The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

of you."

      "There is?" Malone said. "Who is she? Rebecca?"

      "Her name's Luba," Burris said. "Luba Garbitsch."

      "Garbitsch's wife?" Malone said.

      Burris shook his head. "His daughter," he said. "And don't tell me there isn't any such name as Luba. I know there isn't. But what would you pick to go with Garbitsch?"

      "Wastepaper basket," Malone said instantly. "Grapefruit rinds. Lemon peels. Coffee grounds."

      "Damn it, Malone," Burris said, "this is serious."

      "Well," Malone said, "it doesn't sound serious. What are we doing, deporting the entire family?"

      "I suppose we could," Burris said, "if we really wanted to get complicated about it. What with Garbitsch's false declaration, I haven't the faintest idea what his daughter's status would be--but she was born here, Malone, and as far as we can tell she's perfectly loyal to the United States."

      "Fine," Malone said. "So you're sending her to Russia. This is making less and less sense, you know."

      Burris rubbed a hand over his face. "Malone," he said in a quiet, patient voice, "why don't you wait for me to finish? Then everything will make sense. I promise."

      "Well, all right," Malone said doubtfully. "Luba Garbitsch is going along to Russia, in spite of the fact that she's perfectly loyal."

      "True," Burris said. "You see, Malone, she loves her traitorous old daddy just the same. Family affection. Very touching."

      "And if he's going to Moscow--"

      "She wants to go along," Burris said. "That's right."

      "And you're going to send her along," Malone said, "out of the goodness of your kindly old heart. Just like Santa Claus. Or the Easter bunny."

      Burris looked acutely uncomfortable. "Now, Malone," he said. "It's not exactly that, and you know it."

      "It isn't?" Malone said, trying to look surprised.

      Burris shook his head. "If we send Luba Garbitsch along," he said, "that gives us a good excuse for Her Majesty. As a chaperone."

      "Are you sure," Malone asked slowly, "that anybody with a name like Luba Garbitsch could plausibly need a chaperone? Even in a den of vice? Because somehow it doesn't sound right: Luba Garbitsch, chaperoned by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I."

      "Well," Burris said, "it won't be the Queen. I mean, she won't be known as the Queen."

      "Incognito?" Malone said.

      Burris shrugged. "In away," he said. "What do you think would be a good name for her to travel under?"

      Malone considered. "I don't know," he said at last. "But no more Lubas."

      "I was thinking," Burris said carefully. "How about Rose Thompson?"

      There was a long silence.

      "I don't know whether she'll go for the idea," Malone said. "But I'll try it."

      "You can do it, Malone," Burris said instantly. "I know you can. I just know it."

      "Your faith," Malone said with a sigh, "is going to be too much for me one of these days."

      Burris shrugged. "Just take it easy, Malone," he said. "You said you wanted to have Her Majesty over there to read a few minds, and you've got her. But remember, don't get involved in anything complicated. Don't start any fireworks."

      "I hope not," Malone said.

      "Stay out of political arguments," Burris said.

      Malone blinked. "What do you think I'm going to do?" he said. "Bring along a soapbox?"

      "You never know," Burris said. "Just keep quiet, and don't go prowling around where you're not wanted."

      "That," Malone said decisively, "would keep me out of Russia entirely."

      "Damn it," Burris said, "you know what I mean. We don't want any international incidents, understand?"

      "Yes, sir," Malone said.

      Burris nodded. "All right, then," he said. "Your plane leaves from the airport in an hour. You'd better go and talk to Her Majesty first."

      "Right," Malone said.

      "And I hope you know what you're doing," Burris said.

      So do I, Malone thought privately. Aloud, he said, "I just want to get the feel of things over there, that's all, sir. I won't cause any more trouble than an ordinary tourist."

      "Malone," Burris said, "don't be an ordinary tourist. They're empty-headed morons and they do make trouble. Be an invisible tourist. Be nice to everybody. Be polite and kind. Don't step on any toes, no matter whose and no matter why."

      "Yes, sir," Malone said.

      "Remember, they're going to know who you are," Burris said.

      "It's not as if we could keep it a secret."

      "Yes, sir," Malone said. "I'll remember."

      "All right." Burris extended his hand. "Good luck, Malone," he said, with a deeper feeling of sincerity than Malone had experienced from him in months.

      Malone shook the hand. "Thank you, sir," he said.

      * * * * *

      A little less than an hour later, Malone sat on the steps of the landing ramp that led up to the open door of the big Air Force transport plane on the runway. The plane was waiting, and so was Malone. He didn't feel confident, or even excited. He felt just a little bit frightened. Burris' complicated warnings had had some effect, and Malone was fighting down a minor case of the shakes.

      Next to him, her face wreathed in happy smiles, sat a smartly-dressed grey-haired woman in her sixties. She wore an unobtrusive tailored suit and a light jacket, and she looked as if she might be one of the elder matrons of the society set, very definitely an upper-crust type. In spite of the normality of her clothing, Her Majesty looked every inch a Queen, Malone thought.

      "And that, Sir Kenneth, is only natural," she said sweetly. "Even when traveling incognito, one must retain one's dignity. And I don't object at all to using the name of Rose Thompson in a good cause; it was used for so many years it almost feels like part of me."

      "I shouldn't be at all surprised," Malone said mildly.

      A voice from above and behind him interrupted his worried thoughts. "Mr. Malone!" it said. "Mr. Malone?"

      Malone screwed his head around and looked up. An Air Force colonel was standing in the doorway of the plane, looking down with a stern, worried expression. "Yes?" Malone said. "What is it?"

      "Takeoff, Mr. Malone," the colonel said. "We're due to go in fifteen minutes, and our clearance has been established."

      "Fine," Malone said.

      "But your passengers," the colonel said. "Where are they?"

      Malone tried to look calm, cool and collected. "They'll be here," he said. "Don't worry about a thing." Privately, he hoped he was right. Boyd hadn't shown up yet, and Boyd was bringing the musical-comedy spy trio. It wasn't, Malone thought, that Boyd was usually late. But with Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch in tow, almost anything could happen, he thought. He hoped fervently that it wouldn't.

      "It won't," Her Majesty said. "At least, it hasn't so far. They're all in a car, and they're driving right here. Boyd is thinking that he ought to be here within five minutes."

      Malone nodded, wiping his forehead. "Five minutes, Colonel," he called back to the figure at the door. The colonel nodded efficiently at him, turned and disappeared inside the plane. Malone looked at his watch. The second hand was going around awfully fast, he thought. He wondered if it were possible for time to speed up while he waited, so that by the time Boyd arrived he would be an old, old man. He felt about eight years older already, he told himself, and a minute hadn't even passed.

      He