cent healthy, but he was beginning to think he might live, after all.
And while the doctor was bandaging his head, a spirit of new life
began to fill the FBI agent.

He was no longer morose and undirected. He had a purpose in life, and
the purpose filled him with cold determination. He was going to find
the robot-operated car--or whatever it turned out to be.

The doctor, Malone noticed, was whistling _Greensleeves_ under his
breath as he worked. That, he supposed, was the influence of the
Bohemian folk-singers of Greenwich Village. But he put the noise
resolutely out of his mind and concentrated on the red Cadillac.

It was one thing to think about a robot car miles away, doing
something or other to somebody you'd never heard of before. That was
just theoretical, a case for solution, nothing but an ordinary job.

But when the car stepped up and bopped Malone himself on the head, it
became a personal matter. Now Malone had more than a job to contend
with. Now he was thinking about revenge.

_By God_, he told himself, _no car in the world--not even a
Cadillac--can get away with beaning Kenneth J. Malone!_

Malone was not quite certain that he agreed with Burris' idea of a
self-operating car, but at least it was something to work on. A car
that could reach out, crown an investigator, and then drive off
humming something innocent under its breath was certainly a unique and
dangerous machine within the meaning of the act. Of course, there were
problems attendant on this view of things. For one thing, Malone
couldn't quite see how the car could have beaned him when he was ten
feet away from it. But that was, he told himself uncomfortably, a
minor point. He could deal with it when he felt a little better.

The important thing was the car itself. Malone jerked a little under
the doctor's calm hands, and swore subvocally.

"Hold still," the doctor said. "Don't go wiggling your head around
that way. Just wait quietly until the dermijel sets."

Obediently, Malone froze. There was a crick in his neck, but he
decided he could stand it. "My head still hurts," he said accusingly.

"Sure it still hurts," the doctor agreed.

"But you--"

"What did you expect?" the doctor said. "Even an FBI agent isn't
immune to blackjacks, you know." He resumed his work on Malone's
skull.

"Blackjacks?" Malone said. "What blackjacks?"

"The ones that hit you," the doctor said. "Or the one, anyhow."

Malone blinked. Somehow, though he