pointed.
Malone followed her finger.
It was aimed directly at the glowing image of Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI.
Chapter 5
Malone opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Not even air.
He wasn't breathing.
He stared at Burris for a long moment, then took a breath and looked again at Her Majesty. "The spy?" he whispered.
"That's right," she said.
"But that's--" He had to fight for control. "That's the head of the FBI," he managed to say. "Do you mean to say he's a spy?"
Burris was saying: "... I'm afraid this is a matter of importance, Dr. Dowson. We cannot tolerate delay. You have the court order. Obey it."
"Very well, Mr. Burris," Dowson said with an obvious lack of grace. "I'll release him to Mr. Malone immediately, since you insist."
Malone stared, fascinated. Then he turned back to the little old lady. "Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that Andrew J. Burris is a telepathic spy?"
"Oh, dear me," Her Majesty said, obviously aghast. "My goodness gracious. Is that Mr. Burris on the screen?"
"It is," Malone assured her. A look out of the corner of his eye told him that neither Burris, in Washington, nor Dowson or any others in the room, had heard any of the conversation. Malone lowered his whisper some more, just in case. "That's the head of the FBI," he said.
"Well, then," Her Majesty said, "Mr. Burris couldn't possibly be a spy, then, could he? Not if he's the head of the FBI. Of course not. Mr. Burris simply isn't a spy. He isn't the type. Forget all about Mr. Burris."
"I can't," Malone said at random. "I work for him." He closed his eyes. The room, he had discovered, was spinning slightly. "Now," he said, "you're sure he's not a spy?"
"Certainly I'm sure," she said, with her most regal tones. "Do you doubt the word of your sovereign?"
"Not exactly," Malone said. Truthfully, he wasn't at all sure. Not at all. But why tell that to the Queen?
"Shame on you," she said. "You shouldn't even think such things. After all, I am the Queen, aren't I?" But there was a sweet, gentle smile on her face when she spoke; she didn't seem to be really irritated.
"Sure you are," Malone said. "But--"
"Malone!" It was Burris' voice, from the phone. Malone spun around. "Take Mr. Logan," Burris said, "and get going. There's been enough delay as it is."
"Yes, sir," Malone said. "Right away, sir. Anything else?"
"That's all," Burris said. "Good night." The screen blanked.
There was a little silence.
"All right, Doctor," Boyd said. He looked every inch a king, and Malone knew exactly what king. "Bring him out."
Dr. Dowson heaved a great sigh. "Very well," he said heavily. "But I want it known that I resent this highhanded treatment, and I shall write a letter complaining of it." He pressed a button on an instrument panel in his desk. "Bring Mr. Logan in," he said.
Malone wasn't in the least worried about the letter. Burris, he knew, would take care of anything like that. And, besides, he had other things to think about.
The door to the next room had opened almost immediately, and two husky, white-clad men were bringing in a strait-jacketed figure whose arms were wrapped against his chest, while the jacket's extra-long sleeves were tied behind his back. He walked where the attendants led him, but his eyes weren't looking at anything in the room. They stared at something far away and invisible, an impalpable shifting nothingness somewhere in the infinite distances beyond the world.
For the first time, Malone felt the chill of panic. Here, he thought, was insanity of a very real and frightening kind. Queen Elizabeth Thompson was one thing--and she was almost funny, and likeable, after all. But William Logan was something else, and something that sent a wave of cold shivering into the room.
What made it worse was that Logan wasn't a man, but a boy, barely nineteen. Malone had known that, of course--but seeing it was something different. The lanky, awkward figure wrapped in a hospital strait-jacket was horrible, and the smooth, unconcerned face was, somehow, worse. There was no threat in that face, no terror or anger or fear. It was merely--a blank.
It was not a human face. Its complete lack of emotion or expression could have belonged to a sleeping child of ten--or to a member of a different race. Malone looked at the boy, and looked away.
Was it possible that Logan knew what he was thinking?
Answer me, he thought, directly at the still boy.
There was no reply, none at all. Malone forced himself to look away. But the air in the room seemed to have become much colder.
The attendants stood on either side of him, waiting. For one long second no one moved, and then Dr. Dowson reached into his desk drawer and produced a sheaf of papers.
"If you'll sign these for the government," he said, "you may have Mr. Logan. There seems little else that I can do, Mr. Malone--in spite of my earnest pleas--"
"I'm sorry," Malone said. After all, he needed Logan, didn't he? After a look at the boy, he wasn't sure any more--but the Queen had said she wanted him, and the Queen's word was law. Or what passed for law, anyhow, at least for the moment.
Malone took the papers and looked them over. There was nothing special about them; they were merely standard release forms, absolving the staff and management of Desert Edge Sanatorium from every conceivable responsibility under any conceivable circumstances, as far as William Logan was concerned. Dr. Dowson gave Malone a look that said: "Very well, Mr. Malone; I will play Pilate and wash my hands of the matter-- but you needn't think I like it." It was a lot for one look to say, but Dr. Dowson's dark and sunken eyes got the message across with no loss in transmission. As a matter of fact, there seemed to be more coming--a much less printable message was apparently on the way through those glittering, sad and angry eyes.
Malone avoided them nervously, and went over the papers again instead. At last he signed them and handed them back. "Thanks for your cooperation, Dr. Dowson," he said briskly, feeling ten kinds of a traitor.
"Not at all," Dowson said bitterly. "Mr. Logan is now in your custody. I must trust you to take good care of him."
"The best care we can," Malone said. It didn't seem sufficient. He added: "The best possible care, Doctor," and tried to look dependable and trustworthy, like a Boy Scout. He was aware that the effort failed miserably.
At his signal, the two plainclothes FBI men took over from the attendants. They marched Logan out to their car, and Malone led the procession back to Boyd's automobile, a procession that consisted (in order) of Sir Kenneth Malone, prospective Duke of Columbia, Queen Elizabeth I, Lady Barbara, prospective Duchess of an unspecified county, and Sir Thomas Boyd, prospective Duke of Poughkeepsie. Malone hummed a little of the first Pomp and Circumstance march as they walked; somehow, he thought it was called for.
They piled into the car, Boyd at the wheel with Malone next to him, and the two ladies in back, with Queen Elizabeth sitting directly behind Sir Thomas. Boyd started the engine and they turned and roared off.
"Well," said Her Majesty with an air of great complacence, "that's that. That makes six of us."
Malone looked around the car. He counted the people. There were four. He said, puzzled: "Six?"
"That's right, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "You have it exactly. Six."
"You mean six telepaths?" Sir Thomas asked in a deferent tone of voice.
"Certainly I do," Her Majesty replied. "We telepaths, you know, must stick together.