“Why, no,” Teal said, surprised. “A spot check shows that most of the executives of the London branch of the Psychical Research Society are spending quiet evenings in their homes. Our Inspector Ottermole actually spoke to Dr. Carnacki, the head of the office here.” “Oh,” Malone said. “They haven’t skipped,” Teal went on. “Is this in connection with anything serious, Mr. Malone?” “Not yet,” Malone said. “But I’ll let you know at once if there are any further developments. Thanks very much, Mr. Teal.” “A pleasure, Mr. Malone,” Teal said. “A pleasure.” And then, still masticating, he switched off. And that, Malone told himself, was definitely that. Of course the British PRS hadn’t gone underground; why should they? The British police weren’t on to them, as Scotland Yard showed. And, no matter what opinions Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I might hold in the matter, the FBI had absolutely no jurisdiction in the British Isles. Malone buried his face in his hands, thought about a cigar and decided that even a cigar might make him feel worse. Where were they? What were they doing now? What did they plan to do? Where had they gone? “Out of the everywhere,” he said in a hollow, sepulchral voice, “into the here.” But where was the here? He tried to make up his mind whether or not that made sense. Superficially, it sounded like plain bad English, but he wasn’t sure of anything any more. Things were getting much too confused. There was a knock at the door. Malone, without any hope at all, called: “Come in,” and the door opened. The agent-in-charge came in, and dropped a dollar on Malone’s desk. “So you checked,” Malone said. “I checked,” the A-in-C said sadly. “The boys went through the entire damned building. Not a sign of her. Not even a trace.” “There wouldn’t be one,” Malone said, shoving the dollar back to waiting hands. “Take the money; I knew what would happen. It was a sucker bet.” “Well, I feel like the sucker, all right,” the A-in-C said. “I don’t know how she did it.” “I do,” Malone said quietly. “Teleportation.” The A-in-C whistled. “Well,” he said, “it was a great secret as long as it was FBI property. But now, friend, all hell is going to bust loose.” “It already has,” Malone said hollowly. “Great,” the A-in-C said. “What now?” “Now,” Malone said, “I am going to go back to Washington. Take care of poor little old New York for me.” He closed his eyes, and vanished. When he opened them, he was in his Washington apartment. He went over to the big couch and sat down, feeling that if he were going to curse he might as well be comfortable while he did it. But when the air was bright blue, some minutes later, he didn’t feel any better. Cursing was not the answer. Nothing seemed to be. What was his next move? Where did he go from here? The more he thought about it, the more his mind spun. He was, he realized, at an absolute, total, dead end.