She waited a second. “I don’t know what he wants,” she told the phone.

“But he’s from the FBI.” A second’s pause. “That’s right, the FBI,”

she said. “All right, Sir Lewis. Right away.” She hung up the phone

and turned to watch Malone warily.

“Sir Lewis,” she said, “will see you. I couldn’t say why. But take the

side corridor to the rear of the suite. His office has his name on it,

and I won’t tell you you can’t miss it because I have every faith that

you will. Good luck.”

Malone blinked. “Look,” he said. “I know I startled you, but I didn’t

mean to. I—” He started to sneeze, but this time he got his own

handkerchief out in time and muffled the explosion slightly.

“Good work,” the girl said approvingly. “Tell me, Mr. Malone, have you

been toilet-trained, too?”

There was nothing at all to say to that remark, Malone reflected as he

wended his way down the side corridor. It seemed endless, and kept

branching off unexpectedly. Once he blundered into a large open room

filled with people at desks. A woman who seemed to have a great many

teeth and rather bulbous eyes looked up at him. “Can I help you?” she

said in a fervent whine.

“I sincerely hope not,” Malone said, backing away and managing to find

the corridor once more. After what seemed like a long time, and two

more sneezes, he found a small door which was labeled in capital

letters:

THE PSYCHICAL RESEARCH SOCIETY

SIR LEWIS CARTER

PRESIDENT

Malone sighed. “Well,” he muttered, “they certainly aren’t hiding

anything.” He pushed at the door, and it swung open.

Sir Lewis was a tall, solidly-built man with a kindly expression. He

wore grey flannel trousers and a brown tweed jacket, which made an

interesting color contrast with his iron-grey hair. His teeth were

clenched so firmly on the bit of a calabash pipe with a meerschaum

bowl that Malone wondered if he could ever get loose. Malone shut the

door behind him, and Sir Lewis rose and extended a hand.

Malone went to the desk and reached across to take the hand. It was

firm and dry. “I’m Kenneth Malone,” Malone said.

“Ah, yes,” Sir Lewis said. “Pleased to meet you. Always happy, of

course, to do whatever I can for your FBI. Not only a duty, so to

speak, but a pleasure. Sit down. Please do sit down.”

Malone found a chair at the side of the desk, and sank into it. It was

soft and comfortable. It provided such a contrast to O’Connor’s

furnishings that Malone began to wish it was Sir Lewis who was

employed at Yucca Flats. Then he could tell Sir Lewis everything about

the case.

Now, of course, he could only hedge and try to make do without stating

very many facts. “Sir Lewis,” he said, “I trust you’ll keep this

conversation confidential.”

“Naturally,” Sir Lewis said. He removed the pipe, stared at it, and

replaced it.

“I can’t give you the full details,” Malone went on, “but the FBI is

presently engaged in an investigation which requires the specialized

knowledge your organization seems to have.”

“FBI?” Sir Lewis said. “Specialized investigation?” He seemed pleased,

but a trifle puzzled. “Dear boy, anything we have is at your disposal,

of course. But I quite fail to see how you can consider us—”

“It’s rather an unusual problem,” Malone said, feeling that that was

the understatement of the year. “But I understand that your records go

back nearly a century.”

“Quite true,” Sir Lewis murmured.

“During that time,” Malone said, “the Society investigated a great

many supposedly supernatural or supernormal incidents.”

“Many of them,” Sir Lewis said, “were discovered to be fraudulent, I’m

afraid. The great majority, in fact.”

“That’s what I’d assume,” Malone said. He fished in his pockets, found

a cigarette and lit it. Sir Lewis went on chewing at his unlit pipe.

“What we’re interested in,” Malone said, “is some description of the

various methods by which these frauds were perpetrated.”

“Ah,” Sir Lewis said. “The tricks of the trade, so to speak?”

“Exactly,” Malone said.

“Well, then,” Sir Lewis said. “The luminous gauze, for instance, that

passes for ectoplasm; the various methods of table-lifting; control of

the Ouija board—things like that?”

“Not quite that elementary,” Malone said. He puffed on the cigarette,

wishing it was a cigar. “We’re pretty much up to that kind of thing.

But had it ever occurred to you that many of the methods used by phony

mind-reading acts, for instance, might be used as communication

methods by spies?”

“Why, I believe some have been,” Sir Lewis said. “Though I don’t know

much about that, of course; there was a case during the First World

War—”

“Exactly,” Malone said. He took a deep breath. “It’s things like that

we’re interested in,” he said, and spent the next twenty minutes

slowly approaching his subject. Sir Lewis, apparently fascinated, was

perfectly willing to unbend in any direction, and jotted down notes on

some of Malone’s more interesting cases, murmuring: “Most unusual,

most unusual,” as he wrote.

The various types of phenomena that the Society had investigated came

into the discussion, and Malone heard quite a lot about the Beyond,

the Great Summerland, Spirit Mediums and the hypothetical existence of

fairies, goblins and elves.

“But, Sir Lewis—” he said.

“I make no claims personally,” Sir Lewis said. “But I understand that

there is a large and somewhat vocal group which does make rather

solid-sounding claims in that direction. They say that they have seen

fairies, talked with goblins, danced with the elves.”

“They must be very unusual people,” Malone said, understating heavily.

“Oh,” Sir Lewis said, without a trace of irony, “they certainly are.”

Talk like this passed away nearly a half-hour, until Malone finally

felt that it was the right time to introduce some of his real

questions. “Tell me, Sir Lewis,” he said. “Have you had many instances

of a single man, or a small group of men, controlling the actions of a

much larger group? And doing it in such a way that the larger group

doesn’t even know it is being manipulated?”

“Of course I have,” Sir Lewis said. “And so have you. They call it

advertising.”

Malone flicked his cigarette into an ashtray. “I didn’t mean exactly

that,” he said. “Suppose they’re doing it in such a way that the

larger group doesn’t even suspect that manipulation is going on?”

Sir Lewis removed his pipe and frowned at it. “I may be able to give

you a little information,” he said slowly, “but not much.”

“Ah?” Malone said, trying to sound only mildly interested.

“Outside of mob psychology,” Sir Lewis said, “and all that sort of

thing, I really haven’t seen any record of a case of such a thing

happening. And I can’t quite imagine anyone faking it.”

“But you have got some information?” Malone said.

“Certainly,” Sir Lewis said. “There is always spirit control.”

“Spirit control?” Malone blinked.

“Demoniac intervention,” Sir Lewis said. “‘My name is Legion,’ you

know.”

Sir Lewis Legion, Malone thought confusedly, was a rather unusual

name. He took a breath and caught hold of his revolving mind. “How

would you go about that?” he said, a little hopelessly.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Sir Lewis admitted cheerfully. “But I will

have it looked up for you.” He made a note. “Anything else?”

Malone tried to think. “Yes,” he said at last. “Can you give me a

condensed report on what is known—and I mean _known_—on telepathy

and teleportation?”

“What you want,” Sir Lewis said, “are those cases proven genuine, not

the ones in which we have established fraud, or those still in doubt.”

“Exactly,” Malone said. If he got no other use out of the data, it

would provide a measuring-stick for the Society. The general public

didn’t know that the Government was actually using psionic powers, and

the Society’s theories, checked against actual fact, would provide a

rough index of reliability to use on the Society’s other data.

But spirits, somehow, didn’t seem very likely. Malone sighed and stood

up.

“I’ll have copies made of all the relevant material,” Sir Lewis said,

“from our library and research files. Where do you want the material

sent? I do want to warn you of its bulk; there may be quite a lot of

it.”

“FBI Headquarters, on 69th Street,” Malone said. “And send a statement

of expenses along with it. As long as the bill’s within reason, don’t

worry about itemizing; I’ll see that it goes through Accounting

myself.”

Sir Lewis nodded. “Fine,” he said. “And, if you should have any

difficulties with the material, please let me know. I’ll always be

glad to help.”

“Thanks for your co-operation,” Malone said. He went to the door, and

walked on out.

He blundered back into the same big room again, on his way through the

corridors. The bulbous-eyed woman, who seemed to have inherited a full

set of thirty-two teeth from each of her parents, gave him a friendly

if somewhat crowded smile, but Malone pressed on without a word. After

awhile, he found the reception room again.

The girl behind the desk looked up. “How did he react?” she said.

Malone blinked. “React?” he said.

“When you sneezed at him,” she said. “Because I’ve been thinking it

over, and I’ve got a new theory. You’re doing a survey on how people

act when encountering sneezes. Like Kinsey.”

This girl—Lou something, Malone thought, and with difficulty

refrained from adding “Gehrig”—had an unusual effect, he decided. He

wondered if there were anyone in the world she couldn’t reduce to

paralyzed silence.

“Of course,” she went on, “Kinsey was dealing with sex, and you

aren’t. At least, you aren’t during business hours.” She smiled

politely at Malone.

“No,” he said helplessly, “I’m not.”

“It is sneezing, then,” she said. “Will I be in the book when it’s

published?”

“Book?” Malone said, feeling more and more like a rather low-grade

moron.

“The book on sneezing, when you get it published,” she said. “I can

see it now: _The Case of Miss X, a Receptionist_.”

“There isn’t going to be any book,” Malone said.

She shook her head. “That’s a shame,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to

be a Miss X. It sounds exciting.”

“X,” Malone said at random, “marks the spot.”

“Why, that’s the sweetest thing that’s been said to me all day,” the

girl said. “I thought you could hardly talk, and here you come out

with lovely things like that. But I’ll bet you say it to all the

girls.”

