"I might say that we are beginning to understand his illness," Dr.
Dowson said. "I honestly don't think it would be proper to transfer this
work to another group of therapists. It might set his illness
back--cause, as it were, a relapse. All our work could easily be
nullified."
"Please, doctor," Barbara Wilson began.
"I'm afraid the court order's got to stand," Malone said. Privately, he
felt sorry for Dr. Dowson, who was, obviously enough, a conscientious
man trying to do the best he could for his patient. But--
"I'm sorry, Dr. Dowson," he said. "We'll expect you to send all of your
data to the government psychiatrists--and, naturally, any concern for
the patient's welfare will be our concern also. The FBI isn't anxious
for its workers to get the reputation of careless men." He paused,
wondering what other bone he could throw the man. "I have no doubt that
the St. Elizabeths men will be happy to accept your co-operation," he
said at last. "But, I'm afraid that our duty is clear. William Logan
goes with us."
Dr. Dowson looked at them sourly. "Does he have to get dressed up like a
masquerade, too?" Before Malone could answer, the psychiatrist added:
"Anyhow, I don't even know you're FBI men. After all, why should I
comply with orders from a group of men, dressed insanely, whom I don't
even know?"
Malone didn't say anything. He just got up and walked to a phone on a
small table, near the wall. Next to it was a door, and Malone wondered
uncomfortably what was behind it. Maybe Dr. Dowson had a small arsenal
there, to protect his patients and prevent people from pirating them.
He looked back at the set and dialed Burris' private number in
Washington. When the director's face appeared on the screen, Malone
said: "Mr. Burris, will you please identify me to Dr. Dowson?" He looked
over at Dowson. "You recognize Mr. Andrew J. Burris, I suppose?" he
said.
Dowson nodded. His grim face showed a faint shock. He walked to the
phone, and Malone stepped back to let him talk with Burris.
"My name is Dowson," he said. "I'm psychiatric director here at Desert
Edge Sanitarium. And your men--"
"My men have orders to take a William Logan from your care," Burris
said.
"That's right," Dowson said. "But--"
While they were talking, Queen Elizabeth I sidled quietly up to Malone
and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Sir Kenneth," she whispered in the faintest of voices, "I know where
your telepathic spy is. And I know _who_ he is."
"Who?" Malone said. "What? Why? Where?" He blinked and whirled. It
couldn't be true. They couldn't solve the case so easily.
But the Queen's face was full of a majestic assurance. "He's right
there," she said, and she pointed.
Malone followed her finger.
It was aimed directly at the glowing image of Andrew J. Burris, Director
of the FBI.
[Illustration: "Not legally responsible, of course...."]
V
Malone opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Not even air.
He wasn't breathing.
He stared at Burris for a long moment, then took a breath and looked
again at Her Majesty. "The spy?" he whispered.
"That's right," she said.
"But that's--" He had to fight for control. "That's the head of the
FBI," he managed to say. "Do you mean to say he's a spy?"
Burris was saying: "... I'm afraid this is a matter of importance, Dr.
Dowson. We cannot tolerate delay. You have the court order. Obey it."
"Very well, Mr. Burris," Dowson said with an obvious lack of grace.
"I'll release him to Mr. Malone immediately, since you insist."
Malone stared, fascinated. Then he turned back to the little old lady.
"Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that Andrew J. Burris is a
telepathic spy?"
"Oh, dear me," Her Majesty said, obviously aghast. "My goodness
gracious. Is that Mr. Burris on the screen?"
"It is," Malone assured her. A look out of the corner of his eye told
him that neither Burris, in Washington, nor Dowson or any others in the
room, had heard any of the conversation. Malone lowered his whisper some
more, just in case. "That's the head of the FBI," he said.
"Well, then," Her Majesty said, "Mr. Burris couldn't possibly be a spy,
then, could he? Not if he's the head of the FBI. Of course not. Mr.
Burris simply isn't a spy. He isn't the type. Forget all about Mr.
Burris."
"I can't," Malone said at random. "I work for him." He closed his eyes.
The room, he had discovered, was spinning slightly. "Now," he said,
"you're sure he's not a spy?"
"Certainly I'm sure," she said, with her most regal tones. "Do you doubt
the word of your sovereign?"
"Not exactly," Malone said. Truthfully, he wasn't at all sure. Not at
all. But why tell that to the Queen?
"Shame on you," she said. "You shouldn't even think such things. After
all, I am the Queen, aren't I?" But there was a sweet, gentle smile on
her face when she spoke; she did not seem to be really irritated.
"Sure you are," Malone said. "But--"
"Malone!" It was Burris' voice, from the phone. Malone spun around.
"Take Mr. Logan," Burris said, "and get going. There's been enough delay
as it is."
"Yes, sir," Malone said. "Right away, sir. Anything else?"
"That's all," Burris said. "Good night." The screen blanked.
There was a little silence.
"All right, doctor," Boyd said. He looked every inch a king, and Malone
knew exactly what king. "Bring him out."
Dr. Dowson heaved a great sigh. "Very well," he said heavily. "But I
want it known that I resent this high-handed treatment, and I shall
write a letter complaining of it." He pressed a button on an instrument
panel in his desk. "Bring Mr. Logan in," he said.
Malone wasn't in the least worried about the letter. Burris, he knew,
would take care of anything like that. And, besides, he had other things
to think about.
