The Great Universal was not the tops in every field. Not by a long
shot. As Las Vegas resorts went, as a matter of fact, almost any of
them could outdo the Great Universal in one respect or another. The
Golden Palace, for instance, had much gaudier gaming rooms. The
Moonbeam had a louder orchestra. The Barbary Coast and the Ringing
Welkin both had more slot machines, and it was undeniable that the
Flower of the West had fatter and pinker dancing girls. The Red Hot,
the Last Fling and the Double Star all boasted more waiters and more
famous guests per square foot of breathable air.
But the Great Universal, in sheer size, volume of business and
elegance of surroundings, outdid any three of the others combined. It
stood grandly alone at the edge of the Strip, the grandiloquent Las
Vegas version of Broadway or Hollywood Boulevard. It had a central
Tower that climbed thirty stories into the clean desert air, and the
Tower was surrounded by a quarter of a square mile of single-level
structures. At the base, the building spread out for five hundred feet
in every direction, and beyond that were the clusters of individual
cabins interlaced by walks, small parks, an occasional pool, and a few
little groves of trees "for privacy and the feeling of oneness with
Nature," the brochure said. But the brochure didn't even do justice to
the place. Nothing could have except the popping eyes of the thousand
of tourists who saw the Great Universal every month. And they were
usually in no condition to sit down and talk calmly about it.
Around the entire collection of buildings rose a wall that fitted the
architectural style of the place perfectly. A Hollywood writer out for
a three-day bender had called it "Futuristic Mediaeval," since it
seemed to be a set-designer's notion of Camelot combined with a
Twenty-fifth Century city as imagined by Frank R. Paul. It had
Egyptian designs on it, but no one knew exactly why. On the other
hand, of course, there was no real reason why not.
That was not the only decoration. Emblazoned on the Tower, in huge
letters of evershifting color, was a glowing sign larger than the eye
could believe. The sign proclaimed through daylight and the darkest
night: Great Universal Hotel. Malone had no doubts about it.
There was a running argument as to whether or not the Great Universal
was actually on the Strip. Certainly the original extent of the Strip
didn't include it. But the Strip itself had been spreading Westward at
a slow but steady pace for two decades, and the only imaginable
stopping-point was the California border.
Malone had taken a taxi from the airfield, and had supplied himself
with silver dollars there. He gave the cabbie one of them and added
another when the man's expression showed real pain. Still unhappy but
looking a little less like a figure out of the Great Depression, the
cabbie gunned his machine away, leaving Malone standing in the carport
surrounded by suitcases and bags of all sizes and weights.
A robot redcap came gliding along. Inevitably, it was gilded, and
looked absolutely brand new. Behind it, a chunky little man with
bright eyes waved at Malone. "Reserved here?" he said.
"That's right," Malone said. "The name is Malone."
The redcap's escort shrugged. "I don't care if the name is Jack the
Ripper," he said. "Just reservations, that's all I care."
Malone watched the luggage being stowed away, and followed after the
redcap and its escort with mixed feelings. Las Vegas glittered like
mad, but the two inhabitants he had met so far seemed a little dim.
However, he told himself, better things might turn up.
Better things did, almost immediately. In the great lobby of the
Tower, guests were lounging about in little groups. Many of the guests
were dressed in tuxedos, others in sport shirts and slacks. Quite a
number were wearing dresses, skirt-and-blouse combinations or evening
gowns, and Malone paid most of his attention to these.
New York, Washington and even Chicago had nothing to match them, he
thought dazedly. They were magnificent, and almost frightening in
their absolute beauty. Malone however, was not easily daunted. He
followed a snappily-dressed bellman to the registration desk while his
robot purred gently after him. First things first, he thought--but
making friends with the other guests definitely came up number two. Or
three, anyhow, he amended sadly.
He signed his own name to the register, but didn't add: "Federal
Bureau of Investigation" after it. After all, he thought, he was there
unofficially. And even though gambling was perfectly legal in Nevada,
the thought of the FBI still made many of the club owners just the
least little bit nervous. Instead, Malone gave a Chicago firm as his
business address--one which the FBI used as a cover for just such
purposes.
The clerk looked at him politely and blankly. "A room in the Tower,
sir?" he said.
Malone shook his head. "Ground floor," he said. "But not too far from
the Tower. I get airsick easily."
The clerk gave Malone a large laugh, which made him uncomfortable and
a little angry. The joke hadn't been all that good, he thought. If
he'd ordered a top-price room he could understand the hospitality, but
the most expensive rooms were in the Tower, with the outside cabins
running a close second. The other rooms dropped in price as they
approached the periphery of the main building.