“I have never said it to anybody before,” Malone said flatly. “And I

never will again.”

The girl sighed. “I’ll treasure it,” she said. “My one great moment.

Goodbye, Mr.—Malone, isn’t it?”

“Ken,” Malone said. “Just call me Ken.”

“And I’m Lou,” the girl said. “Goodbye.”

An elevator arrived and Malone ducked into it. Louie? he thought.

Louise? Luke? Of course, there was Sir Lewis Carter, who might be

called Lou. Was he related to the girl?

No, Malone thought wildly. Relations went by last names. There was no

reason for Lou to be related to Sir Lewis. They didn’t even look

alike. For instance, he had no desire whatever to make a date with Sir

Lewis Carter, or to take him to a glittering night-club, or to make him

any whispered propositions. And the very idea of Sir Lewis Carter

sitting on the Malone lap was enough to give him indigestion and spots

before the eyes.

Sternly, he told himself to get back to business. The elevator stopped

at the lobby and he got out and started down the street, feeling that

consideration of the lady known as Lou was much more pleasant. After

all, what did he have to work with, as far as his job was concerned?

So far, two experts had told him that his theory was full of lovely

little holes. Worse than that, they had told him that mass control of

human beings was impossible, as far as they knew.

And maybe it was impossible, he told himself sadly. Maybe he should

just junk his whole theory and think up a new one. Maybe there was no

psionics involved in the thing at all, and Boyd and O’Connor were

right.

Of course, he had a deep-seated conviction that psionics was somewhere

at the root of everything, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

A lot of people had deep-seated convictions that they were beetles, or

that the world was flat And then again, murderers often suffered as a

result of deep-seated convictions of one sort or another.

On the other hand, maybe he had invented a whole new psionic theory

or, at least, observed some new psionic facts. Maybe they would call

the results Malonizing, instead of O’Connorizing. He tried to picture

a man opening a door and saying: “Come out quick, Mr. Frembits is

Malonizing again.”

It didn’t sound very plausible. But, after all, he did have a

deep-seated conviction. He tried to think of a shallow-seated

conviction, and failed. Didn’t convictions ever stand up, anyhow, or

lie down?

He shook his head, discovered that he was on 69th Street, and headed

for the FBI Headquarters. His convictions, he had found, were

sometimes an expression of his precognitive powers; he determined to

ride with them, at least for awhile.

By the time he came to the office of the agent-in-charge, he had

figured out the beginnings of a new line of attack.

“How about the ghosts?” the agent-in-charge asked as he passed.

“They’ll be along,” Malone said. “In a big bundle, addressed to me

personally. And don’t open the bundle.”

“Why not?” the agent-in-charge asked.

“Because I don’t want the things to get loose and run around saying

boo to everybody,” Malone said brightly, and went on.

He opened the door of his private office, went inside and sat down at

the desk there. He took his time about framing a thought, a single,

clear, deliberate thought:

_Your Majesty, I’d like to speak to you._

He hardly had time to finish it. A flash of color appeared in the

room, just a few feet from his desk. The flash resolved itself into a

tiny, grandmotherly-looking woman with a corona of white hair and a

kindly, twinkling expression. She was dressed in the full court

costume of the First Elizabethan period, and this was hardly

surprising to Malone. The little old lady believed, quite firmly, that

she was Queen Elizabeth I, miraculously preserved over all these

centuries. Malone, himself, had practically forgotten that the woman’s

real name was Rose Thompson, and that she had only been alive for

sixty-five years or so. For most of that time, she had been insane.

For all of that time, however, she had been a genuine telepath. She

had been discovered during the course of Malone’s first psionic case,

and by now she had even learned to teleport by “reading” the process

in Malone’s mind.

“Good afternoon, Sir Kenneth,” she said in a regal, kindly voice. She

was mad, he knew, but her delusion was nicely kept within bounds. All

of her bright world hinged on the single fact that she was unshakably

certain of her royalty. As long as the FBI catered to that notion—which

included a Royal dwelling for her in Yucca Flats, and the privilege of

occasionally knighting FBI agents who had pleased her unpredictable

fancy—she was perfectly rational on all other points. She co-operated

with Dr. O’Connor and with the FBI in the investigation of her psionic

powers, and she had given her Royal word not to teleport except at

Malone’s personal request.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Malone said, “Your Majesty.”

There was an odd note in the Queen’s voice, and an odd, haunted

expression on her face. “I’ve been hoping you’d ask me to come,” she

said.

“I had a hunch you were following me telepathically,” Malone said.

“Can you give me any help?”

“I—I really don’t know,” she said. “It’s something new, and something

disturbing. I’ve never come across anything like it before.”

“Like what?” Malone asked.

“It’s the—” She made a gesture that conveyed nothing at all to

Malone. “The—the static,” she said at last.

Malone blinked. “Static?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re not telepathic, so I can’t tell you what it’s

really like. But—well, Sir Kenneth, have you ever seen disturbance on

a TV screen, when there’s some powerful electric output nearby? The

bright, senseless snowstorms, the meaningless hash?”

“Sure,” Malone said.

“It’s like that,” she said. “It’s a sudden, meaningless, disturbing

blare of telepathic energy.”

The telephone rang once. Malone ignored it.

“What’s causing these disturbances?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Sir Kenneth. I don’t know,” she

said. “I can’t pick up a person’s mind over a distance unless I know

him, and I can’t see what’s causing this at all. It’s—frankly, Sir

Kenneth, it’s rather terrifying.”

The phone rang again.

“How long have you been experiencing this disturbance?” Malone asked.

He looked at the phone.

“The telephone isn’t important,” Her Majesty said. “It’s only Sir

Thomas, calling to tell you he’s arrested three spies, and that

doesn’t matter at all.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Not at all,” Her Majesty said. “What does matter is that I’ve only

been picking up these flashes since you were assigned to this new

case, Sir Kenneth. And....” She paused.

“Well?” Malone said.

“And they only appear,” Her Majesty said, “when I’m tuned to _your_

mind!”

5

Malone stared. He tried to say something but he couldn’t find any

words. The telephone rang again and he pushed the switch with a sense

of relief. The beard-fringed face of Thomas Boyd appeared on the

screen.

“You’re getting hard to find,” Boyd said. “I think you’re letting fame

and fortune go to your head.”

“I left word at the office that I was coming here,” Malone said

aggrievedly.

“Sure you did,” Boyd said. “How do you think I found you? Am I

telepathic? Do I have strange powers?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Malone said. “Now, about those

spies—”

“See what I mean?” Boyd said. “How did you know?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Malone murmured. “But what about them?”

“Well,” Boyd said, “we picked up two men working in the Senate Office

Building, and another one working for the State Department.”

“And they are spies?” Malone said. “Real spies?”

“Oh, they’re real enough,” Boyd said. “We’ve known about ’em for

years, and I finally decided to pick them up for questioning. God

knows, but maybe they have something to do with all this mess that’s

bothering everybody.”

“You haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” Malone said. “Mess is

hardly the word.”

Boyd snorted. “You go on getting yourself confused,” he said, “while

some of us do the real work. After all—”

“Never mind the insults,” Malone said. “How about the spies?”

“Well,” Boyd said, a trifle reluctantly, “they’ve been working as

janitors and maintenance men, and of course we’ve made sure they

haven’t been able to get their hands on any really valuable

information.”

“So they’ve suddenly turned into criminal masterminds,” Malone said.

“After being under careful surveillance for years.”

“Well, it’s possible,” Boyd said defensively.

“Almost anything is possible,” Malone said.

“Some things,” Boyd said carefully, “are more possible than others.”

“Thank you, Charles W. Aristotle,” Malone said. “I hope you realize

what you’ve done, picking up those three men. We might have been able

to get some good lines on them, if you’d left them where they were.”

There is an old story about a general who went on an inspection tour

of the front during World War I, and, putting his head incautiously up

out of a trench, was narrowly missed by a sniper’s bullet. He turned

to a nearby sergeant and bellowed: “Get that sniper!”

“Oh, we’ve got him spotted, sir,” the sergeant said. “He’s been there

for six days now.”

“Well, then,” the general said, “why don’t you blast him out of

there?”

“Well, sir, it’s this way,” the sergeant explained. “He’s fired about

sixty rounds since he’s been out there, and he hasn’t hit anything

yet. We’re afraid if we get rid of him they’ll put up somebody who

_can_ shoot.”

This was standard FBI policy when dealing with minor spies. A great

many had been spotted, including four in the Department of Fisheries.

But known spies are easier to keep track of than unknown ones. And, as

long as they’re allowed to think they haven’t been spotted, they may

lead the way to other spies or spy networks.

“I thought it was worth the risk,” Boyd said. “After all, if they have

something to do with the case—”

“But they don’t,” Malone said.

“Damn it,” Boyd exploded, “let me find out for myself, will you?

You’re spoiling all the fun.”

“Well, anyhow,” Malone said, “they don’t.”

“You can’t afford to take any chances,” Boyd said. “After all, when I

think about William Logan, I tell myself we’d better take care of

every lead.”

“Well,” Malone said finally, “you may be right. And then again, you

may be normally wrong.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Boyd said.

“How should I know?” Malone said. “I’m too busy to go around and

around like this. But since you’ve picked the spies up, I suppose it

won’t do any harm to find out if they know anything.”

Boyd snorted again. “Thank you,” he said, “for your kind permission.”

“I’ll be right down,” Malone said.

“I’ll be waiting,” Boyd said. “In Interrogation Room 7. You’ll

recognize me by the bullet hole in my forehead and the strange South

American poison, hitherto unknown to science, in my esophagus.”

