“Queen Elizabeth?” Burris said. “Of England?”

“That’s right,” Malone said. He held his breath.

“Damn it,” Burris exploded, “they’ve already got one!”

Malone sighed. “This is another one,” he said. “Or, rather, the original one. She also claims she’s immortal.”

“Lives forever?” Burris said. “You mean like that?”

“Immortal,” Malone said. “Right.”

Burris nodded. Then he looked worried. “Tell me, Malone,” he said. “She isn’t, is she?”

“Isn’t immortal, you mean?” Malone said. Burris nodded. Malone said confidently: “Of course not.”

There was a little pause. Malone thought things over.

Hell, maybe she was immortal. Stranger things had happened, hadn’t they?

He looked over at Dr. Harman. “How about that?” he said. “Could she be immortal?”

The psychiatrist shook his head decisively. “She’s been here for over forty years, Mr. Malone, ever since her late teens. Her records show all that, and her birth certificate is in perfect order. Not a chance.”

Malone sighed and turned back to the phone. “Of course she isn’t immortal, Chief,” he said. “She couldn’t be. Nobody is. Just a nut.”

“I was afraid of that,” Burris said.

“Afraid?” Malone said.

Burris nodded. “We’ve got another one, or anyhow we think we have,” he said. “If he checks out, that is. Right here in Washington.”

“Not at — Rice Pavilion?” Malone asked.

“No,” Burris said absently. “St. Elizabeths.”

Malone sighed. “Another nut?”

“Strait-jacket case,” Burris said. “Delusions of persecution, they tell me, and paranoia, and a whole lot of other things that sound nasty as hell. I can’t pronounce any of them, and that’s always a bad sign.”

“Can he talk?” Malone said.

“Who knows?” Burris told him, and shrugged. “I’m sending him on out to Yucca Flats anyhow, under guard. You might find a use for him.”

“Oh, sure,” Malone said. “We can use him as a horrible example. Suppose he can’t talk, or do anything? Suppose he turns violent? Suppose—”

“We can’t afford to overlook a thing,” Burris said, looking stern.

Once again, Malone sighed deeply. “I know,” he said. “But all the same—”

“Don’t worry about a thing, Malone,” Burris said with a palpably false air of confidence. “Everything is going to be perfectly all right.” He looked like a man trying very hard to sell the Brooklyn Bridge to a born New Yorker. “You get this Queen Elizabeth of yours out of there and take her to Yucca Flats, too,” he added.

Malone considered the possibilities that were opening up. Maybe, after all, they were going to find more telepaths. And maybe all the telepaths would be nuts. When he thought about it, that didn’t seem at all unlikely. He imagined himself with a talent nobody would believe he had.

A thing like that, he told himself glumly, could drive you buggy in short order — and then where were you?

In a loony bin, that’s where you were.

Or, possibly, in Yucca Flats. Malone pictured the scene: there they would be, just one big happy family. Kenneth J. Malone, and a convention of bats straight out of the nation’s foremost loony bins.

Fun!

Malone began to wonder why he had gone into FBI work in the first place.

“Listen, Chief,” he said. “I—”

“Sure, I understand,” Burris said quickly. “She’s batty. And this new one is batty, too. But what else can we do? Malone, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“Regret?” Malone said. “Like what?”

“I mean, don’t resign.”

“Chief, how did you know — you’re not telepathic too, are you?”

“Of course not,” Burris said. “But that’s what I’d do in your place.”

“Well—”

“Remember, Malone,” Burris said. His face took on a stern, stuffed expression. “Do not ask what your country can do for you,” he quoted the youngest living ex-President. “Ask rather what you can do for your country.”

“Sure,” Malone said sadly.

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Burris asked.

“What if it is?” Malone said. “It’s still terrible. Everything is terrible. Look at the situation.”

“I am looking,” Burris said. “And it’s another New Frontier. Just like it was when President Kennedy first said those words.”

“A New Frontier inhabited entirely by maniacs,” Malone said. “Perfectly wonderful. What a way to run a world.”

“That,” Burris said, “is the way the ball bounces. Or whatever you’re supposed to say. Malone, don’t think you haven’t got my sympathy. You have. I know how hard the job is you’re doing.”

“You couldn’t,” Malone told him bitterly.

“Well, anyhow,” Burris went on, “don’t resign. Stay on the job. Don’t give it up, Malone. Don’t desert the ship. I want you to promise me you won’t do it.”

“Look, chief,” Malone said. “These nuts—”

“Malone, you’ve done a wonderful job so far,” Burris said. “You’ll get a raise and a better job when all this is over. Who else would have thought of looking in the twitch-bins for telepaths? But you did, Malone, and I’m proud of you, and you’re stuck with it. We’ve got to use them now. We have to find that spy!” He took a breath. “On to Yucca Flats!” he said.

Malone gave up. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Not right now,” Burris said. “If there is, I’ll let you know.”

Malone hung up unhappily as the image vanished. He looked across at Dr. Harman. “Well,” he said, “that’s that. What do I have to do to get a release for Miss Thompson?”

Harman stared at him. “But, Mr. Malone,” he said, “that just isn’t possible. Really. Miss Thompson is a ward of the state, and we couldn’t possibly allow her release without a court order.”

Malone thought that over. “Okay,” he said at last. “I can see that.” He turned to Boyd. “Here’s a job for you, Tom,” he said. “Get one of the judges on the phone. You’ll know which one will do us the most good, fastest.”

“Mmm,” Boyd said. “Say Judge Dunning,” he said. “Good man. Fast worker.”

“I don’t care who,” Malone said. “Just get going, and get us a release for Miss Thompson.” He turned back to the doctor. “By the way,” he said. “Has she got any other name? Besides Elizabeth Tudor, I mean,” he added hurriedly.

“Her full name,” Dr. Harman said, “is Rose Walker Thompson. She is not Queen Elizabeth I, II or XXVIII, and she is not immortal.”

“But she is,” Malone pointed out, “a telepath. And that’s why I want her.”

“She may,” Dr. Harman said, “be a telepath.” It was obvious that he had partly managed to forget the disturbing incidents that had happened a few minutes before. “I don’t even want to discuss that part of it.”

“Okay, never mind it,” Malone said agreeably. “Tom, get us a court order for Rose Walker Thompson. Effective yesterday — day before, if possible.”

Boyd nodded, but before he could get to the phone Dr. Harman spoke again.

“Now, wait a moment, gentlemen,” he said. “Court order or no court order, Miss Thompson is definitely not a well woman, and I can’t see my way clear to—”

“I’m not well myself,” Malone said. “I need sleep and I probably have a cold. But I’ve got to work for the national security, and—”

“This is important,” Boyd put in.

“I don’t dispute that,” Dr. Harman said. “Nevertheless, I—”

The door that led into the other room burst suddenly open. The three men turned to stare at Miss Wilson, who stood in the doorway for a long second and then stepped into the office, closing the door quietly behind her.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said.

“Not at all,” Malone said. “It’s a pleasure to have you. Come again soon.” He smiled at her.

She didn’t smile back. “Doctor,” she said, “you’d really better talk to Miss Thompson. I’m not at all sure what I can do. It’s something new.”

“New?” he said. The worry lines on his face were increasing, but he spoke softly.

“The poor dear thinks she’s going to get out of the hospital now,” Miss Wilson said. “For some reason, she’s convinced that the FBI is going to get her released, and—”