"A humorist, sir?" the clerk said.
"Not at all," Malone said pleasantly, wishing he'd signed with his
full occupation and address. "I'm a gravedigger. Business has been
very good this year."
The clerk, apparently undecided as to whether or not to offer
congratulations, settled for consulting his registry and then stabbing
at a button on a huge and complex board at his right. A key slid out
of a slot and the clerk handed it to Malone with a rather strained
smile. "10-Q," he said.
"You're very welcome," Malone said in his most unctuous tones. He took
the key.
The clerk blinked. "The bellman will take you to your rooms, sir," he
said in a good imitation of his original voice. "There are maps of the
building at intervals along the halls, and if you find that you have
become lost you have only to ask one of the hall guides to show you
the proper directions."
"My, my," Malone said.
The clerk cleared his throat. "If you wish to use one of the cars," he
went on in a slightly more unsteady voice, "simply insert your key in
the slot beneath one of the wall maps, and a car will be at your
service."
Malone shook his head and gave a deep sigh. "What," he said, "will
they think of next?"
* * * * *
Satisfied with that for an exit line, he turned and found that the
bellman had already taken his luggage from the robot redcap and put it
aboard a small electric car. Malone got in beside him and the bellman
started the vehicle down the hallway. It rolled along on soft, silent
tires. It, too, was gilded. It didn't move very fast, Malone thought,
but it certainly beat walking.
Each hallway which radiated out from the central section beneath the
Tower was built like a small-edition city street. The little cars
scooted up and down the two center lanes while pedestrians, poor
benighted souls, kept to the side walkways. Every so often Malone saw
one, walking along the raised walkway and holding the rail along the
outside that was meant to keep guests of every stage of drunkenness
from falling into the road. At the intersections, small,
Japanese-style bridges crossed over the roadway. On these, Malone saw
uniformed men standing motionless, one to a bridge. They all looked
identical, and each one had a small gold stripe sewn to the chest of
the red uniform. Malone read the letters on the stripe as they passed
the third man. It said: _Guide_.
"Now, you live in Q-wing, sir," the bellman was saying in a nasal, but
rather pleasant voice as Malone looked away. "You're not far from the
Tower Lobby, so you won't have a lot to remember. It's not like living
along, say, the D-E Passageway out near 20 or 23."
"I'm sure it isn't," Malone said politely.
"No," the bellman said, "you got it simple. This here is Q-Yellow--see
the yellow stripe on the wall?"
Malone looked. There was a yellow stripe on the wall. "I see it," he
said.
"So all you got to do," the bellman said, "is follow Q-Yellow to the
Tower Lobby." He acted as if he had demonstrated a Euclidean
proposition flawlessly. "Got it?" he asked.
"Very simple," Malone said.
"O.K.," the bellman said. "Now, the gaming rooms--"
Malone listened with about a fifth of an ear while the bellman went on
spinning out incredibly complex directions for getting around in the
quasi-city that was the Great Universal. At one point he thought he
caught the man saying that an elephant ramp took guests past the
resplendent glass rest rooms to the roots of the roulette wheel, but
that didn't sound even remotely plausible when he considered it. At
last the bellman announced:
"Here we are, sir. Right to your door. A courtesy of the friendly
Great Universal Hotel."
He pulled over to the side, pushed a button on the sidewalk, and the
little car's body elevated itself on hydraulic pistons until it was
even with the elevated sidewalk. The bellman pushed a stud on the
walkway rail and a gate swung open. Malone stepped out and waited
while luggage was unloaded. The courtesy of the Great Universal Hotel
was not free, of course; Malone got rid of some more silver dollars.
He fished in his pockets, found one lone crumpled ten-dollar bill and
arranged it neatly and visibly in his right hand.
"I notice you've got a lot of guides in the halls," he said as the
bellman eyed the ten-spot. "Do that many people get lost in here?"
"Well, not really, sir," the bellman said. "Not really. That's for
the--what they call the protection of our guests. A courtesy."
"Protection?" Malone said. He had noticed, he recalled, odd bulges
beneath the left armpits of the guides. "Protection from what?" he
asked, keeping a firm, loving grip on the bill. "There are a lot more
guides than you'd expect, aren't there?"
The bellman shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "Well, sir," he said
at last in an uneasy manner, "I guess it's because of the politics
around here. I mean, it's sort of confused."
"Confused how?" Malone said, waving the bill ever so slightly.
