<h2>IV</h2>
<p>"You're <i>where</i>?" Andrew J. Burris
said.</p>
<p>Malone looked at the surprised
face on the screen and wished he
hadn't called. He had to report in,
of course—but, if he'd had any
sense, he'd have ordered Boyd to do
the job for him.</p>
<p>Oh, well, it was too late for that
now. "I'm in Las Vegas," he said. "I
tried to get you last night, but I
couldn't, so I—"</p>
<p>"Las Vegas," Burris said. "Well,
well. Las Vegas." His face darkened
and his voice became very loud.
"Why aren't you in Yucca Flats?"
he screamed.</p>
<p>"Because she insisted on it," Malone
said. "The old lady. Miss
Thompson. She says there's another
telepath here."</p>
<p>Burris closed his eyes. "Well,
that's a relief," he said at last.
"Somebody in one of the gambling
houses, I suppose. Fine, Malone."
He went right on without a pause:
"The boys have uncovered two more
in various parts of the nation. Not
one of them is even close to sane."
He opened his eyes. "Where's this
one?" he said.</p>
<p>Malone sighed. "In the looney
bin," he said.</p>
<p>Burris' eyes closed again. Malone
waited in silence. At last Burris
said: "All right. Get him out."</p>
<p>"Right," Malone said.</p>
<p>"Tell me," Burris said. "Why did
Miss Thompson insist that you go to
Las Vegas? Somebody else could
have done the job. You could have
sent Boyd, couldn't you?"</p>
<p>"Chief," Malone said slowly,
"what sort of mental condition are
those other telepaths in?"</p>
<p>"Pretty bad," Burris said. "As a
matter of fact, very bad. Miss
Thompson may be off her trolley,
but the others haven't even got any
tracks." He paused. "What's that got
to do with it?" he said.</p>
<p>"Well," Malone said, "I figured
we'd better handle Miss Thompson
with kid gloves—at least until we
find a better telepath to work with."
He didn't mention Barbara Wilson.
The chief, he told himself, didn't
want to be bothered with details.</p>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/006-1.png" style="display: block;" width-obs="325" height-obs="280" alt="" title="" /></div>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/006-2.png" style="display: block;" width-obs="155" height-obs="220" alt="" title="" /></div>
<p>"Doggone right you'd better,"
Burris said. "You treat that old lady
as if she were the Queen herself, understand?"</p>
<p>"Don't worry," Malone said unhappily.
"We are." He hesitated.
"She says she'll help us find our spy,
all right, but we've got to do it her
way—or else she won't co-operate."</p>
<p>"Do it her way, then," Burris
said. "That spy—"</p>
<p>"Chief, are you sure?"</p>
<p>Burris blinked. "Well, then," he
said, "what <i>is</i> her way?"</p>
<p>Malone took a deep breath.
"First," he said, "we had to come
here and pick this guy up. This William
Logan, who's in a private sanitarium
just outside of Las Vegas.
That's number one. Miss Thompson
wants to get all the telepaths together,
so they can hold mental conversations
or something."</p>
<p>"And all of them batty," Burris
said.</p>
<p>"Sure," Malone said. "A convention
of nuts—and me in the middle.
Listen, chief—"</p>
<p>"Later," Burris said. "When this
is over we can all resign, or go fishing,
or just plain shoot ourselves.
But right now the national security
is primary, Malone. Remember
that."</p>
<p>"O.K.," Malone sighed. "O.K.
But she wants all the nuts here."</p>
<p>"Go along with her," Burris snapped.
"Keep her happy. So far, Malone,
she's the only lead we have on
the guy who's swiping information
from Yucca Flats. If she wants something,
Malone, you do it."</p>
<p>"But, chief—"</p>
<p>"Don't interrupt me," Burris said.
"If she wants to be treated like a
queen, you treat her like one. Malone,
that's an order!"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," Malone said sadly.
"But, chief, she wants us to buy her
some new clothes."</p>
<p>Burris exploded: "Is that all? New
clothes? Get 'em. Put 'em on the expense
account. New clothes are a
drop in the bucket."</p>
<p>"Well ... she thinks we need
new clothes, too."</p>
<p>"Maybe you do," Burris said.
