Classic Audiobook Collection - That Sweet Little Old Lady by Randall Garrett ~ Full Audiobook [mystery]

Episode Date: March 21, 2023

That Sweet Little Old Lady by Randall Garrett audiobook. Genre: mystery Randall Garrett had this story first published in Astounding Science Fiction September and October of 1959. His twisted sense of humor and gift for the bizarre situation with believable characters shines here. In the not too distant future, Ken Malone, young but promising FBI agent , is given the most important and difficult assignment of his career: find a spy who is stealing information from the Ultra Top Absolute Secret project to develop a non-rocket space ship at Yucca Flats Labs in Nevada. But this is not a normal spy, this spy laughs at the FBI and all attempts to find him or her because they use an unknown new method to steal the information directly from the minds of the scientists. And then of course, there is the Sweet Little Old Lady who is immortal and the stunning nurse and the Las Vegas gangsters and ... well, you had better listen to the story to find out the details For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 1 (00:29:19) Chapter 2 (00:59:53) Chapter 3 (01:48:52) Chapter 4 (02:14:38) Chapter 5 (02:46:07) Chapter 6 (03:24:30) Chapter 7 (03:44:30) Chapter 8 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

that sweet little old lady by randall garrett chapter one what are we going to call that sweet little old lady now that mother is a dirty word dave foley in nineteen fourteen it was enemy aliens in nineteen thirty it was wobbleys in nineteen fifty seven it was fellow-travellers and in nineteen seventy-seven it was fellow-travellers and in nineteen seventy-one they could be anywhere andrew j burris said with an expression which bordered on exasperated horror they could be all around us heaven only knows he pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up a chunky little man with bright blue eyes and large hands he paced to the window and looked out at washington and then he came back to the desk A persistent office rumor held that he had become head of the FBI, purely because he happened to have an initial J in his name, but in his case the J. stood for Jeremiah. And at the moment his tone expressed all the hopelessness of that Old Testament prophet's lamentations. We're helpless, he said, looking at the young man with a crisp brown hair who was sitting across the desk. That's what it is.

We're helpless. Kenneth Malone tried to look dependable. Just tell me what to do, he said. You're a good agent, Kenneth, Burris said. You're one of the best. That's why we've picked you for this job, and I want to say that I picked you personally. Believe me, there's never been anything like it before.

I'll do my best, Malone said at random. He was 28. and he had been an fbi agent for three years in that time he had among other things managed to break up a gang of smugglers track down a counterfeiting ring and capture three kidnappers for reasons which he could neither understand nor explain no one seemed willing to attribute his record to luck i know you will burris said and if anybody can crack this case malone you're the man It's just that everything sounds so impossible, even after all the conferences we've had. Conferences? Malone said vaguely. He wished the chief would get to the point. Any point. He smiled gently across the desk and tried to look competent and dependable and reassuring. Burris's expression didn't change. You'll get the conference tapes later, Burris said.

You can study them before you leave. I suggest you study them very carefully, Malone. Don't be like me. Don't get confused. He buried his face in his hands. Malone waited patiently. After a few seconds, Burris looked up. Did you read books when you were a child?

He asked. Malone said, what? Books, Burris said. When you were a child, read them. Sure I did. Malone said. Bomba the Jungle Boy and Do Little and Lucky Star, and Little Women. Little Women?

When Beth died, Malone said, I wanted to cry. But I didn't. My father said big boys don't cry. And your father was right, Burris said. Why, when I was a—never mind. Forget about Beth and your father. Think about Lucky Star for a minute. Remember him?"

"'Sure,' Malone said. I like those books. You know, it's funny. But the books you read when you're a kid, they kind of stay with you. Know what I mean? I can still remember that one about Venus, for instance. Gee, that was never mind about Venus, too,' Burris said sharply. Keep your mind on the problem.

"'Yes, sir.' Malone said. He paused. "'What problem, sir?' He added. The problem we're discussing, Burris said. He gave Malone a bright, blank stare. Just listen to me.

Yes, sir. All right, then. Burris took a deep breath. He seemed nervous. Once again he stood up and went to the window. This time he spoke without turning. Remember how everybody used to laugh about spaceships and orbital satellites and life on other planets? That was just in those lucky star-books.

That was all just for kids, wasn't it? Well, I don't know, Malone said slowly. Sure, it was all for kids, Burris said. It was laughable. Nobody took it seriously. Well, somebody must—you just keep quiet and listen, Burris said. Yes, sir, Malone said. Burris nodded.

His hands were clasped behind his back. "'We're not laughing any more, are we, Malone,' he said without moving. There was silence. "'Well, are we?' "'Do you want me to answer, sir?' "'Of course I did.' Burris snapped. "'You told me to keep quiet, and—'

"'Never mind what I told you,' Burris said. "'Just do what I told you.' "'Yes, sir,' Malone said. "'No, sir,' he added after a second. "'No, sir, what?' Burris asked softly. "'No, sir, we're not laughing anymore,' Malone said. "'Ah,' Burris said.

"'And why aren't we laughing any more?' There was a little pause. Malone said, tentatively, "'because there's nothing to laugh about, sir?' Burris whirled. "'On the head,' he said happily. "'You've hit the nail on the head, Kenneth. I knew I could depend on you."

His voice grew serious again and thoughtful. We're not laughing anymore, because there's nothing to laugh about. We have orbital satellites, and we've landed on the moon with an atomic rocket. The planets are the next step, and after that, the stars. Man's heritage, Kenneth. The stars. And the stars, Kenneth belong to man, not to the Soviets. "'Yes, sir,' Malone said soberly.

"'So,' Burris said, "'we should learn not to laugh anymore, but have we?' "'I don't know, sir.' "'We haven't,' Burris said with decision. "'Can you read my mind?' "'No, sir,' Malone said. "'Can I read your mind?' Malone hesitated.

