There had to be another way out. For some reason,
Malone just couldn't see himself with a mouthful of nails, a hammer,
and a teen-ager.

It sounded just a little too messy.

Then, of course, there were handcuffs.

That sounded a little better. The trouble was that Malone simply
didn't have enough information, and knew it. Obviously, the kids could
carry stuff with them when they teleported; the stuff they stole
proved that. And their clothes, Malone added. Apparently the kids
didn't arrive at wherever they went stark staring naked.

But how close to a teleport did the things he carried have to be?

In other words, Malone thought, if you put handcuffs on a teleport,
would the handcuffs vanish when the teleport did? And did that include
the part of the cuff you were holding?

What happened if you snapped half the cuff around your own wrist
first? Did you go along with the teleport? Or did your wrist go, while
you stayed behind and wondered how long it would take to bleed to
death?

Or what?

All the questions were intriguing ones. Malone sighed, wishing he knew
the answer to even one of them.

It was somewhat comforting to think that he'd managed to progress a
little, anyway. The kids hadn't meant anybody to find out about them;
but Malone had found out about them, and alerted all the cops in town,
as well as the rest of the FBI. He knew just who they were, and where
they lived, and how they performed the "miracles" they performed.

Anyhow, he knew something about that last item.

He even knew who had his notebook.

He tabled that thought, and went back to feeling victorious. Within a
few seconds, the sense of achievement was gone, and futility had come
in its place. After all, he still didn't know how to catch the kids,
did he?

No.

He thought about handcuffs some more and then gave up. He'd just have
to try it and see how it worked. And if the teleports took his wrist
away he'd--he'd go after them and make them give it back.

Sure he would.

That reminded him of the notebook again, and since the thing was being
so persistent, he decided he might as well pay some attention to it.

Dorothea had the notebook. Malone tried to see himself barging in on
her and asking for it, and he didn't care for the picture at all--no
matter how Good Queen Bess felt about it.

After all, she thought Mike Fueyo was basically a nice kid.

So what did she know?

He closed his eyes. There he was, in the Fueyo apart