the trouble the United States was
having, Palveri, Queen Elizabeth, Burris, Mike Sand, Dr. O'Connor, Sir
Lewis Carter and even Luba Ardanko juggled and flowed in his mind like
pieces out of a kaleidoscope. But they refused to form any pattern he
could recognize.

He uttered a short curse and managed to collide with a bulky woman
with frazzled black hair. "Pardon me," he said politely.

"The hell with it," the woman said, looking straight past him, and
went jerkily on her way. Malone blinked and looked around him. There
were a lot of people still on the streets, but they didn't look like
normal New York City people. They were all curiously tense and wary,
as if they were suspicious not only of him and each other, but even
themselves. He caught sight of several illegal-looking bulges beneath
men's armpits, and many heavily sagging pockets. One or two women
appeared to be unduly solicitous of their large and heavy handbags.
But it wasn't his job to enforce the Sullivan Law, he told himself.
Especially while he was on vacation.

A single foot patrolman stood a few feet ahead, guarding a liquor
store with drawn revolver, his eyes scanning the passers-by warily
while he waited for help. Behind him, the smashed plate glass and
broken bottles and the sprawled figure just inside the door told a
fairly complete story.

Down the block, Malone saw several stores that carried _Closed_ or
_Gone Out Of Business_ signs. The whole depressing picture gave him
the feeling that all the tragedies of the 1930-1935 period had somehow
been condensed into the past two weeks.

Ahead there was a chain drugstore, and Malone headed for it. Two
uniformed men wearing Special Police badges were standing near the
door eyeing everyone with suspicion, but Malone managed to get past
them and went on to a telephone booth. He tried dialling the
Washington number of the FBI, but got only a continuous _beep-beep_,
indicating a service delay. Finally he managed to get a special
operator, who told him sorrowfully that calls to Washington were
jamming all available trunk lines.

Malone glanced around to make sure nobody was watching. Then he
teleported himself to his apartment in Washington and, on arriving,
headed for the phone there. Using that one, he dialed again, got
Pelham's sad face on the screen, and asked for Thomas Boyd.

Boyd didn't look any different, Malone thought, though maybe he was a
little more tired. Henry VIII had obviously had a har