"Put the whole thing on the expense
account. You don't think I'm going
to quibble about a few dollars, do
you?"</p>
<p>"Well—"</p>
<p>"Get the clothes. Just don't bother
me with details like this. Handle the
job yourself, Malone—you're in
charge out there. And get to Yucca
Flats as soon as possible."</p>
<p>Malone gave up. "Yes, sir," he
said.</p>
<p>"All right, then," Burris said.
"Call me tomorrow. Meanwhile—good
luck, Malone. Chin up."</p>
<p>Malone said: "Yes, sir," and
reached for the switch. But Burris'
voice stopped him.</p>
<p>"Just one thing," he said.</p>
<p>"Yes, chief?" Malone said.</p>
<p>Burris frowned. "Don't spend any
more for the clothes than you have
to," he said.</p>
<p>Malone nodded, and cut off.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>When the director's image had
vanished, he got up and went to the
window of the hotel room. Outside,
a huge sign told the world, and Malone,
that this was the Thunderbird-Hilton-Zeckendorf
Hotel, but Malone
ignored it. He didn't need a
sign; he knew where he was.</p>
<p>In hot water, he thought. <i>That's</i>
where he was.</p>
<p>Behind him, the door opened. Malone
turned as Boyd came in.</p>
<p>"I found a costume shop, Ken,"
he said.</p>
<p>"Great," Malone said. "The chief
authorized it."</p>
<p>"He did?" Boyd's round face fell
at the news.</p>
<p>"He said to buy her whatever she
wants. He says to treat her like a
queen."</p>
<p>"That," Boyd said, "we're doing
now."</p>
<p>"I know it," Malone said. "I
know it altogether too well."</p>
<p>"Anyhow," Boyd said, brightening,
"the costume shop doesn't do us
any good. They've only got cowboy
stuff and bullfighters' costumes and
Mexican stuff—you know, for their
Helldorado Week here."</p>
<p>"You didn't give up, did you?"
Malone said.</p>
<p>Boyd shook his head. "Of course
not," he said. "Ken, this is on the
expense account, isn't it?"</p>
<p>"Expense account," Malone said.
"Sure it is."</p>
<p>Boyd looked relieved. "Good," he
said. "Because I had the proprietor
phone her size in, to New York."</p>
<p>"Better get two of 'em," Malone
said. "The chief said anything she
wanted, she was supposed to have."</p>
<p>"I'll go back right away. I told
him we wanted the stuff on the afternoon
plane, so—"</p>
<p>"And give him Bar ... Miss Wilson's
size, and yours, and mine. Tell
him to dig up something appropriate."</p>
<p>"For us?" Boyd blanched visibly.</p>
<p>"For us," Malone said grimly.</p>
<p>Boyd set his jaw. "No," he said.</p>
<p>"Listen, Tom," Malone said, "I
don't like this any better than you
do. But if I can't resign, you can't
either. Costumes for everybody."</p>
<p>"But," Boyd said, and stopped.
After a second he went on: "Malone
... Ken ... FBI agents are supposed
to be inconspicuous, aren't
they?"</p>
<p>Malone nodded.</p>
<p>"Well, how inconspicuous are we
going to be in this stuff?"</p>
<p>"It's an idea," Malone said. "But
it isn't a very good one. Our first
job is to keep Miss Thompson happy.
And that means costumes. And
what's more," Malone added, "from
now on she's 'Your Majesty'. Got
that?"</p>
<p>"Ken," Boyd said, "you've gone
nuts."</p>
<p>Malone shook his head. "No, I
haven't," he said. "I just wish I had.
It would be a relief."</p>
<p>"Me, too," Boyd said. He started
for the door and turned. "I wish I
could have stayed in San Francisco,"
he said. "Why should she insist on
taking <i>me</i> along?"</p>
<p>"The beard," Malone said.</p>
<p>"<i>My</i> beard?" Boyd recoiled.</p>
<p>"Right," Malone said. "She says
it reminds her of someone she
knows. Frankly, it reminds me of
someone, too. Only I don't know
who."</p>
<p>Boyd gulped. "I'll shave it off,"
he said, with the air of a man who
can do no more to propitiate the
Gods.</p>
<p>"You will not," Malone said firmly.
"Touch but a hair of yon black
chin, and I'll peel off your entire
skin."</p>
<p>Boyd winced.</p>
<p>"Now," Malone said, "go back to
that costume shop and arrange
things. Here." He fished in his pockets,
came out with a crumpled slip
of paper and handed it to Boyd.
"That's a list of my clothing sizes.
