72 Cadillacs.
There's got to be some reason for that. I think they're covering up
another car like the one that got smashed: a remote-controlled
Cadillac. Or even a self-guiding, automatic, robot-controlled
Cadillac."

"They?" Malone said. "Who?"

"Whoever is stealing the cars," Burris said patiently.

"Oh," Malone said. "Sure. But--"

"So get up to New York," Burris said, "keep your eyes open, and nose
around. Got it?"

"I have now," Malone said.

"And when that Cadillac is found, Malone, we want to take a look at
it. Okay?"

"Yes, sir," Malone said.

* * * * *

Of course there were written reports, too. Burris had handed Malone a
sheaf of them--copies of the New York police reports to Burris
himself--and Malone, wanting some time to look through them, had taken
a train to New York instead of a plane. Besides, the new planes still
made him slightly nervous, though he could ride one when he had to. If
jet engines had been good enough for the last generation, he thought,
they were certainly good enough for him.

But avoidance of the new planes was all the good the train trip did
him. The reports contained thousands of words, none of which was
either new or, apparently, significant to Malone. Burris, he
considered, had given him everything necessary for the job.

Except, of course, a way to make sense out of the whole thing. He
considered robot-controlled Cadillacs. What good were they? They might
make it easier for the average driver, of course--but that was no
reason to cover up for them, hitting policemen over the head and
smashing cars and driving a hundred and ten miles an hour on the West
Side Highway.

All the same, it was the only explanation Malone had, and he cherished
it deeply. He put the papers back in his brief case when the train
pulled into Perm Station, handed his suitcases to a redcap and punched
the buttons for the waiting room. Now, he thought as he strolled
slowly along behind the robot, there was an invention that made sense.
And nobody had to get killed for it, or hit over the head or smashed
up, had they?

So what was all this nonsense about robot-controlled red Cadillacs?

Driving these unwelcome reflections from his mind, he paused to light
a cigarette. He had barely taken the first puff when a familiar voice
said, "Hey, buddy, hold the light, will you?"

Malone looked up, blinked and grinned happily. "Boyd!" he said. "What
are you doing here? I