“Very funny,” Malone said. “Don’t give up the ship.”

Boyd switched off without a word. Malone shrugged at the blank screen

and pushed his own switch. Then he turned slowly back to Her Majesty,

who was standing, waiting patiently, at the opposite side of the desk.

Interference, he thought, located around him....

“Why yes,” she said. “That’s exactly what I did say.”

Malone blinked. “Your Majesty,” he said, “would you mind terribly if I

asked you questions before you answered them? I know you can see them

in my mind, but it’s simpler for me to do things the normal way, just

now.”

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I do agree that matters are confused

enough already. Please go on.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Malone said. “Well, then. Do you mean that

_I’m_ the one causing all this mental static?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Not at all. It’s definitely coming from somewhere

else, and it’s beamed at you, or beamed around you.”

“But—”

“It’s just that I can only pick it up when I’m tuned to your mind,”

she said.

“Like now?” Malone said.

She shook her head. “Right now,” she said, “there isn’t any. It only

happens every once in awhile, every so often, and not continuously.”

“Does it happen at regular intervals?” Malone asked.

“Not as far as I’ve been able to tell,” Her Majesty said. “It just

happens, that’s all. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to

it. Except that it did start when you were assigned to this case.”

“Lovely,” Malone said. “Perfectly lovely. And what is it supposed to

mean?”

“Interference,” she said. “Static. Jumble. That’s all it means. I just

don’t know any more than that, Sir Kenneth; I’ve never experienced

anything like it in my life. It really does disturb me.”

That, Malone told himself, he could believe. It must be an experience,

he told himself, like having someone you were looking at suddenly

dissolve into a jumble of meaningless shapes and lights.

“That’s a very good analogy,” Her Majesty said. “If you’ll pardon me

speaking before you’ve voiced your thought.”

“Not at all,” Malone said. “Go right ahead.”

“Well, then,” Her Majesty said. “The analogy you use is a good one.

It’s just as disturbing and as meaningless as that.”

“And you don’t know what’s causing it?” Malone said.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Nor what the purpose of it is?” he said.

Her Majesty shook her head slowly. “Sir Kenneth,” she said, “I don’t

even know whether or not there _is_ any purpose.”

Malone sighed deeply. Nothing in the case seemed to make any sense. It

wasn’t that there were no clues, or no information for him to work

with. There were a lot of clues, and there was a lot of information.

But nothing seemed to link up with anything else. Every new fact was a

bright, shiny arrow pointing nowhere in particular.

“Well, then—” he started.

The intercom buzzed. Malone jabbed ferociously at the button. “Yes?”

he said.

“The ghosts are here,” the agent-in-charge’s voice said.

Malone blinked. “What?” he said.

“You said you were going to get some ghosts,” the agent-in-charge

said. “From the Psychical Research Society, in a couple of large

bundles. And they’re here now. Want me to exorcise ’em for you?”

“No,” Malone said wearily. “Just send them in to join the crowd. Got a

messenger?”

“I’ll send them down,” the agent-in-charge said. “About one minute.”

Malone nodded, realized the man couldn’t see him, said: “Fine,” and

switched off. He looked at his watch. A little over half an hour had

passed since he had left the Psychical Research Society offices. That,

he told himself, was efficiency.

Not that the books would mean anything, he thought. They would just

take their places at the end of the long row of meaningless,

disturbing, vicious facts that cluttered up his mind. He wasn’t an FBI

agent any more; he was a clown and a failure, and he was through. He

was going to resign and go to South Dakota and live the life of a

hermit. He would drink goat’s milk and eat old shoes or something, and

whenever another human being came near he would run away and hide.

They would call him Old Kenneth, and people would write articles for

magazines about The Twentieth Century Hermit.

And that would make him famous, he thought wearily, and the whole

circle would start all over again.

“Now, now, Sir Kenneth,” Queen Elizabeth said. “Things aren’t quite

that bad.”

“Oh, yes, they are,” Malone said. “They’re even worse.”

“I’m sure we can find an answer to all your questions,” Her Majesty

said.

“Sure,” Malone said. “Even I can find an answer. But it isn’t the

right one.”

“You can?” Her Majesty said.

“That’s right,” Malone said. “My answer is: to hell with everything.”

* * * * *

Malone’s Washington offices didn’t look any different. He sighed and

put the two big packages from the Psychical Research Society down on

his desk, and then turned to Her Majesty.

“I wanted you to teleport along with me,” he said, “because I need

your help.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

He blinked. “Oh. Sure you do. But let me go over the details.”

Her Majesty waved a gracious hand. “If you like, Sir Kenneth,” she

said.

Malone nodded. “We’re going on down to Interrogation Room 7 now,” he

said. “Next door to it, there’s an observation room, with a one-way

panel in the wall. You’ll be able to see us, but we won’t be able to

see you.”

“I really don’t require an observation panel,” Her Majesty said. “If I

enter your mind, I can see through your eyes.”

“Oh, sure,” Malone said. “But the observation room was built for more

normal people—saving your presence, Your Majesty.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Now,” Malone went on, “I want you to watch all three of the men we’re

going to bring in, and dig everything you can out of their minds.”

“Everything?” she said.

“We don’t know what might be useful,” Malone said. “Anything you can

find. And if you want any questions asked—if there’s anything you

think I ought to ask the men, or say to them—there’s a non-vision

phone in the observation room. Just lift the receiver. That

automatically rings the one in the interrogation room and I’ll pick it

up. Understand?”

“Perfectly, Sir Kenneth,” she said.

“Okay, then,” Malone said. “Let’s go.” They headed for the door.

Malone stopped as he opened it. “And by the way,” he said.

“Yes?”

“If you get any more of those disturbances, let me know.”

“At once,” Her Majesty promised.

They went on down the hall and took the elevator down to Interrogation

Room 7, on the lowest level. There was no particular reason for

putting the interrogation section down there, except that it tended to

make prisoners more nervous. And a nervous prisoner, Malone knew, was

very possibly a confessing prisoner.

Malone ushered Her Majesty through the unmarked door of the

observation chamber, made sure that the panel and phone were in

working order, and went out. He stepped into Interrogation Room 7

trying hard to look bored, businesslike and unbeatable. Boyd and four

other agents were already there, all standing around and talking

desultorily in low tones. None of them looked as if they had a

moment’s worry in their lives. It was all part of the same technique,

of course, Malone thought. Make the prisoner feel resistance is

useless, and you’ve practically got him working for you.

The prisoner was a hulking, flabby fat man in work coveralls. He had

black hair that spilled all over his forehead, and tiny button eyes.

He was the only man in the room who was sitting down, and that was

meant to make him feel even more inferior and insecure. His hands were

clasped fatly in his lap, and he was staring down at them in a

regretful manner. None of the agents paid the slightest attention to

him. The general impression was that something really tough was coming

up, but that they were in no hurry for it. They were willing to wait

for the third degree, it seemed, until the blacksmith had done a

really good job with the new spikes for the Iron Maiden.

The prisoner looked up apprehensively as Malone shut the door. Malone

paid no attention to him, and the prisoner unclasped his hands, rubbed

them on his coveralls and then reclasped them in his lap. His eyes

fell again.

Boyd looked up too. “Hello, Ken,” he said. He tapped a sheaf of papers

on the single table in the room. Malone went over and picked them up.

They were the abbreviated condensations of three dossiers. All three

of the men covered in the dossiers were naturalized citizens, but all

had come in as “political refugees” from Hungary, from Czechoslovakia,

and from East Germany. Further checking had turned up the fact that

all three were actually Russians. They had been using false names

during their stay in the United States, but their real ones were

appended to the dossiers.

The fat one in the interrogation room was named Alexis Brubitsch. The

other two, who were presumably waiting separately in other rooms, were

Ivan Borbitsch and Vasili Garbitsch. The collection sounded, to

Malone, like a seedy musical-comedy firm of lawyers: Brubitsch,

Borbitsch and Garbitsch. He could picture them dancing gaily across a

stage while the strains of music followed them, waving legal forms and

telephones and singing away.

Brubitsch did not, however, look very gay. Malone went over to him

now, walking slowly, and looked down. Boyd came and stood next to him.

“This is the one who won’t talk, eh?” Malone said, wondering if he

sounded as much like Dick Tracy as he thought he did. It was a

standard opening, meant to make the prisoner think his fellows had

already confessed.

“That’s him,” Boyd said.

“Mmm,” Malone said, trying to look as if he were deciding between the

rack and the boiling oil. Brubitsch fidgeted slightly, but he didn’t

say anything.

“We didn’t know whether we had to get this one to talk, too,” Boyd

said. “What with the others, and all. But we did think you ought to

have a look at him.” He sounded very bored. It was obvious from his

tone that the FBI didn’t care in the least if Alexis Brubitsch never

opened his mouth again, in what was likely to be a very short

lifetime.

“Well,” Malone said, equally bored, “we might be able to get a few

corroborative details.”

Brubitsch swallowed hard. Malone ignored him.

“Now, just look at him,” Boyd said. “He certainly doesn’t _look_ like

the head of a spy ring, does he?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Malone said. “That’s probably why the Russians

used him. They figured nobody would ever look twice at a fat slob like

this. Nobody would ever suspect him of being the head man.”

“I guess you’re right,” Boyd said. He yawned, which Malone thought was

overacting a trifle. Brubitsch saw the yawn, and one hand came up to

jerk at his collar.

“Who’d ever think,” Malone said, “that he plotted those killings in

Redstone—all three of them?”

“It is surprising,” Boyd said.

