reditary. At any rate, Malone felt he had inherited it
from his father, and he didn't want any visible strangers calling him
at odd hours to interfere with his process of collection and research.

He blinked at the audio circuit, and a feminine voice said: "Mr.
Kenneth J. Malone?"

"Who's this?" Malone said peevishly, beginning to discover himself
capable of semirational English speech.

"Long distance from San Francisco," the voice said.

"It certainly is," Malone said. "Who's calling?"

"San Francisco is calling," the voice said primly.

Malone repressed a desire to tell the voice that he didn't want to
talk to St. Francis, not even in Spanish, and said instead: _"Who_ in
San Francisco?"

There was a momentary hiatus, and then the voice said: "Mr. Thomas
Boyd is calling, sir. He says this is a scramble call."

Malone took a drag from his cigar and closed his eyes. Obviously the
call was a scramble. If it had been clear, the man would have dialed
direct, instead of going through what Malone now recognized as an
operator.

"Mr. Boyd says he is the Agent-in-Charge of the San Francisco office
of the FBI," the voice offered.

"And quite right, too," Malone told her. "All right. Put him on."

"One moment," There was a pause, a click, another pause and then
another click. At last the operator said: "Your party is ready, sir."

Then there was still another pause.

Malone stared at the audio receiver. He began to whistle _When Irish
Eyes Are Smiling_.

_... And the sound of Irish laughter...._ "Hello? Malone?"

"I'm here, Tom," Malone said guiltily. "This is me. What's the
trouble?"

"Trouble?" Boyd said. "There isn't any trouble. Well, not really. Or
maybe it is. I don't know."

Malone scowled at the audio receiver, and for the first time wished he
had gone ahead and had a video circuit put in, so that Boyd could see
the horrendous expression on his face.

"Look," he said. "It's seven here and that's too early. Out there,
it's four, and that's practically ridiculous. What's so important?"

He knew perfectly well that Boyd wasn't calling him just for the fun
of it. The man was a damned good agent. But why a call at this hour?

Malone muttered under his breath. Then, self-consciously, he squashed
out his cigar and lit a cigarette while Boyd was saying: "Ken, I think
we may have found what you've been looking for."

It wasn't safe to say too much, even over a scrambled circuit. But
Malone got the messa