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 hint 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.

The queen shook her head. “They would rather watch, I’m sure.”

For once Malone blessed the woman’s telepathic talent. He, Boyd and Barbara Wilson formed a kind of Guard of Honor around the chair which Her Majesty occupied. Boyd handed over the new pile of chips, and was favored with a royal smile.

“This is a poker game, ma’am,” the dealer said to her quietly.

“I know, I know,” Her Majesty said with a trace of testiness. “Roll ’em.”

The dealer stared at her popeyed. Next to her, the gentleman in the cowboy outfit turned. “Ma’am, are you from around these parts?” he said.

“Oh, no,” the Queen said. “I’m from England.”

“England?” The cowboy looked puzzled. “You don’t seem to have any accent, ma’am,” he said at last.

“Certainly not,” the Queen said. “I’ve lost that; I’ve been over here a great many years.”

Malone hoped fervently that Her Majesty wouldn’t mention just how many years. He didn’t think he could stand it, and he was almost grateful for the cowboy’s nasal twang.

“Oil?” he said.

“Oh, no,” Her Majesty said. “The Government is providing this money.”

“The Government?”

“Certainly,” Her Majesty said. “The FBI, you know.”

There was a long silence.

At last, the dealer said: “Five-card draw your game, ma’am?”

“If you please,” Her Majesty said.

The dealer shrugged and, apparently, commended his soul to a gambler’s God. He passed the pasteboards around the table with the air of one who will have nothing more to do with the world.

Her Majesty picked up her hand.

“The ante’s ten, ma’am,” the dealer said softly.

Without looking, Her Majesty removed a ten-dollar chip from the pile before her and sent it spinning to the middle of the table.

The dealer opened his mouth, but said nothing. Malone, meanwhile, was peering over the Queen’s shoulder.

She held a pair of nines, a four, a three and a Jack.

The man to the left of the dealer announced glumly: “Can’t open.”

The next man grinned. “Open for twenty,” he said.

Malone closed his eyes. He heard the cowboy say: “I’m in,” and he opened his eyes again. The Queen was pushing two ten-dollar chips toward the center of the table.

The next man dropped, and the dealer looked round the table. “How many?”

The man who couldn’t open took three cards. The man who’d opened for twenty stood pat. Malone shuddered invisibly. That, he figured, meant a straight or better. And Queen Elizabeth Thompson was going in against at least a straight with a pair of nines, Jack high.

For the first time, it was borne in on Malone that being a telepath did not necessarily mean that you were a good poker player. Even if you knew what every other person at the table held, you could still make a whole lot of stupid mistakes.

He looked nervously at Queen Elizabeth, but her face was serene. Apparently she’d been following the thoughts of the poker players, and not concentrating on him at all. That was a relief. He felt, for the first time in days, as if he could think freely.

The cowboy said: “Two,” and took them. It was Her Majesty’s turn.

“I’ll take two,” she said, and threw away the three and four. It left her with the nine of spades and the nine of hearts, and the Jack of diamonds.

These were joined, in a matter of seconds, by two bright new cards: the six of clubs and the three of hearts.

Malone closed his eyes. Oh, well, he thought.

It was only thirty bucks down the drain. Practically nothing.

Of course Her Majesty dropped at once; knowing what the other players held, she knew she couldn’t beat them after the draw. But she did like to take long chances, Malone thought miserably. Imagine trying to fill a full house on one pair!

Slowly, as the minutes passed, the pile of chips before Her Majesty dwindled. Once Malone saw her win with two pair against a reckless man trying to fill a straight on the other side of the table. But whatever was going on, Her Majesty’s face was as calm as if she were asleep.

Malone’s worked overtime. If the Queen hadn’t been losing so obviously, the dealer might have mistaken the play of naked emotion across his visage for a series of particularly obvious signals.

An hour went by. Barbara left to find a ladies’ lounge where she could sit down and try to relax. Fascinated in a horrible sort of way, both Malone and Boyd stood, rooted to the spot, while hand after hand went by and the ten thousand dollars dwindled to half that, to a quarter, and even less…

Her Majesty, it seemed, was a damn poor poker player.

The ante had been raised by this time. Her Majesty was losing one hundred dollars a hand, even before the betting began. But she showed not the slightest indication to stop.

“We’ve got to get up in the morning,” Malone announced to no one in particular, when he thought he couldn’t possibly stand another half-hour of the game.

“So we do,” Her Majesty said with a little regretful sigh. “Very well, then. Just one more hand.”

“It’s a shame to lose you,” the cowboy said to her, quite sincerely. He had been winning steadily ever since Her Majesty sat down, and Malone thought that the man should, by this time, be awfully grateful to the United States Government. Somehow, he doubted that this gratitude existed.

Malone wondered if she should be allowed to stay for one more hand. There was, he estimated, about two thousand dollars in front of her. Then he wondered how he was going to stop her.