“Of course, as soon as Parliament convenes and recognizes me,” she was saying, “I shall confer personages on all of you. Right now, the best I could do was to knight you all, and of course that’s hardly enough. But I think I shall make Sir Kenneth the Duke of Columbia.”

Sir Kenneth, Malone realized, was himself. He wondered how he’d like being Duke of Columbia — and wouldn’t the President be surprised!

“And Sir Thomas,” the Queen continued, “will be the Duke of — what? Sir Thomas?”

“Yes, Your Majesty?” Boyd said, trying to sound both eager and properly respectful.

“What would you like to be Duke of?” she said.

“Oh,” Boyd said after a second’s thought, “anything that pleases Your Majesty.” But apparently, his thoughts gave him away.

“You’re from upstate New York?” the Queen said. “How very nice. Then you must be made the Duke of Poughkeepsie.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Boyd said. Malone thought he detected a note of pride in the man’s voice, and shot a glance at Boyd, but the agent was driving with a serene face and an economy of motion.

Duke of Poughkeepsie! Malone thought. Hah!

He leaned back and adjusted his fur-trimmed coat. The plume that fell from his cap kept tickling his neck, and he brushed at it without success.

All four of the inhabitants of the car were dressed in late Sixteenth Century costumes, complete with ruffs and velvet and lace filigree. Her Majesty and Lady Barbara were wearing the full skirts and small skullcaps of the era (and on Barbara, Malone thought privately, the low-cut gowns didn’t look at all disappointing), and Sir Thomas and Malone (Sir Kenneth, he thought sourly) were clad in doublet, hose and long coats with fur trim and slashed sleeves. And all of them were loaded down, weighted down, staggeringly, with gems.

Naturally, the gems were fake. But then, Malone thought, the Queen was mad. It all balanced out in the end.

As they approached the sanitarium, Malone breathed a thankful prayer that he’d called up to tell the head physician how they’d all be dressed. If he hadn’t…

He didn’t want to think about that.

He didn’t even want to pass it by hurriedly on a dark night.

The head physician, Dr. Frederic Dowson, was waiting for them on the steps of the building. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man with almost no hair and very deep-sunken eyes. He had the kind of face that a gushing female would probably describe, Malone thought, as “craggy,” but it didn’t look in the least attractive to Malone. Instead, it looked tough and forbidding.

He didn’t turn a hair as the magnificently robed Boyd slid from the front seat, opened the rear door, doffed his plumed hat, and in one low sweep made a great bow. “We are here, Your Majesty,” Boyd said.

Her Majesty got out, clutching at her voluminous skirts in a worried manner, to keep from catching them on the door-jamb. “You know, Sir Thomas,” she said when she was standing free of the car, “I think we must be related.”

“Ah?” Boyd said worriedly.

“I’m certain of it, in fact,” Her Majesty went on. “You look just exactly like my poor father. Just exactly. I dare say you come from one of the sinister branches of the family. Perhaps you are a half-brother of mine — removed, of course.”

Malone grinned, and tried to hide the expression. Boyd was looking puzzled, then distantly angered. Nobody had ever called him illegitimate in just that way before.

But Her Majesty was absolutely right, Malone thought. The agent had always reminded him of someone, and now, at last, he knew exactly who. The hair hadn’t been black, either, but red.

Boyd was, in Elizabethan costume, the deadest of dead ringers for Henry VIII.

Malone went up the steps to where Dr. Dowson was standing.

“I’m Malone,” he said, checking a tendency to bow. “I called earlier today. Is this William Logan of yours ready to go? We can take him back with us in the second car.”

Dr. Dowson compressed his lips and looked worried. “Come in, Mr. Malone,” he said. He turned just as the second carload of FBI agents began emptying itself over the hospital grounds.

The entire procession filed into the hospital office, the two local agents following up the rear. Since they were not a part of Her Majesty’s personal retinue, they had not been required to wear court costumes. In a way, Malone was beginning to feel sorry for them. He himself cut a nice figure in the outfit, he thought — rather like Errol Flynn in the old black-and-white print of The Prince and the Pauper.

But there was no denying that the procession looked strange. File clerks and receptionists stopped their work to gape at the four bedizened walkers and their plainly dressed satellites. Malone needed no telepathic talent to tell what they were thinking.

“A whole roundup of nuts,” they were thinking. “And those two fellows in the back must be bringing them in — along with Dr. Dowson.”

Malone straightened his spine. Really, he didn’t see why Elizabethan costumes had ever gone out of style. Elizabeth was back, wasn’t she — either Elizabeth II, on the throne, or Elizabeth I, right behind him. Either way you looked at it…

When they were all inside the waiting room, Dr. Dowson said: “Now, Mr. Malone, just what is all this about?” He rubbed his long hands together. “I fail to see the humor of the situation.”

“Humor?” Malone said.

“Doctor,” Barbara Wilson began, “let me explain. You see—”

“These ridiculous costumes,” Dr. Dowson said, waying a hand at them. “You may feel that poking fun at insanity is humorous, Mr. Malone, but let me tell you—”

“It wasn’t like that at all,” Boyd said.

“And,” Dr. Dowson continued in a somewhat louder voice, “wanting to take Mr. Logan away from us. Mr. Logan is a very sick man, Mr. Malone. He should be properly cared for.”

“I promise we’ll take good care of him,” Malone said earnestly. The Elizabethan clothes were fine outdoors, but in a heated room one had a tendency to sweat.

“I take leave to doubt that,” Dr. Dowson said, eyeing their costumes pointedly.

“Miss Wilson here,” Malone volunteered, “is a trained psychiatric nurse.”

Barbara, in her gown, stepped forward. “Dr. Dowson,” she said, “let me assure you that these costumes have their purpose. We—”

“Not only that,” Malone said. “There are a group of trained men from St. Elizabeths Hospital in Washington who are going to take the best of care of him.” He said nothing whatever about Yucca Flats, or about telepathy.

Why spread around information unnecessarily?

“But I don’t understand,” Dr. Dowson said. “What interest could the FBI have in an insane man?”

“That’s none of your business,” Malone said. He reached inside his fur-trimmed robe and, again suppressing a tendency to bow deeply, withdrew an impressive-looking legal document. “This,” he said, “is a court order, instructing you to hand over to us the person of one William Logan, herein identified and described.” He waved it at the Doctor. “That’s your William Logan,” he said, “only now he’s ours.”

Dr. Dowson took the papers and put in some time frowning at them. Then he looked up again at Malone. “I assume that I have some discretion in this matter,” he said. “And I wonder if you realize just how ill Mr. Logan is? We have his case histories here, and we have worked with him for some time.”

Barbara Wilson said: “But—”

“I might say that we are begining 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—