<h2>VI</h2>
<p>The management of the Golden
Palace had been in business for many
long, dreary, profitable years, and
each member of the staff thought he
or she had seen just about everything
there was to be seen. And those that
were new felt an obligation to <i>look</i>
as if they'd seen everything.</p>
<p>Therefore, when the entourage of
Queen Elizabeth I strolled into the
main salon, not a single eye was batted.
Not a single gasp was heard.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, the staff kept a discreet
eye on the crew. Drunks, rich
men or Arabian millionaires were all
familiar. But a group out of the Sixteenth
Century was something else
again.</p>
<p>Malone almost strutted, conscious
of the sidelong glances the group was
drawing. But it was obvious that Sir
Thomas was the major attraction.
Even if you could accept the idea of
people in strange costumes, the sight
of a living, breathing absolute duplicate
of King Henry VIII was a little
too much to take. It has been reported
that two ladies named Jane, and one
named Catherine, came down with
sudden headaches and left the salon
within five minutes of the group's
arrival.</p>
<p>Malone felt he knew, however, why
he wasn't drawing his full share of attention.
He felt a little out of place.
The costume was one thing, and, to
tell the truth, he was beginning to enjoy
it. Even with the weight of the
stuff, it was going to be a wrench to
go back to single-breasted suits and
plain white shirts. But he did feel that
he should have been carrying a sword.</p>
<p>Instead, he had a .44 Magnum Colt
snuggled beneath his left armpit.</p>
<p>Somehow, a .44 Magnum Colt
didn't seem as romantic as a sword.
Malone pictured himself saying:
"Take that, varlet." Was varlet what
you called them? he wondered. Maybe
it was valet.</p>
<p>"Take that, valet," he muttered.
No, that sounded even worse. Oh,
well, he could look it up later.</p>
<p>The truth was that he had been
born in the wrong century. He could
imagine himself at the Mermaid Tavern,
hob-nobbing with Shakespeare
and all the rest of them. He wondered
if Sir Richard Greene would be there.
Then he wondered who Sir Richard
Greene was.</p>
<p>Behind Sir Kenneth, Sir Thomas
Boyd strode, looking majestic, as if
he were about to fling purses of gold
to the citizenry. As a matter of fact,
Malone thought, he was. They all
were.</p>
<p>Purses of good old United States
of America gold.</p>
<p>Behind Sir Thomas came Queen
Elizabeth and her Lady-in-Waiting,
Lady Barbara Wilson. They made a
beautiful foursome.</p>
<p>"The roulette table," Her Majesty
said with dignity. "Precede me."</p>
<p>They pushed their way through the
crowd. Most of the customers were
either excited enough, drunk enough,
or both to see nothing in the least incongruous
about a Royal Family of the
Tudors invading the Golden Palace.
Very few of them, as a matter of fact,
seemed to notice the group.</p>
<p>They were roulette players. They
noticed nothing but the table and the
wheel. Malone wondered what they
were thinking about, decided to ask
Queen Elizabeth, and then decided
against it. He felt it would make him
nervous to know.</p>
<p>Her Majesty took a handful of
chips.</p>
<p>The handful was worth, Malone
knew, exactly five thousand dollars.
That, he'd thought, ought to last them
an evening, even in the Golden Palace.
In the center of the strip, inside the
city limits of Las Vegas itself, the
five thousand would have lasted much
longer—but Her Majesty wanted the
Palace, and the Palace it was.</p>
<p>Malone began to smile. Since he
couldn't avoid the evening, he was
determined to enjoy it. It was sort of
fun, in its way, indulging a sweet
harmless old lady. And there was
nothing they could do until the next
morning, anyhow.</p>
<p>His indulgent smile faded very
suddenly.</p>
<p>Her Majesty plunked the entire
handful of chips—<i>five thousand dollars!</i>
Malone thought dazedly—onto
the table. "Five thousand," she said
in clear, cool measured tones, "on
Number One."</p>
<p>The croupier blinked only slightly.
He bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty," he
said.</p>
<p>Malone was briefly thankful, in the
midst of his black horror, that he had
called the management and told them
that the Queen's plays were backed by
the United States Government. Her
Majesty was going to get unlimited
credit—and a good deal of awed and
somewhat puzzled respect.</p>
<p>Malone watched the spin begin
with mixed feelings. There was five
thousand dollars riding on the little
ball. But, after all, Her Majesty was
a telepath. Did that mean anything?</p>
<p>He hadn't decided by the time the
wheel stopped, and by then he didn't
have to decide.</p>
<p>"Thirty-four," the croupier said
tonelessly. "Red, Even and High."</p>
<p>He raked in the chips with a nonchalant
air.</p>
<p>Malone felt as if he had swallowed
his stomach. Boyd and Lady Barbara,
standing nearby, had absolutely no
expressions on their faces. Malone
needed no telepath to tell him what
they were thinking.</p>
<p>They were exactly the same as he
was. They were incapable of thought.</p>
<p>But Her Majesty never batted an
eyelash. "Come, Sir Kenneth," she
said. "Let's go on to the poker tables."</p>
<p>She swept out. Her entourage followed
her, shambling a little, and
blank-eyed. Malone was still thinking
about the five thousand dollars. Oh,
well, Burris had said to give the lady
anything she wanted. <i>But!</i> he thought.
<i>Did she have to play for royal stakes?</i></p>
<p>"I am, after all, a Queen," she
whispered back to him.</p>
<p>Malone thought about the National
Debt. He wondered if a million more
or less would make any real difference.
There would be questions asked in
committees about it. He tried to imagine
himself explaining the evening
to a group of congressmen. "Well,
you see, gentlemen, there was this
roulette wheel—"</p>
<p>He gave it up.</p>
<p>Then he wondered how much hotter
the water was going to get, and
he stopped thinking altogether in self-defense.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>In the next room, there were scattered
tables. At one, a poker game was
in full swing. Only five were playing;
one, by his white-tie-and-tails uniform,
was easily recognizable as a
house dealer. The other four were all
men, one of them in full cowboy
regalia. The Tudors descended upon
them with great suddenness, and the
house dealer looked up and almost
lost his cigarette.</p>
<p>"We haven't any money, Your
Majesty," Malone whispered.</p>
<p>She smiled up at him sweetly, and
then drew him aside. "If you were a
telepath," she said, "how would <i>you</i>
play poker?"</p>
<p>Malone thought about that for a
minute, and then turned to look for
Boyd. But Sir Thomas didn't even
have to be given instructions. "Another
five hundred?" he said.</p>
<p>Her Majesty sniffed audibly. "Another
five thousand," she said regally.</p>
<p>Boyd looked Malone-wards. Malone
looked defeated.</p>
<p>Boyd turned with a small sigh and
headed for the cashier's booth. Three
minutes later, he was back with a fat
fistful of chips.</p>
<p>"Five grand?" Malone whispered
to him.</p>
<p>"Ten," Boyd said. "I know when
to back a winner."</p>
<p>Her Majesty went over to the table.
The dealer had regained control, but
looked up at them with a puzzled
stare.</p>
<p>"You know," the Queen said, with
an obvious attempt to put the man
at his ease, "I've always wanted to
visit a gambling hall."</p>
<p>"Sure, lady," the dealer said. "Naturally."</p>
<p>"May I sit down?"</p>
<p>The dealer looked at the group.
"How about your friends?" he said
cautiously.</p>
<p>The Queen shook her head. "They
would rather watch, I'm sure."</p>
<p>For once Malone blessed the woman's
telepathic talent. He, Boyd and
Barbara Wilson formed a kind of
Guard of Honor around the chair
which Her Majesty occupied. Boyd
handed over the new pile of chips,
and was favored with a royal smile.</p>
<p>"This is a poker game, ma'am," the
dealer said to her, quietly.</p>
<p>"I know, I know," Her Majesty
said with a trace of testiness. "Roll
'em."</p>
<p>The dealer stared at her popeyed.