“But, then,” Malone said, “we know he did. There isn’t any doubt of

that.”

Brubitsch seemed to be turning a pale green. It was a fascinating

color, unlike any other Malone had ever seen. He watched it with

interest.

“Oh, sure,” Boyd said. “We’ve got enough evidence from the other two

to send this one to the chair tomorrow, if we want to.”

“More than enough,” Malone agreed.

Brubitsch opened his mouth, shut it again and closed his eyes. His

lips moved silently.

“Tell me,” Boyd said conversationally, leaning down to the fat man.

“Did your orders on that job come from Moscow, or did you mastermind

it all by yourself?”

Brubitsch’s eyes stirred, then snapped open as if they’d been pulled

by a string. “Me?” he said in a hoarse bass voice. “I know nothing

about this murder. What murder? I know nothing about it.”

There were no such murders, of course. But Malone was not ready to let

Brubitsch know anything about that. “Oh, the ones you shot in

Redstone,” he said in an offhand way.

“The what?” Brubitsch said. “I shot people? Never.”

“Oh, sure you did,” Boyd said. “The others say you did.”

Brubitsch’s head seemed to sink into his neck. “Borbitsch and

Garbitsch, they tell you about a murder? It is not true. Is a lie.”

“Really?” Malone said. “We think it’s true.”

“Is a lie,” Brubitsch said, his little eyes peering anxiously from

side to side. “Is not true,” he went on hopefully. “I have alibi.”

“You do?” Boyd said. “For what time?”

“For time when murder happened,” Brubitsch said. “I was someplace

else.”

“Well, then,” Malone said, “how do you know when the murders were

done? They were kept out of the newspapers.” That, he reflected, was

quite true, since the murders had never happened. But he watched

Brubitsch with a wary eye.

“I know nothing about time,” Brubitsch said, jerking at his collar. “I

don’t know when they happened.”

“Then how can you have an alibi?” Boyd snapped.

“Because I didn’t do them!” Brubitsch said tearfully. “If I didn’t,

then I _must_ have alibi!”

“You’d be surprised,” Malone said. “Now, about these murders—”

“Was no murder, not by me,” Brubitsch said firmly. “Was never any

killing of anybody, not even by accident.”

“But your two friends say—” Boyd began.

“My two friends are not my friends,” Brubitsch said firmly. “If they

tell you about murder and say it was me, they are no friends. I did

not murder anybody, I have alibi. I did not even murder anybody a

little bit. They are no friends. This is terrible.”

“There,” Malone said reflectively, “I agree with you. It’s positively

awful. And I think we might as well give it up. After all, we don’t

need your testimony. The other two are enough; they’ll get maybe ten

years apiece, but you’re going to get the chair.”

“I will not sit down,” Brubitsch said firmly. “I am innocent. I am

innocent like a small child. Does a small child commit a murder? It is

ridiculous.”

Boyd picked up his cue with ease. “You might as well give us your side

of the story, then,” he said easily. “If you didn’t commit any

murders—”

“I am a small child,” Brubitsch announced.

“Okay,” Boyd said. “But if you didn’t commit any murders, just what

_have_ you been doing since you’ve been in this country as a Soviet

agent?”

“I will say nothing,” Brubitsch announced. “I am a small child. It is

enough.” He paused, blinked, and went on, “I will only tell you this:

no murders were done by our group in any of our activities.”

“And what were your activities?” Malone asked.

“Oh, many things,” Brubitsch said. “Many, many things. We—”

The telephone rang loudly, and Malone scooped it up with a practiced

hand. “Malone here,” he said.

Her Majesty’s voice was excited. “Sir Kenneth!” she said. “I just got

a tremendous burst of static!”

Malone blinked. _Is my mind acting up again?_ he thought, knowing she

would pick it up. _Am I being interfered with?_

He didn’t feel any different. But then, how was he supposed to feel?

“It’s not _your_ mind, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said. “Not this time.

It’s _his_ mind. That sneaky-thinking Brubitsch fellow.”

_Brubitsch?_ Malone thought. _Now what is that supposed to mean?_

“I don’t know, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said. “But get on back to

your questioning. He’s ready to talk now.”

“Okay,” Malone said aloud. “Fine.” He hung up and looked back to the

Russian sitting on his chair. Brubitsch was ready to talk, and that

was one good thing, anyhow. But what was all the static about?

What was going on?

“Now, then,” Malone said. “You were telling us about your group

activities.”

“True,” Brubitsch said. “I did not commit any murders. It is possible

that Borbitsch committed murders. It is maybe even possible that

Garbitsch committed murders. But I do not think so.”

“Why not?” Boyd said.

“They are my friends,” Brubitsch said. “Even if they tell lies. They

are also small children. Besides, I am not even the head of the

group.”

“Who is?” Malone said.

“Garbitsch,” Brubitsch said instantly. “He worked in the State

Department, and he told us what to look for in the Senate Office

Building.”

“What were you supposed to look for?” Boyd said.

“For information,” Brubitsch said. “For scraps of paper, or things we

overheard. But it was very bad, very bad.”

“What do you mean, bad?” Malone said.

“Everything was terrible,” Brubitsch said mournfully. “Sometimes

Borbitsch heard something and forgot to tell Garbitsch about it.

Garbitsch did not like this. He is a very inflamed person. Once he

threatened to send Borbitsch to the island of Yap as a spy. That is a

very bad place to go to. There are no enjoyments on the island of Yap,

and no ones likes strangers there. Borbitsch was very sad.”

“What did you do with your information?” Boyd said.

“We remembered it,” Brubitsch said. “Or, if we had a scrap of paper,

we saved it for Garbitsch and gave it to him. But I remember once that

I had some paper. It had a formula on it. I do not know what the

formula said.”

“What was it about?” Malone said.

Brubitsch gave a massive shrug. “It was about an X and some numbers,”

he said. “It was not very interesting, but it was a formula, and

Garbitsch would have liked it. Unfortunately, I did not give it to

him.”

“Why not?” Boyd said.

“I am ashamed,” Brubitsch said, looking ashamed. “I was lighting a

cigarette in the afternoon, when I had the formula. It is a very

relaxing thing to smoke a cigarette in the afternoon. It is soothing

to the soul.” He looked very sad. “I was holding the piece of paper in

one hand,” he said. “Unfortunately, the match and the paper came into

contact. I burned my finger. Here.” He stuck out a finger toward

Malone and Boyd, who looked at it without much interest for a second.

“The paper is gone,” he said. “Don’t tell Garbitsch. He is very

inflamed.”

Malone sighed. “But you remember the formula,” he said. “Don’t you?”

Brubitsch shook his massive head very slowly. “It was not very

interesting,” he said. “And I do not have a mathematical mind.”

“We know,” Malone said. “You are a small child.”

“It was terrible,” Brubitsch said. “Garbitsch was not happy about our

activities.”

“What did Garbitsch do with the information?” Boyd said.

“He passed it on,” Brubitsch said. “Every week he would send a

short-wave message to the homeland, in code. Some weeks he did not

send the message.”

“Why not?” Malone said.

“The radio did not work,” Brubitsch said simply. “We received orders

by short-wave, but sometimes we did not receive the orders. The radio

was of very poor quality, and some weeks it refused to send any

messages. On other weeks, it refused to receive any messages.”

“Who was your contact in Russia?” Boyd said.

“A man named X,” Brubitsch said. “Like in the formula.”

“But what was his real name?” Malone said.

“Who knows?” Brubitsch said. “Does it matter?”

“What else did you do?” Boyd said.

“We met twice a week,” Brubitsch said. “Sometimes in Garbitsch’s home,

sometimes in other places. Sometimes we had information. At other

times, we were friends, having a social gathering.”

“Friends?” Malone said.

Brubitsch nodded. “We drank together, talked, played chess. Garbitsch

is the best chess player in the group. I am not very good. But once we

had some trouble.” He paused. “We had been drinking Russian liquors.

They are very strong. We decided to uphold the honor of our country.”

“I think,” Malone murmured sadly, “I know what’s coming.”

“Ah?” Brubitsch said, interested. “At any rate, we decided to honor

our country in song. And a policeman came and talked to us. He took us

down to the police station.”

“Why?” Boyd said.

“He was suspicious,” Brubitsch said. “We were singing the

_Internationale_, and he was suspicious. It is unreasonable.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Boyd said. “What happened then?”

“He took us to the police station,” Brubitsch said, “and then after a

little while he let us go. I do not understand this.”

“It’s all right,” Malone said. “I do.” He drew Boyd aside for a

second, and whispered to him: “The cops were ready to charge these

three clowns with everything in the book. We had a hell of a time

springing them so we could go on watching them. I remember the

stir-up, though I never did know their names until now.”

Boyd nodded, and they returned to Brubitsch, who was staring up at

them with surly eyes.

“It is a secret you are telling him,” Brubitsch said. “That is not

right.”

“What do you mean, it’s not right?” Malone said.

“It is wrong,” Brubitsch went on. “It is not the American way.”

He went on, with some prodding, to tell about the activities of the

spy ring. It did not seem to be a very efficient spy ring; Brubitsch’s

long sad tale of forgotten messages, mixed orders, misplaced documents

and strange mishaps was a marvel and a revelation to the listening

officers. “I’ve never heard anything like it,” one of them whispered

in a tone of absolute wonder. “They’re almost working on our side.”

Over an hour later, Malone turned wearily away from the prisoner. “All

right, Brubitsch,” he said. “I guess that pretty much covers things

for the moment. If we want any more information, though—”

“Call on me,” Brubitsch said sadly. “I am not going anyplace. And I

will give you all the information you desire. But I did not commit any

murders.”

