neth Malone," into the blank screen, and waited
patiently.

After a while an operator said: "Person to person call, Sir Kenneth,
from Yucca Flats. Will you take this call?"

"I'll take it," Malone said. A face appeared on the screen, and Malone
knew he was right. He knew exactly how he'd been located, and by whom.

Looking at the face in the screen alone, it might have been thought that
the woman who appeared there was somebody's grandmother, kindly,
red-cheeked and twinkle-eyed. Perhaps that wasn't the only stereotype;
she could have been an old-maid schoolteacher, one of the kindly
schoolteachers who taught, once upon a time that never was, in the
little old red schoolhouses of the dim past. The face positively
radiated kindliness, and friendship, and peace.

But if the face was the face of a sentimental dream, the garb was the
garb of royalty. Somebody's grandmother was on her way to a costume
party. She wore the full court costume of the days of Queen Elizabeth I,
complete with brocaded velvet gown, wide ruff collar and bejeweled
skullcap.

She was, Malone knew, completely insane.

Like all the other telepaths Malone and the rest of the FBI had found
during their work in uncovering a telepathic spy, she had been located
in an insane asylum. Months of extensive psychotherapy, including all
the newest techniques and some so old that psychiatrists were a little
afraid to use them, had done absolutely nothing to shake the firmest
conviction in the mind of Miss Rose Thompson.

She was, she insisted, Elizabeth Tudor, rightful Queen of England.

She claimed she was immortal--which was not true. She also claimed to be
a telepath. This was perfectly accurate. It had been her help that had
enabled Malone to find the telepathic spy, and a grateful government had
rewarded her.

It had given her a special expense allotment for life, covering the
clothing she wore, and the style in which she lived. Rooms had been set
aside for her at Yucca Flats, and she held court there, sometimes being
treated by psychiatrists and sometimes helping Dr. Thomas O'Connor in
his experiments and in the development of new psionic machines.

She was probably the happiest psychotic on Earth.

Malone stared at her. For a second he could think of nothing to say but:
"My God." He said it.

"Not at all, Sir Kenneth," the little old lady said. "Your Queen."

Malone took a deep breath. "Good afternoon, Your Majesty," he said.

"Good afternoo