one-halfminutes.
They struck the earth's ionosphere, and their numbers diminished. Thehard ultraviolet was gobbled up by ozone; much of the blue wasscattered through the atmosphere. The remainder bore steadily onward.
Down through the air they came, only slightly weakened this time. Theyhit the glass of a window in the Hotel New Yorker, losing more oftheir members in the plunge.
And, a few feet from the glass, they ended their million-year epic byilluminating a face.
The face responded to them with something less than pleasure. It wasclear that the face did not like being illuminated. The light was verybright, much too bright. It seemed to be searing its way through theface's closed eyelids, right past the optic nerves into the brain-panitself. The face twisted in a sudden spasm, as if its brain wereshriveling with heat. Its owner thoughtfully turned over, and the facesought the seclusion and comparative darkness of a pillow.
Unfortunately, the motion brought the face's owner to completewakefulness. He did not want to be awake, but he had very littlechoice in the matter. Even though his face was no longer beingilluminated, he could feel other rays of sunlight eating at the backof his head. He put the pillow over his head and felt more comfortablefor a space, but this slight relief passed, too.
He thought about mausoleums. Mausoleums were nice, cool, dark placeswhere there was never any sun or heat, and never any reason to wakeup. Maybe, he told himself cunningly, if he went to sleep again hewould wake up dead, in a mausoleum. That, he thought, would be nice.
Death was nice and pleasant. Unfortunately, he realized, he was notdead. And there was absolutely no chance of his ever getting back tosleep. He finally rolled over again, being very careful to avoid anymore poisonous sunlight. Getting up was an even more difficultprocess, but Malone knew it had to be managed. Somehow he got his feetfirmly planted on the floor and sat up.
It had been a remarkable feat, he told himself. He deserved a medal.
That reminded him of the night before. He had been thinking quite alot about the medals he deserved for various feats. He had evenawarded some of them to himself, in the shape of liquid decoctions.
He remembered all that quite well. There were a lot of cloudy thingsin his mind, but from all the testimony he could gather, he imaginedthat he'd had quite a time the night before. Quite a wonderful time,as a matter of fact.
Not that that reflection did anything for him now. As he opened hiseyes, one at a time, he thought of Boyd. Once, long ago, ages and agesago, he had had to wake Boyd up, and he recalled how rough he had beenabout it. That had been unforgivable.
He made a mental note to apologize to Boyd the next time he sawhim--if he could ever see again. Now, he knew how Boyd had felt. Andit was terrible.
Still sitting on the bed, he told himself that, in spite ofeverything, he was lucky. To judge by his vague memories, he'd hadquite a time the night before, and if the hangover was payment for it,then he was willing to accept the payment. Almost. Because it hadreally been a terrific time. The only nagging thought in his mind wasthat there had been something vital he'd forgotten.
"Tickets," he said aloud, and was surprised that his voice wasaudible. As a matter of fact, it was too audible; the noise made himwince slightly. He shifted his position very quietly.
And he hadn't forgotten the tickets. No. He distinctly rememberedgoing to see _The Hot Seat_, and finding seats, and actually sittingthrough the show with Dorothy at his side. He couldn't honestly saythat he remembered much of the show itself, but that couldn't be theimportant thing he'd forgotten. By no means.
He had heard that it was a good show, though. Sometime, he remindedhimself, he would have to get tickets and actually see it.
He checked through the evening. Drinks. Dinner ... he had had dinner,hadn't he? Yes, he had. He recalled a broiled sea bass looking up athim with mournful eyes. He couldn't have dreamed anything like that.
And then the theater, and after that some more drinks ... and so on,and so on, and so on, right to his arrival back in his hotel room, atfour-thirty in the morning, on a bright, boiled cloud.
He even remembered arguing with Dorothy about taking her home. She'dwon that round by ducking into a subway entrance, and he had turnedaround after she'd left him and headed for home. Had he taken a taxi?
Yes, Malone decided, he had. He even remembered that.
