as
I'm concerned, it's justifiable homicide. Self-defense. Any reason why
they'd want to kill you?"

Malone thought about the Golden Palace. That might be a reason--but it
might not. And why burden an innocent State Patrolman with the facts
of FBI life?

"Official," he said. "Your chief will get the report."

The Patrolman nodded. "I'll have to take a deposition tomorrow, but--"

"I know," Malone said. "Thanks. Can we go on to our hotel now?"

"I guess," the Patrolman said. "Go ahead. We'll take care of the rest
of this. You'll be getting a call later."

"Fine," Malone said. "Trace those hoods, and any connections they
might have had. Get the information to me as soon as possible."

Lieutenant Adams nodded. "You won't have to leave the state, will
you?" he asked. "I don't mean that you _can't_, exactly--hell, you're
FBI. But it'd be easier--"

"Call Burris in Washington," Malone said. "He can get hold of me--and
if the Governor wants to know where we are, or the State's Attorney,
put them in touch with Burris too. Okay?"

"Okay," Lieutenant Adams said. "Sure." He blinked at Malone. "Listen,"
he said. "About those costumes--"

"We're trying to catch Henry VIII for the murder of Anne Boleyn,"
Malone said with a polite smile. "Okay?"

"I was only asking," Lieutenant Adams said. "Can't blame a man for
asking, now, can you?"

Malone climbed into his front seat. "Call me later," he said. The car
started. "Back to the hotel, Sir Thomas," Malone said, and the car
roared off.

7

Yucca Flats, Malone thought, certainly deserved its name. It was about
as flat as land could get, and it contained millions upon millions of
useless yuccas. Perhaps they were good for something, Malone thought,
but they weren't good for _him_.

The place might, of course, have been called Cactus Flats, but the
cacti were neither as big nor as impressive as the yuccas.

Or was that yucci?

Possibly, Malone mused, it was simply yucks.

And whatever it was, there were millions of it. Malone felt he
couldn't stand the sight of another yucca. He was grateful for only
one thing.

It wasn't summer. If the Elizabethans had been forced to drive in
closed cars through the Nevada desert in the summertime, they might
have started a cult of nudity, Malone felt. It was bad enough now, in
what was supposed to be winter.

The sun was certainly bright enough, for one thing. It glared through
the cloudless s