The bellman appeared to be hypnotized by its green color. "It's the
governor shooting himself," he said at last. "And the Legislature
wants to impeach the Lieutenant-governor, and the City Council of Las
Vegas is having trouble with the Mayor, and the County Sheriff is
having a feud with the State Police, and--Sir, it's all sort of
confused right now. But it isn't serious." He grinned hopefully.
Malone sighed and let go of the ten. It stayed fluttering in the air
for perhaps a tenth of a second, and disappeared. "I'm sure it isn't,"
Malone said. "Just forget I asked you."
The bellman's hand went to his pocket and came out again empty. "Asked
me, sir?" he said. "Asked me what?"
* * * * *
The next fifteen minutes were busy ones. Malone made himself quickly
at home, keeping his eyes open for hidden TV cameras or other forms of
bugging. Satisfied at last that he was entirely alone, he took a deep
breath, closed his eyes and teleported himself to Yucca Flats.
[Illustration]
This time, he didn't land in Dr. O'Connor's office. Instead, he opened
his eyes in the hallway in the nearby building that housed the
psychologists, psychiatrists and psychotherapists who were working
with the telepaths Malone and the FBI had unearthed two years before.
Apparently, telepathy was turning out to be more a curse than a
blessing. Of the seven known telepaths in the world, only Her Majesty
retained anything like the degree of sanity necessary for
communication. The psych men who were working with the other six had
been trying to establish some kind of rapport, but their efforts so
far had been as fruitless as a petrified tree.
Malone went down the hallway until he came to a door near the end. He
looked at the sign painted on the opaqued glass for a second:
ALAN MARSHALL, M.D.
CHIEF OF STAFF
PSYCHOLOGY DEPARTMENT
With a slight sigh, he pushed open the door and went in.
Dr. Marshall was a tall, balding man with a light-brown brush mustache
and a pleasant smile. He wore thick glasses but he didn't look at all
scholarly; instead, he looked rather like Alec Guinness made up for a
role as a Naval lieutenant. He rose as Malone entered, and stretched a
hand across the desk. "Glad to see you, Sir Kenneth," he said. "Very
glad."
Malone shook hands and raised his eyebrows. "_Sir_ Kenneth?" he said.
Dr. Marshall shrugged slightly. "She prefers it," he said. "And since
there's no telling whose mind she might look into--" He smiled. "After
all," he finished, "why not?"
"Tell me, doctor," Malone said. "Don't you ever get uneasy about the
fact that Her Majesty can look into your mind? I mean, it has
disturbed some people."
"Not at all," Marshall said. "Not in the least. After all, Sir
Kenneth, it's all a matter of adjustment. Simple adjustment and no
more." He paused, then added: "Like sex."
"Sex?" Malone said in a voice he hoped was calm.
"Cultural mores," Marshall said. "That sort of thing. Nothing,
really." He sat down. "Make yourself comfortable," he told Malone. "As
a matter of fact, the delusion Her Majesty suffers from has its
compensations for the psychiatrist. Where else could I be appointed
Royal Psychiatrist, Advisor to the Crown, and Earl Marshal?"
Malone looked around, found a comfortable chair and dropped into it.
"I suppose so," he said. "It must be sort of fun, in a way."
"Oh, it is," Marshall said. "Of course, it can get to be specifically
troublesome; all cases can. I remember a girl who'd managed to get
herself married to the wrong man--she was trying to escape her mother,
or some such thing. And she'd moved into this apartment where her
next-door neighbor, a nice woman really, had rather strange sexual
tendencies. Well, what with those problems, and the husband himself--a
rather ill-tempered brute, but a nice fellow basically--and her
eventually meeting Mr. Right, which was inevitable--"
"I'm sure it was very troublesome," Malone put in.
"Extremely," Marshall said. "Worked out in the end, though. Ah ...
most of them do seem to, when we're lucky. When things break right."
"And when they don't?" Malone said.
Marshall shook his head slowly and rubbed at his forehead with two
fingers. "We do what we can," he said. "It's an infant science. I
remember one rather unhappy case--started at a summer theatre, but the
complications didn't stop there. As I recall, there were something
like seven women and three men involved deeply before it began to
straighten itself out. My patient was a young boy. Ah ... he had
actually precipitated the situation, or was convinced that he had. All
basically nice people, by the way. All of them. But the kind of thing
they managed to get mixed up in--"
"I'm sure it was interesting," Malone said. "But--"
"Oh, they're all interesting," Marshall said. "But for sheer
complexity ... well, this is an unusual sort of case, the one I'm
thinking about now. I remember it began with a girl named Ned--"
"Dr. Marshall," Malone said desperately, "I'd like to hear about a
girl named Ned. I really would. It doesn't even sound probable."
