n, Sir Kenneth," she said, and waited. After a second
Malone figured out what she was waiting for.

He inclined his head in as courtly a bow as he could manage over a
visiphone. "I am deeply honored," he said, "that Your Majesty has called
on me. Is there any way in which I might be of service?"

"Oh, goodness me, no," said the little old lady. "I don't need a thing.
They do one very well here in Yucca Flats. You must come out soon and
see my new throne room. I've had the decorations done by ... but I can
see you're not interested in that, Sir Kenneth."

"But--" Malone realized it was useless to argue with the old lady. She
was telepathic, and knew exactly what he was thinking. That, after all,
was how he had been located; she had mentally "hunted" for him until she
found him.

But why?

"I'll tell you why, Sir Kenneth," the little old lady said. "I'm worried
about you."

"Worried? About me, Your Majesty?"

"Certainly," the little old lady said, inclining her head just the
proper number of degrees, and raising it again. "You, Sir Kenneth, and
that silly little notebook you lost. You've been stewing about it for
the last hour."

It was obvious that, for reasons of her own, the Queen had seen fit to
look into Malone's mind. She'd found him worrying, and called him about
it. It was, Malone thought, sweet of her in a way. But it was also just
a bit disconcerting.

He was perfectly well aware that the Queen could read his mind at any
distance. But unless something reminded him of the fact, he didn't have
to think about it.

And he didn't like to think about it.

"Don't be disturbed," the Queen said. "Please. I only want to help you,
Sir Kenneth; you know that."

"Well, of course I do," Malone said. "But--"

"Heavens to Betsy," she said. "Sir Kenneth, what kind of a detective are
you?"

"What?" Malone said, and added at once: "Your Majesty." He knew
perfectly well, of course, that Miss Thompson was not Queen Elizabeth
I--and he knew that Miss Thompson knew what he thought.

But she didn't mind. Politeness, she held, was the act of being pleasant
on the surface, no matter what a person really thought. People were
polite to their bosses, she pointed out, even though they were perfectly
sure that they could do a better job than the bosses were doing.

So she insisted on the surface pretense that Malone was going through,
treating her like a Queen.

The psychiatrists had called her delusion a beautifully ra