o," Malone said. "I can't do that. But it does give me an idea."

Boyd held his untasted drink in his hand, staring at Malone and the
girl. "What are you two talking about?" he said. "Or is this the
special Captain Midnight code? I left my code ring home this week."

"Boyd," Malone snapped, "get on the phone."

"Are you sure it will hold me?" Boyd said.

"I want you to call Dr. O'Connor at Yucca Flats," Malone said. "Shut
up and listen."

There was silence.

Finally Boyd said, "I don't hear anything."

"Never mind," Malone said. "I mean listen to me. I know it's pretty
early out where O'Connor is, but that doesn't matter now. Wake him up.
Wake everybody up, for all I care."

"Malone," Boyd said carefully, "are you sure you haven't gone nuts?"

Malone grinned cheerfully. "No," he said. "Are you? Now listen: find
out what effect drugs have on psionic abilities."

"Drugs?" Boyd said, and then his eyes lit up. "My God!" he said. "We
might have something, at that!"

"Get the Queen up too," Malone said. "Ask her the same question. I
hope we do have something."

"So do I," Dorothea said.

"And if we get the information we're hoping to get, I want Her Majesty
on the first plane to New York," Malone said. "I don't care what
strings you have to pull to get that done. Call Burris if you have to.
It'll be worth it." Malone paused. "Hell," he said, "call him anyway
and tell him what's happened. But get the Queen here!"

"Right!" Boyd said. He dove for the phone and started dialing.
Suddenly he looked around. "Hey!" he yelled. "Where are you going?"

Malone, one hand on the door, turned. "Down to see Fernack," he said.
"I've got to make some arrangements. I'm betting we're right, Tom!" He
charged out the door, slamming it. A second passed and it opened
again. Malone's head popped back in. "Dorothea," he said. "When Tom
gets off the phone call your mother. Tell her you're going to be away
for a day or two--two at the most--and she's not to worry. We'll need
you, and her, too, to talk to Mike when the time comes. So stick
around."

Then he was gone.

* * * * *

Twelve hours later, Kenneth J. Malone was sitting quietly in a small
room at the rear of a sporting-goods store on upper Madison Avenue,
trying to remain calm and hoping that the finest, most beautiful hunch
he had ever had in his life was going to pay off. With him were Boyd
and two agents from the 69th Street office. They we