"Malone," Burris said, his voice filled with Devotion To One's Country In The Face Of Great Obstacles, "Malone, I want you to find that device!" "In the wreck?" Malone said. Burris sighed and leaned back. "No," he said. "Of course not. Not in the wreck. But the other red Cadillacs--some of them, anyhow--ought to have--" "What red Cadillacs?" Malone said. "The other ones that have been stolen. From Connecticut, mostly. One from New Jersey, out near Passaic." "Have any of the others been moving around without drivers?" Malone said. "Well," Burris said, "there's been no report of it. But who can tell?" He gestured with both arms. "Anything is possible, Malone." "Sure," Malone said. "Now," Burris said, "all of the stolen cars are red 1972 Cadillacs. There's got to be some reason for that--and I think they're covering up another car like the one that got smashed: a remote--controlled Cadillac. Or even a self-guiding, automatic, robot-controlled Cadillac." "They?" Malone said. "Who?" "Whoever is stealing the cars," Burris said patiently. "Oh," Malone said. "Sure. But--" "So get up to New York," Burris said, "keep your eyes open, and nose around. Got it?" "I have now," Malone said. "And when that Cadillac is found, Malone, we want to take a look at it. O.K.?" "Yes, sir," Malone said. III. Of course, there were written reports, too. Burris had handed Malone a sheaf of them--copies of the New York police reports to Burris himself--and Malone, wanting some time to look through them, had taken a train to New York instead of a plane. Besides, the new planes still made him slightly nervous, though he could ride one when he had to. If jet engines had been good enough for the last generation, he thought, they were certainly good enough for him. But avoidance of the new planes was all the good the train trip did him. The reports contained thousands of words, none of which was either new or, apparently, significant to Malone. Burris, he considered, had given him everything necessary for the job. Except, of course, a way to make sense out of the whole thing. He considered robot-controlled Cadillacs. What good were they? They might make it easier for the average driver, of course but that was no reason to cover up for them, hitting policemen over the head and smashing cars and driving a hundred and ten miles an hour on the West Side Highway. All the same, it was the only explanation Malone had, and he cherished it deeply. He put the papers back in his brief case when the train pulled into Penn Station, handed his suitcases to a redcap and punched the 'cap's buttons for the waiting room. Now, he thought as he strolled slowly along behind the robot, there was an invention that made sense. And nobody had to get killed for it, or hit over the head or smashed up, had they? So what was all this nonsense about red robot-controlled Cadillacs?