terrible had happened; he knew that
right away. He opened his eyes to look for the girl, but the sunset
had become much brighter; his head began to pound with the slow
regularity of a dead-march, and he closed his eyes again in a hurry.

The sidewalk swayed a little, but he managed to keep his balance on it
somehow; and after a couple of minutes it was quiet again. His head
hurt. Maybe that was the terrible thing that had happened, but Malone
wasn't quite sure. As a matter of fact, he wasn't very sure about
anything, and he started to ask himself questions to make certain he
was all there.

He didn't feel all there. He felt as if several of his parts had been
replaced with second- or even third-hand experimental models, and
something had happened to the experiment. It was even hard to think of
any questions, but after a while he managed to come up with a few.

_What is your name?_

Kenneth Malone.

_Where do you live?_

Washington, D. C.

_What is your work?_

I work for the FBI.

_Then what the hell are you doing on a sidewalk in New York in broad
daylight?_

He tried to find an answer to that, but there didn't seem to be any,
no matter where he looked. The only thing he could think of was the
red Cadillac.

And if the red Cadillac had anything to do with anything, Malone
didn't know about it.

Very slowly and carefully, he opened his eyes again, one at a time. He
discovered that the light was not coming from the gorgeous Hollywood
sunset he had dreamed up. As a matter of fact, sunset was several
hours in the past, and it never looked very pretty in New York anyhow.
It was the middle of the night, and Malone was lying under a
convenient street lamp.

He closed his eyes again and waited patiently for his head to go away.

A few minutes passed. It was obvious that his head had settled down
for a long stay, and no matter how bad it felt, Malone told himself,
it _was_ his head, after all. He felt a certain responsibility for it.
And he couldn't just leave it lying around somewhere with its eyes
closed.

He opened the head's eyes once more, and this time he kept them open.
For a long time he stared at the post of the street lamp, considering
it, and he finally decided that it looked sturdy enough to support a
hundred and sixty-five pounds of FBI man, even with the head added in.
He grabbed for the post with both hands and started to pull himself
upright, noticing vaguely that his legs had somehow mana