haven't seen you since--"

"Sure haven't," Boyd said. "I've been out West on a couple of cases.
Must be a year since we worked together."

"Just about," Malone said. "But what are you doing in New York?
Vacationing?"

"Not exactly," Boyd said. "The chief called it sort of a vacation,
but--"

"Oh," Malone said. "You re working with me."

Boyd nodded. "The chief sent me up. When I got back from the West, he
suddenly decided you might need a good assistant, so I took the plane
down, and got here ahead of you."

"Great," Malone said. "But I want to warn you about the vacation--"

"Never mind," Boyd said; just a shade sadly. "I know. It isn't." He
seemed deep in thought, as if he were deciding whether or not to get
rid of Anne Boleyn. It was, Malone thought, an unusually apt simile.
Boyd, six feet tall and weighing about two hundred and twenty-five
pounds, had a large square face and a broad-beamed figure that might
have made him a dead ringer for Henry VIII of England even without his
Henry-like fringe of beard and his mustache. With them--thanks to the
recent FBI rule that agents could wear "facial hair, at the discretion
of the director or such board as he may appoint"--the resemblance to
the Tudor monarch was uncanny.

But, like his famous double, Boyd didn't stay sad for long. "I thought
I'd meet you at the station," he said, cheering up, "and maybe talk
over old times for a while, on the way to the hotel, anyhow. So long
as there wasn't anything else to do."

"Sure," Malone said. "It's good to see you again. And when did you get
pulled out of the Frisco office?"

Boyd grimaced. "You know," he said, "I had a good thing going for me
out there. Agent-in-Charge of the entire office. But right after that
job we did together--the Queen Elizabeth affair--Burris decided I was
too good a man to waste my fragrance on the desert air. Or whatever it
is. So he recalled me, assigned me from the home office, and I've been
on one case after another ever since."

"You're a home-office agent now?" Malone said.

"I'm a Roving Reporter," Boyd said, and struck a pose. "I'm a General
Trouble-shooter and a Mr. Fix-It. Just like you, Hero."

"Thanks," Malone said. "How about the local office here? Seen the boys
yet?"

Boyd shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "I was waiting for you to
show up. But I did manage hotel rooms--a couple of rooms with a
connecting bath over at the Hotel New Yorker. Nice place. You'll like
it, Ken