Next to her, the gentleman in the
cowboy outfit turned. "Ma'am, are you
from around these parts?" he said.</p>
<p>"Oh, no," the Queen said. "I'm
from England."</p>
<p>"England?" The cowboy looked
puzzled. "You don't seem to have any
accent, ma'am," he said at last.</p>
<p>"Certainly not," the Queen said.
"I've lost that; I've been over here
a great many years."</p>
<p>Malone hoped fervently that Her
Majesty wouldn't mention just how
many years. He didn't think he could
stand it, and he was almost grateful
for the cowboy's nasal twang.</p>
<p>"Oil?" he said.</p>
<p>"Oh, no," Her Majesty said. "The
Government is providing this money."</p>
<p>"The Government?"</p>
<p>"Certainly," Her Majesty said.
"The FBI, you know."</p>
<p>There was a long silence.</p>
<p>At last, the dealer said: "Five-card
draw your game, ma'am?"</p>
<p>"If you please," Her Majesty said.</p>
<p>The dealer shrugged and, apparently,
commended his soul to a gambler's
God. He passed the pasteboards
around the table with the air of one
who will have nothing more to do
with the world.</p>
<p>Her Majesty picked up her hand.</p>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/009-1.png" style="display: block;" width-obs="114" height-obs="119" alt="" title="" /></div>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/009-2.png" style="display: block;" width-obs="332" height-obs="381" alt="" title="" /> "May I raise ... five thousand?"</div>
<p>"The ante's ten, ma'am," the dealer
said softly.</p>
<p>Without looking, Her Majesty removed
a ten-dollar chip from the
pile before her and sent it spinning
to the middle of the table.</p>
<p>The dealer opened his mouth, but
said nothing. Malone, meanwhile, was
peering over the Queen's shoulder.</p>
<p>She held a pair of nines, a four, a
three and a Jack.</p>
<p>The man to the left of the dealer
announced glumly: "Can't open."</p>
<p>The next man grinned. "Open for
twenty," he said.</p>
<p>Malone closed his eyes. He heard
the cowboy say: "I'm in," and he
opened his eyes again. The Queen
was pushing two ten-dollar chips toward
the center of the table.</p>
<p>The next man dropped, and the
dealer looked round the table. "How
many?"</p>
<p>The man who couldn't open took
three cards. The man who'd opened
for twenty stood pat. Malone shuddered
invisibly. That, he figured,
meant at least a straight. And Queen
Elizabeth Thompson was going in
against a straight or better with a
pair of nines, Jack high.</p>
<p>For the first time, it was borne in
on Malone that being a telepath did
not necessarily mean that you were
a good poker player. Even if you
knew what every other person at the
table held, you could still make a
whole lot of stupid mistakes.</p>
<p>He looked nervously at Queen
Elizabeth, but her face was serene.
