The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

like that can only lead to confusion. Come over here and help me."

      Dorothea was on the couch. Between them, they managed to wake her gently, and she sat up and stared around at them and the room. "I'm sorry," she said dazedly. "It's just that I didn't expect you to turn into a little old lady in Elizabethan costume. Just a bit disconcerting." She blinked. "By the way, who is she?"

      "This," Malone said with a sense of some foreboding, "is Queen Elizabeth I."

      "She's dead," Dorothea said decisively.

      "Not really, my dear," the Queen said. "Actually, you see ... well, it's too long to explain now." She gave everybody a bland smile.

      "She's nuts, then," Dorothea said. "She is nuts, isn't she? Because if she isn't, I am."

      "You're not crazy," Malone told her diplomatically. "But she—" He stopped. How could he explain everything, in front of the Queen herself?

      "Don't worry about it," Her Majesty said. "Dorothea is a little confused—but it hardly matters. Perhaps there are other things to do."

      "Sure," Malone said uncertainly. "By the way, how did you get here?"

      "Now, why do you ask that?" the Queen said. "You've already figured it all out, Sir Kenneth."

      "I don't get it," Dorothea put in.

      "Simple," Malone said. "She's telepathic. She's been listening in on our sessions for the past four days—she must have been. So now she can teleport, too."

      Dorothea looked at the little old lady in awe. "But how could you come to a place you'd never been to before?"

      "I got all the information I needed, my dear, out of Sir Kenneth's mind."

      "Sir Kenneth?" Dorothea said. "Sir ... Ken? His mind?"

      "Never mind it," Malone said. "What do I do now?"

      Her Majesty said: "Don't worry about anything. And use your own psionic talents. You can catch those dear boys now, you know. You're better than they are."

      "Me?" Malone said. "But they've had—"

      "Practice, of course," the Queen said. "But you have a talent they don't."

      "I do?"

      "Well," the Queen said, "you've been calling it 'luck' for years. You're much too modest, Sir Kenneth. If you'll think back, you'll remember that every time you had a bit of your so-called luck, it was because you were at the right place at the right time. There's no other way to explain the fact that you wandered at random through Greenwich Village—of all places!—and just happened to end up at the very same red Cadillac that young Mike was going to come to—before he got there!"

      Malone felt the back of his head. "That," he said, "was luck?"

      "You got the notebook, didn't you?" the Queen said. "But of course it wasn't luck. It's prescience—the ability to predict the future. You've had it all along, but you haven't been consciously using it. The only way you'll ever catch those boys is to know where they're going to be before they get there."

      Malone sat down heavily on the couch next to Dorothea. His mind was whirling with a fine, dizzy rapidity. In a few seconds he was going to try and grab the brass ring.

      "Oh, I'll help you," the Queen added. "Don't worry about that. I think I can pick up Mike's mind, now that I'm closer to him. And if we can figure out what their plans are, and where they're going to be, we can nab them all, Sir Kenneth. Won't that be nice?"

      "Ducky," Malone said. "Simply ducky. All I have to do is predict the future while you read minds and we both teleport. And Dorothea can sit around sticking pins in dolls, I guess. Or—"

      "Well, now," the Queen said, "I don't know. Perhaps she just doesn't have that talent. Besides, why would we want to do anything like that? It seems to me—"

      "Never mind," Malone said hopelessly. "If we're going to do anything, let's get started."

      Twelve hours later, Kenneth J. Malone was sitting quietly in a small room at the rear of a sporting-goods store on upper Madison Avenue, trying to remain calm and hoping that the finest, most beautiful and complete hunch—only now it wasn't a "hunch" any more, he reminded himself; now it was prescience—was going to pay off. With him were Boyd and two agents from the Sixty-ninth Street office. They were sitting quietly, too, but there was a sense of enormous excitement in the air. Malone wanted to get up and walk around, but he didn't dare. He clamped his hands in his lap and sat tight.

      They waited in silence, not daring to talk. There wasn't a sound in the room. Malone felt like screaming, but he managed to control himself with an effort.

      There was no reason why the plan shouldn't work, Malone told himself. According to all the theory he knew, it was fool proof. Her Majesty had no doubts about it, either. She assured him that he had prescience, and several other powers as well. Unfortunately, Malone wasn't quite as sure as she was.

      Even if the theory seemed to back her up, he thought, there was still a chance that she was wrong, and the theory was wrong, and everything was wrong. His hunch—prescience, if you wanted to call it that, he amended—said definitely that this would be the place the Spooks would hit tonight. Her Majesty was quite sure of it. And Malone couldn't think of a single really good reason why either of them might be wrong. But maybe he'd got the address mixed up. Maybe the Spooks were somewhere else right now, robbing what they pleased, safe from capture—

      It doesn't do much good to know where a teleporter is, Malone thought. But it's extremely handy to know where he's going to be. And if you also know what he plans to do when he gets where he's going, you've got an absolute lead-pipe cinch to work with.

      The Queen and Malone had provided that lead-pipe cinch. They were sure that Mike planned to raid the sporting-goods store with the rest of the Spooks that night.

      But, of course, they might all just be riding for some kind of horrible, unforeseen fall—

      The main part of the sporting-goods store was fairly well lit, even at night, though it was by no means brightly illuminated. There were show-window lights on, and the street lamp from outside cast a nice glow. Malone was grateful for that. But the back room was dark, and the four men there were well-concealed. A curtain closed the room off, and Malone watched the front of the store through a narrow opening in it. He stared until his eyes ached, afraid to blink in case he missed the appearance of the Spooks. Everything had to go off just right, precisely on schedule.

      And it was going to happen any minute, he told himself nervously. In just a few minutes, everything would be over.

      Malone held his breath.

      Then he saw the figure walk slowly by the glass front of the shop, looking in with over-elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint, making sure there was no one left in it.

      Mike Fueyo.

      Malone tried to breathe, and couldn't.

      Seconds ticked by.

      And then—almost magically—they appeared. Eight of them, almost simultaneously, in the center of the room.

      Mike Fueyo spoke in a low, controlled voice. "O.K., now," he said. "Let's move fast. We haven't got much time. We—"

      And that was all he said.

      Malone concentrated on just one thing: holding an image of the room, with the eight Spooks in it.

      There was a long second of silence.

      Malone felt a bead of sweat trickle down his cheek. He held the image.

      "What's wrong?" the tallest boy said suddenly—Ramon Otravez, Malone remembered. "What's wrong, Mike?"

      Mike let out his breath in a ragged sigh. "I ... don't know," he said slowly. "I can't move—"

      "It's a trap!" another boy shouted.

      Malone bore down. He could feel power draining out of him, but he held on, willing the boys to remain in the room, blanking