A Spaceship Named: 45 Sci-Fi Novels & Stories in One Volume. Randall Garrett

that was that. He'd found himself a telepath.

      And she wasn't an imbecile.

      Oh, no. That would have been simple.

      Instead, she was battier than a cathedral spire.

      * * * * *

      The long silence was broken by the voice of Miss Wilson.

      "Mr. Malone," she said. "You've been thinking." She stopped. "I mean, you've been so quiet."

      "I like being quiet," Malone said patiently. "Besides--" He stopped and turned to the little old lady. Can you really read my mind? he thought deliberately. After a second he added: ... your Majesty?

      "How sweet of you, Mr. Malone," she said. "Nobody's called me that for centuries. But of course I can. Although it's not reading, really. After all, that would be like asking if I can read your voice. Of course I can, Mr. Malone."

      "That does it," Malone said. "I'm not a hard man to convince. And when I see the truth, I'm the first one to admit it, even if it makes me look like a nut." He turned back to the little old lady. "Begging your pardon," he said.

      "Oh, my," the little old lady said. "I really don't mind at all. Sticks and stones, you know, can break my bones. But being called nuts, Mr. Malone, can never hurt me. After all, it's been so many years--so many hundreds of years--"

      "Sure," Malone said easily.

      Boyd broke in. "Listen, Malone," he said. "Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?"

      "It's very simple," Malone said. "Miss Thompson here--pardon me; I mean Queen Elizabeth I--really is a telepath. That's all. I think I want to lie down somewhere until it goes away."

      "Until what goes away?" Miss Wilson said.

      Malone stared at her almost without seeing her, if not quite. "Everything," he said. He closed his eyes.

      "My goodness," the little old lady said after a second. "Everything's so confused. Poor Mr. Malone is terribly shaken up by everything." She stood up, still holding her knitting, and went across the room. Before the astonished eyes of the doctor and nurse, and Tom Boyd, she patted the FBI agent on the shoulder. "There, there, Mr. Malone," she said. "It will all be perfectly all right. You'll see." Then she returned to her seat.

      Malone opened his eyes. "My God," he said. He closed them again but they flew open as if of their own accord. He turned to Dr. Harman. "You called up Boyd here," he said, "and told him that--er--Miss Thompson was a telepath. How'd you know?"

      "It's all right," the little old lady put in from her chair. "I don't mind your calling me Miss Thompson, not right now, anyhow."

      "Thanks," Malone said faintly.

      Dr. Harman was blinking in a kind of befuddled astonishment. "You mean she really is a--" He stopped and brought his tenor voice to a squeaking halt, regained his professional poise, and began again. "I'd rather not discuss the patient in her presence, Mr. Malone," he said. "If you'll just come into my office--"

      "Oh, bosh, Dr. Harman," the little old lady said primly. "I do wish you'd give your own Queen credit for some ability. Goodness knows you think you're smart enough."

      "Now, now, Miss Thompson," he said in what was obviously his best Grade A Choice Government Inspected couchside manner. "Don't--"

      "--upset yourself," she finished for him. "Now, really, Doctor. I know what you're going to tell them."

      "But Miss Thompson, I--"

      "You didn't honestly think I was a telepath," the little old lady said. "Heavens, we know that. And you're going to tell them how I used to say I could read minds--oh, years and years ago. And because of that you thought it might be worthwhile to tell the FBI about me-- which wasn't very kind of you, Doctor, before you know anything about why they wanted somebody like me."

      "Now, now, Miss Thompson," Miss Wilson said, walking across the room to put an arm around the little old lady's shoulder. Malone wished for one brief second that he were the little old lady. Maybe if he were a patient in the hospital he would get the same treatment.

      He wondered if he could possibly work such a deal.

      Then he wondered if it would be worthwhile, being nuts. But of course it would. He was nuts anyhow, wasn't he?

      Sure, he told himself. They were all nuts.

      "Nobody's going to hurt you," Miss Wilson said. She was talking to the old lady. "You'll be perfectly all right and you don't have to worry about a thing."

      "Oh, yes, dear, I know that," the little old lady said. "You only want to help me, dear. You're so kind. And these FBI men really don't mean any harm. But Doctor Harman didn't know that. He just thinks I'm crazy and that's all."

      "Please, Miss Thompson--" Dr. Harman began.

      "Just crazy, that's all," the little old lady said. She turned away for a second and nobody said anything.

      Then she turned back. "Do you all know what he's thinking now?" she said. Dr. Harman turned a dull purple, but she ignored him. "He's wondering why I didn't take the trouble to prove all this to you years ago. And besides that, he's thinking about--"

      "Miss Thompson," Dr. Harman said. His bedside manner had cracked through and his voice was harsh and strained. "Please."

      "Oh, all right," she said, a little petulantly. "If you want to keep all that private."

      Malone broke in suddenly, fascinated. "Why didn't you prove you were telepathic before now?" he said.

      The little old lady smiled at him. "Why, because you wouldn't have believed me," she said. She dropped her knitting neatly in her lap and folded her hands over it. '"None of you wanted to believe me," she said, and sniffed. Miss Wilson moved nervously and she looked up. "And don't tell me it's going to be all right. I know it's going to be all right. I'm going to make sure of that."

      Malone felt a sudden chill. But it was obvious, he told himself, that the little old lady didn't mean what she was saying. She smiled at him again, and her smile was as sweet and guileless as the smile on the face of his very own sainted grandmother.

      Not that Malone remembered his grandmother; she had died before he'd been born. But if he'd had a grandmother, and if he'd remembered her, he was sure she would have had the same sweet smile.

      So she couldn't have meant what she'd said. Would Malone's own grandmother make things difficult for him? The very idea was ridiculous.

      Dr. Harman opened his mouth, apparently changed his mind, and shut it again. The little old lady turned to him.

      "Were you going to ask why I bothered to prove anything to Mr. Malone?" she said. "Of course you were, and I shall tell you. It's because Mr. Malone wanted to believe me. He wants me. He needs me. I'm a telepath, and that's enough for Mr. Malone. Isn't it?"

      "Gur," Malone said, taken by surprise. After a second he added: "I guess so."

      "You see, Doctor?" the little old lady said.

      "But you--" Dr. Harman began.

      "I read minds," the little old lady said. "That's right, Doctor. That's what makes me a telepath."

      Malone's brain was whirling rapidly, like a distant galaxy. Telepath was a nice word, he thought. How do you telepath from a road?

      Simple.

      The road is paved.

      Malone thought that was pretty funny, but he didn't laugh. He thought he would never laugh again. He wanted to cry, a little, but he didn't think he'd be able to manage that either.

      He twisted his hat, but it didn't make him feel any better. Gradually, he became aware that the little old lady was talking to Dr. Harman again.

      "But," she said, "since it will make you feel so much better, Doctor, we give you our Royal permission to retire, and to speak to Mr. Malone alone."

      "Malone