Get another list from B ... Miss
Wilson." Boyd nodded. Malone
thought he detected a strange glint
in the other man's eye. "Don't
measure her yourself," he said. "Just
ask her."</p>
<p>Boyd scratched his bearded chin
and nodded slowly. "All right,
Ken," he said. "But if we just don't
get anywhere, don't blame me."</p>
<p>"If you get anywhere," Malone
said, "I'll snatch you baldheaded.
And I'll leave the beard."</p>
<p>"I didn't mean with Miss Wilson,
Ken," Boyd said. "I meant in general."
He left, with the air of a man
whose world has betrayed him. His
back looked, to Malone, like the back
of a man on his way to the scaffold
or guillotine.</p>
<p>The door closed.</p>
<p>Now, Malone thought, who does
that beard remind me of? Who do
I know who knows Miss Thompson?</p>
<p>And what difference does it make?</p>
<p>Nevertheless, he told himself,
Boyd's beard was really an admirable
fact of nature. Ever since
beards had become popular again in
the mid-sixties, and FBI agents had
been permitted to wear them, Malone
had thought about growing one.
But, somehow, it didn't seem right.</p>
<p>Now, looking at Boyd, he began
to think about the prospect again.</p>
<p>He shrugged the notion away.
There were things to do.</p>
<p>He picked up the phone and called
Information.</p>
<p>"Can you give me," he said, "the
number of the Desert Edge Sanitarium?"</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>The crimson blob of the setting
sun was already painting the desert
sky with its customary purples and
oranges by the time the little caravan
arrived at the Desert Edge Sanitarium,
a square white building several
miles out of Las Vegas. Malone, in
the first car, wondered briefly about
the kind of patients they catered to?
People driven mad by vingt-et-un or
poker-dice? Neurotic chorus ponies?
Gambling czars with delusions of
non-persecution?</p>
<p>Sitting in the front seat next to
Boyd, he watched the unhappy San
Francisco agent manipulating the
wheel. In the back seat, Queen Elizabeth
Thompson and Lady Barbara,
the nurse, were located, and Her
Majesty was chattering away like a
magpie.</p>
<p>Malone eyed the rear-view mirror
to get a look at the car following
them and the two local FBI agents
in it. They were, he thought, unbelievably
lucky. He had to sit and listen
to the Royal Personage in the
back seat.</p>
<p>"Of course, as soon as Parliament
convenes and recognizes me," she
was saying, "I shall confer personages
on all of you. Right now, the
best I can do is to knight you all,
and of course that's hardly enough.
But I think I shall make Sir Kenneth
the Duke of Columbia."</p>
<p>Sir Kenneth, Malone realized, was
himself. He wondered how he'd like
being Duke of Columbia—and
wouldn't the President be surprised!</p>
<p>"And Sir Thomas," the queen
continued, "will be the Duke of ...
what? Sir Thomas?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Your Majesty?" Boyd said,
trying to sound both eager and
properly respectful.</p>
<p>"What would you like to be Duke
of?" she said.</p>
<p>"Oh," Boyd said after a second's
thought, "anything that pleases Your
Majesty." But, apparently, his
thoughts gave him away.</p>
<p>"You're from upstate New
York?" the Queen said. "How very
nice. Then you must be made the
Duke of Poughkeepsie."</p>
<p>"Thank you, Your Majesty," Boyd
said. Malone thought he detected a
note of pride in the man's voice, and
shot a glance at Boyd, but the agent
was driving with a serene face and
an economy of motion.</p>
<p><i>Duke of Poughkeepsie!</i> Malone
thought. <i>Hah!</i></p>
<p>He leaned back and adjusted his
fur-trimmed coat. The plume that
fell from his cap kept tickling his
neck, and he brushed at it without
success.</p>
<p>All four of the inhabitants of the
car were dressed in late Sixteenth
Century costumes, complete with
ruffs and velvet and lace filigree. Her
Majesty and Lady Barbara were
wearing the full skirts and small
skullcaps of the era—and on Barbara,
Malone thought privately, the
low-cut gowns didn't look at all disappointing—and
Sir Thomas and
Malone—Sir Kenneth, he thought
sourly—were clad in doublet, hose
and long coats with fur trim and
slashed sleeves. And all of them were
loaded down, weighted down, staggeringly,
with gems.</p>
<p>Naturally, the gems were fake.