At last he said, not that I know of, sir.' Well, I can't. Burris snapped. And can any of us read each other's mind? Malone shook his head. No, sir, he said. Burris nodded. That's the problem.

He said, that's the case I'm sending you out to crack. This time, the silence was a long one. At last, Malone said, What problem, sir? Mind reading, Burris, said, there's a spy at work in the Nevada plant, Kenneth. And the spy is a telepath. The videotapes were very clear and very complete.

There were a great many of them, and it was long after nine o'clock when Kenneth Malone decided to take a break and get some fresh air. Washington was a good city for walking, even at night, and Malone liked to walk. Sometimes he pretended even to himself that he got his best ideas while walking, but he knew perfectly well that wasn't true. His best ideas just seemed to come to him out of nowhere, precisely as the situation demanded them. He was just lucky, that was all. He had a talent for being lucky.

But nobody would ever believe that. A record, like his, was spectacular even in the annals of the FBI, and Burris himself believed that the record showed some kind of superior ability. Malone knew that wasn't true. But what could he do about it? After all, he didn't want to resign, did he? It was kind of romantic and exciting to be an FBI agent even after three years. A man got a chance to travel around a lot and see. things, and it was interesting.

The pay was pretty good, too. The only trouble was that if he didn't quit, he was going to have to find a telepath. The notion of telepathic spies just didn't sound right to Malone. It bothered him in a remote sort of way. Not that the idea of telepathy itself was alien to him. After all, he was even more aware than the average. citizen, that research had been going on in that field for something over a quarter of a century, and that the research was even speeding up.

But the cold fact that a telepath-detecting device had been invented somehow shocked his sense of propriety, and his notions of privacy. It wasn't decent, that was all. There ought to be something sacred, he told himself angrily. He stopped walking and looked up. He was on Pennsylvania Avenue, heading toward the White House. That was no good. He went to the corner and turned off down the block.

He had, he told himself, nothing at all to see the president about. Not yet, anyhow. These streets were dark and very peaceful. I get my best ideas while walking, Malone said without convincing himself. he thought back to the videotapes. The report on the original use of the machine itself had been on one of the first tapes, and Malone could still see and hear it.

That was one thing he did have, he reflected. His memory was pretty good. Burris had been the first speaker on the tapes, and he'd given the serial and reference number in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. His face had been perfectly blank, and he looked just like the head of the FBI people were accustomed to seeing on their TV and newsreel screens. Malone wondered what had happened to him between the time the tapes had been made and the time he'd sent for Malone.

Maybe the whole notion of telepathy was beginning to get to him, Malone thought. Burris recited the standard tape opening in a rapid mumble. Any person or agent unauthorized for this tape, Please refrain from viewing further under penalties as prescribed by law. Then he looked off, out past the screen to the left, and said, Dr. Thomas O'Connor of Westinghouse Laboratories. Will you come here, Dr. O'Connor? Dr. O'Connor came into the lighted square of screen, slowly, looking all around him.

This is very fascinating, he said, blinking in the lamplight. I hadn't realized that you people took so many precautions. he was, Malone thought, somewhere between fifty and sixty, tall and thin with skin so transparent, that he nearly looked like a living X-ray. He had pale blue eyes and pale white hair, and Malone thought, if there ever were a contest for the best-looking ghost, Dr. Thomas O'Connor would win it, hands or phalanjies down. This is all necessary for the national security, Burris said a little little

sternly. Oh, Dr. O'Connor said quickly. I realized that, of course. Naturally, I can certainly see that. Let's go ahead, shall we? Burris said. O'Connor nodded. Certainly, certainly. Burris said, well then, and paused. After a second, he started again. Now, Dr. O'Connor, would you please give us a sort of verbal rundown on this for our records? "'Of course,' Dr. O'Connor said. He smiled into the video cameras and cleared his throat. "'I take it you don't want an explanation of how this machine works. I mean you don't want a technical exposition, do you?'

"'No,' Burr said and added, "'not by any means. Just tell us what it does.' Dr. O'Connor suddenly reminded Malone of a professor he'd had in college for one of the law courses. He had, Malone thought, the same smiling gravity of demeanor, the same condescending attitude of absolute authority. It was clear that Dr. O'Connor lived in a world of his own, a world that was not even touched by the common run of men. Well, he began, to put it very simply, the device indicates whether or not a man's mental processes are being influenced by outside by outside influences.

He gave the cameras another little smile. If you will allow me, I will demonstrate on the machine itself. He took two steps that carried him out of camera range and returned wheeling a large, heavy-looking box. Dangling from the metal covering were a number of wire. and detachments. A long cord led from the box to the floor and snaked out of sight to the left. Now, Dr. O'Connor said, he selected a single lead, apparently, Malone thought at random. This electrode—' "'Just a moment, Doctor,' Burris said.

He was eyeing the machine with a combination of suspicion and awe. A while back you mentioned something about outside influences. Just what specifically does that mean? With some regret, Dr. O'Connor dropped the lead. Telepathy, he said, by outside influences, I mean influences on the mind, such as telepathy or mind-reading of some nature. I see, Burris said. You can detect a telepath with this machine.

I'm afraid— Well, some kind of a mind-reader anyhow, Burr said. we won't quarrel about terms. Certainly not, Dr. O'Connor said. The smile he turned on Burris was as cold and empty as the inside of orbital station one. What I meant was, if you will permit me to continue, that we cannot detect any sort of telepath or mind-reader with this device. To be frank, I very much wish that we could.

it would make everything a great deal simpler. However, the laws of psionics don't seem to operate that way. Well then, Burris said, what does the thing do? His face wore a mask of confusion. Momentarily Malone felt sorry for his chief. He could remember how he'd felt himself when that law professor had come up with a particularly baffling question in class. This machine, Dr. O'Connor said with authority,

detects the slight variations in mental activity that occur when a person's mind is being red. You mean if my mind were being red right now? Not right now, Dr. O'Connor said. You see, the bulk of this machine is in Nevada. The structure is both too heavy and too delicate for transport, and there are other qualifications. I mean theoretically, Burris said.

