Malone was not quite certain that he agreed with Burris' idea of a self-operating car, but at least it was something to work on. A car that could reach out, crown an investigator, and then drive off humming something innocent under its breath was certainly a unique and dangerous machine within the meaning of the act. Of course, there were problems attendant on this view of things. For one thing, Malone couldn't quite see how the car could have beaned him when he was ten feet away from it. But that was, he told himself uncomfortably, a minor point. He could deal with it when he felt a little better. The important thing was the car itself. Malone jerked a little under the doctor's calm hands, and swore subvocally. "Hold still," the doctor said. "Don't go wiggling your head around that way. Just wait quietly until the dermijel sets." Obediently, Malone froze. There was a crick in his neck, but he decided he could stand it. "My head still hurts," he said accusingly. "Sure it still hurts," the doctor agreed. "But you--" "What did you expect?" the doctor said. "Even an FBI agent isn't immune to blackjacks, you know." He resumed his work on Malone's skull. "Blackjacks?" Malone said. "What blackjacks?" "The ones that hit you," the doctor said. "Or the one, anyhow." Malone blinked. Somehow, though he could manage a fuzzy picture of a car reaching out to hit him, the introduction of a blackjack into this imaginative effort confused things a little. But he resolutely ignored it. "The bruise is just the right size and shape," the doctor said. "And that cut on your head comes from the seams on the leather casing." "You're sure?" Malone said doubtfully. It did seem as if a car had a lot more dangerous weapons around, without resorting to blackjacks. If it had really wanted to damage him, why hadn't it hit him with the engine block? "I'm sure," the doctor said. "I've worked in Emergency in this hospital long enough to recognize a blackjack wound." That was a disturbing idea, in a way. It gave a new color to Malone's reflection on Greenwich Villagers. Maybe things had changed since he'd heard about them. Maybe the blackjack had supplanted the guitar. But that wasn't the important thing. The fact that it had been a blackjack that had hit him _was_ important. It was vital, as a matter of fact. Malone knew that perfectly well. It was a key fact in the case he was investigating. The only trouble was that he didn't see what, if anything, it meant. The doctor stepped back and regarded Malone's head with something like pride. "There," he said. "You'll be all right now." "A concussion?" "Sure," the doctor said. "But it isn't serious. Just take these pills--one every two hours until they're gone--and you'll be rid of any effects within twenty-four hours." He went to a cabinet, fiddled around for a minute, and came back with a small bottle containing six orange pills. They looked very large and threatening. "Fine," Malone said doubtfully.