He gulped and tried to make his face look normal. "All right," he
said. "Fine. We'll go to the Palace."
He tried to ignore the pall of apprehension that fell over the car.
6
The management of the Golden Palace had been in business for many
long, dreary, profitable years, and each member of the staff thought
he or she had seen just about everything there was to be seen. And
those that were new felt an obligation to _look_ as if they'd seen
everything.
Therefore, when the entourage of Queen Elizabeth I strolled into the
main salon, not a single eye was batted. Not a single gasp was heard.
Nevertheless, the staff kept a discreet eye on the crew. Drunks, rich
men or Arabian millionaires were all familiar. But a group out of the
Sixteenth Century was something else again.
Malone almost strutted, conscious of the sidelong glances the group
was drawing. But it was obvious that Sir Thomas was the major
attraction. Even if you could accept the idea of people in strange
costumes, the sight of a living, breathing absolute duplicate of King
Henry VIII was a little too much to take. It has been reported that
two ladies named Jane, and one named Catherine, came down with sudden
headaches and left the salon within five minutes of the group's
arrival.
Malone felt he knew, however, why he wasn't drawing his full share of
attention. He felt a little out of place.
The costume was one thing, and, to tell the truth, he was beginning to
enjoy it. Even with the weight of the stuff, it was going to be a
wrench to go back to single-breasted suits and plain white shirts. But
he did feel that he should have been carrying a sword.
Instead, he had a .44 Magnum Colt snuggled beneath his left armpit.
Somehow, a .44 Magnum Colt didn't seem as romantic as a sword. Malone
pictured himself saying: "Take that, varlet." Was varlet what you
called them, he wondered. Maybe it was valet.
"Take that, valet," he muttered. No, that sounded even worse. Oh,
well, he could look it up later.
The truth was that he had been born in the wrong century. He could
imagine himself at the Mermaid Tavern, hob-nobbing with Shakespeare
and all the rest of them. He wondered if Richard Greene would be
there. Then he wondered who Richard Greene was.
Behind Sir Kenneth, Sir Thomas Boyd strode, looking majestic, as if he
were about to fling purses of gold to the citizenry. As a matter of
fact, Malone thought, he was. They all were.
Purses of good old United States of America gold.
Behind Sir Thomas came Queen Elizabeth and her Lady-in-Waiting, Lady
Barbara Wilson. They made a beautiful foursome.
"The roulette table," Her Majesty said with dignity. "Precede me."
They pushed their way through the crowd. Most of the customers were
either excited enough, drunk enough, or both to see nothing in the
least incongruous about a Royal Family of the Tudors invading the
Golden Palace. Very few of them, as a matter of fact, seemed to notice
the group.
They were roulette players. They noticed nothing but the table and the
wheel. Malone wondered what they were thinking about, decided to ask
Queen Elizabeth, and then decided against it. He felt it would make
him nervous to know.
Her Majesty took a handful of chips.
The handful was worth, Malone knew, exactly five thousand dollars.
That, he'd thought, ought to last them an evening, even in the Golden
Palace. In the center of the strip, inside the city limits of Las
Vegas itself, the five thousand would have lasted much longer--but Her
Majesty wanted the Palace, and the Palace it was.
Malone began to smile. Since he couldn't avoid the evening, he was
determined to enjoy it. It was sort of fun, in its way, indulging a
sweet harmless old lady. And there was nothing they could do until the
next morning, anyhow.
His indulgent smile faded very suddenly.
Her Majesty plunked the entire handful of chips--_five thousand
dollars!_ Malone thought dazedly--onto the table. "Five thousand," she
said in clear, cool measured tones, "on number one."
The croupier blinked only slightly. He bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty," he
said.
Malone was briefly thankful, in the midst of his black horror, that he
had called the management and told them that the Queen's plays were
backed by the United States Government. Her Majesty was going to get
unlimited credit--and a good deal of awed and somewhat puzzled
respect.
Malone watched the spin begin with mixed feelings. There was five
thousand dollars riding on the little ball. But, after all, Her
Majesty was a telepath. Did that mean anything?
He hadn't decided by the time the wheel stopped, and by then he didn't
have to decide.
"Thirty-four," the croupier said tonelessly. "Red, Even and High."
He raked in the chips with a nonchalant air.
Malone felt as if he had swallowed his stomach. Boyd and Lady Barbara,
standing nearby, had absolutely no expressions on their faces. Malone
needed no telepath to tell him what they were thinking.
They were exactly the same as he was. They were incapable of thought.
But Her Majesty never batted an eyelash. "Come, Sir Kenneth," she
said. "Let's go on to the poker tables."
She swept out. Her entourage followed her, shambling a little, and
blank-eyed. Malone was still thinking about the five thousand dollars.
Oh, well, Burris had said to give the lady anything she wanted. _But
my God!_ he thought. _Did she have to play for royal stakes?_
"I am, after all, a Queen," she whispered back to him.
Malone thought about the National Debt. He wondered if a million more
or less would make any real difference. There would be questions asked
in committees about it. He tried to imagine himself explaining the
evening to a group of Congressmen. "Well, you see, gentlemen, there
was this roulette wheel--"
He gave it up.
Then he wondered how much hotter the water was going to get, and he
stopped thinking altogether in self-defense.
In the next room, there were scattered tables. At one, a poker game
was in full swing. Only five were playing; one, by his white-tie-and-
tails uniform, was easily recognizable as a house dealer. The other
four were all men, one of them in full cowboy regalia. The Tudors
descended upon them with great suddenness, and the house dealer looked
up and almost lost his cigarette.
"We haven't any money, Your Majesty," Malone whispered.
She smiled up at him sweetly, and then drew him aside. "If you were a
telepath," she said, "how would _you_ play poker?"
Malone thought about that for a minute, and then turned to look for
Boyd. But Sir Thomas didn't even have to be given instructions.
"Another five hundred?" he said.
Her Majesty sniffed audibly. "Another five thousand," she said
regally.
Boyd looked Malonewards. Malone looked defeated.
Boyd turned with a small sigh and headed for the cashier's booth.
Three minutes later, he was back with a fat fistful of chips.
"Five grand?" Malone whispered to him.
"Ten," Boyd said. "I know when to back a winner."
Her Majesty went over to the table. The dealer had regained control,
but looked up at them with a puzzled stare.
"You know," the Queen said, with an obvious attempt to put the man at
his ease, "I've always wanted to visit a gambling hall."
"Sure, lady," the dealer said. "Naturally."
"May I sit down?"
The dealer looked at the group. "How about your friends?" he said
cautiously.