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

him, the door opened. Malone turned as Boyd came in.

      "I found a costume shop, Ken," he said.

      "Great," Malone said. "The Chief authorized it."

      "He did?" Boyd's round face fell at the news.

      "He said to buy her whatever she wants. He says to treat her like a Queen."

      "That," Boyd said, "we're doing now."

      "I know it," Malone said. "I know it altogether too well."

      "Anyhow," Boyd said, brightening, "the costume shop doesn't do us any good. They've only got cowboy stuff and bullfighters' costumes and Mexican stuff--you know, for their Helldorado Week here."

      "You didn't give up, did you?" Malone said.

      Boyd shook his head. "Of course not," he said. "Ken: this is on the expense account, isn't it?"

      "Expense account," Malone said. "Sure it is."

      Boyd looked relieved. "Good," he said. "Because I had the proprietor phone her size in, to New York."

      "Better get two of 'em," Malone said. "The Chief said anything she wanted, she was supposed to have."

      "I'll go back right away. I told him we wanted the stuff on the afternoon plane, so--"

      "And give him Bar--Miss Wilson's size, and yours, and mine. Tell him to dig up something appropriate."

      "For us?" Boyd blanched visibly. "For us," Malone said grimly.

      Boyd set his jaw. "No," he said.

      "Listen, Tom," Malone said, "I don't like this any better than you do. But if I can't resign, you can't either. Costumes for everybody."

      "But," Boyd said, and stopped. After a second he went on: "Malone-- Ken--FBI agents are supposed to be inconspicuous, aren't they?"

      Malone nodded.

      "Well, how inconspicuous are we going to be in this stuff?"

      "It's an idea," Malone said. "But it isn't a very good one. Our first job is to keep Miss Thompson happy. And that means costumes."

      Boyd said: "My God."

      "And what's more," Malone added, "from now on she's 'Your Majesty.' Got that?"

      "Ken," Boyd said, "you've gone nuts."

      Malone shook his head. "No, I haven't," he said. "I just wish I had. It would be a relief."

      "Me too," Boyd said. He started for the door and turned. "I wish I could have stayed in San Francisco," he said. "Why should she insist on taking me along?"

      "The beard," Malone said. "My beard?" Boyd recoiled.

      "Right," Malone said. "She says it reminds her of someone she knows. Frankly, it reminds me of someone, too. Only I don't know who."

      Boyd gulped. "I'll shave it off," he said, with the air of a man who can do no more to propitiate the Gods.

      "You will not," Malone said firmly. "Touch but a hair of yon black chin, and I'll peel off your entire skin."

      Boyd winced.

      "Now," Malone said, "go back to that costume shop and arrange things. Here." He fished in his pockets and came out with a crumpled slip of paper and handed it to Boyd. "That's a list of my clothing sizes. Get another list from B--Miss Wilson." Boyd nodded. Malone thought he detected a strange glint in the other man's eye. "Don't measure her yourself," he said. "Just ask her."

      Boyd scratched his bearded chin and nodded slowly. "All right, Ken," he said. "But if we just don't get anywhere, don't blame me."

      "If you get anywhere," Malone said, "I'll snatch you baldheaded. And I'll leave the beard."

      "I didn't mean with Miss Wilson, Ken," Boyd said. "I meant in general." He left, with the air of a man whose world has betrayed him. His back looked, to Malone, like the back of a man on his way to the scaffold or guillotine.

      The door closed.

      Now, Malone thought, who does that beard remind me of? Who do I know who knows Miss Thompson?

      And what difference does it make?

      Nevertheless, he told himself, Boyd's beard (Beard's boyd?) was really an admirable fact of nature. Ever since beards had become popular again in the mid-sixties, and FBI agents had been permitted to wear them, Malone had thought about growing one. But, somehow, it didn't seem right.

      Now, looking at Boyd, he began to think about the prospect again.

      He shrugged the notion away. There were things to do.

      He picked up the phone and called Information.

      "Can you give me," he said, "the number of the Desert Edge Sanatorium?"

      * * * * *

      The crimson blob of the setting sun was already painting the desert sky with its customary purples and oranges by the time the little caravan arrived at the Desert Edge Sanatorium, a square white building several miles out of Las Vegas. Malone, in the first car, wondered briefly about the kind of patients they catered to. People driven mad by vingt-et-un or poker-dice? Neurotic chorus ponies? Gambling czars with delusions of non-persecution?

      Sitting in the front seat next to Boyd, he watched the unhappy San Francisco agent manipulating the wheel. In the back seat, Queen Elizabeth Thompson and Lady Barbara, the nurse, were located, and Her Majesty was chattering away like a magpie.

      Malone eyed the rearview mirror to get a look at the car following them and the two local FBI agents in it. They were, he thought, unbelievably lucky. He had to sit and listen to the Royal Personage in the back seat.

      "Of course, as soon as Parliament convenes and recognizes me," she was saying, "I shall confer personages on all of you. Right now, the best I could do was to knight you all, and of course that's hardly enough. But I think I shall make Sir Kenneth the Duke of Columbia."

      Sir Kenneth, Malone realized, was himself. He wondered how he'd like being Duke of Columbia--and wouldn't the President be surprised!

      "And Sir Thomas," the Queen continued, "will be the Duke of--what? Sir Thomas?"

      "Yes, Your Majesty?" Boyd said, trying to sound both eager and properly respectful.

      "What would you like to be Duke of?" she said.

      "Oh," Boyd said after a second's thought, "anything that pleases Your Majesty." But apparently, his thoughts gave him away.

      "You're from upstate New York?" the Queen said. "How very nice. Then you must be made the Duke of Poughkeepsie."

      "Thank you, Your Majesty," Boyd said. Malone thought he detected a note of pride in the man's voice, and shot a glance at Boyd, but the agent was driving with a serene face and an economy of motion.

      Duke of Poughkeepsie! Malone thought. Hah!

      He leaned back and adjusted his fur-trimmed coat. The plume that fell from his cap kept tickling his neck, and he brushed at it without success.

      All four of the inhabitants of the car were dressed in late Sixteenth Century costumes, complete with ruffs and velvet and lace filigree. Her Majesty and Lady Barbara were wearing the full skirts and small skullcaps of the era (and on Barbara, Malone thought privately, the low-cut gowns didn't look at all disappointing), and Sir Thomas and Malone (Sir Kenneth, he thought sourly) were clad in doublet, hose and long coats with fur trim and slashed sleeves. And all of them were loaded down, weighted down, staggeringly, with gems.

      Naturally, the gems were fake. But then, Malone thought, the Queen was mad. It all balanced out in the end.

      As they approached the sanitarium, Malone breathed a thankful prayer that he'd called up to tell the head physician how they'd all be dressed. If he hadn't....

      He didn't want to think about that.

      He didn't even want to pass it by hurriedly