It doesn't do much good to know where a teleporter _is_, Malone thought. But it's extremely handy to know where he's going to be. And if you also know what he plans to do when he gets where he's going, you've got an absolute lead-pipe cinch to work with. The Queen and Malone had provided that lead-pipe cinch. They were sure that Mike planned to raid the sporting-goods store with the rest of the Spooks that night. But, of course, they might all just be riding for some kind of horrible, unforeseen fall-- The main part of the sporting-goods store was fairly well lit, even at night, though it was by no means brightly illuminated. There were show-window lights on, and the street lamp from outside cast a nice glow. Malone was grateful for that. But the back room was dark, and the four men there were well-concealed. A curtain closed the room off, and Malone watched the front of the store through a narrow opening in it. He stared until his eyes ached, afraid to blink in case he missed the appearance of the Spooks. Everything had to go off just right, precisely on schedule. And it was going to happen any minute, he told himself nervously. In just a few minutes, everything would be over. Malone held his breath. Then he saw the figure walk slowly by the glass front of the shop, looking in with over-elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint, making sure there was no one left in it. Mike Fueyo. Malone tried to breathe, and couldn't. Seconds ticked by. And then--almost magically--they appeared. Eight of them, almost simultaneously, in the center of the room. Mike Fueyo spoke in a low, controlled voice. "O.K., now," he said. "Let's move fast. We haven't got much time. We--" And that was all he said. Malone concentrated on just one thing: holding an image of the room, with the eight Spooks in it. There was a long second of silence. Malone felt a bead of sweat trickle down his cheek. He held the image. "What's wrong?" the tallest boy said suddenly--Ramon Otravez, Malone remembered. "What's wrong, Mike?" Mike let out his breath in a ragged sigh. "I ... don't know," he said slowly. "I can't move--" "It's a trap!" another boy shouted. Malone bore down. He could feel power draining out of him, but he held on, willing the boys to remain in the room, blanking out their own teleportative abilities with his stronger ones. The eight boys stood, frozen, in the center of the lit room. Malone let another second go by, and then he stepped out from behind the curtains. "Hello, boys," he said casually. Mike stared at him. "It's Malone," he said. "That's right," Malone said. "Hello, Mike. I've been waiting for you." Mike gulped. "You found us," he said. "Somebody talked." Malone shook his head. "Nobody talked," he said. Concentration was getting easier; the longer the situation remained the same, the less power it took to keep it that way. He wished he had brought a cigar, and compromised by fishing out a cigarette and lighting it.