ines 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 Penn Station, handed his suitcases to a redcap and punched
the 'cap's 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 red robot-controlled 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 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 ringe