The door to the next room had opened almost immediately, and two husky,
white-clad men were bringing in a strait-jacketed figure whose arms were
wrapped against his chest, while the jacket's extra-long sleeves were
tied behind his back. He walked where the attendants led him, but his
eyes weren't looking at anything in the room. They stared at something
far away and invisible, an impalpable shifting nothingness somewhere in
the infinite distances beyond the world.
For the first time, Malone felt the chill of panic. Here, he thought,
was insanity of a very real and frightening kind. Queen Elizabeth
Thompson was one thing--and she was almost funny, and likable, after
all. But William Logan was something else, and something that sent a
wave of cold shivering into the room.
What made it worse was that Logan wasn't a man, but a boy, barely
nineteen. Malone had known that, of course--but seeing it was something
different. The lanky, awkward figure wrapped in a hospital strait jacket
was horrible, and the smooth, unconcerned face was, somehow, worse.
There was no threat in that face, no terror or anger or fear. It was
merely--a blank.
It was not a human face. Its complete lack of emotion or expression
could have belonged to a sleeping child of ten--or to a member of a
different race. Malone looked at the boy, and looked away.
Was it possible that Logan knew what he was thinking?
_Answer me_, he thought, directly at the still boy.
There was no reply, none at all. Malone forced himself to look away. But
the air in the room seemed to have become much colder.
The attendants stood on either side of him, waiting. For one long second
no one moved, and then Dr. Dowson reached into his desk drawer and
produced a sheaf of papers.
"If you'll sign these for the government," he said, "you may have Mr.
Logan. There seems little else that I can do, Mr. Malone--in spite of my
earnest pleas--"
"I'm sorry," Malone said. After all, he _needed_ Logan, didn't he? After
a look at the boy, he wasn't sure any more--but the Queen had said she
wanted him, and the Queen's word was law. Or what passed for law,
anyhow, at least for the moment.
Malone took the papers and looked them over. There was nothing special
about them; they were merely standard release forms, absolving the staff
and management of Desert Edge Sanitarium from every conceivable
responsibility under any conceivable circumstances, as far as William
Logan was concerned. Dr. Dowson gave Malone a look that said: "Very
well, Mr. Malone; I will play Pilate and wash my hands of the
matter--but you needn't think I like it." It was a lot for one look to
say, but Dr. Dowson's dark and sunken eyes got the message across with
no loss in transmission. As a matter of fact, there seemed to be more
coming--a much less printable message was apparently on the way through
those glittering, sad and angry eyes.
Malone avoided them nervously, and went over the papers again instead.
At last he signed them and handed them back. "Thanks for your
co-operation, Dr. Dowson," he said briskly, feeling ten kinds of a
traitor.
"Not at all," Dowson said bitterly. "Mr. Logan is now in your custody. I
must trust you to take good care of him."
"The best care we can," Malone said. It didn't seem sufficient. He
added: "The best possible care, doctor," and tried to look dependable
and trustworthy, like a Boy Scout. He was aware that the effort failed
miserably.
At his signal, the two plainclothes FBI men took over from the
attendants. They marched Logan out to their car, and Malone led the
procession back to Boyd's automobile, a procession that consisted--in
order--of Sir Kenneth Malone, prospective Duke of Columbia, Queen
Elizabeth I, Lady Barbara, prospective Duchess of an unspecified county,
and Sir Thomas Boyd, prospective Duke of Poughkeepsie. Malone hummed a
little of "Pomp and Circumstance" as they walked; somehow, he thought it
was called for.
They piled into the car, Boyd at the wheel with Malone next to him, and
the two ladies in back, with Queen Elizabeth sitting directly behind Sir
Thomas. Boyd started the engine and they turned and roared off.
"Well," said Her Majesty with an air of great complacence, "that's that.
That makes six of us."
Malone looked around the car. He counted the people. There were four. He
said, puzzled: "Six?"
"That's right, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "You have it exactly.
Six."
"You mean six telepaths?" Sir Thomas asked in a deferent tone of voice.
"Certainly I do," Her Majesty replied. "We telepaths, you know, must
stick together. That's the reason I got poor little Willie out of that
sanitarium of his, you know--and, of course, the others will be joining
us."
"Don't you think it's time for your nap, dear?" Lady Barbara put in
suddenly.
"My _what_?" It was obvious that Queen Elizabeth was Not Amused.
"Your nap, dear," Lady Barbara said.
"Don't call me 'dear,'" Her Majesty snapped.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," Barbara murmured. "But really--"
"My dear girl," Her Majesty said, "I am not a child. I am your
sovereign. Do try to have a little respect. Why, I remember when
Shakespeare used to say to me--but that's no matter, not now."
"About those telepaths--" Boyd began.
"Telepaths," Her Majesty said. "Ah, yes. We must all stick together. In
the hospital, you know, we had a little joke--the patients for Insulin
Shock Therapy used to say: 'If we don't stick together, we'll all be
stuck separately.' Do you see, Sir Thomas?"
"But," Sir Kenneth Malone said, trying desperately to return to the
point. "_Six?_" He had counted them up in his mind. Burris had mentioned
one found in St. Elizabeths, and two more picked up later. With Queen
Elizabeth, and now William Logan, that made five.
Unless the Queen was counting him in. There didn't seem any good reason
why not.
"Oh, no," Her Majesty said with a little trill of laughter, "not you,
Sir Kenneth. I meant Mr. Miles."