The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

flash occurred just before they started to blab everything they knew. Before the flash, they weren't talking. They were behaving just like good spies and keeping their mouths shut. After the flash, they couldn't talk fast enough."

      "That's true," Boyd said reflectively. "They did seem to give up pretty fast, even for amateurs."

      Malone nodded. "So the question is this," he said. "Just what happens during those crazy bursts of static?"

      He looked expectantly at Her Majesty, but she shook her head sadly. "I don't know," she said. "I simply don't know. It's just noise to me, meaningless noise." She put her hands slowly over her face. "People shouldn't do things like that to their Sovereign," she said in a muffled voice.

      Malone got up and went over to her. She wasn't crying, but she wasn't far from it. He put an arm around her thin shoulders. "Now, look, Your Majesty," he said in gentle tones, "this will all clear up. We'll find out what's going on, and we'll find a way to put a stop to it."

      "Sure we will," Boyd said. "After all, Your Majesty, Sir Kenneth and I will work hard on this."

      "And the Queen's own FBI," Malone said, "won't stop until we've finished with this whole affair, once and for all."

      Her Majesty brought her hands down from her face, very slowly. She was forcing a smile, but it didn't look too well. "I know you won't fail your Queen," she said. "You two have always been the most loyal of my subjects."

      "We'll work hard," Malone said. "No matter how long it takes."

      "Because, after all," Boyd said in a musing, thoughtful tone, "it is a serious crime, you know."

      The words seemed to have an effect on Her Majesty, like a tonic. For a second her face wore an expression of Royal anger and indignance, and the accustomed strength flowed back into her aged voice. "You're quite correct, Sir Thomas!" she said. "The security of the Throne and the Crown are at stake!"

      Malone blinked. "What?" he said. "Are you two talking about something? What crime is this?"

      "An extremely serious one," Boyd said in a grave voice. He rose unsteadily to his feet, planted them firmly on the carpet, and frowned.

      "Go on," Malone said, fascinated. Her Majesty was watching Boyd with an intent expression.

      "The crime," Boyd said, "the very serious crime involved, is that of Threatening the Welfare of the Queen. The criminal has committed the crime of Causing the Said Sovereign, Baselessly, Reasonlessly and Without Consent or Let, to Be in a State of Apprehension for Her Life or Her Well-Being. And this crime--"

      "Aha," Malone said. "I've got it. The crime is--"

      "High treason," Boyd intoned.

      "High treason," Her Majesty said with satisfaction and fire in her voice.

      "Very high treason," Malone said. "Extremely high."

      "Stratospheric," Boyd agreed. "That is, of course," he added, "if the perpetrators of this dastardly crime are Her Majesty's subjects."

      "My goodness," the Queen said. "I never thought of that. Suppose they're not?"

      "Then," Malone said in his most vibrant voice, "it is an Act of War."

      "Steps," Boyd said, "must be taken."

      "We must do our utmost," Malone said. "Sir Thomas--"

      "Yes, Sir Kenneth?" Boyd said.

      "This task requires our most fervent dedication," Malone said. "Please come with me."

      He went to the desk. Boyd followed him, walking straight-backed and tall. Malone bent and removed from a drawer of the desk a bottle of bourbon. He closed the drawer, poured some bourbon into two handy water-glasses from the desk, and capped the bottle. He handed one of the water-glasses to Boyd, and raised the other one aloft.

      "Sir Thomas," Malone said, "I give you Her Majesty, the Queen!"

      "To the Queen!" Boyd echoed.

      They downed their drinks and turned, as one man, to hurl the glasses into the wastebasket.

      In thinking it over later, Malone realized that he hadn't considered anything about that moment silly at all. Of course, an outsider might have been slightly surprised at the sequence of events, but Malone was no outsider. And, after all, it was the proper way to treat a Queen, wasn't it?

      And...

      When Malone had first met Her Majesty, he had wondered why, although she could obviously read minds, and so knew perfectly well that neither Malone nor Boyd believed she was Queen Elizabeth I, she insisted on an outward show of respect and dedication. He'd asked her about it at last, and her reply had been simple, reasonable and to the point.

      According to her--and Malone didn't doubt it for an instant--most people simply didn't think their superiors were all they claimed to be. But they acted as if they did, at least while in the presence of those superiors. It was a common fiction, a sort of handy oil on the wheels of social intercourse.

      And all Her Majesty had ever insisted on was the same sort of treatment.

      "Bless you," she'd said, "I can't help the way you think, but, as Queen, I do have some control over the way you act."

      The funny thing, as far as Malone was concerned, was that the two parts of his personality were becoming more and more alike. He didn't actually believe that Her Majesty was Queen Elizabeth I, and he hoped fervently that he never would. But he did have a great deal of respect for her, and more affection than he had believed possible at first. She was the grandmother Malone had never known; she was good, and kind, and he wanted to keep her happy and contented. There had been nothing at all phony in the solemn toast he had proposed, nor in the righteous indignation he had felt against anyone who was giving Her Majesty even a minute's worth of discomfort.

      And Boyd, surprisingly enough, seemed to feel the same way. Malone felt good about that; Her Majesty needed all the loyal supporters she could get.

      But all of this was later. At the time, Malone was doing nothing except what came naturally. Nor, apparently, was Boyd. After the glasses had been thrown, with a terrifying crash, into the metal wastebasket, and the reverberations of that second had stopped ringing in their ears, a moment of silence had followed.

      Then Boyd turned, briskly rubbing his hands. "All right," he said. "Let's get back to work."

      Malone looked at the proud, happy look on Her Majesty's face; he saw the glimmer of a tear in the corner of each eye. But he gave no indication that he had noticed anything at all out of the ordinary.

      "Fine," he said. "Now, getting on back to the facts, we've established something, anyhow. Some agency is causing flashes of telepathic static all over the place. And those flashes are somehow connected with the confusion that's going on all around us. Somehow, these flashes have an effect on the minds of people."

      "And we know at least one manifestation of that effect," Boyd said. "It makes spies blab all their secrets when they're exposed to it."

      "These three spies, anyhow," Malone said.

      "If spies is the right word," Boyd said.

      "Okay," Malone said. "And now we've got another obvious question."

      "It seems to me we've got about twelve," Boyd said.

      "I mean, who's doing it?" Malone said. "Who is causing these telepathic flashes?"

      "Maybe it's just happening," Boyd said. "Out of thin air."

      "Maybe," Malone said. "But let's go on the assumption that there's a human cause. The other way, we can't do a thing except sit back and watch the world go to hell."

      Boyd nodded. "It doesn't seem to be the Russians," he said. "Although, of course, it might be a Red herring."

      "What do you mean?" Malone said.

      "Well," Boyd said, "they might have known we were on to Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch--" He stopped. "You know," he said, "every time I say that