"Ah?" Dr. Marshall said. "I'd like to tell you--"
"Unfortunately," Malone went on doggedly, "there is some business I've
got to talk over."
Dr. Marshall's disappointment was evident for less than a second.
"Yes, Sir Kenneth?" he said.
Malone took a deep breath. "It's about Her Majesty's mental state," he
said. "I understand that a lot of it is complicated, and I probably
wouldn't understand it. But can you give me as much as you think I can
digest?"
Marshall nodded slowly. "Ah ... you must understand that psychiatrists
differ," he said. "We appear to run in schools--like fish, which is
neither here nor there. But what I tell you might not be in accord
with a psychiatrist from another school, Sir Kenneth."
"O.K.," Malone said. "Shoot."
"An extremely interesting slang word, by the way," Marshall said.
"'Shoot.' Superficially an invitation to violence. I wonder--" A
glance from Malone was sufficient. "Getting back to the track,
however," he went on, "I should begin by saying that Her Majesty
appears to have suffered a shock of traumatic proportions early in
life. That might be the telepathic faculty itself coming to the
fore--or, rather, the realization that others did not share her
faculty. That she was, in fact, in communication with a world which
could never reach her on her own deepest and most important level." He
paused. "Are you following me so far?" he asked.
"Gamely," Malone admitted. "In other words, when she couldn't
communicate, she went into this traumatic shock."
"Nor exactly," Marshall said. "We must understand what communication
is. Basically, Sir Kenneth, we can understand it as a substitute for
sexual activity. That is, in its deepest sense. It is this attack on
the deepest levels of the psychic organism that results in the trauma;
and has results of its own, by the way, which succeed in stabilizing
the traumatic shock on several levels."
Malone blinked. "That last part began to get me a little," he said.
"Can we go over it again, just the tune this time and leave out the
harmony?"
Marshall smiled. "Certainly," he said. "Remember that Her Majesty has
been locked up in institutions since early adolescence. Because of
this--a direct result of the original psychosis--she has been
deprived, not only of the communication which serves as a sublimation
for sexual activity, but, in fact, any normal sexual activity. Her
identification of herself with the Virgin Queen is far from
accidental, Sir Kenneth."
The idea that conservation was sex was a new and somewhat frightening
one to Malone, but he stuck to it grimly. "No sex," Malone said.
"That's the basic trouble."
Marshall nodded. "It always is," he said. "In one form or another, Sir
Kenneth; it is at the root of such problems at all times. But in Her
Majesty's case the psychosis has become stabilized; she is the Virgin
Queen, and therefore her failure to become part of the normal sexual
activity of her group has a reason. It is accepted on that basis by
her own psyche."
"I see," Malone said. "Or, anyhow, I think I do. But how about
changes? Could she get worse or better? Could she start lying to
people--for the fun of it, or for reasons of her own?"
"Changes in her psychic state don't seem very probable," Marshall
said. "In theory, of course, anything is possible; but in fact, I have
observed and worked with Her Majesty and no such change has occurred.
You may take that as definite."
"And the lying?" Malone said.
Marshall frowned slightly. "I've just explained," he said, "that Her
Majesty has been blocked in the direction of communication--that is,
in the direction of one of her most important sexual sublimations.
Such communication as she can have, therefore, is to be highly
treasured by her; it provides the nearest thing to sex that she may
have. As the Virgin Queen, she may still certainly _converse_ in any
way possible. She would not injure that valuable possession and right
by falsifying it. It's quite impossible, Sir Kenneth. Quite
impossible."
This did not make Malone feel any better. It removed one of the two
possibilities--but it left him with no vacation, and the most
complicated case he had ever dreamed of sitting squarely in his lap
and making rude faces at him.
He had to solve the case--and he had nobody but himself to depend on.
"You're sure?" he said.
"Perfectly sure, Sir Kenneth," Marshall said.
Malone sighed. "Well, then," he said, "can I see Her Majesty?" He knew
perfectly well that he didn't have to ask Marshall's permission--or
anybody else's. But it seemed more polite, somehow.
"She's receiving Dr. Sheldon Lord in audience just at the moment,"
Marshall said. "I don't see why you shouldn't go on to the Throne
Room, though. He's giving her some psychological tests, but they ought
to be finished in a minute or two."
"Fine," Malone said. "How about court dress? Got anything here that
might fit me?"
Marshall nodded. "We've got a pretty complete line of court costume
now," he said. "I should say it was the most complete in
existence--except possibly for the TV historical companies. Down the
hall, three doors farther on, you'll find the dressing room."
