"All over the world," Boyd said. "Ken, I'm beginning to think we've got a case of Martian Invaders on our hands. Or something like it." He paused. "But we're licking them, Ken," he went on. "Slowly but surely, we're licking them."
"How do you mean?" Malone said.
"Crime is down," Boyd said, "away down. Major crime, I mean—petty theft, assault, breaking and entering and that sort of thing has gone away up, but that's to be expected. Everything's going to—"
"Skip the handbasket," Malone said. "But you're working things out?"
"Sooner or later," Boyd said. "Every piece of equipment and every man in the FBI is working overtime; we can't be stopped forever."
"I'll wave flags," Malone said bitterly. "And I wish I could join you."
"Believe me," Boyd said, "you don't know when you're well off."
Malone switched off. He looked at his watch; it was ten-thirty.
XII
That made it eight-thirty in Las Vegas. Malone opened his eyes again in his hotel room there. He had half an hour to spare until his dinner date with Luba. That gave him plenty of time to shower, shave and dress, and he felt pleased to have managed the timing so neatly.