VII

Yucca Flats, Malone thought, certainly deserved its name. It was about

as flat as land could get, and it contained millions upon millions of

useless yuccas. Perhaps they were good for something, Malone thought,

but they weren't good for _him_.

The place might, of course, have been called Cactus Flats, but the cacti

were neither as big nor as impressive as the yuccas.

[Illustration: "I knight thee Sir Andrew...."]

Or was that yucci?

Possibly, Malone mused, it was simply yucks.

And whatever it was, there were millions of it. Malone felt he couldn't

stand the sight of another yucca. He was grateful for only one thing.

It wasn't summer. If the Elizabethans had been forced to drive in closed

cars through the Nevada desert in the summertime, they might have

started a cult of nudity, Malone felt. It was bad enough now, in what

was supposed to be winter.

The sun was certainly bright enough, for one thing. It glared through

the cloudless sky and glanced with blinding force off the road. Sir

Thomas Boyd squinted at it through the rather incongruous sunglasses he

was wearing, while Malone wondered idly if it was the sunglasses, or the

rest of the world, that was an anachronism. But Sir Thomas kept his eyes

grimly on the road as he gunned the powerful Lincoln toward the Yucca

Flats Labs at eighty miles an hour.

Malone twisted himself around and faced the women in the back seat. Past

them, through the rear window of the Lincoln, he could see the second

car. It followed them gamely, carrying the newest addition to Sir

Kenneth Malone's Collection of Bats.

"Bats?" Her Majesty said suddenly, but gently. "Shame on you, Sir

Kenneth. These are poor, sick people. We must do our best to help

them--not to think up silly names for them. For shame!"

"I suppose so," Malone said wearily. He sighed and, for the fifth time

that day, he asked: "Does Your Majesty have any idea where our spy is

now?"

"Well, really, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said with the slightest of

hesitations, "it isn't easy, you know. Telepathy has certain laws, just

like everything else. After all, even a game has laws. Being telepathic

did not help me to play poker--I still had to learn the rules. And

telepathy has rules, too. A telepath can easily confuse another telepath

by using some of those rules."

"Oh, fine," Malone said. "Well, have you got into contact with his mind

yet?"

"Oh, yes," Her Majesty said happily. "And my goodness, he's certainly

digging up a lot of information, isn't he?"

Malone moaned softly. "But who _is_ he?" he asked after a second.

The Queen stared at the roof of the car in what looked like

concentration. "He hasn't thought of his name yet," she said. "I mean,

at least if he has, he hasn't mentioned it to me. Really, Sir Kenneth,

you have no idea how difficult all this is."

Malone swallowed with difficulty. "_Where_ is he, then?" he said. "Can

you tell me that, at least? His location?"

Her Majesty looked positively desolated with sadness. "I can't be sure,"

she said. "I really can't be exactly sure just where he is. He does keep

moving around, I know that. But you have to remember that he doesn't

want me to find him. He certainly doesn't want to be found by the FBI

... would you?"

"Your Majesty," Malone said, "I _am_ the FBI."

"Yes," the Queen said, "but suppose you weren't? He's doing his best to

hide himself, even from me. It's sort of a game he's playing."

"A game!"

Her Majesty looked contrite. "Believe me, Sir Kenneth, the minute I

know exactly where he is, I'll tell you. I promise. Cross my heart and

hope to die--which I can't, of course, being immortal." Nevertheless,

she made an X-mark over her left breast. "All right?"

"All right," Malone said, out of sheer necessity. "O.K. But don't waste

any time telling me. Do it right away. We've _got_ to find that spy and

isolate him somehow."

"Please don't worry yourself, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "Your

Queen is doing everything she can."

"I know that, Your Majesty," Malone said. "I'm sure of it." Privately,

he wondered just how much even she could do. Then he realized--for

perhaps the ten-thousandth time--that there was no such thing as

wondering privately any more.

"That's quite right, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said sweetly. "And it's

about time you got used to it."

"What's going on?" Boyd said. "More reading minds back there?"

"That's right, Sir Thomas," the Queen said.

"I've about gotten used to it," Boyd said almost cheerfully. "Pretty

soon they'll come and take me away, but I don't mind at all." He whipped

the car around a bend in the road savagely. "Pretty soon they'll put me

with the other sane people and let the bats inherit the world. But I

don't mind at all."

"Sir Thomas!" Her Majesty said in shocked tones.

"Please," Boyd said with a deceptive calmness. "Just Mr. Boyd. Not even

Lieutenant Boyd, or Sergeant Boyd. Just Mr. Boyd. Or, if you prefer,

Tom."

"Sir Thomas," Her Majesty said, "I really can't understand this

sudden--"

"Then don't understand it," Boyd said. "All I know is everybody's nuts,

and I'm sick and tired of it."

