"I don't know what the chief thinks," Boyd said. "Things'll straighten out in a while. We're working on it--twenty-four hours a day, or damn near, but we're working. While you take a nice, long vacation that--" "I want you to get me something," Malone said. "Just go and get it and send it to me at Las Vegas." "Money?" Boyd said with raised eyebrows. "Dossiers," Malone said. "On Mike Sand and Primo Palveri." "Palveri I can understand," Boyd said. "You want to threaten him with exposure unless he lets you beat the roulette tables. But why Sand? Ken, are you working on something psionic?" "Me?" Malone said sweetly. "I'm on vacation." "The chief won't like--" "Can you send me the dossiers?" Malone interrupted. Boyd shook his head very slowly. "Ken, I can't do it without the chief finding out about it. If you are working on something ... hell, I'd like to help you. But I don't see how I can. You don't know what things are like here." "What are they like?" Malone said. "The full force is here," Boyd said. "As far as I know, you're the only vacation leave not canceled yet. And not only that, but we've got agents in from the Sureté and New Scotland Yard, agents from Belgium and Germany and Holland and Japan ... Ken, we've even got three MVD men here working with us." "It's happening all over?" Malone said. "All over the world," Boyd said. "Ken, I'm beginning to think we've got a case of Martian Invaders on our hands. Or something like it." He paused. "But we're licking them, Ken," he went on. "Slowly but surely, we're licking them." "How do you mean?" Malone said. "Crime is down," Boyd said, "away down. Major crime, I mean--petty theft, assault, breaking and entering and that sort of thing has gone away up, but that's to be expected. Everything's going to--" "Skip the handbasket," Malone said. "But you're working things out?" "Sooner or later," Boyd said. "Every piece of equipment and every man in the FBI is working overtime; we can't be stopped forever." "I'll wave flags," Malone said bitterly. "And I wish I could join you." "Believe me," Boyd said, "you don't know when you're well off." Malone switched off. He looked at his watch; it was ten-thirty. XII That made it eight-thirty in Las Vegas. Malone opened his eyes again in his hotel room there. He had half an hour to spare until his dinner date with Luba. That gave him plenty of time to shower, shave and dress, and he felt pleased to have managed the timing so neatly. Two minutes later, he was soaking in the luxury of a hot tub allowing the warmth to relax his body while his mind turned over the facts he had collected. There were a lot of them, but they didn't seem to mean anything special.