Apparently she'd been following the
thoughts of the poker players, and not
concentrating on him at all. That was
a relief. He felt, for the first time in
days, as if he could think freely.</p>
<p>The cowboy said: "Two," and took
them. It was Her Majesty's turn.</p>
<p>"I'll take two," she said, and threw
away the three and four. It left her
with the nine of spades and the nine
of hearts, and the Jack of diamonds.</p>
<p>These were joined, in a matter of
seconds, by two bright new cards: the
six of clubs and the three of hearts.</p>
<p>Malone closed his eyes. Oh, well,
he thought.</p>
<p>It was only thirty bucks down the
drain. Practically nothing.</p>
<p>Of course Her Majesty dropped at
once; knowing what the other players
held, she knew she couldn't beat
them after the draw. But she did like
to take long chances, Malone thought
miserably. Imagine trying to fill a full
house on one pair!</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Slowly, as the minutes passed, the
pile of chips before Her Majesty
dwindled. Once Malone saw her win
with two pair against a reckless man
trying to fill a straight on the other
side of the table. But whatever was
going on, Her Majesty's face was as
calm as if she were asleep.</p>
<p>Malone's worked overtime. If the
Queen hadn't been losing so obviously,
the dealer might have mistaken
the play of naked emotion across his
visage for a series of particularly obvious
signals.</p>
<p>An hour went by. Barbara left to
find a ladies' lounge where she could
sit down and try to relax. Fascinated
in a horrible sort of way, both Malone
and Boyd stood, rooted to the spot,
while hand after hand went by and
the ten thousand dollars dwindled to
half that, to a quarter, and even less—</p>
<p>Her Majesty, it seemed, was a
mighty poor poker player.</p>
<p>The ante had been raised by this
time. Her Majesty was losing one
hundred dollars a hand, even before
the betting began. But she showed
not the slightest indication to stop.</p>
<p>"We've got to get up in the morning,"
Malone announced to no one
in particular, when he thought he
couldn't possibly stand another half
hour of the game.</p>
<p>"So we do," Her Majesty said with
a little regretful sigh. "Very well,
then. Just one more hand."</p>
<p>"It's a shame to lose you," the cowboy
said to her, quite sincerely. He
had been winning steadily ever since
Her Majesty sat down, and Malone
thought that the man should, by this
time, be awfully grateful to the United
States Government. Somehow, he
doubted that this gratitude existed.</p>
<p>Malone wondered if she should be
allowed to stay for one more hand.
There was, he estimated, about two
thousand dollars in front of her. Then
he wondered how he was going to
stop her.</p>
<p>The cards were dealt.</p>
<p>The first man said quietly: "Open
for two hundred."</p>
<p>Malone looked at the Queen's
hand. It contained the Ace, King,
Queen and ten of clubs—and the
seven of spades.</p>
<p><i>Oh, no</i>, he thought. <i>She couldn't
possibly be thinking of filling a flush.</i></p>
<p>He knew perfectly well that she
was.</p>
<p>The second man said: "And raise
two hundred."</p>
<p>The Queen equably tossed—counting,
Malone thought, the ante—five
hundred into the pot.</p>
<p>The cowboy muttered to himself
for a second, and finally shoved in his
money.</p>
<p>"I think I'll raise it another five
hundred," the Queen said calmly.</p>
<p>Malone wanted to die of shock.
Unfortunately, he remained alive and
watching. He was the last man, after
some debate internal, to shove a total
of one thousand dollars into the
pot.</p>
<p>"Cards?" said the dealer.</p>
<p>The first man said: "One."</p>
<p>It was too much to hope for, Malone
thought. If that first man were
trying to fill a straight or a flush, maybe
he wouldn't make it. And maybe
something final would happen to all
the other players. But that was the
only way he could see for Her Majesty
to win.</p>
<p>The card was dealt. The second
man stood pat and Malone's green
tinge became obvious to the veriest
dunce. The cowboy, on Her Majesty's
right, asked for a card, received it and
sat back without a trace of expression.</p>
<p>The Queen said: "I'll try one for
size." She'd picked up poker lingo,
and the basic rules of the game, Malone
realized, from the other players—or
possibly from someone at the
hospital itself, years ago.</p>
<p>He wished she'd picked up something
less dangerous instead, like a
love of big-game hunting, or stunt-flying.</p>
<p>But no. It had to be poker.</p>
<p>The Queen threw away her seven
of spades, showing more sense than
Malone had given her credit for at
any time during the game. She let the
other card fall and didn't look at it.</p>
<p>She smiled up at Malone and Boyd.