“Goodbye, small child,” Malone said, as two agents led the fat man

away. The other two left soon afterward, and Malone and Boyd were

alone.

“Think he was telling the truth?” Boyd said.

Malone nodded. “Nobody,” he said, “could make up a story like that.”

“I suppose so,” Boyd said, and the phone rang. Malone picked it up.

“Well?” he asked.

“He was telling the truth, all right,” Her Majesty said. “There are a

few more details, of course, like the girl Brubitsch was involved

with, Sir Kenneth. But she doesn’t seem to have anything to do with

the spy ring, and besides, she isn’t a very nice person. She always

wants money.”

“Sounds perfectly lovely,” Malone said. “As a matter of fact, I think

I know her. I know a lot of girls who always want money. It seems to

be in fashion.”

“You don’t know this one, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said, “and

besides, she wouldn’t be a good influence on you.”

Malone sighed. “How about the static explosions?” he said. “Pick up

any more?”

“No,” she said. “Just that one.”

Malone nodded at the receiver. “All right,” he said. “We’re going to

bring in the second one now. Keep up the good work.”

He hung up.

“Who’ve you got in the observation room?” Boyd asked.

“Queen Elizabeth I,” Malone said. “Her Royal Majesty.”

“Oh,” Boyd said without surprise. “Well, was Brubitsch telling the

truth?”

“He wasn’t holding back anything important,” Malone said, thinking

about the girl. It would be nice to meet a bad influence, he thought

mournfully. It would be nice to go somewhere with a bad influence (a

bad influence, he amended, with a good figure) and forget all about

his job, about the spies, about telepathy, teleportation, psionics and

everything else. It might be restful.

Unfortunately, it was impossible.

“What’s this business about a static explosion?” Boyd said.

“Don’t ask silly questions,” Malone said. “A static explosion is a

contradiction in terms. If something is static, it doesn’t move—

whoever heard of a motionless explosion?”

“If it is a contradiction in terms,” Boyd said, “they’re your terms.”

“Sure,” Malone said. “But I don’t know what they mean. I don’t even

know what I mean.”

“You’re in a bad way,” Boyd said, looking sympathetic.

“I’m in a perfectly terrible way,” Malone said, “and it’s going to get

worse. You wait and see.”

“Of course I’ll wait and see,” Boyd said. “I wouldn’t miss the end of

the world for anything. It ought to be a great spectacle.” He paused.

“Want them to bring in the next one?”

“Sure,” Malone said. “What have we got to lose but our minds? And who

is the next one?”

“Borbitsch,” Boyd said. “They’re saving Garbitsch for a big finish.”

Malone nodded wearily. “Onward,” he said, and picked up the phone. He

punched a number, spoke a few words and hung up.

A minute later, the four FBI agents came back, leading a man. This one

was tall and thin, with the expression of a gloomy, degenerate and

slightly nauseated bloodhound. He was led to the chair and he sat down

in it as if he expected the worst to start happening at once.

“Well,” Malone said in a bored, tired voice. “So this is the one who

won’t talk.”

6

Midnight.

Kenneth J. Malone sat at his desk, in his Washington office,

surrounded by piles of papers covering the desk, spilling off onto the

floor and decorating his lap. He was staring at the papers as if he

expected them to leap up, dance round him and shout the solution to

all his problems at him in trained choral voices. They did nothing at

all.

Seated cross-legged on the rug in the center of the room, and looking

like an impossible combination of the last Henry Tudor and Gautama

Buddha, Thomas Boyd did nothing either. He was staring downward, his

hands folded on his ample lap, wearing an expression of utter, burning

frustration. And on a nearby chair sat the third member of the

company, wearing the calm and patient expression of the gently-born

under all vicissitudes: Queen Elizabeth I.

“All right,” Malone said into the silence. “Now let’s see what we’ve

got.”

“I think we’ve got cerebral paresis,” Boyd said. “It’s been coming on

for years.”

“Don’t be funny,” Malone said.

Boyd gave a short, mirthless bark. “Funny?” he said. “I’m absolutely

hysterical with joy and good humor. I’m out of my mind with

happiness.” He paused. “Anyway,” he finished, “I’m out of my mind.

Which puts me in good company. The entire FBI, Brubitsch, Borbitsch,

Garbitsch, Dr. Thomas O’Connor and Sir Lewis Carter—we’re all out of

our minds. If we weren’t, we’d all move away to the moon.”

“And drink to forget,” Malone added. “Sure. But let’s try and get some

work done.”

“By all means, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said. Boyd had not included

her in his list of insane people, and she looked slightly miffed. It

was hard for Malone to tell whether she was miffed by the mention of

insanity, or at being left out.

“Let’s review the facts,” Malone said. “This whole thing started with

some inefficiency in Congress.”

“And some upheavals elsewhere,” Boyd said. “Labor unions, gangster

organizations.”

“Just about all over,” Malone said. “And though we’ve found three

spies, it seems pretty obvious that they aren’t causing this.”

“They aren’t causing much of anything,” Boyd said. “Except a lot of

unbelieving laughter further up the FBI line. I don’t think anybody is

going to believe our reports of those interviews.”

“But they’re true,” Her Majesty said.

“Sure they’re true,” Boyd said. “That’s the unbelievable part. They

read like farce, and not very good farce at that.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Malone said. “I think they’re pretty funny.”

“Shall we get back to the business at hand?” Her Majesty said gently.

“Ah,” Malone said. “Anyhow, it isn’t the spies. And what we now have

is confusion even worse compounded.”

“Confounded,” Boyd said. “John Milton. _Paradise Lost_, I heard it

somewhere.”

“I don’t mean confounded,” Malone said. “I mean confusion. Anyhow, the

Russian espionage rings in this country seem to be in as bad a state

as the Congress, the labor unions, the syndicates, and all the rest.

And all of them seem to have some sort of weird tie-in to these

flashes of telepathic interference. Right, Your Majesty?”

“I believe so, Sir Kenneth,” she said. The old woman looked tired and

confused. Somehow, a lot of the brightness seemed to have gone out of

her life. “That’s right,” she said. “I didn’t realize there was so

much of it going on. You see, Sir Kenneth, you’re the only one I can

pick up at a distance who has been having these flashes. But now that

I’m here in Washington, I can feel it going on all around me.”

“It may not have anything to do with everything else,” Boyd said.

Malone shook his head. “If it doesn’t,” he said, “it’s the weirdest

coincidence I’ve ever even dreamed about, and my dreams can be pretty

strange. No, it’s got to be tied in. There’s some kind of mental

static that is somehow making all these people goof up.”

“But why?” Boyd said. “What is it being done for? Just fun?”

“God only knows,” Malone said. “But we’re going to have to find out.”

“In that case,” Boyd said, “I suggest lots and lots of prayers.”

Her Majesty looked up. “That’s a fine idea,” she said.

“But God helps those,” Malone said, “who help themselves. And we’re

going to help ourselves. Mostly with facts.”

“All right,” Boyd said. “So far, all the facts have been a great

help.”

“Well, here’s one,” Malone said. “We got one flash each from

Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch while we were questioning them. And

in each case, that flash occurred just before they started to blab

everything they knew. Before the flash, they weren’t talking. They

were behaving just like good spies and keeping their mouths shut.

After the flash, they couldn’t talk fast enough.”

“That’s true,” Boyd said reflectively. “They did seem to give up

pretty fast, even for amateurs.”

Malone nodded. “So the question is this,” he said. “Just what happens

during those crazy bursts of static?”

He looked expectantly at Her Majesty, but she shook her head sadly. “I

don’t know,” she said. “I simply don’t know. It’s just noise to me,

meaningless noise.” She put her hands slowly over her face. “People

shouldn’t do things like that to their Sovereign,” she said in a

muffled voice.

Malone got up and went over to her. She wasn’t crying, but she wasn’t

far from it. He put an arm around her thin shoulders. “Now, look, Your

Majesty,” he said in gentle tones, “this will all clear up. We’ll find

out what’s going on, and we’ll find a way to put a stop to it.”

“Sure we will,” Boyd said. “After all, Your Majesty, Sir Kenneth and I

will work hard on this.”

“And the Queen’s own FBI,” Malone said, “won’t stop until we’ve

finished with this whole affair, once and for all.”

Her Majesty brought her hands down from her face, very slowly. She was

forcing a smile, but it didn’t look too well. “I know you won’t fail

your Queen,” she said. “You two have always been the most loyal of my

subjects.”

“We’ll work hard,” Malone said. “No matter how long it takes.”

“Because, after all,” Boyd said in a musing, thoughtful tone, “it is a

serious crime, you know.”

The words seemed to have an effect on Her Majesty, like a tonic. For a

second her face wore an expression of Royal anger and indignance, and

the accustomed strength flowed back into her aged voice. “You’re quite

correct, Sir Thomas!” she said. “The security of the Throne and the

Crown are at stake!”

Malone blinked. “What?” he said. “Are you two talking about something?

What crime is this?”

“An extremely serious one,” Boyd said in a grave voice. He rose

unsteadily to his feet, planted them firmly on the carpet, and

frowned.

“Go on,” Malone said, fascinated. Her Majesty was watching Boyd with

an intent expression.

“The crime,” Boyd said, “the very serious crime involved, is that of

Threatening the Welfare of the Queen. The criminal has committed the

crime of Causing the Said Sovereign, Baselessly, Reasonlessly and

Without Consent or Let, to Be in a State of Apprehension for Her Life

or Her Well-Being. And this crime—”

“Aha,” Malone said. “I’ve got it. The crime is—”

“High treason,” Boyd intoned.

