“Doggone right you’d better,” Burris said. “You treat that old lady as if she were the Queen herself, understand?”

“Don’t worry,” Malone said unhappily. “We are.” He hesitated. “She says she’ll help us find our spy, all right, but we’ve got to do it her way — or else she won’t cooperate.”

“Do it her way, then,” Burris said. “That spy—”

“Chief, are you sure?”

Burris blinked. “Well, then,” he said, “what is her way?”

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 ouside 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.”

“Okay,” Malone sighed. “Okay. 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.”

“My God,” 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.”

Boyd said: “My God.”

“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 and 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 (Beard’s boyd?) 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 Sanatorium?”

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 Sanatorium, 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 rearview 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.