The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ wrong, Chief?" he said.

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

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

      "Hello, Chief," Boyd said.

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

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

      Burris gave her a tiny smile. "Oh," he said. "Hello, Your Majesty. I'm--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "Thank you, Your Majesty," Burris said humbly.

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

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

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

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

      "What's the trouble, Chief?" he asked.

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

      "Who hired them?" Malone said.

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

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

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

      "Not that I know of, sir," Malone said.

      "What about the little old lady--what's her name? Thompson. Anything from her?"

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

      "What else does she want?" Burris said. "We've made her Queen and given her a full retinue in costume; we've let her play roulette and poker with Government money. Does she want to hold a mass execution? If she does, I can supply some Congressmen, Malone. I'm sure it could be arranged." He looked at the agent narrowly. "I might even be able to 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--ah--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, СКАЧАТЬ