The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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      The telephone rang.

      Malone rolled over on the couch and muttered four words under his breath. Was it absolutely necessary for someone to call him at seven in the morning?

      He grabbed at the receiver with one hand, and picked up his cigar from the ashtray with the other. It was bad enough to be awakened from a sound sleep--but when a man hadn't been sleeping at all, it was even worse.

      He'd been sitting up since before five that morning, worrying about the telepathic spy, and at the moment he wanted sleep more than he wanted phone calls.

      "Gur?" he said, sleepily and angrily, thankful that he'd never had a visiphone installed in his apartment. A taste for blondes was apparently hereditary. At any rate, Malone felt he had inherited it from his father, and he didn't want any visible strangers calling him at odd hours to interfere with his process of collection and research.

      He blinked at the audio circuit, and a feminine voice said: "Mr. Kenneth J. Malone?"

      "Who's this?" Malone said peevishly, beginning to discover himself capable of semirational English speech.

      "Long distance from San Francisco," the voice said.

      "It certainly is," Malone said. "Who's calling?"

      "San Francisco is calling," the voice said primly.

      Malone repressed a desire to tell the voice that he didn't want to talk to St. Francis, not even in Spanish, and said instead: "Who in San Francisco?"

      There was a momentary hiatus, and then the voice said: "Mr. Thomas Boyd is calling, sir. He says this is a scramble call."

      Malone took a drag from his cigar and closed his eyes. Obviously the call was a scramble. If it had been clear, the man would have dialed direct, instead of going through what Malone now recognized as an operator.

      "Mr. Boyd says he is the Agent-in-Charge of the San Francisco office of the FBI," the voice offered.

      "And quite right, too," Malone told her. "All right. Put him on."

      "One moment," There was a pause, a click, another pause and then another click. At last the operator said: "Your party is ready, sir."

      Then there was still another pause.

      Malone stared at the audio receiver. He began to whistle When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.

      ... And the sound of Irish laughter.... "Hello? Malone?"

      "I'm here, Tom," Malone said guiltily. "This is me. What's the trouble?"

      "Trouble?" Boyd said. "There isn't any trouble. Well, not really. Or maybe it is. I don't know."

      Malone scowled at the audio receiver, and for the first time wished he had gone ahead and had a video circuit put in, so that Boyd could see the horrendous expression on his face.

      "Look," he said. "It's seven here and that's too early. Out there, it's four, and that's practically ridiculous. What's so important?"

      He knew perfectly well that Boyd wasn't calling him just for the fun of it. The man was a damned good agent. But why a call at this hour?

      Malone muttered under his breath. Then, self-consciously, he squashed out his cigar and lit a cigarette while Boyd was saying: "Ken, I think we may have found what you've been looking for."

      It wasn't safe to say too much, even over a scrambled circuit. But Malone got the message without difficulty.

      "Yeah?" he said, sitting up on the edge of the couch. "You sure?"

      "Well," Boyd said, "no. Not absolutely sure. Not absolutely. But it is worth your taking a personal look, I think."

      "Ah," Malone said cautiously. "An imbecile?"

      "No," Boyd said flatly. "Not an imbecile. Definitely not an imbecile. As a matter of fact, a hell of a fat long way from an imbecile."

      Malone glanced at his watch and skimmed over the airline timetables in his mind. "I'll be there nine o'clock, your time," he said. "Have a car waiting for me at the field."

      * * * * *

      As usual, Malone managed to sleep better on the plane than he'd been able to do at home. He slept so well, in fact, that he was still groggy when he stepped into the waiting car.

      "Good to see you, Ken," Boyd said briskly, as he shook Malone's hand.

      "You, too, Tom," Malone said sleepily. "Now what's all this about?" He looked around apprehensively. "No bugs in this car, I hope?" he said.

      Boyd gunned the motor and headed toward the San Francisco Freeway. "Better not be," he said, "or I'll fire me a technician or two."

      "Well, then," Malone said, relaxing against the upholstery, "where is this guy, and who is he? And how did you find him?"

      Boyd looked uncomfortable. It was, somehow, both an awe-inspiring and a slightly risible sight. Six feet one and one-half inches tall in his flat feet, Boyd posted around over two hundred and twenty pounds of bone, flesh and muscle. He swung a pot-belly of startling proportions under the silk shirting he wore, and his face, with its wide nose, small eyes and high forehead, was half highly mature, half startlingly childlike. In an apparent effort to erase those childlike qualities, Boyd sported a fringe of beard and a moustache which reminded Malone of somebody he couldn't quite place.

      But whoever the somebody was, his hair hadn't been black, as Boyd's was...

      He decided it didn't make any difference. Anyhow, Boyd was speaking.

      "In the first place," he said, "it isn't a guy. In the second, I'm not exactly sure who it is. And in the third, Ken, I didn't find it."

      There was a little silence.

      "Don't tell me," Malone said. "It's a telepathic horse, isn't it? Tom, I just don't think I could stand a telepathic horse...."

      "No," Boyd said hastily. "No. Not at all. No horse. It's a dame. I mean a lady." He looked away from the road and flashed a glance at Malone. His eyes seemed to be pleading for something--understanding, possibly, Malone thought. "Frankly," Boyd said, "I'd rather not tell you anything about her just yet. I'd rather you met her first. Then you could make up your own mind. All right?"

      "All right," Malone said wearily. "Do it your own way. How far do we have to go?"

      "Just about an hour's drive," Boyd said. "That's all."

      Malone slumped back in the seat and pushed his hat over his eyes. "Fine," he said. "Suppose you wake me up when we get there."

      But, groggy as he was, he couldn't sleep. He wished he'd had some coffee on the plane. Maybe it would have made him feel better.

      Then again, coffee was only coffee. True, he had never acquired his father's taste for gin (and imagined, therefore, that it wasn't hereditary, like a taste for blondes), but there was always bourbon.

      He thought about bourbon for a few minutes. It was a nice thought. It warmed him and made him feel СКАЧАТЬ