ad begun to realize: you needed a lot of air
before you embarked on a sentence. "I believe, gentlemen," he said,
"that Her Majesty is about to reveal the identity of the spy who has
been battening on Project Isle."

The silence lasted no more than three seconds. Dr. Gamble didn't even
make a gesture during that time. Then Burris spoke.

"Let's go," he snapped. He wheeled and headed for the door. The others
promptly followed.

"Gentlemen!" Malone said, sounding, as far as he could tell, properly
shocked and offended. "Your dress!"

"What?" Dr. Gamble said, throwing up both hands.

"Oh, _no_," Boyd chimed in. "Not now."

Burris simply said: "You're quite right. Get dressed, Boyd--I mean, of
course, Sir Thomas."

While they were dressing, Malone put in a call to Dr. O'Connor's
office. The scientist was as frosty as ever.

"Yes, Mr. Malone?" The sound of that voice, Malone reflected, was
enough to give anybody double revolving pneumonia with knobs on.

"Dr. O'Connor," he said, "Her Majesty wants you in her court in ten
minutes--and in full court dress."

O'Connor merely sighed, like Boreas. "What is this," he asked, "more
tomfoolery?"

"I really couldn't say," Malone told him coyly. "But I'd advise you to
be there. It might interest you."

"Interest me?" O'Connor stormed. "I've got work to do here--important
work. You simply do not realize, Mr. Malone--"

"Whatever I realize," Malone cut in, feeling brave, "I'm passing on
orders from Her Majesty."

"That insane woman," O'Connor stated flatly, "is not going to order me
about. Good Lord, do you know what you're saying?"

Malone nodded. "I certainly do," he said cheerfully. "If you'd rather,
I can have the orders backed up by the United States Government. But
that won't be necessary, will it?"

"The United States Government," O'Connor said, thawing perceptibly
about the edges, "ought to allow a man to do his proper work, and not
force him to go chasing off after the latest whims of some insane old
lady."

"You will be there, now, won't you?" Malone asked. His own voice
reminded him of something, and in a second he had it: the cooing,
gentle persuasion of Dr. Andrew Blake of Rice Pavilion, who had locked
Malone in a padded cell. It was the voice of a man talking to a mental
case.

It sounded remarkably apt. Dr. O'Connor went slightly purple, but
controlled himself magnificently. "I'll be there," he said.

"Good," Malone told him, and snapped the phone