"

      "I'll make the whole police force vanish," Malone said, "in a couple of minutes. I called to ask a favor."

      "Anything," Lynch said. "Anything within my poor power. Whatever I have is yours. Whither thou goest—"

      "Knock it off," Malone said, and then grinned. After all, there was no sense in making an enemy out of Lynch.

      Lynch blinked, took a deep breath, and said in an entirely different voice: "O.K., Malone. What's the favor?"

      "Do you still have that list of Silent Spooks?" Malone said.

      "Sure I do," Lynch said. "Why? I gave you a copy of it."

      "I can't do this job," Malone said "You'll have to."

      "Yes, sir," Lynch said, and saluted.

      "Just listen," Malone said. "I want you to check up on every kid on that list."

      "And what are we supposed to do when we find them?" Lynch said.

      "That's the trouble," Malone said. "You won't."

      "And why not?"

      "I'll lay you ten to one," Malone said, "that every one of them has skipped out. Left home. Without giving a forwarding address."

      Lynch nodded slowly. "Ten to one?" he said. "Want to make that a money bet? Or does the FBI frown on gambling?"

      "Ten dollars to your one," Malone said. "O.K.?"

      "Made," Lynch said. "You've got the bet ... just for the hell of it, understand."

      "Oh, sure," Malone said.

      "And where can I call you to collect?"

      Malone shook his head. "You can't," he said. "I'll call you."

      "I will wait with anxiety," Lynch said. "But it had better be before eight. I get off then."

      "If I can make it," Malone said.

      "If you can't," Lynch said, "call me at home." He gave Malone the number, and then added: "Whatever information I get, I can keep for my own use this time, can't I?"

      "You've already got all the information you're going to get. I just gave it to you."

      "That," Lynch said, "we'll see."

      "I'll call to collect my money," Malone said.

      "We'll talk about it later," Lynch said. "Farewell, old pal."

      "Flights of angels," Malone said, "sing thee to thy rest."

      Malone replaced the microphone and headed for the door. Halfway there, however, he stopped. He hadn't had a tequila in a long time, and he thought he owed it to himself. He felt he had come out ahead in his exchange with Lynch, and another medal was in order.

      Only a small one, though. He told himself that he would order one tequila and quit. Besides, he had to meet Dorothy.

      He sat down on one of the tall bar stools. The bartender bustled over