"Live dangerously," she said gaily.</p>
<p>Malone gave her a hollow laugh.</p>
<p>The last man drew one card, too,
and the betting began.</p>
<p>The Queen's remaining thousand
was gone before an eye could notice
it. She turned to Boyd.</p>
<p>"Sir Thomas," she said. "Another
five thousand, please. At once."</p>
<p>Boyd said nothing at all, but
marched off. Malone noticed, however,
that his step was neither as
springy nor as confident as it had been
before. For himself, Malone was sure
that he could not walk at all.</p>
<p>Maybe, he thought hopefully, the
floor would open up and swallow
them all. He tried to imagine explaining
the loss of twenty thousand dollars
to Burris and some congressmen,
and after that he watched the floor
narrowly, hoping for the smallest hint
of a crack in the palazzo marble.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>"May I raise the whole five thousand?"
the Queen said.</p>
<p>"It's O.K. with me," the dealer
said. "How about the rest of you?"</p>
<p>The four grunts he got expressed a
suppressed eagerness. The Queen
took the new chips Boyd had brought
her and shoved them into the center
of the table with a fine, careless gesture
of her hand. She smiled gaily at
everybody. "Seeing me?" she said.</p>
<p>Everybody was.</p>
<p>"Well, you see, it was this way,"
Malone muttered to himself, rehearsing.
He half-thought that one of the
others would raise again, but no one
did. After all, each of them must be
convinced that he held a great hand,
and though raising had gone on
throughout the hand, each must now
be afraid of going the least little bit
too far and scaring the others out.</p>
<p>"Mr. Congressman," Malone muttered,
"there's this game called poker.
You play it with cards and money.
Chiefly money."</p>
<p>That wasn't any good.</p>
<p>"You've been called," the dealer
said to the first man, who'd opened
the hand a year or so before.</p>
<p>"Why, sure," the player said, and
laid down a pair of aces, a pair of
threes—and a four. One of the threes,
and the four, were clubs. That reduced
the already improbable chances
of the Queen's coming up with a
flush.</p>
<p>"Sorry," said the second man, and
laid down a straight with a single
gesture. The straight was nine-high
and there were no clubs in it. Malone
felt devoutly thankful for that.</p>
<p>The second man reached for the
money but, under the popeyed gaze
of the dealer, the fifth man laid down
another straight—this one ten-high.
The nine was a club. Malone felt the
odds go down, right in his own
stomach.</p>
<p>And now the cowboy put down his
cards. The King of diamonds. The
King of hearts. The Jack of diamonds.
The Jack of spades. And—the Jack of
hearts.</p>
<p>Full house. "Well," said the cowboy.
"I suppose that does it."</p>
<p>The Queen said: "Please. One moment."</p>
<p>The cowboy stopped halfway in his
reach for the enormous pile of chips.
The Queen laid down her four clubs—Ace,
King, Queen and ten—and for
the first time flipped over her fifth
card.</p>
<p>It was the Jack of clubs.</p>
<p>"My God," the cowboy said, and
it sounded like a prayer. "A royal
flush."</p>
<p>"Naturally," the Queen said.
"What else?"</p>
<p>Her Majesty calmly scooped up the
tremendous pile of chips. The cowboy's
hands fell away. Five mouths
were open around the table.</p>
<p>Her Majesty stood up. She smiled
sweetly at the men around the table.
"Thank you very much, gentlemen,"
she said. She handed the chips to Malone,
who took them in nerveless fingers.
"Sir Kenneth," she said, "I
hereby appoint you temporary Chancellor
of the Exchequer—at least until
Parliament convenes."</p>
<p>There was, Malone thought, at least
thirty-five thousand dollars in the pile.
He could think of nothing to say.</p>
<p>So, instead of using up words, he
went and cashed in the chips. For
once, he realized, the Government
had made money on an investment. It
was probably the first time since 1775.</p>
<p>Malone thought vaguely that the
Government ought to make more investments
like the one he was cashing
in. If it did, the National Debt could
be wiped out in a matter of days.</p>
<p>He brought the money back. Boyd
and the Queen were waiting for him,
but Barbara was still in the ladies'
lounge. "She's on the way out," the
Queen informed him, and, sure
enough, in a minute they saw the figure
approaching them. Malone smiled
at her, and, tentatively, she smiled
back. They began the long march to
the exit of the club, slowly and
regally, though not by choice.</p>
<p>The crowd, it seemed, wouldn't let
them go. Malone never found out,
then or later, how the news of Her
Majesty's winnings had gone through
the place so fast, but everyone seemed
to know about it. The Queen was the
recipient of several low bows and a
few drunken curtsies, and, when they
reached the front door at last, the
doorman said in a most respectful
tone: "Good evening, Your Majesty."</p>
<p>The Queen positively beamed at
him. So, to his own great surprise,
did Sir Kenneth Malone.</p>
<p>Outside, it was about four in the
morning. They climbed into the car
and headed back toward the hotel.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Malone was the first to speak.
