Malone avoided them nervously, and went over the papers again instead. At last he signed them and handed them back. “Thanks for your cooperation, Dr. Dowson,” he said briskly, feeling ten kinds of a traitor.

“Not at all,” Dowson said bitterly. “Mr. Logan is now in your custody. I must trust you to take good care of him.”

“The best care we can,” Malone said. It didn’t seem sufficient. He added: “The best possible care, Doctor,” and tried to look dependable and trustworthy, like a Boy Scout. He was aware that the effort failed miserably.

At his signal, the two plainclothes FBI men took over from the attendants. They marched Logan out to their car, and Malone led the procession back to Boyd’s automobile, a procession that consisted (in order) of Sir Kenneth Malone, prospective Duke of Columbia, Queen Elizabeth I, Lady Barbara, prospective Duchess of an unspecified county, and Sir Thomas Boyd, prospective Duke of Poughkeepsie. Malone hummed a little of the first Pomp and Circumstance march as the walked; somehow, he thought it was called for.

They piled into the car, Boyd at the wheel with Malone next to him, and the two ladies in back, with Queen Elizabeth sitting directly behind Sir Thomas. Boyd started the engine and they turned and roared off.

“Well,” said Her Majesty with an air of great complacence, “that’s that. That makes six of us.”

Malone looked around the car. He counted the people. There were four. He said, puzzled: “Six?”

“That’s right, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said. “You have it exactly. Six.”

“You mean six telepaths?” Sir Thomas asked in a deferent tone of voice.

“Certainly I do,” Her Majesty replied. “We telepaths, you know, must stick together. That’s the reason I got poor little Willie out of that sanatorium of his, you know — and, of course, the others will be joining us.”

“Don’t you think it’s time for your nap, dear?” Lady Barbara put in suddenly.

“My what?” It was obvious that Queen Elizabeth was Not Amused.

“Your nap, dear,” Lady Barbara said.

“Don’t call me dear,” Her Majesty snapped.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Barbara murmured. “But really—”

“My dear girl,” Her Majesty said, “I am not a child. I am your sovereign. Do try to have a little respect. Why, I remember when Shakespeare used to say to me — but that’s no matter, not now.”

“About those telepaths—” Boyd began.

“Telepaths,” Her Majesty said. “Ah, yes. We must all stick together. In the hospital, you know, we had a little joke — the patlents for Insulin Shock Therapy used to say: ‘If we don’t stick together, we’ll all be stuck separately.’ Do you see, Sir Thomas?”

“But,” Sir Kenneth Malone said, trying desperately to return to the point. “Six?” He had counted them up in his mind. Burris had mentioned one found in St. Elizabeths, and two more picked up later. With Queen Elizabeth, and now William Logan, that made five.

Unless the Queen was counting him in. There didn’t seem any good reason why not.

“Oh, no,” Her Majesty said with a little trill of laughter, “not you, Sir Kenneth. I meant Mr. Miles.”

Sir Thomas Boyd asked: “Mr. Miles?”

“That’s right,” Her Majesty said. “His name is Barry Miles, and your FBI men found him an hour ago in New Orleans. They’re bringing him to Yucca Flats to meet the rest of us; isn’t that nice?”

Lady Barbara cleared her throat.

“It really isn’t necessary for you to try to get my attention, dear,” the Queen said. “After all, I do know what you’re thinking.”

Lady Barbara blinked. “I still want to suggest, respectfully, about that nap—” she began.

“My dear girl,” the Queen said, with the faintest trace of impatience, “I do not feel the least bit tired, and this is such an exciting day that I just don’t want to miss any of it. Besides, I’ve already told you I don’t want a nap. It isn’t polite to be insistent to your Queen — no matter how strongly you feel about a matter. I’m sure you’ll learn to understand that, dear.”

Lady Barbara opened her mouth, shut it again, and opened it once more. “My goodness,” she said.

“That’s the idea,” Her Majesty said approvingly. “Think before you speak — and then don’t speak. It really isn’t necessary, since I know what you’re thinking.”

Malone said grimly: “About this new telepath — this Barry Miles. Did they find him—”

“In a nut-house?” Her Majesty said sweetly. “Why, of course, Sir Kenneth. You were quite right when you thought that telepaths went insane because they had a sense they couldn’t effectively use, and because no one believed them. How would you feel, if nobody believed you could see?”

“Strange,” Malone admitted.

“There,” Her Majesty said. “You see? Telepaths do go insane — it’s sort of an occupational disease. Of course, not all of them are insane.”

“Not all of them?” Malone felt the faint stirrings of hope. Perhaps they would turn up a telepath yet who was completely sane and rational.

“There’s me, of course,” Her Majesty said.

Lady Barbara gulped audibly. Boyd said nothing, but gripped the wheel of the car more tightly.

And Malone thought to himself: That’s right. There’s Queen Elizabeth — who says she isn’t crazy.

And then he thought of one more sane telepath. But the knowledge didn’t make him feel any better.

It was, of course, the spy.

How many more are going to turn up? Malone wondered.

“Oh, that’s about all of us,” the Queen said. “There is one more, but she’s in a hospital in Honolulu, and your men won’t find her until tomorrow.”

Boyd turned. “Do you mean you can foretell the future, too?” he asked in a strained voice.

Lady Barbara screamed: “Keep your eyes on the wheel and your hands on the roadl”

“What?” Boyd said.

There was a terrific blast of noise, and a truck went by in the opposite direction. The driver, a big, ugly man with no hair on his head, leaned out to curse at the quartet, but his mouth remained open. He stared at the four Elizabethans and said nothing at all as he whizzed by.

“What was that?” Boyd asked faintly.

“That,” Malone snapped, “was a truck. And it was due entirely to the mercy of God that we didn’t hit it. Barbara’s right. Keep your eyes on the wheel and your hands on the road.” He paused and thought that over. Then he said: “Does that mean anything at all?”

“Lady Barbara was confused by the excitement,” the Queen said calmly. “It’s all right now, dear.”

Lady Barbara blinked across the seat. “I was — afraid,” she said.

“It’s all right,” the Queen said. “I’ll take care of you.”

“This,” Malone announced to no one in particular, “is ridiculous.”

Boyd swept the car around a curve and concentrated grimly on the road. After a second the Queen said: “Since you’re still thinking about the question, I’ll answer you.”

“What question?” Malone said, thoroughly baffled.

“Sir Thomas asked me if I could foretell the future,” the Queen said equably. “Of course I can’t. That’s silly. Just because I’m immortal and I’m a telepath, don’t go hog-wild.”

“Then how did you know the FBI agents were going to find the girl in Honolulu tomorrow?” Boyd said.

“Because,” the Queen said, “they’re thinking about looking in the hospital tomorrow, and when they look they’ll certainly find her.”

Boyd said: “Oh,” and was silent.

But Malone had a grim question. “Why didn’t you tell me about these other telepaths before?” he said. “You could have saved us a lot of work.”

“Oh, heavens to Betsy, Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty exclaimed. “How could I? After all, the proper precautions had to be taken first, didn’t they? I told you all the others were crazy — really crazy, I mean. And they just wouldn’t be safe without the proper precautions.”

“Perhaps you ought to go back to the hospital, too,” Barbara said, and added: “Your Majesty,” just in time.