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

on a dark night.

      The head physician, Dr. Frederic Dowson, was waiting for them on the steps of the building. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man with almost no hair and very deep-sunken eyes. He had the kind of face that a gushing female would probably describe, Malone thought, as "craggy," but it didn't look in the least attractive to Malone. Instead, it looked tough and forbidding.

      He didn't turn a hair as the magnificently robed Boyd slid from the front seat, opened the rear door, doffed his plumed hat, and in one low sweep made a great bow. "We are here, Your Majesty," Boyd said.

      Her Majesty got out, clutching at her voluminous skirts in a worried manner, to keep from catching them on the door-jamb. "You know, Sir Thomas," she said when she was standing free of the car, "I think we must be related."

      "Ah?" Boyd said worriedly.

      "I'm certain of it, in fact," Her Majesty went on. "You look just exactly like my poor father. Just exactly. I dare say you come from one of the sinister branches of the family. Perhaps you are a half- brother of mine--removed, of course."

      Malone grinned, and tried to hide the expression. Boyd was looking puzzled, then distantly angered. Nobody had ever called him illegitimate in just that way before.

      But Her Majesty was absolutely right, Malone thought. The agent had always reminded him of someone, and now, at last, he knew exactly who. The hair hadn't been black, either, but red.

      Boyd was, in Elizabethan costume, the deadest of dead ringers for Henry VIII.

      Malone went up the steps to where Dr. Dowson was standing.

      "I'm Malone," he said, checking a tendency to bow. "I called earlier today. Is this William Logan of yours ready to go? We can take him back with us in the second car."

      Dr. Dowson compressed his lips and looked worried. "Come in, Mr. Malone," he said. He turned just as the second carload of FBI agents began emptying itself over the hospital grounds.

      The entire procession filed into the hospital office, the two local agents following up the rear. Since they were not a part of Her Majesty's personal retinue, they had not been required to wear court costumes. In a way, Malone was beginning to feel sorry for them. He himself cut a nice figure in the outfit, he thought--rather like Errol Flynn in the old black-and-white print of The Prince and the Pauper.

      But there was no denying that the procession looked strange. File clerks and receptionists stopped their work to gape at the four bedizened walkers and their plainly dressed satellites. Malone needed no telepathic talent to tell what they were thinking.

      "A whole roundup of nuts," they were thinking. "And those two fellows in the back must be bringing them in--along with Dr. Dowson."

      Malone straightened his spine. Really, he didn't see why Elizabethan costumes had ever gone out of style. Elizabeth was back, wasn't she-- either Elizabeth II, on the throne, or Elizabeth I, right behind him. Either way you looked at it....

      When they were all inside the waiting room, Dr. Dowson said: "Now, Mr. Malone, just what is all this about?" He rubbed his long hands together. "I fail to see the humor of the situation."

      "Humor?" Malone said.

      "Doctor," Barbara Wilson began, "let me explain. You see--"

      "These ridiculous costumes," Dr. Dowson said, waving a hand at them. "You may feel that poking fun at insanity is humorous, Mr. Malone, but let me tell you--"

      "It wasn't like that at all," Boyd said.

      "And," Dr. Dowson continued in a somewhat louder voice, "wanting to take Mr. Logan away from us. Mr. Logan is a very sick man, Mr. Malone. He should be properly cared for."

      "I promise we'll take good care of him," Malone said earnestly. The Elizabethan clothes were fine outdoors, but in a heated room one had a tendency to sweat.

      "I take leave to doubt that," Dr. Dowson said, eyeing their costumes pointedly.

      "Miss Wilson here," Malone volunteered, "is a trained psychiatric nurse."

      Barbara, in her gown, stepped forward. "Dr. Dowson," she said, "let me assure you that these costumes have their purpose. We--"

      "Not only that," Malone said. "There are a group of trained men from St. Elizabeths Hospital in Washington who are going to take the best of care of him." He said nothing whatever about Yucca Flats, or about telepathy.

      Why spread around information unnecessarily?

      "But I don't understand," Dr. Dowson said. "What interest could the FBI have in an insane man?"

      "That's none of your business," Malone said. He reached inside his fur-trimmed robe and, again suppressing a tendency to bow deeply, withdrew an impressive-looking legal document. "This," he said, "is a court order, instructing you to hand over to us the person of one William Logan, herein identified and described." He waved it at the Doctor.

      "That's your William Logan," he said, "only now he's ours."

      Dr. Dowson took the papers and put in some time frowning at them. Then he looked up again at Malone. "I assume that I have some discretion in this matter," he said. "And I wonder if you realize just how ill Mr. Logan is? We have his case histories here, and we have worked with him for some time."

      Barbara Wilson said: "But--"

      "I might say that we are beginning to understand his illness," Dr. Dowson said. "I honestly don't think it would be proper to transfer this work to another group of therapists. It might set his illness back--cause, as it were, a relapse. All our work could easily be nullified."

      "Please, Doctor," Barbara Wilson began.

      "I'm afraid the court order's got to stand," Malone said. Privately, he felt sorry for Dr. Dowson, who was, obviously enough, a conscientious man trying to do the best he could for his patient. But-

      "I'm sorry, Dr. Dowson," he said. "We'll expect that you send all of your data to the government psychiatrists--and, naturally, any concern for the patient's welfare will be our concern also. The FBI isn't anxious for its workers to get the reputation of careless men." He paused, wondering what other bone he could throw the man. "I have no doubt that the St. Elizabeth's men will be happy to accept your cooperation," he said at last. "But, I'm afraid that our duty is clear. William Logan goes with us."

      Dr. Dowson looked at them sourly. "Does he have to get dressed up like a masquerade, too?" Before Malone could answer, the psychiatrist added: "Anyhow, I don't even know you're FBI men. After all, why should I comply with orders from a group of men, dressed insanely, whom I don't even know?"

      Malone didn't say anything. He just got up and walked to a phone on a small table, near the wall. Next to it was a door, and Malone wondered uncomfortably what was behind it. Maybe Dr. Dowson had a small arsenal there, to protect his patients and prevent people from pirating them.

      He looked back at the set and dialed Burris' private number in Washington. When the Director's face appeared on the screen, Malone said: "Mr. Burris, will you please identify me to Dr. Dowson?" He looked over at Dowson. "You recognize Mr. Andrew J. Burris, I suppose?" he said.

      Dowson nodded. His grim face showed a faint shock. He walked to the phone, and Malone stepped back to let him talk with Burris.

      "My name is Dowson," he said. "I'm psychiatric director here at Desert Edge Sanatorium. And your men--"

      "My men have orders to take William Logan from your care," Burris said.

      "That's right," Dowson said. "But--"

      While they were talking, Queen Elizabeth I sidled quietly up to Malone and tapped him on the shoulder.

      "Sir Kenneth," she whispered in the faintest of voices, "I know where your telepathic spy is. And I know who he is."

      "Who?" Malone said. "What? Why? Where?" He blinked and whirled. It couldn't be true. They couldn't solve the case so easily.

      But the Queen's face was full of a majestic assurance. "He's right