But then, Malone thought, the
Queen was mad. It all balanced out
in the end.</p>
<p>As they approached the sanitarium,
Malone breathed a thankful
prayer that he'd called up to tell the
head physician how they'd all be
dressed. If he hadn't—</p>
<p>He didn't want to think about
that.</p>
<p>He didn't even want to pass it by
hurriedly on a dark night.</p>
<p>The head physician, Dr. Frederic
Dowson, was waiting for them on
the steps of the building. He was a
tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man
with almost no hair and very deep-sunken
eyes. He had the kind of
face that a gushing female would
probably describe, Malone thought,
as "craggy," but it didn't look in the
least attractive to Malone. Instead, it
looked tough and forbidding.</p>
<p>He didn't turn a hair as the magnificently
robed Boyd slid from the
front seat, opened the rear door,
doffed his plumed hat, and in one
low sweep made a great bow. "We
are here, Your Majesty," Boyd said.</p>
<p>Her Majesty got out, clutching at
her voluminous skirts in a worried
manner, to keep from catching them
on the door jamb. "You know, Sir
Thomas," she said when she was
standing free of the car, "I think
we must be related."</p>
<p>"Ah?" Boyd said worriedly.</p>
<p>"I'm certain of it, in fact," Her
Majesty went on. "You look just exactly
like my poor father. Just exactly.
I dare say you come from one of
the sinister branches of the family.
Perhaps you are a half-brother of
mine—removed, of course."</p>
<p>Malone grinned, and tried to hide
the expression. Boyd was looking
puzzled, then distantly angered. Nobody
had ever called him illegitimate
in just that way before.</p>
<p>But Her Majesty was absolutely
right, Malone thought. The agent
had always reminded him of someone,
and now, at last, he knew exactly
who. The hair hadn't been
black, either, but red.</p>
<p>Boyd was, in Elizabethan costume,
the deadest of dead ringers for
Henry VIII.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Malone went up the steps to
where Dr. Dowson was standing.</p>
<p>"I'm Malone," he said, checking
a tendency to bow. "I called earlier
today. Is this William Logan of yours
ready to go? We can take him back
with us in the second car."</p>
<p>Dr. Dowson compressed his lips
and looked worried. "Come in, Mr.
Malone," he said. He turned just as
the second carload of FBI agents
began emptying itself over the hospital
grounds.</p>
<p>The entire procession filed into
the hospital office, the two local
agents bringing up the rear. Since
they were not a part of Her Majesty's
personal retinue, they had not
been required to wear court costumes.
In a way, Malone was beginning
to feel sorry for them. He himself
cut a nice figure in the outfit,
he thought—rather like Errol Flynn
in the old black-and-white print of
"The Prince and the Pauper."</p>
<p>But there was no denying that the
procession looked strange. File
clerks and receptionists stopped their
work to gape at the four bedizened
walkers and their plainly dressed
satellites. Malone needed no telepathic
talent to tell what they were
thinking.</p>
<p>"A whole roundup of nuts," they
were thinking. "And those two fellows
in the back must be bringing
them in—along with Dr. Dowson."</p>
<p>Malone straightened his spine.
Really, he didn't see why Elizabethan
costumes had ever gone out of style.
Elizabeth was back, wasn't she—either
Elizabeth II, on the throne, or
Elizabeth I, right behind him. Either
way you looked at it—</p>
<p>When they were all inside the
waiting room, Dr. Dowson said:
"Now, Mr. Malone, just what is all
this about?" He rubbed his long
hands together. "I fail to see the
humor of the situation."</p>
<p>"Humor?" Malone said.</p>
<p>"Doctor," Barbara Wilson began,
"let me explain. You see—"</p>
<p>"These ridiculous costumes," Dr.
Dowson said, waving a hand at them.
"You may feel that poking fun at
insanity is humorous, Mr. Malone,
but let me tell you—"</p>
<p>"It wasn't like that at all," Boyd
said.</p>
<p>"And," Dr. Dowson continued in
a somewhat louder voice, "wanting
to take Mr. Logan away from us. Mr.
Logan is a very sick man, Mr. Malone.
He should be properly cared
for."</p>
<p>"I promise we'll take good care of
him." Malone said earnestly. The
Elizabethan clothes were fine outdoors,
but in a heated room one had
a tendency to sweat.</p>
<p>"I take leave to doubt that," Dr.