A pall of silence fell over the company.

"Look, Tom," Malone began at last.

"Don't you try smoothing me down," Boyd snapped.

Malone's eyebrows rose. "O.K.," he said. "I won't smooth you down. I'll

just tell you to shut up, to keep driving--and to show some respect to

Her Majesty."

"I--" Boyd stopped. There was a second of silence.

"_That's_ better," Her Majesty said with satisfaction.

Lady Barbara stretched in the back seat, next to Her Majesty. "This is

certainly a long drive," she said. "Have we got much farther to go?"

"Not too far," Malone said. "We ought to be there soon."

"I ... I'm sorry for the way I acted," Barbara said.

"What do you mean, the way you acted?"

"Crying like that," Barbara said with some hesitation. "Making

an--absolute idiot of myself. When that other car--tried to get us."

"Don't worry about it," Malone said. "It was nothing."

"I just--made trouble for you," Barbara said.

Her Majesty touched the girl on the shoulder. "He's not thinking about

the trouble you cause him," she said quietly.

"Of course I'm not," Malone told her.

"But I--"

"My dear girl," Her Majesty said, "I believe that Sir Kenneth is, at

least partly, in love with you."

Malone blinked. It was perfectly true--even if he hadn't quite known it

himself until now. Telepaths, he was discovering, were occasionally

handy things to have around.

"In ... love--" Barbara said.

"And you, my dear--" Her Majesty began.

"Please, Your Majesty," Lady Barbara said. "No more. Not just now."

The Queen smiled, almost to herself. "Certainly, dear," she said.

* * * * *

The car sped on. In the distance, Malone could see the blot on the

desert that indicated the broad expanse of Yucca Flats Labs. Just the

fact that it could be seen, he knew, didn't mean an awful lot. Malone

had been able to see it for the past fifteen minutes, and it didn't look

as if they'd gained an inch on it. Desert distances are deceptive.

At long last, however, the main gate of the laboratories hove into view.

Boyd made a left turn off the highway and drove a full seven miles along

the restricted road, right up to the big gate that marked the entrance

of the laboratories themselves. Once again, they were faced with the

army of suspicious guards and security officers.

This time, suspicion was somewhat heightened by the dress of the

visitors. Malone had to explain about six times that the costumes were

part of an FBI arrangement, that he had not stolen his identity cards,

that Boyd's cards were Boyd's, too, and in general that the four of them

were not insane, not spies, and not jokesters out for a lark in the

sunshine.

Malone had expected all of that. He went through the rigmarole wearily

but without any sense of surprise. The one thing he hadn't been

expecting was the man who was waiting for him on the other side of the

gate.

When he'd finished identifying everybody for the fifth or sixth time, he

began to climb back into the car. A familiar voice stopped him cold.

"Just a minute, Malone," Andrew J. Burris said. He erupted from the

guardhouse like an avenging angel, followed closely by a thin man, about

five feet ten inches in height, with brush-cut brown hair, round

horn-rimmed spectacles, large hands and a small Sir Francis Drake beard.

Malone looked at the two figures blankly.

"Something wrong, chief?" he said.

Burris came toward the car. The thin gentleman followed him, walking

with an odd bouncing step that must have been acquired, Malone thought,

over years of treading on rubber eggs. "I don't know," Burris said when

he'd reached the door. "When I was in Washington, I seemed to know--but

when I get out here in this desert, everything just goes haywire." He

rubbed at his forehead.

Then he looked into the car. "Hello, Boyd," he said pleasantly.

"Hello, chief," Boyd said.

Burris blinked. "Boyd, you look like Henry VIII," he said with only the

faintest trace of surprise.

"Doesn't he, though?" Her Majesty said from the rear seat. "I've noticed

that resemblance myself."

Burris gave her a tiny smile. "Oh," he said. "Hello, Your Majesty.

I'm--"

"Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI," the Queen finished for him.

"Yes, I know. It's very nice to meet you at last. I've seen you on

television, and over the video phone. You photograph badly, you know."

"I do?" Burris said pleasantly. It was obvious that he was keeping

himself under very tight control.

Malone felt remotely sorry for the man--but only remotely. Burris might

as well know, he thought, what they had all been going through the past

several days.

Her Majesty was saying something about the honorable estate of

knighthood, and the Queen's List. Malone began paying attention when she

came to: "... And I hereby dub thee--" She stopped suddenly, turned and

said: "Sir Kenneth, give me your weapon."

Malone hesitated for a long, long second. But Burris' eye was on him,

and he could interpret the look without much trouble. There was only one

thing for him to do. He pulled out his .44, ejected the remaining

cartridge in his palm--and reminded himself to reload the gun as soon as

he got it back--and handed the weapon to the Queen, butt foremost.