Theoretically, Dr. O'Connor began and smiled again, if your mind were being read, this machine would detect it, supposing that the machine were in operating condition and all the other qualifications had been met. You see, Mr. Burris, no matter how poor a telepath a man may be, he has some slight ability, even if only very slight, to detect the fact that his mind is being read. You mean if somebody were reading my mind I'd know it? Burris said. His face showed Malone realized that he plainly disbelieved this statement.

You would know it, Dr. O'Connor said, but you would never know you knew it. To elucidate, in a normal person like you, for instance, or even like myself, the state of having one's mind read merely results in a vague, almost subconscious feeling of irritation, something that could easily be attributed to minor worries, or fluctuations in one's hormonal balance. The hormonal balance, Mr. Burris, is, thank you, Burris said with a trace of irritation, I know what hormones are. Ah, good, Dr. O'Connor said equably.

In any case, to continue, this machine interprets those specific feelings as indications that the mind is being, ah, eavesdropped upon. You could almost see the quotation marks around what Dr. O'Connor considered slang dropping into place, Malone thought. I see, Burris said with a disappointed air. But what do you mean it won't detect a telepath? Have you ever actually worked with a telepath? Certainly we have, Dr. O'Connor said.

If we hadn't, how would we be able to tell that the machine was, in fact, indicating the presence of telepathy? The theoretical state of the art is not at present sufficiently developed, to enable us to—I see, Burrists. said hurriedly, only wait a minute. Yes. You mean you've actually got a real mind-reader? You've found one? One that works? Dr. O'Connor shook his head, sadly. I'm afraid I should have said, Mr. Burris, that we did once have one, he admitted. He was, unfortunately, an imbecile, with a mental age between five

and six as nearly as we were able to judge. "'An imbecile?' Burris said. "'But how were you able to—' "'He could repeat a person's thoughts word for word,' Dr. O'Connor said. "'Of course he was utterly incapable of understanding the meaning behind them. That didn't matter. He simply repeated whatever you were thinking, rather disconcerting.' "'I'm sure,' Burris said.

but he was really an imbecile? There wasn't any chance of curing him, Dr. O'Connor said. None, I'm afraid. We did at one time feel that there had been a mental breakdown early in the boy's life, and indeed it's perfectly possible that he was normal for the first year or so. The records we did manage to get on that period, however, were very much confused, and there was never any way of telling anything at all. all for certain. It's easy to see what caused the confusion, of course. Telepathy in an

imbecile is rather an oddity, and any normal adult would probably be rather hesitant about admitting that he was capable of it. That's why we have not found another subject. We must merely sit back and wait for lightning to strike." Burris sighed, I see your problem, he said. But what has been a little bit of a little bit? happened to this imbecile boy of yours?" Very sad, Dr. O'Connor said. Six months ago at the age of fifteen, the boy simply died. He simply gave up and died.

Gave up? That was as good an explanation as our medical department was able to provide, Mr. Burris. There was some malfunction, but we like to say that he simply gave up. Living became too difficult for him. all right burris said after a pause this telepath of yours is dead and there aren't any more where he came from or if there are you don't know how to look for them all right but to get back to this machine of yours it couldn't detect the boy's ability dr o'connor shook his head no i'm afraid not we've worked hard on that problem at westinghouse mr burris but we haven't yet been able to find a method of actually detecting telepaths. But you can detect.

That's right, Dr. O'Connor said. We can detect the fact that a man's mind is being read. He stopped, and his face became suddenly morose. When he spoke again, he sounded guilty as if he were making an admission that paint him. Of course, Mr. Burris, there's nothing we can do about a man's mind being red. Nothing, whatever. He essayed a grin that didn't look very healthy, but at least he said,

You know you're being spied on. Burris grimaced. There was a little silence while Dr. O'Connor stroked the metal box meditatively, as if it were the head of his beloved. At last Burris said, Dr. O'Connor, how sure can you be of all this? The look he received made all the previous conversation seem as well as well. warm and friendly as a Christmas party by comparison.

It was a look that froze the air of the room into a solid chunk, Malone thought. A chunk you could have chipped pieces from for souvenirs, later when Dr. O'Connor had gone, and you could get into the room without any danger of being quick-frozen by the man's unfriendly eye. Mr. Burris, Dr. O'Connor said in a voice that matched the temperature of his gaze. Please, remember our slogan. Malone sighed. He fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, found one, and extracted a single cigarette. He stuck it in his mouth and started fishing in various pockets for his later. He sighed again. He preferred cigars, a habit he'd acquired

from the days when he'd filched them from his father's cigar case. But his mental picture of the fearless and alert young FBI agent didn't include a cigar. Somehow, remembering his father as neither fearless nor exactly alert, anyway not the way the movies and the TV screens like to picture the words, he had the impression that cigars looked out of place on FBI agents. And it was, in any case, a small sacrifice to make. He found his lighter and shielded it from the brisk wind. he looked out over water at the jefferson memorial and was surprised that he'd managed to walk as far as he had then he stopped thinking about walking and took a puff of his cigarette and forced himself to think about the job in hand naturally the westinghouse gadget had been declared ultra-top secret as soon as it had been worked out virtually everything was these days and the whole group involved in the machine and its workings had been transferred without delay to the united states laboratories out in yucca flats nevada

out there in the desert there just wasn't much to do malone supposed except to play with the machine and of course look at the scenery but when you've seen one desert malone thought confusedly you've seen them all So the scientists ran experiments on the machine, and they made a discovery of a kind they hadn't been looking for. Somebody, they discovered, was picking the brains of the scientists there. Not the brains of the people working with the telepathy machine, and not the brains of the people working on the several other Earth-limited projects at Yokoflats. They'd been reading the minds of some of the scientists working on the new and highly classified Nunn Rocket Space Drive.

In other words, the Yucca Flats plant was infested with a telepathic spy. And how do you go about finding a telepath? Malone sighed. Spies that got information in any of the usual ways were tough enough to locate. A telepathic spy was a lot tougher proposition. Well, one thing about Andrew J. J. Burris, he had an answer for everything. Malone thought of what his chief had said. It takes a thief to catch a thief. And if the Westinghouse machine won't locate a telepathic spy,

I know what will. What? Malone had asked. It's simple, Burris had said. Another telepath. There has to be one around somewhere. Westinghouse did have one after all, and the Russians still have one. Malone, that's your job. Go out and find me a telepath. Burris had an answer for everything, all right, Malone thought. But he couldn't see where the answer did him very much good. After all, if it takes a telepath to catch a telepath,

how do you catch the telepath you're going to use to catch the first telepath? Malone ran that through his mind again and then gave it up. it sounded as if it should have made sense somehow but it just didn't and that was all there was to that he dropped his cigarette to the ground and mashed it out with the toe of his shoe then he looked up out there over the water was the jefferson memorial it stood white in the flood lights beautiful and untouchable in the darkness malone stared at it what would thomas jefferson have done in a crisis like this Jefferson, he told himself without much conviction, would have been just as confused as he was. But he'd have had to find a telepath, Malone thought. Malone determined that he would do likewise. If Thomas Jefferson could do it, the least he Malone could do was to give it a good try.

There was only one little problem. Where, Malone thought, do I start looking? End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of That Sweet Little Old Lady by Randall Garrett. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2 Early the next morning Malone awoke on a plane, heading across the continent toward Nevada. He had gone home to sleep, and he'd had to wake up to get on the plane, and now here he was

waking up again. It seemed somehow like a vicious circle. The engine hummed gently as they pushed the big ship through the middle of stratosphere's thinly distributed molecules. Malone looked out at the purple dark sky and set himself to think out his problem again. He was still mulling things over when the ship lowered its landing gear and rolled to a stop on the big field near Yucca Flats. Malone sighed and climbed slowly out of his seat. There was a car waiting for him at the airfield, though, and that seemed to presage a smooth time. Malone remembered calling Dr. O'Connor the night before, and congratulated himself on

his foresight. Unfortunately, when he reached the main gate of the high double fence that surrounded the more than ninety square miles of United States laboratories, he found out that the entrance into that sanctum-sangctorum of security wasn't as easy as he'd imagined, not even for an FBI man. His credentials were checked with the kind of minute care Malone had always thought people reserved for disputed art masterpieces, and it was with a great show of reluctance that the special security guards passed him inside as far as the office of the chief security officer. There, the chief security officer himself, a man who could have doubled for Torkmana,

eyed Malone with ill-concealed suspicion, while he called Burris at FBI headquarters back in Washington. Burris identified Malone on the video screen, and the chief security officer, looking faintly disappointed, stamped the agents pass and thanked the FBI chief. Malone had the run of the place. Then he had to find a courier jeep. The Westinghouse division, it seemed, was a good two miles away. As Malone knew perfectly well, the main portion of the entire Yucca Flats area was devoted solely to

research on the new space drive, which was expected to make the rocket as obsolete as the blunderbuss, at least as far as space travel was concerned, Not, Boulogne thought uneasily, that the blunderbuss had ever been used for space travel, but— He got off the subject hurriedly. The cheap whizzed by buildings, most of them devoted to aspects of the Nunn Rocket Drive. The other projects based at Yucca Flats had to share what space was left, and that included, of course, the Westinghouse Research Project.

It turned out to be a single, rather small, light building with a fixed. around it. The fence bothered Malone a little, but there was no need to worry. This time he was introduced at once into Dr. O'Connor's office. It was paneled in wallpaper, manufactured to look like pine, and the telepathy expert sat behind the large black desk bigger than any Malone had ever seen in the FBI offices. There wasn't a scrap of paper on the desk. Its surface was smooth and shiny, And behind it, the nearly transparent Dr. Thomas O'Connor was close to invisible. He looked in person just about the same as he looked on the FBI tapes. Malone closed the door of the office behind him, looked for a chair, and didn't find one.

In Dr. O'Connor's office, it was perfectly obvious. Dr. O'Connor sat down. You stood and were uncomfortable. Malone took off his hat. He reached across the desk to shake hands with the telepathy expert, and Dr. O'Connor gave him a limp and fragile paw. Thanks for giving me a little time, Malone said. I really appreciate it. He smiled across the desk. His feet were already beginning to hurt. Not at all, Dr. O'Connor said, returning the smile with one of his own special quick-frozen brand,

I realize how important FBI work is to all of us, Mr. Ballone. What can I do to help you? Malone shifted his feet. I'm afraid I wasn't very specific on the phone last night, he said. It wasn't anything I wanted to discuss over a line that might have been tapped. You see, I'm on the telepathy case. Dr. O'Connor's eyes widened the merest trifle. I see, he said.

"'Well, I'll certainly do everything I can to help you.' "'Fine,' Malone said. "'Let's get right down to business, then. The first thing I want to ask you about is this detector of yours. I understand it's too big to carry around, but how about making a smaller model?' "'Smaller?' Dr. O'Connor permitted himself a ghostly chuckle. "'I'm afraid that isn't possible, Mr. Malone.

I would be happy to let you have a small model of the machine, if we had one available, more than happy. I would like to see such a machine myself as a matter of fact. Unfortunately, Mr. Malone, there just isn't one, right? Malone said. Correct, Dr. O'Connor said. And there are a few other factors. In the first place, the person being analyzed has to be in a specially shielded room, such as is used in encephalographic analysis.

Otherwise the mental activity of the other persons around him would interfere with the analysis. He frowned a little. I wish that we knew a bit more about psionic machines. The trouble with the present device, frankly, is that it is partly psionic and partly electronic, and we can't be entirely sure where one part leaves off and the other begins. Very trying, very trying indeed. I'll bet it is, Malone said sympathetically, wishing he understood what Dr. O'Connor was talking about. The telepathy expert sighed.

However, he said, we keep working at it. Then he looked at Malone, expectantly. Malone shrugged. Well, if I can't carry the thing around, I guess that's that, he said. But here's the next question. Do you happen to know the maximum range of a telepath? I mean, how far away can he get from another person and still read his mind? Dr. O'Connor frowned again.

We don't have definite information on that, I'm afraid, he said. Poor little Charlie was rather difficult to work with. He was mentally incapable of cooperating in any way, you see. Little Charlie? "'C Charles O'Neill was the name of the telepath we worked with,' Dr. O'Connor explained. "'I remember,' Malone said. The name had been on one of the tapes, but he just hadn't associated Charles O'Neill with little Charlie.

He felt as if he'd been caught with his homework undone. "'How did you manage to find him, anyway?' he said. "'Maybe if he knew how Westinghouse had found their imbecile telepath. He'd have some kind of clue that would enable him to find one, too. Anyhow, it was worth a try. It wasn't difficult in Charlie's case, Dr. O'Connor said. He smiled. The child babbled all the time, you see?

You mean he talked about being a telepath? Dr. O'Connor shook his head impatiently. No, he said not at all. I mean that he babbled, literally. Here, I've got a sample recording in my phone. files. He got up from his chair and went to the tall gray filing cabinet that hid in a far corner of the pine-paneled room. From a drawer he extracted a spool of common audio tape and returned to his desk. I'm sorry we didn't get full video on this, he said, but we didn't feel it was

necessary. He opened a panel in the upper surface of the desk and slipped the spool in. If you like, there are other tapes. Maybe later, Malone said. Dr. O'Connor nodded and pressed the playback switch at the side of the great desk. For a second the room was silent. Then there was the hiss of empty tape and a brisk, masculine voice that overwrote it. Westinghouse Laboratories, it said. Sixteen April, 1970.

Dr. Walker speaking. the voice you are about to hear belongs to Charles O'Neill chronological age, fourteen years, three months, middle age, approximately five years. Further data on this case will be found in the file O'Neill. There was a slight pause filled with more tape hiss, then the voice began. Push the switch for record in the park last Wednesday, and perhaps a different set of. Poor kid never makes any sense in. Trees and leaves all sunny with thee.

Electronic components of the reducing stage might be. Not as predictable when others are around, but to go with Sally some night in thee. It was a childish, alto voice, gabbling in a monotone. A phrase would be spoken. The voice would have. hesitate for just an instant, and then another totally disconnected phrase would come. The enunciation and pronunciation would vary from phrase to phrase, but the tone remained essentially the same, drained of all emotional content.

In receiving psychocerebral impulses there isn't any. Nonsense and nothing but nonsense all thee. Tomorrow or maybe Saturday with the girl. tube might be replaceable only if something ought to be done for the Saturday would be a good time for work on the schematics tonight if there was a click as the tape was turned off, and Dr. O'Connor looked up. It doesn't make much sense, Malone said, but the kid sure has a hell of a vocabulary for an embecile. "'Vocabular?' Dr. O'Connor said softly.

That's right, Boulogne said. Where did an imbecile get words like psychocerebral? I don't think I know what that word means myself. Ah, Dr. O'Connor said, but that's not his vocabulary, you see. What Charlie is doing is simply repeating the thoughts of those around him. He jumps from mind to mind, simply repeating whatever he receives. His face assumed the expression of a man remembering a bad, taste in his mouth.

That's how we found him out, Mr. Malone, he said. It's rather startling to look at a blithering idiot, and have him suddenly repeat the very thought that's in your mind. Malone nodded unhappily. It didn't seem as if O'Connor's information was going to be a lot of help, as far as catching a telepath was concerned. An imbecile apparently would give himself away if he were a But nobody else seemed to be likely to do that.

And imbeciles didn't look like very good material for catching spies with. Then he brightened. Is it possible that the spy we're looking for really isn't a spy? A? I mean, suppose he's an imbecile, too. I doubt whether an imbecile would really be a spy, if you see what I mean. Dr. O'Connor appeared to consider the notion. After a little while he said,

It is, I suppose, possible, but the readings on the machine don't give us the same timing as they did in Charlie's case, or even the same sort of timing. I don't quite follow you, Malone said. Truthfully, he felt about three miles behind, but perhaps everything would clear up soon.

He hoped so. On top of everything else, his feet were now hurting a lot more. Perhaps if I describe one of the tests we ran, Dr. O'Connor said, things will be somewhat clearer. He leaned back in his chair. Malone shifted his feet again and transferred his hat from his right hand to his left hand. We put one of our test subjects in the insulated room, Dr. O'Connor said, and connected him to the detector. He was to read from a book, a book that was not too common. This was, of course, to obviate the chance that some other person nearby might

be reading it or might have read it in the past. We picked The Blood is the Death by Hieronymus Melanchthon, which, as you may know, is a very rare book indeed. Sure, Boulone said. He had never heard of the book, but he was, after all, willing to take Dr. O'Connor's word for it. The telepathy expert went on. Our test subject read it carefully, scanning rather than skimming. Cameras recorded the movements of his eyes in order for us to tell just what he was reading at any given moment in order to correlate what was going on in his mind with the reactions

of the machine's indicators, if you follow me. Malone nodded helplessly. At the same time, Dr. O'Connor continued with the reaction. lightly. We had Charlie in a nearby room recording his babblings. Every so often he would come out with quotations from The Blood is the Death. And these quotations corresponded exactly with what our test subject was reading at the time, and also corresponded with the abnormal fluctuations of the detector. Dr. O'Connor paused. Something Malone realized was expected of him. he thought of several responses and chose one i see he said but the important thing here dr o'connor said is the timing you see charlie was incapable of continued concentration

he could not keep his mind focused on another mind for very long before he hopped to still another the actual amount of time concentrated on any given mind at any single given period varied from a minimum of 1.3 seconds to a maximum of 2.6. The timing samples, when plotted graphically over a period of several months, formed a skewed bell curve with a mode at 2.0 seconds. Ah, Malone said, wondering if a skewed bell curve was the same thing as a belled skew curve, and if not, why not? It was, in fact, Dr. O'Connor continued relentlessly, a sudden variation in those timings which convinced us that there was another telepath somewhere in the vicinity.

We were conducting a second set of reading experiments in precisely the same manner as the first set, and for the first part of the experiment, our figures were substantially the same, but he stopped. Yes, Ballone said, shifting his feet and trying to take some weight off his left foot by standing on his right leg. Then he stood on his left leg. It didn't seem to do any good. I should explain, Dr. O'Connor said, that we were conducting this series with a new set

of test subjects. Some of the scientists here at Yucca Flats. We wanted to see if the intelligent quotions of the science. subjects affected the time of contact which Charlie was able to maintain, and naturally we picked them in here with the highest IQs, the two men we have who are in the top echelon of the creative genius class. He cleared his throat. I did not include myself, of course, since I wished to remain an impartial observer

as much as possible. Of course, Malone said without surprise. The other two geniuses, Dr. O'Connor said, happened to be. connected with the project known as Project Isle, an operation whose function I neither know nor care to know anything at all about. Ballone nodded. Project Isle was the non-rocket spaceship, classified, top secret, ultra-secret, and he thought just about anything else you could think of. At first, Dr. O'Connor was saying, our detector recorded the time periods of a mental invade, as being the same as before, then one day anomalies began to appear.

The detector showed that the minds of our subjects were being held for as long as two or three minutes. But the phrases repeated by Charlie during these periods showed that his own contact time remained the same, that is, they fell within the same skewed bell curve as before, and the mode remained constant if nothing but the phrase length were recorded. Mm-hmm. Malone said, feeling that he ought to be saying something. Dr. O'Connor didn't notice him.

At first we thought of errors in the detector machine, he went on. That worried us not somewhat, since our understanding of the detector is definitely limited at this time. We do feel that it would be possible to replace some of the electronic components with appropriate symbolization like the detector. that already used in the purely psionic sections, but we have as yet been unable to determine exactly which electronic components must be replaced by what symbolic components. Malone nodded silently this time.

He had the sudden feeling that Dr. O'Connor's flow of words had broken itself up into a vast sea of alphabet soup, and that he, Malone, was occupied in drowning in it. However, Dr. O'Connor said, breaking what was left of Malone's train of thought, young Charlie died soon thereafter, and we decided to go on checking the machine. It was during this period that we found someone else reading the minds of our test subjects, sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes for several minutes. Aha! Ah, Malone said, things were beginning to make sense again.

Someone else. That, of course, was the spy. I found, Dr. O'Connor said, on interrogating the subjects more closely, that they were, in effect, thinking on two levels. They were reading the book mechanically, noting the words and sense, but simply shuttling the material directly into their memories without actually thinking about it. The actual thinking portions of their minds were concentrating on aspects of Project Isle.

In other words, Malone said, someone was spying on them for information about Project Isle. Precisely, Dr. O'Connor said, with a frosty teacher-to-student smile, and whoever it was had a much higher concentration time than Charlie had ever attained. He seems to be able to retain contact as long as he can find useful information flowing in the mind being read. Wait a minute, Malone said. Wait a minute. If this spy is so clever, how come he didn't read your mind? It is very likely that he has, O'Connor said.

What does that have to do with it? Well, Malone said, if he knows you and your group are... working on telepathy and can detect what he's doing. Why didn't he just hold off on the minds of those geniuses when they were being tested in your machine?" Dr. O'Connor frowned, I'm afraid that I can't be sure, he said, and it was clear from his tone that if Dr. Thomas O'Connor wasn't sure no one in the entire world was, had been or ever would be. I do have a theory, however, he said, brightening up a trifle. Malone waited patiently.

He must know our limitations, Dr. O'Connor said at last. He must be perfectly well aware that there is not a single thing we can do about him. He must know that we can neither find nor stop him. Why should he worry? He can afford to ignore us or even bait us. We're helpless and he can't. knows it. That, Malone thought, was about the most cheerless thought he had heard in some time. You mentioned that you had an insulated room, the FBI agent said after a while.

Couldn't you let your men think in there? Dr. O'Connor sighed. The room is shielded against magnetic fields and electromagnetic radiation. It is perfectly transparent to psionic phenomena just as it is to gravitational fields. Oh, Malone said. He realized rapidly that his question had been a little silly to begin with, since the insulated room had been the place where all the tests had been conducted in the first place. I don't want to take up too much of your time, Doctor.

He said after a pause, but there are a couple of other questions. Go right ahead, Dr. O'Connor said. I'm sure I'll be able to help you. Malone thought of mentioning how little help the doctor had been to date, but decided against it. Why antagonize a perfectly good scientist without any reason? Instead, he selected his first question and asked it. Have you got any idea how we might lay our hands on another telepath? Preferably one that's not an imbecile, of course.

Dr. O'Connor's expression changed from patient wisdom to irritation. I wish we could, Mr. Malone. I wish we could. We certainly need one here to help us with our work, and I'm sure your work is important, too, but I'm afraid we have no ideas at all about finding another telepath. Finding little Charlie was purely fortuitous, purely Mr. Malone fortuitous. Ah, Malone said, sure, of course. He thought rapidly and discovered that he couldn't come up with one more question. As a matter of fact, he'd asked a couple of questions already, and he could barely remember

the answers. Well, he said, I guess that's about it, then, doctor. If you come across anything else, be sure to let me know. He leaned across the desk extending a hand, and, thanks for your time, he added. Dr. O'Connor stood up and shook his hand. hand. "'No trouble, I assure you,' he said. "'And I'll certainly give you all the information I can.' Malone turned and walked out. Surprisingly, he discovered that his feet and legs still worked.

He had thought they turned to stone in the office long before. It was on the plane back to Washington that Malone got his first inkling of an idea. The only telepath that the Westinghouse boys had been able to turn up, was Charles O'Neill, the youthful imbecile. All right then, suppose there were another one like him. Embeciles weren't very difficult to locate. Most of them would be in institutions, and the others would certainly be on record. It might be possible to find someone anyway who could be handled and used as a tool to find

a telepathic spy. And happy thought. Maybe one of them would turn out to be a high-grade imbecile, or even a moron. Even if they only turned up another imbecile, he thought wearily, at least Dr. O'Connor would have something to work with. He reported back to Burris when he arrived in Washington, told him about the interview with Dr. O'Connor, and explained what had come to seem a rather feeble brainstorm.

It doesn't seem too productive, Burris said, with a shade of disappointment in his voice, but we'll try it. At that it was a better verdict than Malone had hoped for. He had nothing to do but wait, while orders went out to field agents all over the United States, and quietly but efficiently the FBI went to work. Agents probed and pried and poked their noses. into the files and data sheets of every mental institution in the fifty states, as far at any rate as they were able.

It was not an easy job. The inalienable right of a physician to refuse to disclose confidences respecting a patient applied even to idiots, imbeciles, and morons. Not even the FBI could open the private files of a licensed and registered psychiatrist. But the field agents did the best they could, and, considering the circumstances, their best was pretty good. Malone, meanwhile, put in two weeks sitting glumly at its Washington desk, and checking reports as they arrived.

They were uniformly depressing. The United States of America contained more sub-normal minds than Malone cared to think about. There seemed to be enough of them to explain. the results of any election you were unhappy over. Unfortunately, subnormal was all you could call them. Not one of them appeared to possess any abnormal psionic abilities whatever. There were a couple who were reputed to be poltergeists, but in neither case was there a single shred of evidence to substantiate the claim.

At the end of the second week, Boulogne was just about convinced that his idea had been a total washout. A full fortnight had been spent on digging up imbeciles, while the spy at Yucca Flats had been going right on his merry way, scooping information out of the men at Project Isle, as though he were scooping beans out of a pot, and, very likely, laughing himself silly at the feeble efforts of the FBI. Who could he be? Anyone, Malone told himself unhappily. Anyone at all.

He could be the janitor that swept out the buildings, one of the guards at the gate, one of the minor technicians on another project, or even some old prospector wandering around the desert with a scintillation counter. Is there any limit to telepathic range? The spy could even be sitting quietly in an armchair in the Kremlin, and probing through several thousand miles of solid earth to peep into the brains of the men on project isle. That was, to say the very least, a depressing idea.

Ballone found he had to assume that the spy was in the United States, that, in other words, there was some effective range to telepathic communication, otherwise there was no point in bothering to continue the search. Therefore, he found one other thing to do. He alerted every agent to the job of discovering how the spy was getting his information out of the country. He doubted that it would turn up anything, but it was a chance. And Malone hoped desperately for it, because he was beginning to be sure that the field

agents were never going to turn up any telepathic imbecils. He was right. They never did. end of chapter two chapter three of that sweet little old lady by randall garrett this labor box recording is in the public domain chapter three the telephone rang malone rolled over on the couch and muttered under his breath was it absolutely necessary for some one to call him at seven in the morning he grabbed at the receiver with one hand hand, and picked up his cigar from the ashtray with the other. It was bad enough to be awakened from a sound sleep, but when a man hadn't been sleeping at all, it was even worse. He'd been sitting up since before five that morning, worrying about

the telepathic spy, and at the moment he wanted sleep more than he wanted phone calls. He said sleepily and angrily, thankful that he'd never had a visiphone installed in his apartment. A feminine voice said, Mr. Kenneth J. Malone. Who's this? Malone said peevishly, beginning to discover himself capable of semi-rational English speech. Long distance from San Francisco, the voice said. It certainly is, Malone said, who's calling? San Francisco.

is calling, the voice said primly. Malone repressed the desire to tell the voice off and said instead, Who in San Francisco? There was a momentary hiatus, and then the voice said, Mr. Thomas Boyd is calling, sir. He says this is a scramble call. Malone took a drag from his cigar and closed his eyes. Obviously the call was a scramble. If it was a scramble, if it had been clear the man would have dialed direct instead of going through what Boulogne now recognized as an operator. Mr. Boyd says he is the agent in charge of the San Francisco office of the FBI, the voice offered.

And quite right, too, Boulone told her. All right, put him on. One moment. There was a pause, a click, another pause, and then another click. At last the operator said, Your party is ready, sir." Then there was still another pause. Malone stared at the audio receiver.

He began to whistle when Irish eyes are smiling. Hello, Malone. I'm here, Tom, Malone said guiltily. This is me. What's the trouble? Trouble? Boyd said. There isn't any trouble?

