covered, was spinning slightly. "Now," he
said, "you're sure he's not a spy?"

"Certainly I'm sure," she said, with her most regal tones. "Do you
doubt the word of your sovereign?"

"Not exactly," Malone said. Truthfully, he wasn't at all sure. Not at
all. But why tell that to the Queen?

"Shame on you," she said. "You shouldn't even think such things. After
all, I am the Queen, aren't I?" But there was a sweet, gentle smile on
her face when she spoke; she didn't seem to be really irritated.

"Sure you are," Malone said. "But--"

"Malone!" It was Burris' voice, from the phone. Malone spun around.
"Take Mr. Logan," Burris said, "and get going. There's been enough
delay as it is."

"Yes, sir," Malone said. "Right away, sir. Anything else?"

"That's all," Burris said. "Good night." The screen blanked.

There was a little silence.

"All right, Doctor," Boyd said. He looked every inch a king, and
Malone knew exactly what king. "Bring him out."

Dr. Dowson heaved a great sigh. "Very well," he said heavily. "But I
want it known that I resent this highhanded treatment, and I shall
write a letter complaining of it." He pressed a button on an
instrument panel in his desk. "Bring Mr. Logan in," he said.

Malone wasn't in the least worried about the letter. Burris, he knew,
would take care of anything like that. And, besides, he had other
things to think about.

The door to the next room had opened almost immediately, and two
husky, white-clad men were bringing in a strait-jacketed figure whose
arms were wrapped against his chest, while the jacket's extra-long
sleeves were tied behind his back. He walked where the attendants led
him, but his eyes weren't looking at anything in the room. They stared
at something far away and invisible, an impalpable shifting
nothingness somewhere in the infinite distances beyond the world.

For the first time, Malone felt the chill of panic. Here, he thought,
was insanity of a very real and frightening kind. Queen Elizabeth
Thompson was one thing--and she was almost funny, and likeable, after
all. But William Logan was something else, and something that sent a
wave of cold shivering into the room.

What made it worse was that Logan wasn't a man, but a boy, barely
nineteen. Malone had known that, of course--but seeing it was
something different. The lanky, awkward figure wrapped in a hospital
strait-jacket was horrible, and the smooth, unconcerned face was,
somehow, worse. There was