"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 message without difficulty. "Yeah?" he said, sitting up on the edge of the couch. "You sure?" "Well," Boyd said, "no. Not absolutely sure. Not absolutely. But it is worth your taking a personal look, I think." "Ah," Malone said cautiously. "An imbecile?" "No," Boyd said flatly. "Not an imbecile. Definitely not an imbecile. As a matter of fact, a hell of a fat long way from an imbecile." Malone glanced at his watch and skimmed over the airline timetables in his mind. "I'll be there nine o'clock, your time," he said. "Have a car waiting for me at the field." * * * * * As usual, Malone managed to sleep better on the plane than he'd been able to do at home. He slept so well, in fact, that he was still groggy when he stepped into the waiting car. "Good to see you, Ken," Boyd said briskly, as he shook Malone's hand. "You, too, Tom," Malone said sleepily. "Now what's all this about?" He looked around apprehensively. "No bugs in this car, I hope?" he said. Boyd gunned the motor and headed toward the San Francisco Freeway. "Better not be," he said, "or I'll fire me a technician or two." "Well, then," Malone said, relaxing against the upholstery, "where is this guy, and who is he? And how did you find him?" Boyd looked uncomfortable. It was, somehow, both an awe-inspiring and a slightly risible sight. Six feet one and one-half inches tall in his flat feet, Boyd posted around over two hundred and twenty pounds of bone, flesh and muscle. He swung a pot-belly of startling proportions under the silk shirting he wore, and his face, with its wide nose, small eyes and high forehead, was half highly mature, half startlingly childlike. In an apparent effort to erase those childlike qualities, Boyd sported a fringe of beard and a moustache which reminded Malone of somebody he couldn't quite place. But whoever the somebody was, his hair hadn't been black, as Boyd's was... He decided it didn't make any difference. Anyhow, Boyd was speaking.