"How did you know that was a Jack
of clubs?" he said in a strangled sort
of voice.</p>
<p>The little old lady said calmly: "He
was cheating."</p>
<p>"The dealer?" Malone asked.</p>
<p>The little old lady nodded.</p>
<p>"In <i>your</i> favor?"</p>
<p>"He couldn't have been cheating,"
Boyd said at the same instant. "Why
would he want to give you all that
money?"</p>
<p>The little old lady shook her head.
"He didn't want to give it to me,"
she said. "He wanted to give it to the
man in the cowboy's suit. His name is
Elliott, by the way—Bernard L.
Elliott. And he comes from Weehawken.
But he pretends to be a
Westerner so nobody will be suspicious
of him. He and the dealer are
in cahoots ... isn't that the word?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Your Majesty," Boyd said.
"That's the word." His tone was awed
and respectful, and the little old lady
gave a nod and became Queen Elizabeth
I once more.</p>
<p>"Well," she said, "the dealer and
Mr. Elliott were in cahoots, and the
dealer wanted to give the hand to Mr.
Elliott. But he made a mistake, and
dealt the Jack of clubs to me. I watched
him, and, of course, I knew what
he was thinking. The rest was
easy."</p>
<p>"My God," Malone said. "Easy."</p>
<p>Barbara said: "Did she win?"</p>
<p>"She won," Malone said with what
he felt was positively magnificent
understatement.</p>
<p>"Good," Barbara said, and lost interest
at once.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Malone had seen the lights of a
car in the rear-view mirror a few minutes
before. When he looked now, the
lights were still there—but the fact
just didn't register until, a couple of
blocks later, the car began to pull
around them on the left. It was a
Buick, while Boyd's was a new Lincoln,
but the edge wasn't too apparent
yet.</p>
<p>Malone spotted the gun barrel
protruding from the Buick and yelled
just before the first shot went off.</p>
<p>Boyd, at the wheel, didn't even
bother to look. His reflexes took over
and he slammed his foot down on the
brake. The specially-built FBI Lincoln
slowed down instantly. The shotgun
blast splattered the glass of the curved
windshield all over—but none of it
came into the car itself.</p>
<p>Malone already had his hand on the
butt of the .44 Magnum under his left
armpit, and he even had time to be
grateful, for once, that it wasn't a
smallsword. The women were in the
back seat, frozen, and he yelled:
"Duck!" and felt, rather than saw,
both of them sink down onto the floor
of the car.</p>
<p>The Buick had slowed down, too,
and the gun barrel was swiveling back
for a second shot. Malone felt naked
and unprotected. The Buick and the
Lincoln were even on the road
now.</p>
<p>Malone had his revolver out. He
fired the first shot without even realizing
fully that he'd done so, and he
heard a piercing scream from Barbara
in the back seat. He had no time to
look back.</p>
<p>A .44 Magnum is not, by any
means, a small gun. As hand guns go—revolvers
and automatics—it is
about as large as a gun can get to be.
An ordinary car has absolutely no
chance against it.</p>
<p>Much less the glass in an ordinary
car.</p>
<p>The first slug drilled its way
through the window glass as though
it were not there, and slammed its way
through an even more unprotected
obstacle, the frontal bones of the
triggerman's skull. The second slug
from Malone's gun missed the hole
the first slug had made by something
less than an inch.</p>
<p>The big, apelike thug who was
holding the shotgun had a chance to
pull the trigger once more, but he
wasn't aiming very well. The blast
merely scored the paint off the top of
the Lincoln.</p>
<p>The rear window of the Buick was
open, and Malone caught sight of another
glint of blued steel from the
corner of his eye. There was no time
to shift aim—not with bullets flying
like swallows on the way to Capistrano.