Dowson said, eying their costumes
pointedly.</p>
<p>"Miss Wilson here," Malone volunteered,
"is a trained psychiatric
nurse."</p>
<p>Barbara, in her gown, stepped
forward. "Dr. Dowson," she said,
"let me assure you that these costumes
have their purpose. We—"</p>
<p>"Not only that," Malone said.
"There are a group of trained men
from St. Elizabeths Hospital in
Washington who are going to take
the best of care of him." He said
nothing whatever about Yucca Flats,
or about telepathy.</p>
<p>Why spread around information
unnecessarily?</p>
<p>"But I don't understand," Dr.
Dowson said. "What interest could
the FBI have in an insane man?"</p>
<p>"That's none of your business,"
Malone said. He reached inside his
fur-trimmed robe and, again suppressing
a tendency to bow deeply,
withdrew an impressive-looking legal
document. "This," he said, "is a
court order, instructing you to hand
over to us the person of one William
Logan, herein identified and described."
He waved it at the doctor.
"That's your William Logan," he
said, "only now he's ours."</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Dr. Dowson took the papers and
put in some time frowning at them.
Then he looked up again at Malone.
"I assume that I have some discretion
in this matter," he said. "And
I wonder if you realize just how ill
Mr. Logan is? We have his case histories
here, and we have worked
with him for some time."</p>
<p>Barbara Wilson said: "But—"</p>
<p>"I might say that we are beginning
to understand his illness," Dr. Dowson
said. "I honestly don't think it
would be proper to transfer this work
to another group of therapists. It
might set his illness back—cause, as
it were, a relapse. All our work
could easily be nullified."</p>
<p>"Please, doctor," Barbara Wilson
began.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid the court order's got
to stand," Malone said. Privately, he
felt sorry for Dr. Dowson, who was,
obviously enough, a conscientious
man trying to do the best he could
for his patient. But—</p>
<p>"I'm sorry, Dr. Dowson," he said.
"We'll expect you to send all of your
data to the government psychiatrists—and,
naturally, any concern for the
patient's welfare will be our concern
also. The FBI isn't anxious for its
workers to get the reputation of careless
men." He paused, wondering
what other bone he could throw the
man. "I have no doubt that the St.
Elizabeths men will be happy to accept
your co-operation," he said at
last. "But, I'm afraid that our duty
is clear. William Logan goes with
us."</p>
<p>Dr. Dowson looked at them sourly.
"Does he have to get dressed up
like a masquerade, too?" Before Malone
could answer, the psychiatrist
added: "Anyhow, I don't even know
you're FBI men. After all, why
should I comply with orders from a
group of men, dressed insanely,
whom I don't even know?"</p>
<p>Malone didn't say anything. He
just got up and walked to a phone
on a small table, near the wall. Next
to it was a door, and Malone wondered
uncomfortably what was behind it.
Maybe Dr. Dowson had a
small arsenal there, to protect his
patients and prevent people from
pirating them.</p>
<p>He looked back at the set and
dialed Burris' private number in
Washington. When the director's
face appeared on the screen, Malone
said: "Mr. Burris, will you please
identify me to Dr. Dowson?" He
looked over at Dowson. "You recognize
Mr. Andrew J. Burris, I suppose?"
he said.</p>
<p>Dowson nodded. His grim face
showed a faint shock. He walked to
the phone, and Malone stepped back
to let him talk with Burris.</p>
<p>"My name is Dowson," he said.
"I'm psychiatric director here at
Desert Edge Sanitarium. And your
men—"</p>
<p>"My men have orders to take a
William Logan from your care,"
Burris said.</p>
<p>"That's right," Dowson said.
"But—"</p>
<p>While they were talking, Queen
Elizabeth I sidled quietly up to Malone
and tapped him on the shoulder.</p>
<p>"Sir Kenneth," she whispered in
the faintest of voices, "I know where
your telepathic spy is. And I know
<i>who</i> he is."</p>
<p>"Who?" Malone said. "What?
Why? Where?" He blinked and
whirled. It couldn't be true. They
couldn't solve the case so easily.</p>
<p>But the Queen's face was full of
a majestic assurance. "He's right
there," she said, and she pointed.</p>
<p>Malone followed her finger.</p>
<p>It was aimed directly at the glowing
image of Andrew J. Burris, Director
of the FBI.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/007.png" width-obs="600" height-obs="419" alt="" title="" /> "Not legally responsible, of course...."</div>
<hr class="hrchp" />
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />