 Chapter 6 of Brain Twister This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE MANAGEMENT of the Golden Palace had been in business for many long, dreary, profitable years, and each member of the staff thought he or she had seen just about everything there was to be seen, and those that were new felt an obligation to look as if they'd seen everything. Therefore, when the entourage of Queen Elizabeth I strolled into the main salon, not a single eye was batted, not a single gasp was heard. Nevertheless, the staff kept a discreet eye on the crew. Drunks, rich men, or Arabian millionaires were all familiar, but a group out of the sixteenth century was something else again. Malone almost strutted, conscious of the side-long glances the group was drawing, but it was obvious that Sir Thomas was the major attraction. Even if you could accept the idea of people in strange costumes, the sight of a living, breathing, absolute duplicate of King Henry VIII was a little too much to take. It has been reported that two ladies named Jane, and one named Catherine, came down with sudden headaches and left the salon within five minutes of the group's arrival. Malone felt he knew, however, why he wasn't drawing his full share of attention. He felt a little out of place. The costume was one thing, and to tell the truth he was beginning to enjoy it. Even with the weight of the stuff it was going to be a wrench to go back to single breasted suits and plain white shirts. But he did feel that he should have been carrying a sword. Instead he had a forty-four magnum colt snuggled beneath his left armpit. Somehow a forty-four magnum colt didn't seem as romantic as a sword. Malone pictured himself saying, Take that, Varlet! Was Varlet what you called them, he wondered. Maybe it was Velay? Take that, Velay! he muttered. Now that sounded even worse. Oh well, he could look it up later. The truth was that he had been born in the wrong century. He could imagine himself at the mermaid tavern hobnobbing with Shakespeare and all the rest of them. He wondered if Richard Green would be there. Then he wondered who Richard Green was. Behind Sir Kenneth Sir Thomas Boyd strode, looking majestic, as if he were about to fling purses of gold to the citizenry. As a matter of fact Malone thought he was. They all were. Purses of good old United States of America gold. Behind Sir Thomas came Queen Elizabeth and her lady-in-waiting Lady Barbara Wilson. They made a beautiful foresum. The roulette table, Her Majesty said with dignity, precede me. They pushed their way through the crowd. Most of the customers were either excited enough, drunk enough, or both, to see nothing in the least incongruous about a royal family of the tutors invading the Golden Palace. Very few of them, as a matter of fact, seemed to notice the group. They were roulette players. They noticed nothing but the table and the wheel. Malone wondered what they were thinking about, decided to ask Queen Elizabeth, and then decided against it. He felt it would make him nervous to know. Her Majesty took a handful of chips. The handful was worth, Malone knew, exactly five thousand dollars. That, he'd thought, ought to last them in evening, even in the Golden Palace. In the center of the strip, inside the city limits of Las Vegas itself, the five thousand would have lasted much longer. But Her Majesty wanted the palace, and the palace it was. Malone began to smile. Since he couldn't avoid the evening, he was determined to enjoy it. It was sort of fun, in its way, indulging a sweet, harmless old lady, and there was nothing they could do until the next morning anyhow. His indulgent smile faded very suddenly. Her Majesty plunked the entire handful of chips, five thousand dollars, Malone thought dacidly, onto the table. Five thousand, she said, in clear, cool, measured tones, on number one. The croupier blinked only slightly. He bowed. Yes, your Majesty, he said. Malone was briefly thankful, in the midst of his black horror, that he had called the management, and told them that the Queen's plays were backed by the United States Government. Her Majesty was going to get unlimited credit, and a good deal of odd and somewhat puzzled respect. Malone watched the spin begin, with mixed feelings. There was five thousand dollars riding on the little ball. But, after all, Her Majesty was a telepath. Did that mean anything? He hadn't decided by the time the wheel stopped, and by then he didn't have to decide. Thirty-four, the croupier said tonelessly, read even and high. He raked in the chips with a nonchalant air. Malone felt as if he had swallowed his stomach. Boyd and Lady Barbara, standing nearby, had absolutely no expressions on their faces. Malone needed no telepath to tell him what they were thinking. 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 all together 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 tail's uniform, was easily recognizable as a house-dealer. The other four were all men, one of them in full cowboy regalia. The tutors 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 him 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 Malone words. 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. Your 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 honour around the chair which her Majesty occupied. Boyd handed over the new pile of chips and was favoured 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 him. The dealer stared at her, pop-eyed. 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 am 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 have 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. Well, 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 auntie'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 born 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 inclination 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. The cards were dealt. The first man said quietly, open for two hundred. Malone looked at the Queen's hand. It contained the ace, king, queen, and ten of clubs, and the seven of spades. Oh no, he thought she couldn't possibly be thinking of filling a flush. He knew perfectly well that she was. The second man said, and raised two hundred. The Queen equally tossed, counting Malone thought, the ante, five hundred into the pot. The cowboy muttered to himself for a second, and finally shoved in his money. I think I'll raise it another five hundred. The Queen said calmly. Malone wanted to die of shock. Unfortunately, he remained alive and watching. He saw the last man after some debate internal shove a total of one thousand dollars into the pot. Cards, said the dealer. The first man said, one. It was too much to hope for, Malone thought. If that first man were trying to fill a straight or a flush, maybe he wouldn't make it. And maybe something final would happen to all the other players. But that was the only way he could see for her Majesty to win. The card was dealt. The second man stood pat, and Malone's green tinge became obvious to the various dunce. The cowboy, on her Majesty's right, asked for a card, received it, and sat back without a trace of expression. The Queen said, I'll try one for size. She'd picked up poker lingo and the basic rules of the game, Malone realized, from the other players, or possibly from someone at the hospital itself years ago. He wished she'd picked up something less dangerous instead, like a love of big game hunting or stunt flying. But no, it had to be poker. The Queen threw away her seven of spades, showing more sense than Malone had given her credit for at any time during the game. She let the other card fall, and didn't look at it. She smiled up at Malone and buoyed. Leave dangerously, she said gaily. Malone gave her a hollow laugh. The last man drew one card, too, and the betting began. The Queen's remaining thousand was gone before an eye could notice it. She turned to Boyd. Sir Thomas, she said, another five thousand, please, at once. Boyd said nothing at all, but marched off. Malone noticed, however, that his step was neither as springy nor as confident as it had been before. For himself, Malone was sure that he could not walk at all. Maybe, he thought hopefully, the floor would open up and swallow them all. He tried to imagine explaining the loss of twenty thousand dollars to Burris and some congressman, and after that he watched the floor narrowly, hoping for the smallest hint of a crack in the Palazzo marble. May I raise the whole five thousand, the Queen said. It's OK with me, the dealer said. How about the rest of you? The four grunts he got expressed a suppressed eagerness. The Queen took the new chips Boyd had brought her and shoved them into the centre of the table with a fine, careless gesture of her hand. She smiled gaily at everybody. Seeing me, she said, everybody was. Well, you see, it was this way. Malone muttered to himself rehearsing. He half thought that one of the others would raise again, but no one did. After all, each of them must be convinced that he held a great hand, and though raising had gone on throughout the hand, each must now be afraid of going the least little bit too far and scaring the others out. Mr. Congressman, Malone muttered, there's this game called Poker. You play it with cards and money, chiefly money. That was a tenigoid. You've been called, the dealer said to the first man who'd opened the hand a year or so before. Why sure, the player said, and laid down a pair of aces, a pair of threes, and a four. One of the threes and the four were clubs. That reduced the already improbable chances of the Queens coming up with a flush. Sorry, said the second man, and laid down a straight with a single gesture. The straight was nine high and there were no clubs in it. Malone felt devoutly thankful for that. The second man reached for the money, but under the pop-eyed gaze of the dealer, the fifth man laid down another straight, this one ten high. The nine was a club. Malone felt the odds go down right in his own stomach. And now the cowboy put down his cards. The king of diamonds, the king of hearts, the jack of diamonds, the jack of spades, and the jack of hearts, full house. Well, said the cowboy, I suppose that does it. The queen said, please, one moment. The cowboy stopped halfway in his reach for the enormous pile of chips. The queen laid down her four clubs, ace, king, queen, and ten, and for the first time flipped over her fifth card. It was the jack of clubs. My God! the cowboy said, and it sounded like a prayer, a royal flush. Naturally, the queen said, what else? Her majesty calmly scooped up the tremendous pile of chips. The cowboy's hands fell away. Five mouths were open around the table. Her majesty stood up. She smiled sweetly at the men around the table. Thank you very much, gentlemen! she said. She handed the chips to Malone, who took them in nervous fingers. Sir Kenneth, she said, I hereby appoint you temporary Chancellor of the Exchequer, at least until Parliament convenes. There was, Malone thought, at least thirty-five thousand dollars in the pile. He could think of nothing to say. So, instead of using up words, he went and cashed in the chips. For once, he realized, the government had made money on an investment. It was probably the first time since 1775. Malone thought, vaguely, that the government ought to make more investments like the one he was cashing in. If it did, the national debt could be wiped out in a matter of days. He brought the money back. Boyd and the queen were waiting for him, but Barbara was still in the lady's lounge. She is on the way out, the queen informed him, and, sure enough, in a minute they saw the figure approaching them. Malone smiled at her, and tentatively she smiled back. They began the long march to the exit of the club, slowly and regally, though not by choice. The crowd, it seemed, wouldn't let them go. Malone never found out, then or later, how the news of their Majesty's winnings had gone through the place so fast, but everyone seemed to know about it. The queen was the recipient of several lo-bows and a few drunken curtsies, and when they reached the front door at last, the doorman said, in a most respectful tone, Good evening, your Majesty. The queen positively beamed at him. So, to his own great surprise, the doorman headed Sir Kenneth Malone. Outside, it was about four in the morning. They climbed into the car and headed back toward the hotel. Malone was the first to speak. How did you know that was a jack of clubs? He said, in a strangled sort of voice. The little old lady said calmly. He was cheating. Malone asked. The little old lady nodded. In your favour? He couldn't have been cheating. Boyd said at the same instant, why would he want to give you all that money? The little old lady shook her head. He didn't want to give it to me. She said, he wanted to give it to the man in the cowboy's suit. His name is Elliot, by the way, Bernard L. Elliot, and he comes from Weehawken. But he pretends to be a Westerner, so nobody will be suspicious of him. He and the dealer are in cahoots. Isn't that the word? Yes, your Majesty. Boyd said, that's the word. His tone was odd and respectful, and the little old lady gave a nod and became Queen Elizabeth the First once more. Well, she said, the dealer and Mr. Elliot were in cahoots, and the dealer wanted to give the hand to Mr. Elliot. But he made a mistake and dealt the jack of clubs to me. I watched him, and, of course, I knew what he was thinking. The rest was easy. My God! Malone said, easy. Barbara said, did she win? She won, Malone said, with what he felt was positively magnificent understatement. Good, Barbara said, and lost interest at once. Malone had seen the lights of a car in the rearview mirror a few minutes before. When he looked now, the lights were still there. But the fact just didn't register until a couple of blocks later the car began to pull around them on the left. It was a Buick, while Boyd's was a new Lincoln, but the edge wasn't too apparent yet. Malone spotted the gun barrel protruding from the Buick and yelled just before the first shot went off. Boyd, at the wheel, didn't even bother to look. His reflexes took over and he slammed his foot down on the brake. The specially built FBI Lincoln slowed down instantly. The shotgun blast splattered the glass of the curved windshield all over, but none of it came into the car itself. Malone already had his hand on the butt of the forty-four magnum under his left armpit, and he even had time to be grateful for once that it wasn't a small sword. The women were in the back seat frozen, and he yelled, duck, dammit, duck! and felt, rather than saw, both of them sink down onto the floor of the car. The Buick had slowed down, too, and the gun barrel was swiveling back for a second shot. Malone felt naked and unprotected. The Buick and the Lincoln were even on the road now. Malone had his revolver out. He fired the first shot without even realizing fully that he'd done so, and he heard a piercing scream from Barbara in the back seat. He had no time to look back. A forty-four magnum is not, by any means, a small gun. As handguns go, revolvers and automatics, it is about as large as a gun can get to be. An ordinary car has absolutely no chance against it, much less the glass in an ordinary car. The first slug drilled its way through the window glass as though it were not there, and slammed its way through an even more unprotected obstacle, the frontal bones of the trigger man's skull. The second slug from Malone's gun followed it right away and missed the hole the first slug had made by something less than an inch. The big ape-like thug who was holding the shotgun had a chance to pull the trigger once more, but he wasn't aiming very well. The blast merely scored the paint off the top of the Lincoln. The rear window of the Buick was open, and Malone caught sight of another glint of blued steel from the corner of his eye. There was no time to shift aim, not with bullets flying like swallows on the way to Capistrano. Malone thought faster than he had imagined himself capable of doing, and decided to aim for the driver. Evidently the man in the rear seat of the Buick had had the same inspiration. Malone blasted two more high-velocity lead slugs at the driver of the big Buick, and at the same time the man in the Buick's rear seat fired at Boyd. But Boyd had shifted tactics. He'd hit the brakes. Now he came down hard on the accelerator instead. The chorus of shrieks from the Lincoln's back seat increased slightly in volume. Barbara Malone knew wasn't badly hurt. She hadn't even stopped for breath since the first shot had been fired. Anybody who could scream like that, he told himself, had to be healthy. As the Lincoln leaped ahead, Malone pulled the trigger of his forty-four twice more. The heavy, high-speed chunks of streamlined copper-coated lead leaped from the muzzle of the gun, and slammed into the driver of the Buick without wasting any time. The Buick slew across the highway. The two shots fired by the man in the back seat went past Malone's head with a whiz, missing both him and Boyd by a margin too narrow to think about. But those were the last shots. The only difference between the FBI and the enemy seemed to be determination and practice. The Buick spun into a flat side skid, swiveled on its wheels, and slammed into the ditch at the side of the road, turning over and over, making a horrible noise as it broke up. Boyd slowed the car again, just as there was a sudden blast of fire. The Buick had burst into flame and was spitting heat and smoke and fire in all directions. Malone sent one more bullet after it in a last flurry of action, saving his last one for possible later emergencies. Boyd jammed on the brakes and the Lincoln came to a screaming halt. In silence he and Malone watched the burning Buick roll over and over into the desert beyond the shoulder. My God! Boyd said. My ears! Malone understood at once. The blast from his own still smoking forty-four had roared past Boyd's head during the gun battle. No wonder the man's ears hurt. It was a wonder he wasn't altogether deaf. But Boyd shook off the pain and brought out his own forty-four as he stepped out of the car. Malone followed him. His gun trained. From the rear, Her Majesty said, It's safe to rise now, isn't it? You ought to know, Malone said, You can tell if they're still alive. There was silence while Queen Elizabeth frowned for a moment in concentration. A look of pain crossed her face, and then, as her expression smoothed again, she said, The traitors are dead, all except one, and he's—she paused. He's dying. She finished. He can't hurt you. There was no need for further battle. Malone reholstered his forty-four and turned to Boyd. Tom, call the state police, he said. Get him down here fast. He waited while Boyd climbed back under the wheel and began punching buttons on the dashboard. Then Malone went toward the burning Buick. He tried to drag the men out, but it wasn't any use. The first two in the front seat had the kind of holes in them people talked about throwing elephants through. Head and chest had been hit. Malone couldn't get close enough to the fiercely blazing automobile to make even a try for the men in the back seat. He was sitting quietly on the edge of the rear seat when the Nevada Highway Patrol cars drove up next to them. Barbara Wilson had stopped screaming, but she was still sobbing on Malone's shoulder. It's all right, he told her, feeling ineffectual. I never saw anybody killed before, she said. It's all right, Malone said. Nothing's going to hurt you. I'll protect you. He wondered if he meant it and found to his surprise that he did. Barbara Wilson sniffled and looked up at him. Mr. Malone. Ken, he said. I'm sorry, she said. Ken, I'm so afraid. I saw the hole in one of the men's heads when you fired. It was— Don't think about it, Malone said. To him the job had been an unpleasant occurrence, but a job, that was all. He could see though how it might affect people who were new to it. You're so brave, she said. Malone tightened his arm around the girl's shoulder. Just depend on me, he said. You'll be all right, if you— The state trooper walked up then and looked at them. Mr. Malone, he said. He seemed to be taken slightly aback at the costuming. That's right, Malone said. He pulled out his ID card in the little golden badge. The state patrolman looked at them and looked back at Malone. What's with the get-up? he said. FBI, Malone said, hoping his voice carried conviction. Official business. In costume? Never mind about the details. Malone snapped. He's an FBI agent, sir, Barbara said. And what are you? the patrolman said. Lady Jane Gray? I'm a nurse, Barbara said. A psychiatric nurse. For nuts? For disturbed patients. The patrolman thought that over. Hell, you've got the identity cards and stuff, he said at last. Maybe you've got a reason to dress up. How would I know? I'm only a state patrolman. Let's cut the monologue, Malone said savagely, and get to business. The patrolman stared. Then he said, All right, sir, yes, sir. I'm Lieutenant Adams, Mr. Malone. Suppose you tell me what happened? Carefully and concisely, Malone told him the story of the Buick that had pulled up beside them, and what happened afterward. Meanwhile, the other cops had been looking over the wreck. When Malone had finished his story, Lieutenant Adams flipped his notebook shut, and looked over towards them. I guess it's okay, sir, he said. As far as I'm concerned, it's justifiable homicide, self-defense. Any reason why they'd want to kill you? Malone thought about the Golden Palace. That might be a reason, but it might not. And why burden an innocent state patrolman with the facts of FBI life? Official, he said. Your chief will get the report. The patrolman nodded. I'll have to take a deposition tomorrow, but… I know, Malone said. Thanks. Can we go on to our hotel now? I guess, the patrolman said. Go ahead. We'll take care of the rest of this. You'll be getting a call later. Fine, Malone said. Trace those hoods and any connections they might have had. Get the information to me as soon as possible. Lieutenant Adams nodded. You won't have to leave the state, will you? He asked. I don't mean that you can't exactly. Hell, your FBI. But it'd be easier. Call Burris in Washington, Malone said. He can get hold of me, and if the governor wants to know where we are or the state's attorney, put them in touch with Burris, too, okay? Okay. Lieutenant Adams said. Sure. He blinked at Malone. Listen, he said, about those costumes. We're trying to catch Henry VIII for the murder of Anne Boleyn, Malone said with a polite smile. Okay? I was only asking, Lieutenant Adams said. Can't blame a man for asking now, can you? Malone climbed into his front seat. Call me later, he said. The car started. Back to the hotel, Sir Thomas, Malone said, and the car roared off. End of Chapter 6 of Brain Twister Chapter 7 of Brain Twister This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Catherine Eastman, December 2008. Brain Twister by Mark Phillips Chapter 7 Yucca Flats, Malone thought, certainly deserved its name. It was about as flat as land could get, and it contained millions upon millions of useless Yuccas. Perhaps they were good for something, Malone thought, but they weren't good for him. The place might, of course, have been called Cactus Flats, but the Cacti were neither as big nor as impressive as the Yuccas. Or was that Yuccai? Possibly, Malone mused, it was simply Yucs. And whatever it was, there were millions of it. Malone felt he couldn't stand the sight of another Yucca. He was grateful for only one thing. It wasn't summer. If the Elizabethans had been forced to drive in closed cars through the Nevada desert in the summertime, they might have started a cult of nudity, Malone felt. It was bad enough now in what was supposed to be winter. The sun was certainly bright enough, for one thing. It glared through the cloudless sky and glanced with blinding force off the road. Sir Thomas Boyd squinted at it through the rather incongruous sunglasses he was wearing, while Malone wondered idly if it was the sunglasses or the rest of the world that was in anachronism. But Sir Thomas kept his eyes grimly on the road as he gunned the powerful Lincoln toward the Yucca Flats labs at eighty miles an hour. Malone twisted himself around and faced the women in the back seat. Past them, through the rear window of the Lincoln, he could see the second car. It followed them gamely, carrying the newest addition to Sir Kenneth Malone's collection of bats. Bats, Her Majesty said suddenly but gently. Shame on you, Sir Kenneth. These are poor, sick people. We must do our best to help them, not to think up silly names for them for shame. I suppose so. Malone said wearily. He sighed, and for the fifth time that day he asked, Does your Majesty have any idea where our spy is now? Well, really, Sir Kenneth, the Queen said, with the slightest of hesitations. It isn't easy, you know. Telepathy has certain laws just like everything else. After all, even a game has laws. Being telepathic didn't help me to play poker. I still had to learn the rules. And telepathy has rules, too. A telepath can easily confuse another telepath by using some of those rules. Oh, fine. Malone said. Well, have you got into contact with his mind yet? Oh, yes, Her Majesty said happily. And, my goodness, he is certainly digging up a lot of information, isn't he? Malone moaned softly. But who is he? He asked after a second. The Queen stared at the roof of the car in what looked like concentration. He hasn't thought of his name yet, she said. I mean, at least if he has, he hasn't mentioned it to me. Really, Sir Kenneth, you have no idea how difficult all this is. Malone swallowed with difficulty. Where is he, then, he said? Can you tell me that, at least, his location? Her Majesty looked positively desolated with sadness. I can't be sure, she said. I really can't be exactly sure just where he is. He does keep moving around, I know that. But you have to remember that he doesn't want me to find him. He certainly doesn't want to be found by the FBI, would you? Your Majesty, Malone said, I am the FBI. Yes, the Queen said, but suppose you weren't. He's doing his best to hide himself, even from me. It's a sort of a game he's playing. A game? Her Majesty looked contrite. Believe me, Sir Kenneth, the minute I know exactly where he is, I'll tell you, I promise, cross my heart and hope to die, which I can't, of course, being immortal. Nevertheless, she made an X mark over her left breast. All right. All right, Malone said, out of sheer necessity. Okay, but don't waste any time telling me. Do it right away. We've got to find that spy and isolate him somehow. Please don't worry yourself, Sir Kenneth, her Majesty said. Your Queen is doing everything she can. I know that, Your Majesty, Malone said. I'm sure of it. Privately, he wondered just how much even she could do. Then he realized, for perhaps the ten-thousandth time, that there was no such thing as wondering privately any more. That's quite right, Sir Kenneth, the Queen said sweetly, and it's about time you got used to it. What's going on? Boyd said. More reading minds back there? That's right, Sir Thomas, the Queen said. I've about gotten used to it, Boyd said almost cheerfully. Pretty soon they'll come and take me away, but I don't mind at all. He whipped the car around a bend in the road savagely. Pretty soon they'll put me with the other sane people and let the bats inherit the world, but I don't mind at all. Sir Thomas, her Majesty said in shocked tones. Please, Boyd said, with a deceptive calmness, just Mr. Boyd, not even Lieutenant Boyd or Sergeant Boyd, just Mr. Boyd, or if you prefer, Tom. Sir Thomas, her Majesty said, I really can't understand this sudden. Then don't understand it, Boyd said. All I know is everybody's nuts and I'm sick and tired of it. A pall of silence fell over the company. Look, Tom, Malone began at last. Don't you try smoothing me down, Boyd snapped. Malone's eyebrows rose. Okay, he said, I won't smooth you down. I'll just tell you to shut up, to keep driving, and to show some respect to her Majesty. I — Boyd stopped. There was a second of silence. That's better, her Majesty said with satisfaction. Lady Barbara stretched in the backseat next to her Majesty. This is certainly a long drive, she said. Have we got much farther to go? Not too far, Malone said. We ought to be there soon. I — I'm sorry for the way I acted, Barbara said. 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 is 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 Flat's 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 rigmarole, weirdly, 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 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's 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 forty four, 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, but 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, Neil 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 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 and 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 and 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 congressman Malone. I'm sure it could be arranged. He looked at the agent narrowly. I might even be able to supply 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. Burris interrupted with, I beg your pardon, your Majesty, but we must get on. Perhaps you'll be able to continue your audience later. He turned to Boyd. Sir Thomas, he said with an effort, drive directly to the Westinghouse buildings over that way. He pointed, Dr. Gamble will ride with you and the rest of us will follow in the second car. Let's move. He stepped back as the project head got into the car and watched it roar off. Then he and Malone went to the second car, another FBI Lincoln. Two agents were sitting in the back seat, with a still figure between them. With a shock, Malone recognized William Logan and the agents he'd detailed to watch the telepath. Logan's face did not seem to have changed expression since Malone had seen it last, and he wondered wildly if perhaps it had to be dusted once a week. He got in behind the wheel and Burris slid in next to him. Westinghouse. Burris said, and let's get there in a hurry. Right, Malone said, and started the car. We just haven't had a single lead. Burris said, I was hoping you'd come up with something. Your telegram detailed the fight, of course, and the rest of what's been happening, but I hoped there'd be something more. There isn't. Malone was forced to admit. All we can do is try to persuade her majesty to tell us. Oh, I know it isn't easy. Burris said, but it seems to me. By the time they'd arrived at the administrative offices of Westinghouse's Psionics research area, Malone found himself wishing that something would happen. Possibly, he thought, lightning might strike, or an earthquake swallow everything up. He was, suddenly, profoundly tired of the entire affair. Chapter 8 of Brain Twister This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Catherine Eastman, January 2009. Brain Twister by Mark Phillips. Chapter 8 Four days later, he was more than tired. He was exhausted. The six psychopaths, including Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I, had been housed in a converted dormitory in the Westinghouse area, together with four highly nervous and even more highly trained and investigated psychiatrists from St. Elizabeth's in Washington. The convention of nuts, as Malone called it privately, was in full swing. And it was every bit as strange as he'd thought it was going to be. Unfortunately, five of the six, Her Majesty being the only exception, were completely out of contact with the world. The psychiatrists referred to them in worried tones as unavailable for therapy, and spent most of their time brooding over possible ways of bringing them back into the real world for a while, at least far enough so that they could be spoken with. Malone stayed away from the five who were completely psychotic. The weird babblings of fifty-year-old Barry Miles disconcerted him. They sounded like little Charlie O'Neill's strange, semi-connected jabber. But Westinghouse's Dr. O'Connor said that it seemed to represent another phenomenon entirely. William Logan's blank face was a memory of horror. But the constant tinkling giggles of Ardeth Parker, the studied and concentrated way that Gordon Macklin wove meaningless patterns in the air with his waving fingers, and the rhythmless, melodiless humming that seemed to be all there was to the personality of Robert Cassidy, were simply too much for Malone. Taken singly, each was frightening and remote. All together, they wove a picture of insanity that chilled him more than he wanted to admit. When the seventh telepath was flown in from Honolulu, Malone didn't even bother to see her. He let the psychiatrists take over directly, and simply avoided their sessions. Queen Elizabeth I, on the other hand, he found genuinely likeable. According to the psych-boys, she had been, as both Malone and her Majesty had theorized, heavily frustrated by being the possessor of a talent which no one else recognized. Beyond that, the impact of other minds was disturbing. There was a slight loss of identity, which seemed to be a major factor in every case of telepathic insanity. But the Queen had compensated for her frustrations in the easiest possible way. She had simply traded her identity for another one, and had rationalized a single overruling delusion, that she was Queen Elizabeth I of England, still alive and wrongfully deprived of her throne. It's a beautiful rationalization, one of the psychiatrists said with more than a trace of admiration in his voice, complete and thoroughly consistent. She's just traded identities, and everything else she does, everything else, stems logically out of her delusional premise. Beautiful. She may have been crazy, Malone realized, but she was a long way from stupid. The project was in full swing. The only trouble was that they were no nearer finding the telepath than they had been three weeks before, with five completely blank human beings to work with, and the sixth Queen Elizabeth, Malone heard privately that the last telepath, the girl from Honolulu, was no better than the first five. She had apparently regressed into what one of the psychiatrists called a non-identity childhood syndrome. Malone didn't know what it meant, but it sounded terrible. With that crew, Malone could see why progress was their most difficult commodity. Dr. Harry Gamble, the head of Project Isle, was losing poundage by the hour with worry, and Malone reflected he could ill afford it. Burris, Malone, and Boyd had set themselves up in a temporary office within the Westinghouse area. The director had left his assistant in charge in Washington. Nothing, he said over and over again, was as important as the spy in Project Isle. Apparently Boyd had come to believe that, too. At any rate, though he was still truculent, there were no more outbursts of rebellion. But on the fourth day, What do we do now? Burris asked. Shoot ourselves, Boyd said promptly. Now look here, Malone began, but he was overruled. Boyd, Burris said, lovely, if I hear any more of that sort of pessimism, you are going to be an exception to the beard rule. One more crack out of you, and you can go out and buy yourself a razor. Boyd put his hand over his chin protectively, and said nothing at all. Wait a minute, Malone said. Aren't there any sane telepaths in the world? We can't find any. Burris said, we. There was a knock at the office door. Who's there? Burris called. Dr. Gamble said to the man's surprisingly baritone voice. Burris called. Come in, doctor. And the door opened. Dr. Gamble's lean face looked almost haggard. Mr. Burris, he said, extending his arms a trifle. Can't anything be done? Malone had seen Gamble speaking before, and had wondered if it would be possible for the man to talk with his hands tied behind his back. Apparently, it wouldn't be. We feel that we are approaching a critical stage in Project Isle. The scientist said, enclosing one fist within the other hand. If anything more gets out to the Soviets, we might as well publish our findings, a wide outflung gesture of both arms, in the newspapers. Burris stepped back. We're doing the best we can, Dr. Gamble, he said. All things considered, his obvious try at radiating confidence was nearly successful. After all, he went on, we know a great deal more than we did four days ago. Miss Thompson has assured us that the spy is right here, within the compound of Yucca Flat's labs. We've bottled everything up in this compound, and I'm confident that no information is at present getting through to the Soviet government. Miss Thompson agrees with me. Miss Thompson? Gamble said, one hand at his bearded chin. The queen, Burris said. Gamble nodded, and two fingers touched his forehead. Ah, he said. Ah, of course. He rubbed at the back of his neck. But we can't keep everybody who's here now locked up forever. Sooner or later, we'll have to let them. His left hand described the gesture of a man tossing away a wad of paper. Go. His hands fell to his sides. We're lost unless we can find that spy. We'll find him, Burris said, with a show of great confidence. But give her time, Burris said. Give her time. Remember her mental condition. Boyd looked up. Rome, he said, in an absent fashion, wasn't built in a daze. Burris glared at him, but said nothing. Malone filled the conversational hole with what he thought would be nice and hopeful and untrue. We know he's someone on the reservation, so we'll catch him eventually, he said, and as long as his information isn't getting into Soviet hands, we're safe. He glanced at his wristwatch. Dr. Gamble said, But. My, my, Malone said, almost lunchtime. I have to go over and have lunch with her majesty. Maybe she's dug up something more. I hope so. Dr. Gamble said, apparently successfully deflected. I do hope so. Well, Malone said, pardon me. He shucked off his coat and trousers. Then he proceeded to put on the doublet and hose that hung in the little office closet. He shrugged into the fur-trimmed, slash-sleeved coat, adjusted the plume tat to his satisfaction with great care, and gave Burris and the others a small bow. I go to an audience with her majesty, gentlemen, he said, in a grave, well-modulated voice. I shall return, anon. He went out the door and closed it carefully behind him. When he had gone a few steps, he allowed himself the luxury of a deep sigh. Then he went outside and across the dusty street to the barracks where her majesty and the other telepads were housed. No one paid any attention to him, and he rather missed the stairs he'd become used to drawing. But by now everybody was used to seeing Elizabethan clothing. Her majesty had arrived at a new plateau. She would now allow no one to have audience with her unless he was properly dressed. Even the psychiatrists, whom she had, with a careful sense of meiosis, appointed physicians to the royal house, had to wear the stuff. Malone went over the whole case in his mind for about the thousandth time, he told himself bitterly. Who could the telepathic spy be? It was like looking for a needle in a rolling stone, he thought, or something. He did remember clearly that a stitch in time saved nine, but he didn't know nine what, and suspected it had nothing to do with his present problem. How about Dr. Harry Gamble, Malone thought? It seemed a little unlikely that the head of Project Isle would be spying on his own men, particularly since he already had all the information. But on the other hand, he was just as probable a spy as anybody else. Malone moved onward. Dr. Thomas O'Connor, the Westinghouse Psionics Man, was the next nominee. Before Malone had actually found her majesty, he had had a suspicion that O'Connor had cooked the whole thing up to throw the FBI off the trail and confuse everybody, and that he'd intended merely to have the FBI chase ghosts while the real spy did his work undetected. But what if O'Connor were the spy himself, a telepath? What if he were so confident of his ability to throw the queen off the track that he had allowed the FBI to find all the other telepaths? There was another argument for that. He'd had to report the findings of his machine no matter what it cost him. There were too many other men on his staff who knew about it. O'Connor was a perfectly plausible spy, too. But he didn't seem very likely. The head of a government project is likely to be a much-investigated man. Could any tie-up with Russia, even a Psionic one, stand up against that kind of investigation? It was possible. Anything, after all, was possible. You eliminated the impossible, and then whatever remained, however improbable. Malone told himself morosely to shut up and think. O'Connor, he told himself, might be the spy. It would be a pleasure, he realized, to go to the office of that superior scientist and arrest him. I know your true name, he muttered. It isn't O'Connor, it's Moriarty. He wondered if the Westinghouse man had ever done any work on the dynamics of an asteroid. Then he wondered what the dynamics of an asteroid were. But if O'Connor were the spy, nothing made sense. Why would he have disclosed the fact that people were having their minds read in the first place? Sadly, Malone gave up the idea. But then there were other ideas. The other psychiatrists, for instance. The only trouble with them, Malone realized, was that there seemed to be neither motive nor anything else to connect them to the case. There was no evidence, none, in any direction. Why, there was just as much evidence that the spy was really Kenneth J. Malone, he told himself. And then he stopped. Maybe Tom Boyd had been thinking that way about him. Maybe Boyd suspected that he, Malone, was really the spy. Certainly it worked in reverse, Boyd. No, Malone told himself firmly. That was silly. If he were going to consider Boyd, he realized, he might as well go whole hog and think about Andrew J. Burris. And that really was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Well, Queen Elizabeth had seemed pretty certain when she'd pointed him out in Dr. Dawson's office. And the fact that she'd apparently changed her mind didn't have to mean very much. After all, how much faith could you place in her majesty at the best of times? If she'd made a mistake about Burris in the first place, she could just as well have made a mistake in the second place. Or about the spies being at Yucca Flats at all. In which case, Malone thought sadly, they were right back where they'd started from. Behind their own goal line. One way or another though, her majesty had made a mistake. She'd pointed Burris out as the spy. And then she said she'd been wrong. Either Burris was a spy, or else he wasn't. You couldn't have it both ways. And if Burris really were the spy, Malone thought, then why had he started the investigation in the first place? You came back to the same question with Burris, he realized, that you had with Dr. O'Connor. It didn't make sense, for a man to play one hand against the other. Maybe the right hand sometimes didn't know what the left hand was doing, but this was ridiculous. So Burris wasn't the spy. And her majesty had made a mistake when she'd said— Wait a minute, Malone told himself suddenly. Had she? Maybe after all, you could have it both ways. The thought occurred to him with a startling suddenness, and he stood silent upon a peak in Yucca Flats, contemplating it. A second went by. And then something Burris himself had said came back to him. Something that— I'll be damned, he muttered. He came to a dead stop in the middle of the street. In one sudden flash of insight, all the pieces of the case he'd been looking at for so long fell together and formed one consistent picture. The pattern was complete. Malone blinked. In that second he knew exactly who the spy was. A jeep honked rockously and swerved around him. The driver leaned out to curse, and Malone waved at him, dimly recognizing a private eye he had once known, a middle-aged man named Archer. Wondering vaguely what Archer was doing this far east and in a jeep at that, Malone watched the vehicle disappear down the street. There were more cars coming, but what difference did that make? Malone didn't care about cars. After all, he had the answer, the whole answer. I'll be damned, he said again, abruptly, and wheeled around to head back to the offices. On the way he stopped in at another small office, this one inhabited by the two FBI men from Las Vegas. He gave a series of quick orders and got the satisfaction, as he left, of seeing one of the FBI men grabbing for a phone in a hurry. It was good to be doing things again, important things. Burris, Boyd, and Dr. Gamble were still talking as Malone entered. That, Burris said, was one hell of a quick lunch. What's Her Majesty doing now, running a diner? Malone ignored the bait and drew himself to his full height. Gentlemen, he said solemnly, Her Majesty has asked that all of us attend her in audience. She has information of the utmost gravity to impart, and wishes this audience at once. Dr. Gamble made a puzzled circular gesture with one hand. What's the matter, he asked, is something— The hand dropped. Wrong. Burris barely glanced at him. A startled expression came over his features. Heshy! He began, and stopped, leaving his mouth open and the rest of the sentence unfinished. Malone nodded gravely and drew in a breath. Elizabethan periods were hard on the lungs he had begun to realize. You needed a lot of air before you embarked on a sentence. I believe, gentlemen, he said, that Her Majesty is about to reveal the identity of the spy who has been batting on Project Isle. The silence lasted no more than three seconds. Dr. Gamble didn't even make a gesture during that time. Then Burris spoke. Let's go! He snapped. He wheeled and headed for the door. The others promptly followed. Gentlemen! Malone said, sounding, as far as he could tell, properly shocked and defended. Your dress. What? Dr. Gamble said, throwing up both hands. Oh, no! Boyd charred in. Not now! Burris simply said, You're quite right. Get dressed, Boyd. I mean, of course, Sir Thomas. While they were dressing, Malone put in a call to Dr. O'Connor's office. The scientist was as frosty as ever. Yes, Mr. Malone. The sound of that voice, Malone reflected, was enough to give anybody double-revolving pneumonia with knobs on. Dr. O'Connor, he said, Her Majesty wants you in her court in ten minutes and in full court dress. O'Connor merely sighed, like Boreus. What is this? he asked. More tomfoolery. I really couldn't say. Malone told him poorly. But I'd advise you to be there. It might interest you. Interest me? Dr. O'Connor stormed. I've got work to do here. Important work. You simply do not realize, Mr. Malone. Whatever I realize, Malone cut in feeling brave. I'm passing on orders from Her Majesty. That insane woman, O'Connor stated flatly, Is not going to order me about. Good Lord, do you know what you're saying? Malone nodded. I certainly do, he said cheerfully. If you'd rather, I can have the orders backed up by the United States Government. But that won't be necessary, will it? The United States Government, O'Connor said, thawing perceptibly about the edges. ought to allow a man to do his proper work, and not force him to go chasing off after the latest whims of some insane old lady. You will be there now, won't you? Malone asked. His own voice reminded him of something, and in a second he had it, the cooing gentle persuasion of Dr. Andrew Blake of Rice Pavilion, who had locked Malone in a padded cell. It was the voice of a man talking to a mental case. It sounded remarkably apt. Dr. O'Connor went slightly purple, but controlled himself magnificently. I'll be there, he said. Good! Malone told him, and snapped the phone off. Then he put in a second call to the psychiatrists from St. Elizabeth's, and told them the same thing. More used to the strange demands of neurotic and psychotic patients, they were readyer to comply. Everyone, Malone realized with satisfaction, was now assembling. Burris and the others were ready to go, sparklingly dressed and looking impatient. Malone put down the phone and took one great breath of relief. Then, beaming, he led the others out. Ten minutes later, there were nine men in Elizabethan costume standing outside the room which had been designated as the Queen's Court. Dr. Gamble's costume did not quite fit him. His sleeve ruffs were halfway up to his elbows, and his doublet had an unfortunate tendency to creep. The St. Elizabeth's men, all four of them, looked just a little like moth-eaten versions of old silent pictures. Malone looked them over with a somewhat sardonic eye. Not only did he have the answer to the whole problem that had been plaguing them, but his costume was a stunning, perfect fit. Now I want you men to let me handle this, Malone said. I know just what I want to say, and I think I can get the information without too much trouble. One of the psychiatrists spoke up. I trust you won't disturb the patient, Mr. Malone, he said. Sir Kenneth, Malone snapped. The psychiatrist looked both abashed and worried. I'm sorry, he said doubtfully. Malone nodded. That's all right, he said. I'll try not to disturb her Majesty unduly. The psychiatrists conferred. When they came out of the huddle, one of them, Malone was never able to tell them apart, said, Very well, we'll let you handle it, but we will be forced to interfere if we feel your wrath going too far. Malone said, That's fair enough, gentlemen, let's go. He opened the door. It was a magnificent room. The whole place had been done over in plastic and synthetic fibers to look like something out of the sixteenth century. It was as garish and as perfect as a Hollywood movie set, which wasn't surprising, since two stage designers had been hired away from colour TV spectaculars to set it up. At the far end of the room, past the rich hangings and the flaming chandeliers, was a great throne, and on it her Majesty was seated. Lady Barbara reclined on the steps at her feet. Malone saw the expression on her Majesty's face. He wanted to talk to Barbara, but there wasn't time. Later there might be. Now he collected his mind and drove one thought at the Queen, one single powerful thought. Read me, you know by this time that I have the truth, but read deeper. The expression on her face changed suddenly. She was smiling a sad, gentle little smile. Lady Barbara, who had looked up at the approach of Sir Kenneth and his entourage, relaxed again, but her eyes remained on Malone. You may approach, my lords, said the Queen. Sir Kenneth led the procession, with Sir Thomas and Sir Andrew close behind him. O' Connor and Gamble came next, and bringing up the rear were the four psychiatrists. They strode slowly along the red carpet that stretched from the door to the foot of the throne. They came to a halt a few feet from the steps leading up to the throne and bowed in unison. You may explain, Sir Kenneth, her Majesty said. Your Majesty understands the conditions, Malone asked. Perfectly, said the Queen, proceed. Now the expression on Barbara's face changed to wonder and a kind of fright. Malone didn't look at her. Instead he turned to Dr. O' Connor. Dr. O' Connor, what are your plans for the telepaths who have been brought here? He shot the question out quickly, and O' Connor was caught off balance. Well, ah, we would like their cooperation in further research which we, ah, plan to do into the actual mechanisms of telepathy, provided, of course— he coughed gently—provided that they become, ah, accessible. Miss, I mean, of course, her Majesty has already been a great deal of help. He gave Malone an odd look. It seemed to say, what's coming next? Malone simply gave him a nod and a thank you, doctor, and turned to Burris. He could feel Barbara's eyes on him, but he went on with his prepared questions. Chief, he said, what about you? After we nail our spy, what happens? To her Majesty, I mean. You don't intend to stop giving her the homage, do you? Burris stared, open-mouthed. After a second he managed to say, Why, no, of course not, Sir Kenneth. That is— And he glanced over at the psychiatrists, if the doctors think. There was another hurried consultation. The four psychiatrists came out of it with a somewhat shaky statement, to the effect that treatments which had been proven to have some therapeutic value ought not to be discontinued, although, of course, there was always a chance that— Thank you, gentlemen, Malone said smoothly. He could see that they were nervous, and no wonder. He could imagine how difficult it was for a psychiatrist to talk about a patient in her presence, but they'd already realized that it didn't make any difference. Their thoughts were an open book anyway. Lady Barbara said, Sir, I mean, Ken, are you going to— What's this all about? Burris snapped. Just a minute, Sir Andrew, Malone said, I'd like to ask one of the doctors here, or all of them, for that matter, one more question. He whirled and faced them. I'm assuming that not one of these persons is legally responsible for his or her actions, is that correct? Another hurried huddle. The psych boys were beginning to remind Malone of a semi-pro football team in rather unusual uniforms. Finally, one of them said, You are correct. According to the latest statutes, all of these persons are legally insane, including Her Majesty. He paused, interculped. I accept the FBI, of course, and ourselves. Another pause. And Dr. O'Connor and Dr. Gamble. And, said Lady Barbara, me, she smiled sweetly at them all. Ah, the psychiatrist said, certainly, of course. He retired into his group with some confusion. Malone was looking straight at the throne. Her Majesty's countenance was serene and unruffled. Barbara said suddenly, You don't mean, but she, and closed her mouth. Malone shot her one quick look, and then turned to the queen. Well, Your Majesty, he said, You have seen the thoughts of every man here. How do they appear to you? Her voice contained both tension and relief. They are all good men, basically, and kind men, she said. And they believe us. That's the important thing, you know. They're belief in us. Just as you said that first day we met, we've needed belief for so long, for so long. Her voice trailed off. It seemed to become lost in a constellation of thoughts. Barbara had turned to look up at Her Majesty. Malone took a step forward, but Burris interrupted him. How about the spy, he said. Then his eyes widened. Boyd, standing next to him, leaned suddenly forward. That's why you mentioned all that about legal immunity because of insanity, he whispered, because— No, Barbara said. No, she couldn't. She's not. They were all looking at Her Majesty now. She returned them, stare for stare, her back stiff and straight, and her white hair inhaled in the room's light. Sir Kenneth, she said, and her voice was only the least bit unsteady. They all think I am the spy. Barbara stood up. Listen, she said. I didn't like Her Majesty at first. Well, she was a patient, and that was all. And when she started putting on airs. But since I've gotten to know her, I do like her. I like her because she's good and kind herself, and because—because she wouldn't be a spy, she couldn't be. No matter what any of you think, even you, Sir Kenneth. There was a second of silence. Of course she's not, Malone said quietly. She's no spy. What I spy on my own subjects, she said, use your reason. You mean— Burris began, and Boyd finished for him. She isn't? No, Malone snapped. She isn't. Remember you said it would take a telepath to catch a telepath? Well, Burris began. Well, Her Majesty remembered it, Malone said, and acted on it. Barbara remained standing. She went to the Queen and put an arm around the little old lady's shoulder. Her Majesty did not object. I knew, she said, you couldn't have been a spy. Listen, dear, the Queen said, your Kenneth has seen the truth of the matter. Listen to him. Her Majesty not only caught the spy, Malone said, but she turned the spy right over to us. He turned at once and went back down the long red carpet to the door. I really ought to get a sword, he thought, and didn't see Her Majesty smile. He opened the door with a great flourish and said quietly, bring him in, boys. The FBI men from Las Vegas marched in. Between them was their prisoner, a boy with a vacuous face clad in a straight jacket that seemed to make no difference at all to him. His mind was somewhere else. But his body was trapped between the FBI agents, the body of William Logan. Impossible, one of the psychiatrists said. Malone spun on his heel and led the way back to the throne. Logan and his guards followed closely. Your Majesty, Malone said, may I present the prisoner? Perfectly correct, Sir Kenneth. The Queen said, poor Willie is your spy. You won't be too