“High treason,” Her Majesty said with satisfaction and fire in her

voice.

“Very high treason,” Malone said. “Extremely high.”

“Stratospheric,” Boyd agreed. “That is, of course,” he added, “if the

perpetrators of this dastardly crime are Her Majesty’s subjects.”

“My goodness,” the Queen said. “I never thought of that. Suppose

they’re not?”

“Then,” Malone said in his most vibrant voice, “it is an Act of War.”

“Steps,” Boyd said, “must be taken.”

“We must do our utmost,” Malone said. “Sir Thomas—”

“Yes, Sir Kenneth?” Boyd said.

“This task requires our most fervent dedication,” Malone said. “Please

come with me.”

He went to the desk. Boyd followed him, walking straight-backed and

tall. Malone bent and removed from a drawer of the desk a bottle of

bourbon. He closed the drawer, poured some bourbon into two handy

water-glasses from the desk, and capped the bottle. He handed one of

the water-glasses to Boyd, and raised the other one aloft.

“Sir Thomas,” Malone said, “I give you Her Majesty, the Queen!”

“To the Queen!” Boyd echoed.

They downed their drinks and turned, as one man, to hurl the glasses

into the wastebasket.

In thinking it over later, Malone realized that he hadn’t considered

anything about that moment silly at all. Of course, an outsider might

have been slightly surprised at the sequence of events, but Malone was

no outsider. And, after all, it was the proper way to treat a Queen,

wasn’t it?

And....

When Malone had first met Her Majesty, he had wondered why, although

she could obviously read minds, and so knew perfectly well that

neither Malone nor Boyd believed she was Queen Elizabeth I, she

insisted on an outward show of respect and dedication. He’d asked her

about it at last, and her reply had been simple, reasonable and to the

point.

According to her—and Malone didn’t doubt it for an instant—most

people simply didn’t think their superiors were all they claimed to

be. But they acted as if they did, at least while in the presence of

those superiors. It was a common fiction, a sort of handy oil on the

wheels of social intercourse.

And all Her Majesty had ever insisted on was the same sort of

treatment.

“Bless you,” she’d said, “I can’t help the way you _think_, but, as

Queen, I do have some control over the way you _act_.”

The funny thing, as far as Malone was concerned, was that the two

parts of his personality were becoming more and more alike. He didn’t

actually believe that Her Majesty was Queen Elizabeth I, and he hoped

fervently that he never would. But he did have a great deal of respect

for her, and more affection than he had believed possible at first.

She was the grandmother Malone had never known; she was good, and

kind, and he wanted to keep her happy and contented. There had been

nothing at all phony in the solemn toast he had proposed, nor in the

righteous indignation he had felt against anyone who was giving Her

Majesty even a minute’s worth of discomfort.

And Boyd, surprisingly enough, seemed to feel the same way. Malone

felt good about that; Her Majesty needed all the loyal supporters she

could get.

But all of this was later. At the time, Malone was doing nothing

except what came naturally. Nor, apparently, was Boyd. After the

glasses had been thrown, with a terrifying crash, into the metal

wastebasket, and the reverberations of that second had stopped ringing

in their ears, a moment of silence had followed.

Then Boyd turned, briskly rubbing his hands. “All right,” he said.

“Let’s get back to work.”

Malone looked at the proud, happy look on Her Majesty’s face; he saw

the glimmer of a tear in the corner of each eye. But he gave no

indication that he had noticed anything at all out of the ordinary.

“Fine,” he said. “Now, getting on back to the facts, we’ve established

something, anyhow. Some agency is causing flashes of telepathic static

all over the place. And those flashes are somehow connected with the

confusion that’s going on all around us. Somehow, these flashes have

an effect on the minds of people.”

“And we know at least one manifestation of that effect,” Boyd said.

“It makes spies blab all their secrets when they’re exposed to it.”

“These three spies, anyhow,” Malone said.

“If spies is the right word,” Boyd said.

“Okay,” Malone said. “And now we’ve got another obvious question.”

“It seems to me we’ve got about twelve,” Boyd said.

“I mean, who’s doing it?” Malone said. “Who is causing these

telepathic flashes?”

“Maybe it’s just happening,” Boyd said. “Out of thin air.”

“Maybe,” Malone said. “But let’s go on the assumption that there’s a

human cause. The other way, we can’t do a thing except sit back and

watch the world go to hell.”

Boyd nodded. “It doesn’t seem to be the Russians,” he said. “Although,

of course, it might be a Red herring.”

“What do you mean?” Malone said.

“Well,” Boyd said, “they might have known we were on to Brubitsch,

Borbitsch and Garbitsch—” He stopped. “You know,” he said, “every

time I say that name I have to reassure myself that we’re not all

walking around in the world of Florenz Ziegfeld.”

“Likewise,” Malone said. “But go on.”

“Sure,” Boyd said. “Anyhow, they might have set the three of them up

as patsies, just in case we stumbled on to this mess. We can’t

overlook this possibility.”

“Right,” Malone said. “It’s faint, but it is a possibility. In other

words, the agency behind the flashes might be Russian, and it might

not be Russian.”

“That clears that up nicely,” Boyd said. “Next question?”

“The next one,” Malone said grimly, “is, what’s behind the flashes?

Some sort of psionic power is causing them, that much is obvious.”

“I’ll go along with that,” Boyd said. “I have to go along with it. But

don’t think I like it.”

“Nobody likes it,” Malone said. “But let’s go on. O’Connor isn’t any

help; he washes his hands of the whole business.”

“Lucky man,” Boyd said.

“He says that it can’t be happening,” Malone said, “and if it is we’re

all screwy. Now, right or wrong, that isn’t an opinion that gives us

any handle to work with.”

“No,” Boyd said reflectively. “A certain amount of comfort, to be

sure, but no handles.”

“Sir Lewis Carter, on the other hand—” Malone said. He fumbled

through some of the piles of paper until he had located the ones the

president of the Psychical Research Society had sent. “Sir Lewis

Carter,” he went on, “does seem to be doing some pretty good work. At

least, some of the more modern stuff he sent over looks pretty solid.

They’ve been doing quite a bit of research into the subject, and their

theories seem to be all right, or nearly all right, to me. Of course,

I’m not an expert.”

“Who is?” Boyd said. “Except for O’Connor, of course.”

“Well, somebody is,” Malone said. “Whoever’s doing all this, for

instance. And the theories do seem okay. In most cases, for instance,

they agree with O’Connor’s work, though they’re not in complete

agreement.”

“I should think so,” Boyd said. “O’Connor wouldn’t recognize an astral

plane if TWA were putting them into service.”

“I don’t mean that sort of thing,” Malone said. “There’s lots about

astral bodies and ghosts, ectoplasm, Transcendental Yoga, theosophy,

deros, the Great Pyramid, Atlantis, Mu, norns, and other such

ridiculous pets. That’s just silly, as far as I can see. But what they

have to say about parapsychology and psionics as such does seem to be

reasonably accurate.”

“I suppose so,” Boyd said tiredly.

“Okay, then,” Malone said. “Did anybody notice anything in that pile

of stuff that might conceivably have any bearing whatever on our

problems?”

“I did,” Boyd said. “Or I think I did.”

“You both did,” Her Majesty said. “And so did I, when I looked through

it. But I didn’t bother with it. I dismissed it.”

“Why?” Malone said.

“Because I don’t think it’s true,” she said. “However, my opinion is

really only an opinion.” She smiled around at the others.

Malone picked up a thick sheaf of papers from one of the piles of his

desk. “Let’s get straight what it is we’re talking about,” he said.

“All right?”

“Anything’s all right with me,” Boyd said. “I’m easy to please.”

Malone nodded. “Now, this writer—what’s his name?” he said. He

glanced at the copy of the cover page. “_Minds and Morons_,” he read.

“By Cartier Taylor.”

“Great title,” Boyd said. “Does he say which is which?”

“Let’s get back to serious business,” Malone said, giving Boyd a

single look. There was silence for a second, and then Malone said, “He

mentions something, in the book, that he calls ‘telepathic

projection.’ As far as I understand what he’s talking about, that’s

some method of forcing your thoughts on another person.” He glanced

over at the Queen. “Now, Your Majesty,” he said, “you don’t think it’s

true—and that may only be an opinion, but it’s a pretty informed one.

It seems to me as if Taylor makes a good case for this ‘telepathic

projection’ of his. Why don’t you think so?”

“Because,” Her Majesty said flatly, “it doesn’t work.”

“You’ve tried it?” Boyd put in.

“I have,” she said. “And I have had no success with it at all. It’s a

complete failure.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Boyd said. “Just a minute.”

“What’s the matter?” Malone said. “Have you tried it, and made it

work?”

Boyd snorted. “Fat chance,” he said. “I just want to look at the

thing, that’s all.” He held out his hand, and Malone gave him the

sheaf of papers. Boyd leafed through them slowly, stopping every now

and again to consult a page, until he found what he was looking for.

“There,” he said.

“There what?” Malone said.

“Listen to this,” Boyd said. “‘For those who draw the line at demonic

possession, I suggest trying telepathic projection. Apparently, it is

possible to project one’s own thoughts directly into the mind of

another—even to the point of taking control of the other’s mind.

Hypnotism? You tell me, and we’ll both know. Ever since the orthodox

scientists have come around to accepting hypnotism, I’m been chary of

it. Maybe there really is an astral body or a soul that a person has

stashed about him somewhere—something that he can send out to take

control of another human being. But I, personally, prefer the

telepathic projection theory. All you have to do is squirt your

thoughts across space and spray them all over the other fellow’s

brain. Presto-bingo, he does pretty much what you want him to do.’”

