don't blame me."
"If you get anywhere," Malone said, "I'll snatch you baldheaded. AndI'll leave the beard."
"I didn't mean with Miss Wilson, Ken," Boyd said. "I meant ingeneral." 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 thescaffold or guillotine.
The door closed.
Now, Malone thought, who does that beard remind me of? Who do I knowwho knows Miss Thompson?
And what difference does it make?
Nevertheless, he told himself, Boyd's beard (Beard's boyd?) was reallyan admirable fact of nature. Ever since beards had become popularagain in the mid-sixties, and FBI agents had been permitted to wearthem, Malone had thought about growing one. But, somehow, it didn'tseem 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 EdgeSanatorium?"
* * * * *
The crimson blob of the setting sun was already painting the desertsky with its customary purples and oranges by the time the littlecaravan arrived at the Desert Edge Sanatorium, a square white buildingseveral miles out of Las Vegas. Malone, in the first car, wonderedbriefly about the kind of patients they catered to. People driven madby vingt-et-un or poker-dice? Neurotic chorus ponies? Gambling czarswith delusions of non-persecution?
Sitting in the front seat next to Boyd, he watched the unhappy SanFrancisco agent manipulating the wheel. In the back seat, QueenElizabeth Thompson and Lady Barbara, the nurse, were located, and HerMajesty was chattering away like a magpie.
Malone eyed the rearview mirror to get a look at the car followingthem and the two local FBI agents in it. They were, he thought,unbelievably lucky. He had to sit and listen to the Royal Personage inthe back seat.
"Of course, as soon as Parliament convenes and recognizes me," she wassaying, "I shall confer personages on all of you. Right now, the bestI 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 likebeing Duke of Columbia--and wouldn't the President be surprised!
"And Sir Thomas," the Queen continued, "will be the Duke of--what? SirThomas?"
"Yes, Your Majesty?" Boyd said, trying to sound both eager andproperly respectful.
"What would you like to be Duke of?" she said.
"Oh," Boyd said after a second's thought, "anything that pleases YourMajesty." But apparently, his thoughts gave him away.
"You're from upstate New York?" the Queen said. "How very nice. Thenyou must be made the Duke of Poughkeepsie."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Boyd said. Malone thought he detected anote of pride in the man's voice, and shot a glance at Boyd, but theagent 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 fellfrom his cap kept tickling his neck, and he brushed at it withoutsuccess.
All four of the inhabitants of the car were dressed in late SixteenthCentury costumes, complete with ruffs and velvet and lace filigree.Her Majesty and Lady Barbara were wearing the full skirts and smallskullcaps of the era (and on Barbara, Malone thought privately, thelow-cut gowns didn't look at all disappointing), and Sir Thomas andMalone (Sir Kenneth, he thought sourly) were clad in doublet, hose andlong coats with fur trim and slashed sleeves. And all of them wereloaded down, weighted down, staggeringly, with gems.
Naturally, the gems were fake. But then, Malone thought, the Queen wasmad. It all balanced out in the end.
As they approached the sanitarium, Malone breathed a thankful prayerthat he'd called up to tell the head physician how they'd all bedressed. If he hadn't....
He didn't want to think about that.
He didn't even want to pass it by hurriedly on a dark night.
The head physician, Dr. Frederic Dowson, was waiting for them on thesteps of the building. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking manwith almost no hair and very deep-sunken eyes. He had the kind of facethat 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 thefront seat, opened the rear door, doffed his plumed hat, and in onelow sweep made a great bow. "We are here, Your Majesty," Boyd said.
Her Majesty got out, clutching at her voluminous skirts in a worriedmanner, to keep from catching them on the door-jamb. "You know, SirThomas," she said when she was standing free of the car, "I think wemust be related."
"Ah?" Boyd said worriedly.
"I'm certain of it, in fact," Her Majesty went on. "You look justexactly like my poor father. Just exactly. I dare say you come fromone 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 lookingpuzzled, then distantly angered. Nobody had ever called himillegitimate in just that way before.
But Her Majesty was absolutely right, Malone thought. The agent hadalways 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 forHenry VIII.
Malone went up the steps to where Dr. Dowson was standing.
"I'm Malone," he said, checking a tendency to bow. "I called earliertoday. Is this William Logan of yours ready to go? We can take himback 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 agentsbegan emptying itself over the hospital grounds.
The entire procession filed into the hospital office, the two localagents following up the rear. Since they were not a part of HerMajesty's personal retinue, they had not been required to wear courtcostumes. In a way, Malone was beginning to feel sorry for them. Hehimself cut a nice figure in the outfit, he thought--rather like ErrolFlynn in the old black-and-white print of _The Prince and the Pauper_.
But there was no denying that the procession looked strange. Fileclerks and receptionists stopped their work to gape at the fourbedizened walkers and their plainly dressed satellites. Malone neededno telepathic talent to tell what they were thinking.
"A whole roundup of nuts," they were thinking. "And those two fellowsin the back must be bringing them in--along with Dr. Dowson."
Malone straightened his spine. Really, he didn't see why Elizabethancostumes 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 handstogether. "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, butlet me tell you--"
"It wasn't like that at all," Boyd said.
"And," Dr. Dowson continued in a somewhat louder voice, "wanting totake 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. TheElizabethan clothes were fine outdoors, but in a heated room one had atendency to sweat.
"I take leave to doubt that," Dr. Dowson said, eyeing their costumespointedly.
"Miss Wilson here," Malone volunteered, "is a trained psychiatricnurse."
Barbara, in her gown, stepped forward. "Dr. Dowson," she said, "l
et meassure you that these costumes have their purpose. We--"
"Not only that," Malone said. "There are a group of trained men fromSt. Elizabeths Hospital in Washington who are going to take the bestof care of him." He said nothing whatever about Yucca Flats, or abouttelepathy.
Why spread around information unnecessarily?
"But I don't understand," Dr. Dowson said. "What interest could theFBI have in an insane man?"
"That's none of your business," Malone said. He reached inside hisfur-trimmed robe and, again suppressing a tendency to bow deeply,withdrew an impressive-looking legal document.