The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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      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. That's the reason I got poor little Willie out of that sanatorium of his, you know--and, of course, the others will be joining us."

      "Don't you think it's time for your nap, dear?" Lady Barbara put in suddenly.

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

      "Your nap, dear," Lady Barbara said.

      "Don't call me dear," Her Majesty snapped.

      "I'm sorry, Your Majesty," Barbara murmured. "But really--"

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

      "About those telepaths--" Boyd began.

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

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

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

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

      Sir Thomas Boyd asked: "Mr. Miles?"

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

      Lady Barbara cleared her throat.

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

      Lady Barbara blinked. "I still want to suggest, respectfully, about that nap--" she began.

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

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

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

      Malone said grimly: "About this new telepath--this Barry Miles. Did they find him--"

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

      "Strange," Malone admitted.

      "There," Her Majesty said. "You see? Telepaths do go insane--it's sort of an occupational disease. Of course, not all of them are insane."

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

      "There's me, of course," Her Majesty said.

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

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

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

      It was, of course, the spy.

      How many more are going to turn up? Malone СКАЧАТЬ