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

ridiculous.

      So Burris wasn't the spy. And Her Majesty had made a mistake when she'd said....

      "Wait a minute," Malone told himself suddenly.

      Had she?

      Maybe, after all, you could have it both ways. The thought occurred to him with a startling suddenness and he stood silent upon a peak in Yucca Flats, contemplating it. A second went by.

      And then something Burris himself had said came back to him, something that--

      "I'll be damned," he muttered.

      He came to a dead stop in the middle of the street. In one sudden flash of insight, all the pieces of the case he'd been looking at for so long fell together and formed one consistent picture. The pattern was complete.

      Malone blinked.

      In that second, he knew exactly who the spy was.

      A jeep honked raucously and swerved around him. The driver leaned out to curse and Malone waved at him, dimly recognizing a private eye he had once known, a middle-aged man named Archer. Wondering vaguely what Archer was doing this far East, and in a jeep at that, Malone watched the vehicle disappear down the street. There were more cars coming, but what difference did that make? Malone didn't care about cars. After all, he had the answer, the whole answer....

      "I'll be damned," he said again, abruptly, and wheeled around to head back to the offices.

      On the way, he stopped in at another small office, this one inhabited by the two FBI men from Las Vegas. He gave a series of quick orders, and got the satisfaction, as he left, of seeing one of the FBI men grabbing for a phone in a hurry.

      It was good to be doing things again, important things.

      Burris, Boyd and Dr. Gamble were still talking as Malone entered.

      "That," Burris said, "was one hell of a quick lunch. What's Her Majesty doing now--running a diner?"

      Malone ignored the bait, and drew himself to his full height. "Gentlemen," he said solemnly, "Her Majesty has asked that all of us attend her in audience. She has information of the utmost gravity to impart, and wishes this audience at once."

      Dr. Gamble made a puzzled, circular gesture with one hand. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Is something--"

      The hand dropped--"wrong?"

      Burris barely glanced at him. A startled expression came over his features. "Has she--" he began, and stopped, leaving his mouth open and the rest of the sentence unfinished.

      Malone nodded gravely and drew in a breath. Elizabethan periods were hard on the lungs, he had begun to realize: you needed a lot of air before you embarked on a sentence. "I believe, gentlemen," he said, "that Her Majesty is about to reveal the identity of the spy who has been battening on Project Isle."

      The silence lasted no more than three seconds. Dr. Gamble didn't even make a gesture during that time. Then Burris spoke.

      "Let's go," he snapped. He wheeled and headed for the door. The others promptly followed.

      "Gentlemen!" Malone said, sounding, as far as he could tell, properly shocked and offended. "Your dress!"

      "What?" Dr. Gamble said, throwing up both hands.

      "Oh, no," Boyd chimed in. "Not now."

      Burris simply said: "You're quite right. Get dressed, Boyd--I mean, of course, Sir Thomas."

      While they were dressing, Malone put in a call to Dr. O'Connor's office. The scientist was as frosty as ever.

      "Yes, Mr. Malone?" The sound of that voice, Malone reflected, was enough to give anybody double revolving pneumonia with knobs on.

      "Dr. O'Connor," he said, "Her Majesty wants you in her court in ten minutes--and in full court dress."

      O'Connor merely sighed, like Boreas. "What is this," he asked, "more tomfoolery?"

      "I really couldn't say," Malone told him coyly. "But I'd advise you to be there. It might interest you."

      "Interest me?" O'Connor stormed. "I've got work to do here--important work. You simply do not realize, Mr. Malone--"

      "Whatever I realize," Malone cut in, feeling brave, "I'm passing on orders from Her Majesty."

      "That insane woman," O'Connor stated flatly, "is not going to order me about. Good Lord, do you know what you're saying?"

      Malone nodded. "I certainly do," he said cheerfully. "If you'd rather, I can have the orders backed up by the United States Government. But that won't be necessary, will it?"

      "The United States Government," O'Connor said, thawing perceptibly about the edges, "ought to allow a man to do his proper work, and not force him to go chasing off after the latest whims of some insane old lady."

      "You will be there, now, won't you?" Malone asked. His own voice reminded him of something, and in a second he had it: the cooing, gentle persuasion of Dr. Andrew Blake of Rice Pavilion, who had locked Malone in a padded cell. It was the voice of a man talking to a mental case.

      It sounded remarkably apt. Dr. O'Connor went slightly purple, but controlled himself magnificently. "I'll be there," he said.

      "Good," Malone told him, and snapped the phone off.

      Then he put in a second call to the psychiatrists from St. Elizabeths and told them the same thing. More used to the strange demands of neurotic and psychotic patients, they were readier to comply.

      Everyone, Malone realized with satisfaction, was now assembling. Burris and the others were ready to go, sparklingly dressed and looking impatient. Malone put down the phone and took one great breath of relief.

      Then, beaming, he led the others out.

      * * * * *

      Ten minutes later, there were nine men in Elizabethan costume standing outside the room which had been designated as the Queen's Court. Dr. Gamble's costume did not quite fit him; his sleeve-ruffs were half way up to his elbows and his doublet had an unfortunate tendency to creep. The St. Elizabeths men, all four of them, looked just a little like moth-eaten versions of old silent pictures. Malone looked them over with a somewhat sardonic eye. Not only did he have the answer to the whole problem that had been plaguing them, but his costume was a stunning, perfect fit.

      "Now, I want you men to let me handle this," Malone said. "I know just what I want to say, and I think I can get the information without too much trouble."

      One of the psychiatrists spoke up. "I trust you won't disturb the patient, Mr. Malone," he said.

      "Sir Kenneth," Malone snapped.

      The psychiatrist looked both abashed and worried. "I'm sorry," he said doubtfully.

      Malone nodded. "That's all right," he said. "I'll try not to disturb Her Majesty unduly."

      The psychiatrists conferred. When they came out of the huddle one of them--Malone was never able to tell them apart--said: "Very well, we'll let you handle it. But we will be forced to interfere if we feel you're--ah--going too far."

      Malone said: "That's fair enough, gentlemen. Let's go."

      He opened the door.

      It was a magnificent room. The whole place had been done over in plastic and synthetic fibers to look like something out of the Sixteenth Century. It was as garish, and as perfect, as a Hollywood movie set--which wasn't surprising, since two stage designers had been hired away from color-TV spectaculars to set it up. At the far end of the room, past the rich hangings and the flaming chandeliers, was a great throne, and on it Her Majesty was seated. Lady Barbara reclined on the steps at her feet.

      Malone saw the expression on Her Majesty's face. He wanted to talk to Barbara--but there wasn't time. Later, there might be. Now, he collected his mind and drove one thought at the Queen, one single powerful thought:

      Read me! You know by this time that I have the truth--but