Malone thought faster than he
had ever imagined himself capable of
doing, and decided to aim for the
driver.</p>
<p>Evidently the man in the rear seat
of the Buick had had the same inspiration.
Malone blasted two more
high-velocity lead slugs at the driver
of the big Buick, and at the same time
the man in the Buick's rear seat fired
at Boyd.</p>
<p>But Boyd had shifted tactics. He'd
hit the brakes. Now he came down
hard on the accelerator instead.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>The chorus of shrieks from the
Lincoln's back seat increased slightly
in volume. Barbara, Malone knew,
wasn't badly hurt; she hadn't even
stopped for breath since the first shot
had been fired. Anybody who could
scream like that, he told himself, had
to be healthy.</p>
<p>As the Lincoln leaped ahead, Malone
pulled the trigger of his .44 twice
more. The heavy, high-speed chunks
of streamlined copper-coated lead
leaped from the muzzle of the gun
and slammed into the driver of the
Buick without wasting any time. The
Buick slewed across the highway.</p>
<p>The two shots fired by the man in
the back seat went past Malone's head
with a <i>whizz</i>, missing both him and
Boyd by a margin too narrow to think
about.</p>
<p>But those were the last shots. The
only difference between the FBI and
the Enemy seemed to be determination
and practice.</p>
<p>The Buick spun into a flat sideskid,
swiveled on its wheels and slammed
into the ditch at the side of the road,
turning over and over, making a horrible noise,
as it broke up.</p>
<p>Boyd slowed the car again, just as
there was a sudden blast of fire. The
Buick had burst into flame and was
spitting heat and smoke and fire in
all directions. Malone sent one more
bullet after it in a last flurry of action—saving
his last one for possible later
emergencies.</p>
<p>Boyd jammed on the brakes and the
Lincoln came to a screaming halt. In
silence he and Malone watched the
burning Buick roll over and over into
the desert beyond the shoulder.</p>
<p>"My God," Boyd said. "My ears!"</p>
<p>Malone understood at once. The
blast from his own still-smoking .44
had roared past Boyd's head during
the gun battle. No wonder the man's
ears hurt. It was a wonder he wasn't
altogether deaf.</p>
<p>But Boyd shook off the pain and
brought out his own .44 as he stepped
out of the car. Malone followed
him, his gun trained.</p>
<p>From the rear, Her Majesty said:
"It's safe to rise now, isn't it?"</p>
<p>"You ought to know," Malone said.
"You can tell if they're still alive."</p>
<p>There was silence while Queen
Elizabeth frowned for a moment in
concentration. A look of pain crossed
her face, and then, as her expression
smoothed again, she said: "The traitors
are dead. All except one, and
he's—" She paused. "He's dying," she
finished. "He can't hurt you."</p>
<p>There was no need for further battle.
Malone reholstered his .44 and
turned to Boyd. "Tom, call the State
Police," he said. "Get 'em down here
fast."</p>
<p>He waited while Boyd climbed back
under the wheel and began punching
buttons on the dashboard. Then Malone
went toward the burning Buick.</p>
<p>He tried to drag the men out, but
it wasn't any use. The first two, in the
front seat, had the kind of holes in
them people talked about throwing
elephants through. Head and chest
had been hit.</p>
<p>Malone couldn't get close enough
to the fiercely blazing automobile to
make even a try for the men in the
back seat.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>He was sitting quietly on the edge
of the rear seat when the Nevada
Highway Patrol cars drove up next to
them. Barbara Wilson had stopped
screaming, but she was still sobbing on
Malone's shoulder. "It's all right," he
told her, feeling ineffectual.</p>
<p>"I never saw anybody killed before,"
she said.</p>
<p>"It's all right," Malone said.
"Nothing's going to hurt you. I'll
protect you."</p>
<p>He wondered if he meant it, and
found, to his surprise, that he did.
