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