"What _I'd_ like to know," said Lang, "is where he got his hands on this thing in the first place. Not only is there no machine or weapon we know of which can do this sort of thing, but our tame experts assure us that no such machine or weapon is possible." "Great," said Stevenson. "We're looking for a ten-year-old kid armed with a weapon that no adult in the country could even imagine as possible." The phone rang at that point, and for a second no one moved. They all sat and looked at the jangling phone. Then Marshall and Lang moved simultaneously, but it was Marshall who answered. "Marshall here." The others watched him, heard him say, "Yes, Miss English. Right." And reach forward on the desk for pad and pencil. "Right, got it. You're sure that's the one? Right. Thank you very much." Marshall cradled the phone, and looked at the others. "The woman came in. Her name is Mrs. Albert J. Clayhorn, and she lives on Newkirk Avenue. Miss English said the number would be near East 17th." "Five blocks from the bank," said Stevenson. "And about eighty blocks from Higgins' house," said Roberts. "That's why it took him so long to go to work that time. He saw what was happening on television, grabbed his weapon and his trusty bike and went riding out to Canarsie. The Scorpion rides again!" Marshall looked at his watch. "It's only a little after one," he said. "We can talk to the mother before the boy comes home." "Right," said Stevenson, getting to his feet. V Mrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn was a short, roundish, pleasant-faced woman in a flower-pattern apron. She looked at the identification Marshall showed her, and smiled uncertainly. "FBI? I don't under--Well, come in." "Thank you." The living room was neat and airy. The four men settled themselves. Marshall, uncomfortably, was the spokesman. "I'm going to have to explain this, Mrs. Clayhorn," he said, "and frankly, it isn't going to be easy. You see--" He cleared his throat and tried again. "Well, here's the situation. Someone in New York has a rather strange machine of some sort--well, it's sort of a heat machine, I suppose you could say--and we've traced it, through its use, to, uh--well, to your son." "To Eddie?" Mrs. Clayhorn was looking very blank. "Eddie?" "I take it," said Marshall, instead of answering, "that your son hasn't told you about this machine." "Well, no. Well, of course not. I mean, he's just a little boy. I mean, how could he have any sort of machine? What is it, a blowtorch, something like that?" "Not exactly," said Marshall. "Could you tell me, Mrs. Clayhorn, what your husband does for a living?" "Well, he runs a grocery store. The Bohack's up on Flatbush Avenue." "I see." Lang took over the questioning. "Are there any other persons living here, Mrs. Clayhorn? Any boarders?" "No, there's only the three of us." "Well, is Eddie interested in anything of a, well, a scientific nature? In school, perhaps?"