bsolute idiot of myself. When that other car--tried to get us."

"Don't worry about it," Malone said. "It was nothing."

"I just--made trouble for you," Barbara said.

Her Majesty touched the girl on the shoulder. "He's not thinking about
the trouble you cause him," she said quietly.

"Of course I'm not," Malone told her. "But I--"

"My dear girl," Her Majesty said, "I believe that Sir Kenneth is, at
least partly, in love with you."

Malone blinked. It was perfectly true--even if he hadn't quite known
it himself until now. Telepaths, he was discovering, were occasionally
handy things to have around.

"In... love...." Barbara said.

"And you, my dear--" Her Majesty began.

"Please, Your Majesty," Lady Barbara said. "No more. Not just now."

The Queen smiled, almost to herself. "Certainly, dear," she said.

The car sped on. In the distance, Malone could see the blot on the
desert that indicated the broad expanse of Yucca Flats Labs. Just the
fact that it could be seen, he knew, didn't mean an awful lot. Malone
had been able to see it for the past fifteen minutes, and it didn't
look as if they'd gained an inch on it. Desert distances are
deceptive.

At long last, however, the main gate of the laboratories hove into
view. Boyd made a left turn off the highway and drove a full seven
miles along the restricted road, right up to the big gate that marked
the entrance of the laboratories themselves. Once again, they were
faced with the army of suspicious guards and security officers.

This time, suspicion was somewhat heightened by the dress of the
visitors. Malone had to explain about six times that the costumes were
part of an FBI arrangement, that he had not stolen his identity cards,
that Boyd's cards were Boyd's, too, and in general that the four of
them were not insane, not spies, and not jokesters out for a lark in
the sunshine.

Malone had expected all of that. He went through the rigmarole
wearily but without any sense of surprise. The one thing he hadn't
been expecting was the man who was waiting for him on the other side
of the gate.

When he'd finished identifying everybody for the fifth or sixth time,
he began to climb back into the car. A familiar voice stopped him
cold.

"Just a minute, Malone," Andrew J. Burris said. He erupted from the
guardhouse like an avenging angel, followed closely by a thin man,
about five feet ten inches in height, with brush-cut brown hair, round
horn-rimmed spectacl