Then what had he forgotten?
He had met Dorothy, he told himself, starting all over again in aneffort to locate the gaps, at six o'clock, right after phoning...
"My God!" Malone said, and winced. He looked at his watch. It was teno'clock in the morning. He had completely forgotten to call Fernackand Lynch.
Hangover or no hangover, Malone told himself grimly, there was work tobe done. Somehow, he managed to get to his feet and start moving.
He checked Boyd's room after a while. But his partner wasn't home._Probably at work already_, Malone thought, _while I lie here uselessand helpless._ He thought of the Sermon on the Evils of Alcohol, anddecided he'd better read it to himself instead of delivering it toBoyd.
But he didn't waste any time with it. By ten-fifteen he was showeredand shaved, his teeth were brushed, and he was dressed. He felt, heestimated, about fifteen hundred per cent better. That was stilllousy, but it wasn't quite as bad as it had been. He could move aroundand talk and even think a little, if he was careful about it. Beforehe left, he took a look at himself in the mirror.
Well, he told himself, that was nice.
It hardly showed at all. He looked tired, to be sure, but that wasalmost normal. The eyes weren't bloodshot red, and didn't seem to bugout at all, although Malone would have sworn that they were bleedingall over his face. His head was its normal size, as near as heremembered; it was not swollen visibly, or pulsing like a jellyfish atevery move.
He looked even better than he felt.
He started for the door, and then stopped himself. There was no needto go out so early; he could start work right in his own hotel roomand not even have to worry about the streets of New York, the cars orthe pedestrians for a while.
He thought wistfully about a hair of the hound, decided against itwith great firmness, and sat down to the phone.
He dialed a number, and the face of Commissioner Fernack appearedalmost at once. Malone forced himself to smile cheerfully, reasonablysure that he was going to crack something as he did it. "Hello, JohnHenry," he said in what he hoped was a good imitation of a happy,carefree voice. "And how are you this lovely morning?"
"Me?" Fernack said sourly. "I'm in great shape. Tiptop. Dancing in thegoddamn daisies. Malone, how did you--"
"Any news for me?" Malone said.
Fernack waited a long time before he answered, and when he did hisvoice was dangerously soft and calm. "Malone," he said, "when youasked for this survey, just what kind of news did you expect to get?"
"A godawful lot of impossible crimes," Malone said frankly. "How did Ido, John Henry?"
"You did damn well," Fernack said. "Too damn well. Listen, Malone, howcould you know about anything like this?"
Malone blinked. "Well," he said, "we have our sources. Confidential.Top secret. I'm sure you understand, Commissioner." Hurriedly, headded, "What does the breakdown look like?"
"It looks like hell," Fernack said. "About eight months ago, accordingto the computer, there was a terrific upswing in certain kinds ofcrime. And since then it's been pretty steady, right at the top of theswing. Hasn't moved down hardly at all."
"Great," Malone said.
Fernack stared. "What?" he said.
"I mean--" Malone stopped, thought of an answer and tried it. "I mean,that checks out my guess. My information. Sources."
Fernack seemed to weigh risks in his mind. "Malone, I know you'reFBI," he said at last. "But this sounds pretty fishy to me. Prettystrange."
"You have no idea how strange," Malone said truthfully.
"I'm beginning to," Fernack said. "And if I ever find out that you hadanything to do with this--"
"And don't look innocent," Fernack said. "It doesn't succeed inlooking anything but horrible. You remind me of a convicted murderertrying to steal thirty cents from the prison chaplain."
"What would I have to do with all these crimes?" Malone said. "Andwhat kind of crimes were they, anyway?"
"What you'd have to do with them," Fernack said, "is an unansweredquestion. And so long as it remains unanswered, Malone, you're safe.But when I come up with enough facts to answer it--"
"Don't be silly. Commissioner," Malone said. "How about those crimes?What kind were they?"
"Burglaries," Fernack said. "And I have a hunch you know that wellenough.
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