Boyd gunned the motor and headed toward the San Francisco Freeway.
"Better not be," he said, "or I'll fire me a technician or two."
"Well, then," Malone said, relaxing against the upholstery, "where is this guy, and who is he? And how did you find him?"
Boyd looked uncomfortable. It was, somehow, both an awe-inspiring and a slightly risible sight. Six feet one and one-half inches tall in his flat feet, Boyd posted around over two hundred and twenty pounds of bone, flesh and muscle. He swung a pot-belly of startling proportions under the silk shirting he wore, and his face, with its wide nose, small eyes and high forehead, was half highly mature, half startlingly childlike. In an apparent effort to erase those childlike qualities, Boyd sported a fringe of beard and a moustache which reminded Malone of somebody he couldn't quite place.
But whoever the somebody was, his hair hadn't been black, as Boyd's was…
He decided it didn't make any difference. Anyhow, Boyd was speaking.
"In the first place," he said, "it isn't a guy. In the second, I'm not exactly sure who it is. And in the third, Ken, I didn't find it."
There was a little silence.
"Don't tell me," Malone said. "It's a telepathic horse, isn't it? Tom,
I just don't think I could stand a telepathic horse…."
"No," Boyd said hastily. "No. Not at all. No horse. It's a dame. I mean a lady." He looked away from the road and flashed a glance at Malone. His eyes seemed to be pleading for something—understanding, possibly, Malone thought. "Frankly," Boyd said, "I'd rather not tell you anything about her just yet. I'd rather you met her first. Then you could make up your own mind. All right?"
"All right," Malone said wearily. "Do it your own way. How far do we have to go?"