hen I regain
my rightful kingdom--deny you your dukedom, but I shall refuse to
cooperate any further in the business of Project Isle."

Malone turned cold. His face, he knew without glancing in the mirror,
was white and pale. He thought of what Burris would do to him if he
didn't follow through on his assigned job.

Even if he wasn't as good as Burris thought he was, he really liked
being an FBI agent. He didn't want to be fired.

And Burris had said: _"Give her anything she wants."_

He gulped and tried to make his face look normal. "All right," he
said. "Fine. We'll go to the Palace."

He tried to ignore the pall of apprehension that fell over the car.

6

The management of the Golden Palace had been in business for many
long, dreary, profitable years, and each member of the staff thought
he or she had seen just about everything there was to be seen. And
those that were new felt an obligation to _look_ as if they'd seen
everything.

Therefore, when the entourage of Queen Elizabeth I strolled into the
main salon, not a single eye was batted. Not a single gasp was heard.

Nevertheless, the staff kept a discreet eye on the crew. Drunks, rich
men or Arabian millionaires were all familiar. But a group out of the
Sixteenth Century was something else again.

Malone almost strutted, conscious of the sidelong glances the group
was drawing. But it was obvious that Sir Thomas was the major
attraction. Even if you could accept the idea of people in strange
costumes, the sight of a living, breathing absolute duplicate of King
Henry VIII was a little too much to take. It has been reported that
two ladies named Jane, and one named Catherine, came down with sudden
headaches and left the salon within five minutes of the group's
arrival.

Malone felt he knew, however, why he wasn't drawing his full share of
attention. He felt a little out of place.

The costume was one thing, and, to tell the truth, he was beginning to
enjoy it. Even with the weight of the stuff, it was going to be a
wrench to go back to single-breasted suits and plain white shirts. But
he did feel that he should have been carrying a sword.

Instead, he had a .44 Magnum Colt snuggled beneath his left armpit.

Somehow, a .44 Magnum Colt didn't seem as romantic as a sword. Malone
pictured himself saying: "Take that, varlet." Was varlet what you
called them, he wondered. Maybe it was valet.

"Take that, valet," he mut