hout much trouble. There was only one
thing for him to do. He pulled out his .44, ejected the remaining
cartridge in his palm--and reminded himself to reload the gun as soon as
he got it back--and handed the weapon to the Queen, butt foremost.

She took the butt of the revolver in her right hand, leaned out the
window of the car, and said in a fine, distinct voice: "Kneel, Andrew."

Malone watched with wide, astonished eyes as Andrew J. Burris, Director
of the FBI, went to one knee in a low and solemn genuflection. Queen
Elizabeth Thompson nodded her satisfaction.

She tapped Burris gently on each shoulder with the muzzle of the gun. "I
knight thee Sir Andrew," she said. She cleared her throat. "My, this
desert air is dry--Rise, Sir Andrew, and know that you are henceforth
Knight Commander of the Queen's Own FBI."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Burris said humbly.

He rose to his feet silently. The Queen withdrew into the car again and
handed the gun back to Malone. He thumbed cartridges into the chambers
of the cylinder and listened dumbly.

"Your Majesty," Burris said, "this is Dr. Harry Gamble, the head of
Project Isle. Dr. Gamble, this is Her Majesty the Queen; Lady Barbara
Wilson, her ... uh ... her lady in waiting; Sir Kenneth Malone; and King
... I mean Sir Thomas Boyd." He gave the four a single bright impartial
smile. Then he tore his eyes away from the others, and bent his gaze on
Sir Kenneth Malone. "Come over here a minute, Malone," he said, jerking
his thumb over his shoulder. "I want to talk to you."

* * * * *

Malone climbed out of the car and went around to meet Burris. He felt
just a little worried as he followed the Director away from the car.
True, he had sent Burris a long telegram the night before, in code. But
he hadn't expected the man to show up at Yucca Flats. There didn't seem
to be any reason for it.

And when there isn't any reason, Malone told himself sagely, it's a bad
one.

"What's the trouble, chief?" he asked.

Burris sighed. "None so far," he said quietly. "I got a report from the
Nevada State Patrol, and ran it through R&I. They identified the men you
killed, all right--but it didn't do us any good. They're hired hoods."

"Who hired them?" Malone said.

Burris shrugged. "Somebody with money," he said. "Hell, men like that
would kill their own grandmothers if the price were right--you know
that. We can't trace them back any farther."

Malone