Barbara Wilson sniffled and looked up
at him. "Mr. Malone—"</p>
<p>"Ken," he said.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry," she said. "Ken—I'm
so afraid. I saw the hole in one of the
men's heads, when you fired ... it
was—"</p>
<p>"Don't think about it," Malone
said. To him, the job had been an
unpleasant occurrence, but a job, that
was all. He could see, though, how
it might affect people who were new
to it.</p>
<p>"You're so brave," she said.</p>
<p>Malone tightened his arm around
the girl's shoulder. "Just depend on
me," he said. "You'll be all right if
you—"</p>
<p>The State Trooper walked up then,
and looked at them. "Mr. Malone?"
he said. He seemed to be taken slightly
aback at the costuming.</p>
<p>"That's right," Malone said. He
pulled out his ID card and the little
golden badge. The State Patrolman
looked at them, and looked back at
Malone.</p>
<p>"What's with the getup?" he said.</p>
<p>"FBI," Malone said, hoping his
voice carried conviction. "Official
business."</p>
<p>"In costume?"</p>
<p>"Never mind about the details,"
Malone snapped.</p>
<p>"He's an FBI agent, sir," Barbara
said.</p>
<p>"And what are you?" the Patrolman
said. "Lady Jane Grey?"</p>
<p>"I'm a nurse," Barbara said. "A
psychiatric nurse."</p>
<p>"For nuts?"</p>
<p>"For disturbed patients."</p>
<p>The patrolman thought that over.
"You've got the identity cards and
stuff," he said at last. "Maybe you've
got a reason to dress up. How would
I know? I'm only a State Patrolman."</p>
<p>"Let's cut the monologue," Malone
said savagely, "and get to business."</p>
<p>The patrolman stared. Then he
said: "All right, sir. Yes, sir. I'm
Lieutenant Adams, Mr. Malone. Suppose
you tell me what happened?"</p>
<p>Carefully and concisely, Malone
told him the story of the Buick that
had pulled up beside them, and what
had happened afterward.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the other cops had been
looking over the wreck. When Malone
had finished his story, Lieutenant
Adams flipped his notebook shut and
looked over toward them. "I guess it's
O.K., sir," he said. "As far as I'm
concerned, it's justifiable homicide.
Self-defense. Any reason why they'd
want to kill you?"</p>
<p>Malone thought about the Golden
Palace. That might be a reason—but
it might not. And why burden an innocent
State Patrolman with the facts
of FBI life?</p>
<p>"Official," he said. "Your chief will
get the report."</p>
<p>The patrolman nodded. "I'll have
to take a deposition tomorrow, but—"</p>
<p>"I know," Malone said. "Thanks.
Can we go on to our hotel now?"</p>
<p>"I guess," the patrolman said. "Go
ahead. We'll take care of the rest of
this. You'll be getting a call later."</p>
<p>"Fine," Malone said. "Trace those
hoods, and any connections they might
have had. Get the information to me
as soon as possible."</p>
<p>Lieutenant Adams nodded. "You
won't have to leave the state, will
you?" he asked. "I don't mean that
you <i>can't</i>, exactly ... hell, you're
FBI. But it'd be easier—"</p>
<p>"Call Burris in Washington," Malone
said. "He can get hold of me—and
if the Governor wants to know
where we are, or the State's Attorney,
put them in touch with Burris, too.
O.K.?"</p>
<p>"O.K.," Lieutenant Adams said.
"Sure." He blinked at Malone. "Listen,"
he said. "About those costumes—"</p>
<p>"We're trying to catch Henry VIII
for the murder of Anne Boleyn," Malone
said with a polite smile. "O.K.?"</p>
<p>"I was only asking," Lieutenant
Adams said. "Can't blame a man for
asking, now, can you?"</p>
<p>Malone climbed into his front seat.
"Call me later," he said. The car
started. "Back to the hotel, Sir
Thomas," Malone said, and the car
roared off.</p>
<hr class="hrchp" />
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