“That’s the quote I was thinking of,” Malone said.

“Of course it is,” Her Majesty said. “But it really doesn’t work. I’ve

tried it.”

“How have you tried it?” Malone said.

“There were many times, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said, “when I wanted

someone to do something particular for me or for some other person.

After all, you must remember that I was in a hospital for a long time.

Of course, that represents only a short segment of my life-span, but

it seemed long to me.”

Malone, who was trying to view the years from age fifteen to age

sixty-odd as a short segment of anybody’s lifetime, remembered with a

shock that this was not Rose Thompson speaking. It was Queen Elizabeth

I, who had never died.

“That’s right, Sir Kenneth,” she said kindly. “And in that hospital,

there were a number of times when I wanted one of the doctors or

nurses to do what I wanted them to. I tried many times, but I never

succeeded.”

Boyd nodded his head. “Well—” he began.

“Oh, yes, Sir Thomas,” Her Majesty said. “What you’re thinking is

certainly possible. It may even be true.”

“What _is_ he thinking?” Malone said.

“He thinks,” Her Majesty said, “that I may not have the talent for

this particular effect—and perhaps I don’t. But, talent or not, I

know what’s possible and what isn’t. And the way Mr. Taylor describes

it is simply silly, that’s all. And unladylike. Imagine any

self-respecting lady ‘squirting’ her thoughts about in space!”

“Well,” Malone said carefully, “aside from its being unladylike—”

“Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said, “you are not telepathic. Neither is

Sir Thomas.”

“I’m nothing,” Boyd said. “I don’t even exist.”

“And it is very difficult to explain to the non-telepath just what Mr.

Taylor is implying,” Her Majesty went on imperturbably. “Before you

could inject any thoughts into anyone else’s mind, you’d have to be

able to see into that mind. Is that correct?”

“I guess so,” Malone said.

“And in order to do that, you’d have to be telepathic,” Her Majesty

said. “Am I correct?”

“Correct,” Malone said.

“Well, then,” Her Majesty said with satisfaction, and beamed at him.

A second passed.

“Well, then, what?” Malone said in confusion.

“Telepathy,” Her Majesty said patiently, “is an extremely complex

affair. It involves a sort of meshing with the mind of this other

person. It has nothing, absolutely nothing, in common with this simple

‘squirting’ of thoughts across space, as if they were orange pips you

were trying to put into a wastebasket. No, Sir Kenneth, I cannot

believe in what Mr. Taylor says.”

“But it’s still possible,” Malone said.

“Oh,” Her Majesty said, “it’s certainly possible. But I should think

that if any telepaths were around, and if they were changing people’s

minds by ‘squirting’ at them, I would know it.”

Malone frowned. “Maybe you would at that,” he said. “I guess you

would.”

“Not to mention,” Boyd put in, “that if you were going to control

everything we’ve come across like that you’d need an awful lot of

telepathic operators.”

“That’s true,” Malone admitted. “And the objections seem to make some

sense. But what else is there to go on?”

“I don’t know,” Boyd said. “I haven’t the faintest idea. And I’m

rapidly approaching the stage where I don’t care.”

“Well,” Malone said, heaving a sigh, “let’s keep looking.”

He bent down and picked up another sheaf of copies from the Psychical

Research Society.

“After all,” he said, without much hope, “you never know.”

* * * * *

Malone looked around the office of Andrew J. Burris as if he’d never

seen it before. He felt tired, and worn out, and depressed; it had

been a long night, and here it was morning and the head of the FBI was

giving him instructions. It was, Malone told himself, a hell of a

life.

“Now, Malone,” Burris said, “this is a very ticklish situation. You’ve

got to handle it with great care.”

“I can see that,” Malone said apprehensively. “It certainly looks

ticklish. And unusual.”

“Well, we don’t want any trouble,” Burris said. “We have enough

trouble now.”

“Sometimes I think we have too much,” Malone said.

“That’s our job,” Burris said, looking grim.

Malone blinked. “What is?” he said.

“Having trouble,” Burris said.

There was a short silence. Malone broke it. “Anyhow,” he said, “you

feel we have enough trouble, so we’re trying to make things easy for

everybody.”

Burris nodded. “I’ve talked with the president,” he said, “and he

feels this is the best way to handle matters.”

Malone tried to imagine Burris explaining the incredible complexities

of the situation to the president, and was torn between relief that he

hadn’t been there and a curious wish to have heard the scrambled

conversation that must have taken place. “The way it seems to me,” he

said cautiously, “shipping those spies back to Russia is a worse

punishment than sending them to the federal pen.”

“Maybe it is,” Burris said. “Maybe it is. How would you feel if you

were being sent to jail?”

“Innocent,” Malone said instantly.

“But that isn’t the point,” Burris went on. “You see, Malone, we don’t

really have much damaging evidence against those spies, except for

their confessions. During all the time we were watching them, we took

care that they never did come up with anything dangerous; we weren’t

fishing for them but for their superiors, for the rest of the

network.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any more network,” Malone said. “Not in this

country, anyhow.”

“Sure,” Burris said. “We know that now, thanks to the confessions, and

to Her Majesty. But we can’t prosecute on that sort of evidence. You

know what a good defense attorney could do with unsupported

confessions—and even if we wanted to take the lid off telepathy for

the general public, it would be absolute hell bringing it into court.”

“So,” Malone said, “we can’t put them in prison, even if we want to.”

“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Burris said hastily. “We could probably win,

even against a good defense. But they wouldn’t get much time in

prison, and we’d only end up deporting them in any case.”

Malone fished for a cigarette, lit it and blew out smoke. “So we’re

going to save the taxpayers some money,” he said. “That’ll be nice for

a change.”

“That’s right,” Burris said, beaming. “We’re going to save Federal

funds by shipping them back to their motherland now. After all, they

did take out their naturalization papers under false names, and their

declarations are chockfull of false information. So all it takes is a

court order to declare their citizenships null and void, and hand all

three of them back to the Soviets.”

“A nice, simple housecleaning,” Malone said. “All open and

above-board. And the confessions will certainly stand up in a

deportation hearing.”

“No question of it,” Burris said. “But the reason I called you here,

Malone, is that there’s still one thing bothering me.”

Malone blew out some more smoke, thought wistfully about cigars, and

said: “What? Everything seems simple enough to me.”

Burris frowned and leaned back in his chair. “It’s this notion of

yours, Malone,” he said.

“Notion?”

“About going over there,” Burris said. “Now, I can understand your

wanting some facts on Moscow, current background and all that sort of

thing. So far, everything makes sense.”

“Fine,” Malone said warily.

“But, after all, Malone,” Burris said, “we do have such a thing as the

Central Intelligence Agency. They send us reports. That’s what they’re

for. And why you want to ignore the reports and make a trip over there

to walk around and see for yourself—”

“It’s because of everything that’s happening,” Malone said.

Burris looked puzzled. “What?” he said.

“Because of all the confusion,” Malone said. “Frankly, I can’t trust

the CIA, or any other branch of the government. I’ve got to see for

myself.”

Burris considered this for a second. “It’s going to look very

peculiar,” he said.

Malone shrugged. “Everything looks peculiar,” he said. “A little more

won’t hurt anything. And if I do turn up anything we can use, the

whole trip will be worth it.”

“But sending an FBI man along with Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch

is a little strange,” Burris said. “Not to mention Her Majesty.”

“There is that,” Malone said. “I wonder what our Red friends are going

to think of the Queen.”

“God knows,” Burris said. “If they take her seriously, they’re liable

to call her some sort of capitalist deviationist.”

“And if they don’t take her seriously?” Malone said.

“Then they’re going to wonder why she’s _pretending_ to be a

capitalist deviationist,” Burris said.

Malone flicked his cigarette at an ashtray. “You can’t win,” he said.

“Frankly,” Burris said, “I wouldn’t allow Her Majesty to go along

under any circumstances—except that there is an excuse for having an

older woman around.”

“There is?” Malone said.

Burris nodded. “As a chaperone,” he said.

“Now, wait a minute,” Malone said. “Brubitsch, Borbitsch and

what’s his name don’t need a chaperone.”

“I didn’t say it was for them,” Burris said.

“Me?” Malone asked in a tone of absolute wonder. “Now, Chief, I don’t

need a chaperone. I’m a grown man. I know my way around. And the idea

of having Her Majesty along to chaperone me is going to make

everything look even stranger. After all, Chief—”

“Malone,” Burris said, in a voice of steel.

“Sorry,” Malone mumbled. “But, really, I’m not some young, innocent

girl in a Victorian novel.”

“No,” Burris said, a trifle sadly, “you’re not. But there is one going

along on the trip with the rest of you.”

“There is?” Malone said. “Who is she? Rebecca?”

“Her name’s Luba,” Burris said. “Luba Garbitsch.”

“Garbitsch’s wife?” Malone said.

Burris shook his head. “His daughter,” he said. “And don’t tell me

there isn’t any such name as Luba. I know there isn’t. But what would

you pick to go with Garbitsch?”

“Wastepaper basket,” Malone said instantly. “Grapefruit rinds. Lemon

peels. Coffee grounds.”

“Damn it, Malone,” Burris said, “this is serious.”

“Well,” Malone said, “it doesn’t sound serious. What are we doing,

deporting the entire family?”