hard on him, will you? I don't think so, Your Majesty, Malone said. After all— Now wait a minute! Burris exploded. How the hell did you know any of this? Malone bowed to Her Majesty and winked at Barbara. He turned to Burris. Well, he said, I had one piece of information none of the rest of you had. When we were in the Desert Edge Sanatorium, Dr. Dawson called you on the phone. Remember? Sure I remember. Burris said, so. Well, Malone said. Her Majesty said she knew just where the spy was. I asked her where. Why didn't you tell me? Burris screamed. You knew all this time and you didn't tell me. Hold on! Malone said. I asked her where, and she said he's right there, and she was pointing right at your image on the screen. Burris opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He closed it and tried again. At last he managed one word. Me, he said. You, Malone said. But that's what I realized later. She wasn't pointing at you. She was pointing at Logan, who was in the next room. Barbara whispered, Is that right, Your Majesty? Certainly, dear, the Queen said calmly, Would I lie to Sir Kenneth? Malone was still talking. The thing that set me off this noon was something you said, Sir Andrew, he went on. You said there weren't any sane telepaths, remember? Burris, incapable of speech, merely nodded. But according to Her Majesty, Malone said, We had every telepath in the United States right here. She told me that, and I didn't even see it. Don't blame yourself, Sir Kenneth, the Queen put in. I did do my best to mislead you, you know. You sure did, Malone said, and later on when we were driving here, she said the spy was moving around. That's right, he was in the car behind us going eighty miles an hour. Barbara stared. Malone got a lot of satisfaction out of that stare. But there was still more ground to cover. Then, he said, she told us he was here at Yucca Flats, after we brought him here. It had to be one of the other six telepaths. The psychiatrist who'd muttered, impossible, was still muttering it. Malone ignored him. And when I remembered her pointing at you, Malone told Burris, and remembered that she'd only said he's right there. I knew it had to be Logan. You weren't there, you were only an image on a TV screen. Logan was there, in the room behind the phone. Burris had found his tongue. All right, he said. Okay, but what's all this about misleading us, and why didn't she tell us right away anyhow? Malone turned to Her Majesty on the throne. I think that the Queen had better explain that, if she will. Queen Elizabeth Thompson nodded very slowly. I—I only wanted you to respect me, she said, to treat me properly. Her voice sounded uneven, and her eyes were glistening with unspilled tears. Lady Barbara tightened her arm about the Queen's shoulders once more. It's all right, she said. We do respect you. The Queen smiled up at her. Malone waited. After a second, Her Majesty continued. I was afraid that as soon as you found poor Willie, you'd send me back to the hospital, she said, and Willie couldn't tell the Russian agents any more once he'd been taken away, so I thought I'd just—just let things stay the way they were as long as I could. That's—that's all. Malone nodded. After a second he said, you see that we couldn't possibly send you back now, don't you? You know all the state secrets, Your Majesty, Malone said. We would rather that Dr. Harmon in San Francisco didn't try to talk you out of them, or anyone else. The Queen smiled tremulously. I know too much, do I? She said. Then her grin faded. Poor Dr. Harmon, she said. Poor Dr. Harmon? You'll hear about him in a day or so, she said. I peeked inside his mind. He's very ill. Ill? Lady Barbara asked. Oh yes, the Queen said. The trace of a smile appeared on her face. He thinks that all the patients in the hospital can see inside his mind. Oh my, Lady Barbara said, and began to laugh. It was the nicest sound Malone had ever heard. Forget Harmon! Burris snapped. What about this spiring? How was Logan getting his information out? I've already taken care of that, Malone said. I had Desert Edge Sanatorium surrounded as soon as I knew what the score was. He looked at one of the agents holding Logan. They ought to be in the Las Vegas jail within half an hour, he said in confirmation. Dr. Dawson was in on it, wasn't he, Your Majesty? Malone said. Certainly, the Queen said. Her eyes were suddenly very cold. I hope he tries to escape. I hope he tries it. Malone knew just how she felt. One of the psychiatrists spoke up suddenly. I don't understand it, he said. Logan is completely catatonic. Even if he could read minds, how could he tell Dawson what he'd read? It doesn't make sense. In the first place, the Queen said patiently, Willie isn't catatonic. He's just busy, that's all. He's only a boy, and, well, he doesn't much like being who he is. So he visits other people's minds, and that way he becomes them for a while, you see? Vaguely, Malone said. But how did Dawson get his information? I had everything worked out but that. I know you did, the Queen said, and I'm proud of you. I intend to award you with the order of the bath for this day's work. Unaccountably, Malone's chest swelled with pride. As for Dr. Dawson, the Queen said, that traitor hurt Willie. If he's hurt enough, he'll come back. Her eyes weren't hard any more. He didn't want to be a spy, really, she said, but he's just a boy, and it must have sounded rather exciting. He knew that if he told Dawson everything he'd found out, they'd let him go, go away again. There was a long silence. Well, Malone said, that about wraps it up. Any questions? He looked around at the men, but before any of them could speak up, her Majesty rose. I'm sure there are questions, she said, but I'm really very tired. My lords, you are excused. She extended a hand. Come, Lady Barbara, she said, I think I really may need that nap now. Malone put the cufflinks in his shirt, with great care. They were great stones, and Malone thought that they gave his costume that necessary Elizabethan flair. Not that he was wearing the costumes of the Queen's court now. Instead, he was dressed in a tailor-proud suit of dark blue, a white-on-white shirt, and no tie. He selected one of a gorgeous peacock pattern from his closet rack. Boyd yonded him from the bed in the room they were sharing. Stepping out, he said, I am, Malone said, with restraint. He whipped the tie round his neck and drew it under the collar. Anybody I know? I am meeting Lady Barbara, if you wish to know, Malone said. My God! Boyd said, come down, relax. Anyhow, I've got a question for you. There was one little thing her ever-loving Majesty didn't explain. Yes, said Malone. Well, about those hoods who tried to gun us down, Boyd said, who hired him, and why? Dowson, Malone said. He wanted to kill us off and then kidnap Logan from the hotel room, but we foiled his plan by killing his hoods. By the time he could work up something else, we were on our way to Yucca Flats. Great, Boyd said, and how did you find out this startling piece of information? There haven't been any reports in from Las Vegas, have there? No, Malone said. Okay, Boyd said, I give up, mastermind. Malone wished Boyd would stop using that nickname. The fact was, as he, and apparently nobody else, was willing to recognize, that he wasn't anything like a really terrific FBI agent. Even Barbara thought he was something special. He wasn't, he knew. He was just lucky. Her Majesty informed me, Malone said. Her— Boyd stood with his mouth dropped open, like a fish waiting for some bait. You mean she knew? Well, Malone said, she did know the guys in the Buick weren't the best in the business, and she knew all about the specially built FBI Lincoln. She got that from our minds. He nodded his tie with an air of great aplomb, and went slowly to the door. And she knew we were a good team. She got that from our minds, too. But, Boyd said. After a second he said, but, again, and followed it with, Why didn't she tell us? Malone opened the door. Her Majesty wished to see the Queen's own FBI in action, said Sir Kenneth Malone. End of Chapter 8 and End of Brain Twister by Mark Phillips