Malone held it out wordlessly. The patrolman, obviously intent on finding out just what kind of paper the card was made of, who had printed it and whether there were any germs on it, gave it a long, careful scrutiny. Malone shifted slightly in his seat, counted to ten and managed to say nothing. Then the patrolman started reading the card aloud. “Kenneth J. Malone,” he said in a tone of some surprise. “Special Agent of the FBI.” He looked up. “That right?” he said. “What it says here?” “That’s right,” Malone said. “And you can have my autograph later.” He regretted the last sentence as soon as it was out of his mouth, but the patrolman didn’t seem to notice. “Then you’re the man, all right,” he said happily. “I caught your plate number as you went on by me, back there.” “Plate number?” Malone said. “What am I supposed to have done?” He’d overslept, he knew, but that was the only violation of even his personal code that he could think of. And it didn’t seem likely that the Virginia Highway Patrol was sending out its men to arrest people who overslept. “Why, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said with honest surprise written all over his Norman Rockwell face, “as far as I know you didn’t do a thing wrong.” “But—” “They just told us to be on the watch for a black 1973 Lincoln with your number, and see if you were driving it. They did say you’d probably be driving it.” “Good,” Malone said. “And I am. And I’d like to continue doing so.” He paused and then added, “But what happened?” “Well,” the patrolman said, in exactly the manner of a man starting out to tell a long, interesting story about the Wars of the Spanish Succession, “well, sir, it seems FBI Headquarters in Washington, they got in touch with the Highway Patrol Headquarters, down in Richmond, and Highway Patrol Headquarters—” “Down in Richmond,” Malone muttered resignedly. “That’s right,” the patrolman said in a pleased voice. “Well, they called all the local barracks, and then we got the message on our radios.” He stopped, exactly as if he thought he had finished. Malone counted to ten again, made it twenty and then found that he was capable of speech. “What?” he said in a calm, patient voice, “was the message about?” “Well,” the patrolman said, “it seems some fella down in Washington, fella name of Thomas Boyd, they said it was, wants to talk to you pretty bad.” “He could have called me on the car phone,” Malone said in what he thought was a reasonable tone of voice. “He didn’t have to—” “There’s no call for yelling at me, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said reproachfully. “I only obeyed my orders, which were to locate your black 1973 Lincoln and see if you were driving it, and give you a message. That’s all.” “It’s enough,” Malone muttered. “He didn’t have to send out the militia to round me up.” “Oh, no, Mr. Malone,” the patrolman said. “Not the militia. Highway Patrol. We don’t rightly have any connection with the militia at all.”