“I suppose we could,” Burris said, “if we really wanted to get

complicated about it. What with Garbitsch’s false declaration, I

haven’t the faintest idea what his daughter’s status would be—but she

_was_ born here, Malone, and as far as we can tell she’s perfectly

loyal to the United States.”

“Fine,” Malone said. “So you’re sending her to Russia. This is making

less and less sense, you know.”

Burris rubbed a hand over his face. “Malone,” he said in a quiet,

patient voice, “why don’t you wait for me to finish? Then everything

will make sense. I promise.”

“Well, all right,” Malone said doubtfully. “Luba Garbitsch is going

along to Russia, in spite of the fact that she’s perfectly loyal.”

“True,” Burris said. “You see, Malone, she loves her traitorous old

daddy just the same. Family affection. Very touching.”

“And if he’s going to Moscow—”

“She wants to go along,” Burris said. “That’s right.”

“And you’re going to send her along,” Malone said, “out of the

goodness of your kindly old heart. Just like Santa Claus. Or the

Easter bunny.”

Burris looked acutely uncomfortable. “Now, Malone,” he said. “It’s not

exactly that, and you know it.”

“It isn’t?” Malone said, trying to look surprised.

Burris shook his head. “If we send Luba Garbitsch along,” he said,

“that gives us a good excuse for Her Majesty. As a chaperone.”

“Are you sure,” Malone asked slowly, “that anybody with a name like

Luba Garbitsch could plausibly need a chaperone? Even in a den of

vice? Because somehow it doesn’t sound right: Luba Garbitsch,

chaperoned by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I.”

“Well,” Burris said, “it won’t be the Queen. I mean, she won’t be

known as the Queen.”

“Incognito?” Malone said.

Burris shrugged. “In away,” he said. “What do you think would be a

good name for her to travel under?”

Malone considered. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “But no more

Lubas.”

“I was thinking,” Burris said carefully. “How about Rose Thompson?”

There was a long silence.

“I don’t know whether she’ll go for the idea,” Malone said. “But I’ll

try it.”

“You can do it, Malone,” Burris said instantly. “I know you can. I

just know it.”

“Your faith,” Malone said with a sigh, “is going to be too much for me

one of these days.”

Burris shrugged. “Just take it easy, Malone,” he said. “You said you

wanted to have Her Majesty over there to read a few minds, and you’ve

got her. But remember, don’t get involved in anything complicated.

Don’t start any fireworks.”

“I hope not,” Malone said.

“Stay out of political arguments,” Burris said.

Malone blinked. “What do you think I’m going to do?” he said. “Bring

along a soapbox?”

“You never know,” Burris said. “Just keep quiet, and don’t go prowling

around where you’re not wanted.”

“That,” Malone said decisively, “would keep me out of Russia

entirely.”

“Damn it,” Burris said, “you know what I mean. We don’t want any

international incidents, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Malone said.

Burris nodded. “All right, then,” he said. “Your plane leaves from the

airport in an hour. You’d better go and talk to Her Majesty first.”

“Right,” Malone said.

“And I hope you know what you’re doing,” Burris said.

_So do I_, Malone thought privately. Aloud, he said, “I just want to

get the feel of things over there, that’s all, sir. I won’t cause any

more trouble than an ordinary tourist.”

“Malone,” Burris said, “don’t be an ordinary tourist. They’re

empty-headed morons and they do make trouble. Be an invisible tourist.

Be nice to everybody. Be polite and kind. Don’t step on any toes, no

matter whose and no matter why.”

“Yes, sir,” Malone said.

“Remember, they’re going to know who you are,” Burris said.

“It’s not as if we could keep it a secret.”

“Yes, sir,” Malone said. “I’ll remember.”

“All right.” Burris extended his hand. “Good luck, Malone,” he said,

with a deeper feeling of sincerity than Malone had experienced from

him in months.

Malone shook the hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

* * * * *

A little less than an hour later, Malone sat on the steps of the

landing ramp that led up to the open door of the big Air Force

transport plane on the runway. The plane was waiting, and so was

Malone. He didn’t feel confident, or even excited. He felt just a

little bit frightened. Burris’ complicated warnings had had some

effect, and Malone was fighting down a minor case of the shakes.

Next to him, her face wreathed in happy smiles, sat a smartly-dressed

grey-haired woman in her sixties. She wore an unobtrusive tailored

suit and a light jacket, and she looked as if she might be one of the

elder matrons of the society set, very definitely an upper-crust type.

In spite of the normality of her clothing, Her Majesty looked every

inch a Queen, Malone thought.

“And that, Sir Kenneth, is only natural,” she said sweetly. “Even when

traveling incognito, one must retain one’s dignity. And I don’t object

at all to using the name of Rose Thompson in a good cause; it was used

for so many years it almost feels like part of me.”

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” Malone said mildly.

A voice from above and behind him interrupted his worried thoughts.

“Mr. Malone!” it said. “Mr. Malone?”

Malone screwed his head around and looked up. An Air Force colonel was

standing in the doorway of the plane, looking down with a stern,

worried expression. “Yes?” Malone said. “What is it?”

“Takeoff, Mr. Malone,” the colonel said. “We’re due to go in fifteen

minutes, and our clearance has been established.”

“Fine,” Malone said.

“But your passengers,” the colonel said. “Where are they?”

Malone tried to look calm, cool and collected. “They’ll be here,” he

said. “Don’t worry about a thing.” Privately, he hoped he was right.

Boyd hadn’t shown up yet, and Boyd was bringing the musical-comedy spy

trio. It wasn’t, Malone thought, that Boyd was usually late. But with

Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch in tow, almost anything could

happen, he thought. He hoped fervently that it wouldn’t.

“It won’t,” Her Majesty said. “At least, it hasn’t so far. They’re all

in a car, and they’re driving right here. Boyd is thinking that he

ought to be here within five minutes.”

Malone nodded, wiping his forehead. “Five minutes, Colonel,” he called

back to the figure at the door. The colonel nodded efficiently at him,

turned and disappeared inside the plane. Malone looked at his watch.

The second hand was going around awfully fast, he thought. He wondered

if it were possible for time to speed up while he waited, so that by

the time Boyd arrived he would be an old, old man. He felt about eight

years older already, he told himself, and a minute hadn’t even passed.

He forced his eyes away from the moving second hand. Looking at it, he

knew, would only make him more nervous. Maybe there was some scenery

around that he could stare at. He raised his eyes and looked out

toward the gates that led to the interior of the air terminal.

Scenery, he told himself in sudden wonder, was no word for it.

He stared. He wanted to blink, but at the same time he felt that it

would be a shame to close his eyes for even a tenth of a second. He

held his eyelids apart by main force and went right on staring.

The girl walking toward him across the field was absolutely beautiful.

She seemed to make everything light up and start singing. Malone was

sure that, somewhere, he could hear birds plugging their favorite

numbers, and the soft rustle of the wind through pine branches. He

could feel the soft caress of the wind on his face, and he could smell

the odor of lilacs and honeysuckles and violets and whatever all those

other flowers were. They had all different colors and shapes, and he

couldn’t remember many of their names, but he could tell they were all

around him. They had to be all around him. Especially all the red

ones.

The girl had red hair that tossed gently in the wind. The bottom

two-thirds of her figure, Malone was happy to note, was not only as

good as the top third but a good deal better. It took him several

seconds to reach this conclusion, because at first he was willing to

swear that he had never seen such a beautiful girl before.

But, he told himself with a shade of apprehension, he had.

As she approached, he stood up. “Well, well,” he said brightly. “If it

isn’t the Lady That’s Known as Lou. Did the Psychical Research Society

give you the day off, or are you here to see about a misplaced broom?”

The girl beamed at him. “My, my,” she said. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Malone said. “And—”

“And how are the others?” she said.

Malone blinked. “Others?” he said.

She nodded. “Grumpy, Sleepy, Happy, Dopey, Bashful and Doc,” she said.

Malone opened his mouth, shut it again, and thought for a second.

“Now, wait a minute,” he said at last. “That’s not fair. I—”

“Oh,” she said. “And I nearly forgot. I owe you one from last time:

_gesundheit_.”

“And many happy returns,” Malone said. “Seriously, what are you doing

out here?”

“Talking,” the girl said. “To you. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I mean in general,” Malone said desperately.

“In general,” she said agreeably, “I’m here to take a little trip.”

“Oh,” Malone said. “By plane?”

She smiled sweetly and shook her head. “Not at all,” she said. “I’m

waiting for the next scheduled broomstick.”

Malone took a deep breath. “When does your plane leave?” he said

doggedly.

“In ten minutes or so,” she said.

“Then you’d better hurry and get on,” he said.

She nodded. “That’s what I thought,” she said.

A second passed.

“Did you want to say something?” Malone said uncomfortably.

She shook her head. “Not particularly,” she said.

“Well, then—”

“The time _is_ growing short,” she said.

“Isn’t it, though?” Malone said, feeling a little mystified. “Well,

now. Goodbye. I’ll see you soon.”

“Goodbye,” she said.

Another second passed.

“Your plane—” Malone started.

“How about yours?” she said.

“I’m all right,” Malone said nervously. “But if your plane’s leaving

in ten minutes you’d better get on it.”

“I intend to,” she said, without moving.

“Well—” Malone started.

“As soon as you quit blocking the ramp,” she said. “Would you mind

terribly if I climbed over your head? Because I do have to get on

board.”

“Now wait a minute,” Malone said. “This isn’t your plane.”

“How do you know?” she said. “Do you own it? Are you flying it away?”

“Well,” Malone said helplessly, “it’s my plane, and there’s nobody

going on it but—”