ation isn't getting into
Soviet hands, we're safe." He glanced at his wrist watch.

Dr. Gamble said: "But--"

"My, my," Malone said. "Almost lunchtime. I have to go over and have
lunch with Her Majesty. Maybe she's dug up something more."

"I hope so," Dr. Gamble said, apparently successfully deflected. "I do
hope so."

[Illustration: "One more crack out of you...."]

"Well," Malone said, "pardon me." He shucked off his coat and trousers.
Then he proceeded to put on the doublet and hose that hung in the little
office closet. He shrugged into the fur-trimmed, slash-sleeved coat,
adjusted the plumed hat to his satisfaction with great care, and gave
Burris and the others a small bow. "I go to an audience with Her
Majesty, gentlemen," he said in a grave, well-modulated voice. "I shall
return anon."

He went out the door and closed it carefully behind him. When he had
gone a few steps he allowed himself the luxury of a deep sigh.

* * * * *

Then he went outside and across the dusty street to the barracks where
Her Majesty and the other telepaths were housed. No one paid any
attention to him, and he rather missed the stares he'd become used to
drawing. But by now, everyone was used to seeing Elizabethan clothing.
Her Majesty had arrived at a new plateau.

She would now allow no one to have audience with her unless he was
properly dressed. Even the psychiatrists--whom she had, with a careful
sense of meiosis, appointed Physicians to the Royal House--had to wear
the stuff.

Malone went over the whole case in his mind--for about the thousandth
time, he told himself bitterly.

Who could the telepathic spy be? It was like looking for a needle in a
rolling stone, he thought. Or something. He did remember clearly that a
stitch in time saved nine, but he didn't know nine what, and suspected
it had nothing to do with his present problem.

How about Dr. Harry Gamble, Malone thought. It seemed a little unlikely
that the head of Project Isle would be spying on his own
men--particularly since he already had all the information. But, on the
other hand, he was just as probable a spy as anybody else.

Malone moved onward. Dr. Thomas O'Connor, the Westinghouse psionics man,
was the next nominee. Before Malone had actually found Her Majesty, he
had had a suspicion that O'Connor had cooked the whole thing up to throw
the FBI off the trail and confuse everybody, and that he'd intended
merely to ha