“What do you mean, the way you acted?”

“Crying like that,” Barbara said with some hesitation. “Making an — absolute idiot of myself. When that other car — tried to get us.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Malone said. “It was nothing.”

“I just — made trouble for you,” Barbara said.

Her Majesty touched the girl on the shoulder. “He’s not thinking about the trouble you cause him,” she said quietly.

“Of course I’m not,” Malone told her.

“But I—”

“My dear girl,” Her Majesty said, “I believe that Sir Kenneth is, at least partly, in love with you.”

Malone blinked. It was perfectly true — even if he hadn’t quite known it himself until now. Telepaths, he was discovering, were occasionally handy things to have around.

“In… love…” Barbara said.

“And you, my dear—” Her Majesty began.

“Please, Your Majesty,” Lady Barbara said. “No more. Not just now.”

The Queen smiled, almost to herself. “Certainly, dear,” she said.

The car sped on. In the distance, Malone could see the blot on the desert that indicated the broad expanse of Yucca Flats Labs. Just the fact that it could be seen, he knew, didn’t mean an awful lot. Malone had been able to see it for the past fifteen minutes, and it didn’t look as if they’d gained an inch on it. Desert distances are deceptive.

At long last, however, the main gate of the laboratories hove into view. Boyd made a left turn off the highway and drove a full seven miles along the restricted road, right up to the big gate that marked the entrance of the laboratories themselves. Once again, they were faced with the army of suspicious guards and security officers.

This time, suspicion was somewhat heightened by the dress of the visitors. Malone had to explain about six times that the costumes were part of an FBI arrangement, that he had not stolen his identity cards, that Boyd’s cards were Boyd’s, too, and in general that the four of them were not insane, not spies, and not jokesters out for a lark in the sunshine.

Malone had expected all of that. He went through the rigamarole wearily but without any sense of surprise. The one thing he hadn’t been expecting was the man who was waiting for him on the other side of the gate.

When he’d finished identifying everybody for the fifth or sixth time, he began to climb back into the car. A familiar voice stopped him cold.

“Just a minute, Malone,” Andrew J. Burris said. He erupted from the guardhouse like an avenging angel, followed closely by a thin man, about five feet ten inches in height, with brush-cut brown hair, round horn-rimmed spectacles, large hands and a small Sir Francis Drake beard. Malone looked at the two figures blankly.

“Something wrong, Chief?” he said.

Burris came toward the car. The thin gentleman followed him, walking with an odd bouncing step that must have been acquired, Malone thought, over years of treading on rubber eggs. “I don’t know,” Burris said when he’d reached the door. “When I was in Washington, I seemed to know — but when I get out here in this desert, everything just goes haywire.” He rubbed at his forehead.

Then he looked into the car. “Hello, Boyd,” he said pleasantly.

“Hello, Chief,” Boyd said.

Burris blinked. “Boyd, you look like Henry VIII,” he said with only the faintest trace of surprise.

“Doesn’t he, though?” Her Majesty said from the rear seat. “I’ve noticed that resemblance myself.”

Burris gave her a tiny smile “Oh,” he said. “Hello, Your Majesty. I’m—”

“Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI,” the Queen finished for him. “Yes, I know. It’s very nice to meet you at last. I’ve seen you on television, and over the video phone. You photograph badly, you know.”

“I do?” Burris said pleasantly. It was obvious that he was keeping himself under very tight control.

Malone felt remotely sorry for the man — but only remotely. Burris might as well know, he thought, what they had all been going through the past several days.

Her Majesty was saying something about the honorable estate of knighthood, and the Queen’s list. Malone began paying attention when she came to: and I hereby dub thee—” She stopped suddenly, turned and said: “Sir Kenneth, give me your weapon.”

Malone hesitated for a long, long second. But Burris’ eye was on him, and he could interpret the look without much trouble. There was only one thing for him to do. He pulled out his .44, ejected the cartridges in his palm (and reminded himself to reload the gun as soon as he got it back), and handed the weapon to the Queen, butt foremost.

She took the butt of the revolver in her right hand, leaned out the window of the car, and said in a fine, distinct voice: “Kneel, Andrew.”

Malone watched with wide, astonished eyes as Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI, went to one knee in a low and solemn genuflection. Queen Elizabeth Thompson nodded her satisfaction.

She tapped Burris gently on each shoulder with the muzzle of the gun. “I knight thee Sir Andrew,” she said. She cleared her throat. “My, this desert air is dry… Rise, Sir Andrew, and know that you are henceforth Knight Commander of the Queen’s Own FBI.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Burris said humbly.

He rose to his feet silently. The Queen withdrew into the car again and handed the gun back to Malone. He thumbed the cartridges into the chambers of the cylinder and listened dumbly.

“Your Majesty,” Burris said, “this is Dr. Harry Gamble, the head of Project Isle. Dr. Gamble, this is Her Majesty the Queen; Lady Barbara Wilson, her — uh — her lady-in-waiting; Sir Kenneth Malone; and King — I mean Sir Thomas Boyd.” He gave the four a single bright impartial smile. Then he tore his eyes away from the others, and bent his gaze on Sir Kenneth Malone. “Come over here a minute, Malone,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I want to talk to you.”

Malone climbed out of the car and went around to meet Burris. He felt just a little worried as he followed the Director away from the car. True, he had sent Burris a long telegram the night before, in code. But he hadn’t expected the man to show up in Yucca Flats. There didn’t seem to be any reason for it.

And when there isn’t any reason, Malone told himself sagely, it’s a bad one.

“What’s the trouble, Chief?” he asked.

Burris sighed. “None so far,” he said quietly. “I got a report from the Nevada State Patrol, and ran it through R I. They identified the men you killed, all right — but it didn’t do us any good. They’re hired hoods.”

“Who hired them?” Malone said.

Burris shrugged. “Somebody with money,” he said. “Hell, men like that would kill their own grandmothers if the price were right — you know that. We can’t trace them back any farther.”

Malone nodded. That was, he had to admit, bad news. But then, when had he last had any good news?

“We’re nowhere near our telepathic spy,” Burris said. “We haven’t come any closer than we were when we started. Have you got anything? Anything at all, no matter how small?”

“Not that I know of, sir,” Malone said.

“What about the little old lady — what’s her name? Thompson. Anything from her?”

Malone hesitated. “She has a close fix on the spy, sir,” he said slowly, “but she doesn’t seem able to identify him right away.”

“What else does she want?” Burris said. “We’ve made her Queen and given her a full retinue in costume; we’ve let her play roulette and poker with Government money. Does she want to hold a mass execution? If she does, I can supply some Congressmen, Malone. I’m sure it could be arranged.” He looked at the agent narrowly. “I might even be able to suppply an FBI man or two,” he added.

Malone swallowed hard. “I’m trying the best I can, sir,” he said. “What about the others?”

Burris looked even unhappier than usual. “Come along,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

When they got back to the car, Dr. Gamble was talking spiritedly with Her Majesty about Roger Bacon. “Before my time, of course,” the Queen was saying, “but I’m sure he was a most interesting man. Now when dear old Marlowe wrote his Faust, he and I had several long discussions about such matters. Alchemy, Doctor—”