She took the butt of the revolver in her right hand, leaned out the

window of the car, and said in a fine, distinct voice: "Kneel, Andrew."

Malone watched with wide, astonished eyes as Andrew J. Burris, Director

of the FBI, went to one knee in a low and solemn genuflection. Queen

Elizabeth Thompson nodded her satisfaction.

She tapped Burris gently on each shoulder with the muzzle of the gun. "I

knight thee Sir Andrew," she said. She cleared her throat. "My, this

desert air is dry--Rise, Sir Andrew, and know that you are henceforth

Knight Commander of the Queen's Own FBI."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Burris said humbly.

He rose to his feet silently. The Queen withdrew into the car again and

handed the gun back to Malone. He thumbed cartridges into the chambers

of the cylinder and listened dumbly.

"Your Majesty," Burris said, "this is Dr. Harry Gamble, the head of

Project Isle. Dr. Gamble, this is Her Majesty the Queen; Lady Barbara

Wilson, her ... uh ... her lady in waiting; Sir Kenneth Malone; and King

... I mean Sir Thomas Boyd." He gave the four a single bright impartial

smile. Then he tore his eyes away from the others, and bent his gaze on

Sir Kenneth Malone. "Come over here a minute, Malone," he said, jerking

his thumb over his shoulder. "I want to talk to you."

* * * * *

Malone climbed out of the car and went around to meet Burris. He felt

just a little worried as he followed the Director away from the car.

True, he had sent Burris a long telegram the night before, in code. But

he hadn't expected the man to show up at Yucca Flats. There didn't seem

to be any reason for it.

And when there isn't any reason, Malone told himself sagely, it's a bad

one.

"What's the trouble, chief?" he asked.

Burris sighed. "None so far," he said quietly. "I got a report from the

Nevada State Patrol, and ran it through R&I. They identified the men you

killed, all right--but it didn't do us any good. They're hired hoods."

"Who hired them?" Malone said.

Burris shrugged. "Somebody with money," he said. "Hell, men like that

would kill their own grandmothers if the price were right--you know

that. We can't trace them back any farther."

Malone nodded. That was, he had to admit, bad news. But then, when had

he last had any good news?

"We're nowhere near our telepathic spy," Burris said. "We haven't come

any closer than we were when we started. Have you got anything? Anything

at all, no matter how small?"

"Not that I know of, sir," Malone said.

"What about the little old lady ... what's her name? Thompson. Anything

from her?"

Malone hesitated. "She has a close fix on the spy, sir," he said slowly,

"but she doesn't seem able to identify him right away."

"What else does she want?" Burris said. "We've made her Queen and given

her a full retinue in costume; we've let her play roulette and poker

with Government money. Does she want to hold a mass execution? If she

does, I can supply some congressmen, Malone. I'm sure it could be

arranged." He looked at the agent narrowly. "I might even be able to

supply an FBI man or two," he added.

Malone swallowed hard. "I'm trying the best I can, sir," he said. "What

about the others?"

Burris looked even unhappier than usual. "Come along," he said. "I'll

show you."

When they got back to the car, Dr. Gamble was talking spiritedly with

Her Majesty about Roger Bacon. "Before my time, of course," the Queen

was saying, "but I'm sure he was a most interesting man. Now when dear

old Marlowe wrote his 'Faust,' he and I had several long discussions

about such matters. Alchemy--"

Burris interrupted with: "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but we must

get on. Perhaps you'll be able to continue your ... ah ... audience

later." He turned to Boyd. "Sir Thomas," he said with an effort, "drive

directly to the Westinghouse buildings. Over that way." He pointed. "Dr.

Gamble will ride with you, and the rest of us will follow in the second

car. Let's move."

He stepped back as the project head got into the car, and watched it

roar off. Then he and Malone went to the second car, another FBI

Lincoln. Two agents were sitting in the back seat, with a still figure

between them.

With a shock, Malone recognized William Logan and the agents he'd

detailed to watch the telepath. Logan's face did not seem to have

changed expression since Malone had seen it last, and he wondered wildly

if perhaps it had to be dusted once a week.

He got in behind the wheel and Burris slid in next to him.

"Westinghouse." Burris said. "And let's get there in a hurry."

"Right," Malone said, and started the car.

"We just haven't had a single lead," Burris said. "I was hoping you'd

come up with something. Your telegram detailed the fight, of course, and

the rest of what's been happening--but I hoped there'd be something

more."

"There isn't," Malone was forced to admit. "All we can do is try to

persuade Her Majesty to tell us--"

"Oh, I know it isn't easy," Burris said. "But it seems to me--"

By the time they'd arrived at the administrative offices of

Westinghouse's psionics research area, Malone found himself wishing that

something would happen. Possibly, he thought, lightning might strike, or

an earthquake swallow everything up. He was, suddenly, profoundly tired

of the entire affair.