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.

"O.K.," 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 that 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 O.K. 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, and other such pediculous 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.

"O.K., 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've 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 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 nontelepath 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?"

[Illustration]

"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."