* * * * *
Malone thanked Dr. Marshall and went out slowly. He didn't really mind
the court dress or the Elizabethan etiquette Her Majesty liked to
preserve; as a matter of fact, he was rather fond of it. There had
been some complaints about expense when the Throne Room and the
costume arrangement were first set up, but the FBI and the Government
had finally decided that it was better and easier to humor Her
Majesty.
Malone spent ten minutes dressing himself magnificently in hose and
doublet, slash-sleeved, ermine-trimmed coat, lace collar, and plumed
hat. By the time he presented himself at the door to the Throne Room
he felt almost cheerful. It had been a long time since he had entered
the world of Elizabethan knighthood over which Her Majesty held sway,
and it always made him feel taller and more sure of himself. He bowed
to a chunkily-built man of medium height in a stiffly brocaded jacket,
carrying a small leather briefcase. The man had a whaler's beard of
blond-red hair that looked slightly out of period, but the costume
managed to overpower it. "Dr. Lord?" Malone said.
The bearded man peered at him. "Ah, Sir Kenneth," he said. "Yes, yes.
Just been giving Her Majesty a few tests. Normal weekly check, you
know."
"I know," Malone said. "Any change?"
"Change?" Lord said. "In Her Majesty? Sir Kenneth, you might as well
expect the very rocks to change. Her Majesty remains Her Majesty--and
will, in all probability, throughout the foreseeable future."
"The same as ever?" Malone asked hopefully.
"Exactly," Lord said. "But--if you do want background on the case--I'm
flying back to New York tonight. Look me up there, if you have a
chance. I'm afraid there's little information I can give you, but it's
always a pleasure to talk with you."
"Thanks," Malone said dully.
"Barrow Street," Lord said with a cheery wave of the briefcase.
"Number 69." He was gone. The Security Officer at the door, a young
man in the uniform of a page, opened it and peered out at Malone. The
FBI Agent nodded to him and the Security Officer announced in a firm,
loud voice: "Sir Kenneth Malone, of Her Majesty's Own FBI!"
The Throne Room was magnificent. The whole place had been done in
plastic and synthetic fibers to look like something out of the
Sixteenth Century. It was as garish, and as perfect, as a Hollywood
movie set--which wasn't surprising, since two stage designers had been
hired away from color-TV spectaculars to set it up. At the far end of
the room, past the rich hangings and the flaming chandeliers, was a
great golden throne, and on it Her Majesty was seated.
Lady Barbara Wilson, Her Majesty's personal nurse, was sitting on a
camp-chair arrangement nearby. She smiled slowly at Malone as he went
by, and Malone returned the smile with a good deal of interest. He
strode firmly down the long crimson carpet that stretched from the
doorway to the throne. At the steps leading up toward the dais that
held the Throne, his free hand went up and swept off the plumed hat.
He sank to one knee.
"Your Majesty," he said gravely.
The queen looked down on him. "Rise, Sir Kenneth," she said in a tone
of surprise. "We welcome your presence."
Malone got up off his knee and stood, his hat in his hand.
"What is your business with us?" Her Majesty asked.
Malone looked her full in the face for the first time. He realized
that her expression was rather puzzled and worried. She looked even
more confused than she had the last time he'd seen her.
He took a deep breath, wished for a cigar and plunged blindly ahead
into the toils of court etiquette.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I know full well that you are aware of the
thoughts that I have had concerning the case we have been working on.
I beg Your Majesty's pardon for having doubted Your Majesty's Royal
Word. Since my first doubts, of which I am sore ashamed, I have been
informed by Our Majesty's Royal Psychiatrist that my doubts were
ill-founded, and I wish to convey my deepest apologies. Now, having
been fully convinced of the truth of Your Majesty's statements, I have
a theory I would discuss with you, the particulars of which you can
doubtless see in my mind."
He paused. Her Majesty was staring at him, her face pale.
"Sir Kenneth," she said in a strained voice, "we appreciate your
attitude. However--" She paused for a moment, and then continued.
"However, Sir Kenneth, it is our painful duty to inform you--"
She stopped again. And when she managed to speak, she had dropped all
pretense of Court Etiquette.
"Sir Kenneth, I've been so worried! I was afraid you were dead!"
Malone blinked. "Dead?" he asked.
"For the past twenty-four hours," Her Majesty said in a frightened
voice, "I've been unable to contact your mind. And right now, as you
stand there, I can't read anything!
"It's as though you weren't thinking at all!"
[Illustration]