to contend
with. Now he was thinking about revenge.

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
doctors calm hands, and swore subvocally.

"Hold still," the doctor said. "Don't go wiggling your head around that
way. Just wait quietly until the demijel 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 could manage a fuzzy picture of a
car reaching out to hit him, the introduction of a blackjack into this
imaginative effort confused things a little. But he resolutely ignored
it.

[Illustration]

"The bruise is just the right size and shape," the doctor said. "And
that cut on your head comes from the seams on the leather casing."

"You're sure?" Malone said doubtfully. It did seem as if a car had a lot
more dangerous weapons around, without resorting to blackjacks. If it
had really wanted to damage him, why hadn't it hit him with the engine
block?

"I'm sure," the doctor said. "I've worked in Emergency in this hospital
long enough to recognize a blackjack wound."

That was a disturbing idea, in a way. It gave a new color to Malone's
reflection on Greenwich Villagers. Maybe things had changed since he'd
heard about them. Maybe the blackjack had supplanted the guitar. But
that wasn't the important thing.

The fact that it had been a blackjack that