hadn't gotten better; it had gotten a lot worse. He was nearly
exhausted by the time he finally crossed the George Washington Bridge
and headed west. And, while he drove, he began to let his reflexes
take over most of the automotive problems now that New York City was
behind him.

He took all his thoughts from behind the shield that had sheltered
them and arrayed them neatly before him. They were beamed, he told
himself firmly, to one particular group of persons and to no one else.
Everything was perfectly clear; all he had to do now was explain it.

Malone had wondered, over the years, about the detectives in books.
They always managed to wrap everything up in the last chapter, which
was perfectly all right by itself. But they always had a whole crowd
of suspects listening to them, too. Malone knew perfectly well that he
could never manage a setup like that. People would interrupt him.
Things would happen. Two dogs would rush in and start a battle royal
on the floor. There would be an earthquake or an invasion of little
green Venusians, or else somebody would just decide to faint and
cause a furor.

But now, at long last, he realized, he had his chance. Nobody could
interrupt him. And he could explain to his heart's content.

Because the members of the PRS were telepathic. And Kenneth J. Malone,
he thought happily, was not.

Luba, he was sure, would be tuned in on him as he drove toward their
Pennsylvania hiding place. At least, he wanted to think so; it made
things much more pleasant. And he hoped that Luba, or whoever was
really tuned in, would alert everybody else, so they could all hook in
and hear his grand final explanation of everything.

He opened his mind in that one special direction, beaming his thoughts
to nobody else but the group he'd decided on. A second of silence
passed.

And then a sound began. Malone had passed a company of soldiers some
yards back, but he hadn't noticed them particularly; with the country
under martial law, soldiers were going to be as common as tree frogs.
Now, however, something different was happening.

Malone felt the car tremble slightly, and stopped. Past him, rolling
along the side of the highway he was on, came a parade of thirty-ton
tanks. They rumbled and roared their slow, elephantine way down the
highway and, after what seemed about three days, disappeared from
sight. Malone wondered what the tanks were for, and then dismissed it
from his mind. It certainly wa