Well, not really. Or maybe it is. I don't know. Malone scowled at the audio receiver, and, for the first time, wished he had gone ahead and had a video circuit put in, so that Boyd could see the horrendous expression on his face. Look, he said, it's seven here, and that's too early. Out there it's four, and that's practically ridiculous.

What's so important? He knew perfectly well that Boyd wasn't calling him just for the fun of it. The man was a good agent. But why call it this high? power. Malone muttered under his breath. Then self-consciously he squashed out his cigar and lit a cigarette, while Boyd was saying, Ken, I think we may have found what you've been looking for. It wasn't safe to say too much, even over a scramble circuit. But Malone got the message without difficulty. Yeah, he says, sitting up on the edge of the couch. You sure?

Well, Boyd said, no, not absolutely sure. Not absolutely. But it is worth your taking a personal look, I think. Ah, Malone said cautiously. An imbecile? No, Baird said flatly. Not an imbecile. Definitely not an imbecile.

As a matter of fact, a hell of a fat long way from an imbecile. Malone glanced at his watch and skimmed over the airline timetable. in his mind. I'll be there nine o'clock, your time, he said. Have a car waiting for me at the field. As usual, Malone managed to sleep better on the plane than he'd been able to do at home. He slept so well, in fact, that he was still groggy when he stepped into the waiting car. Good to see you, Ken, Boyd said briskly as he shook Malone's hand.

You too, Tom, Malone said sleepily. Now, what's all this about? He looked around apprehensively. No bugs in this car, I hope, he said. Boyd gunned the motor and headed toward the San Francisco Freeway. Better not be, he said, or I'll fire me a technician or two. Well then, Boulon said, relaxing against the upholstery, where is this guy, and who is he?

And how did you find him? Boyd looked uncomfortable. It was somehow both an awe-inspiring and a sandser, slightly risible sight. Six feet one and one-half inches tall in his flat feet. Boyd poured it around over two hundred and twenty pounds of bone, flesh, and muscle. He swung a pot-belly of startling proportions under the silk-shirting he wore, and his face, with its wide nose, small eyes and high forehead, was half highly mature and half-startlingly childlike. In an apparent effort to erase those childlike qualities, Boyd sported a fringe of beard and a moustache, which

reminded him alone of somebody he couldn't quite place. But whoever the somebody was, his hair hadn't been black as Boyd's was. He decided it didn't make any difference. Anyhow Boyd was speaking. In the first place, he said, it isn't a guy. In the second I'm not exactly sure who it is. and in the third kin I didn't find it. There was a little silence. Don't tell me, Malone said. It's a telepathic horse, isn't it? Tom, I just don't think I could stand a telepathic horse.

No, Boyd said hastily. No, not at all. No horse. It's a dame. I mean a lady. He looked away from the road and flashed a glance at Malone. His eyes seemed to be, pleading for something, understanding, possibly, Malone thought.

Frankly, Boyd said, I'd rather not tell you anything about her just yet. I'd rather you met her first. Then you can make up your own mind. All right? All right, Malone said wearily. Do it your way. How far do we have to go? Just about an hour's drive, Boyd said that's all. Malone slumped back in the seat and pushed his hat over his eyes. eyes. Fine, he said, suppose you wake me up when we get there. But groggy as he was, he couldn't

sleep. He wished he'd had some coffee on the plane. Maybe it would have made him feel better. Then again, coffee was only coffee. True, he had never acquired his father's taste for gin, but there was always bourbon. He thought about bourbon for a few minutes. It was a nice thought. It warmed him and made him feel a lot better. After a while he even felt awake enough to do some talking. He pushed his hat back and struggled to a reasonably sitting position. "'I don't suppose you have a drink hidden away in this car somewhere?' he said tentatively. Or would the technicians have found that, too.

Better not have,' Boyd said in the same tone as before. Or I'll fire a couple of technicians. He grinned without turning. It's in the door compartment, next to the forty-five cartridges and the Tommy Gun. Malone opened the compartment in the thick door of the car and extracted a bottle. It was brandy instead of the bourbon he had been thinking about, but he discovered that he didn't mind at all. It went down as smoothly as milk.

Bard glanced at it momentarily as Malone screwed the top back on. No, Malone said, in answer to the unspoken question, you're driving. Then he settled back again and tipped his hat forward. He didn't sleep, a wink. He was perfectly sure of that. But it wasn't over two seconds later that Boyd said, We're here, Ken, wake up.

What do you mean, wake up? Malone said, I wasn't asleep. He thumbed his hat back and sat up rapidly. Where's here? Bayview Neuropsychiatric Hospital, Boyd said. this is where Dr. Harmon works, you know. No, Malone said. As a matter of fact, I don't know.

You didn't tell me, remember, and who is Dr. Harmon anyhow? V. Carr was moving up a long, curved driveway toward a large lawn-surrounded building. Bard spoke without looking away from the road. Well, he said, this Dr. Willard Harmon is the man who phoned us yesterday. One of my field agents was out here asking around about imbeciles and so on, found nothing, by the way. And then this Dr. Harmon called later. Said he had someone here I might be interested in, so I came on out myself for a look yesterday afternoon. After all, we had instructions to follow up every possible lead.

I know, Malone said I wrote them. Oh, Boyd said, sure. Well, anyhow, I talked to this dame, a lady. And— And I talked to her, boys said. I'm not entirely sure of anything myself, but—well, hell, you take a look at her. He pulled the car up to a parking space, slid nunchalantly into a slot marked, reserved executive director Sutton, and slid out from under the wheel while Malone got out the other side.

they marched up the broad steps through the doorway and into the glass-fronted office of the receptionist boyd showed her his little golden badge and got an appropriate gasp fbi i said dr harmon's expecting us the wait wasn't over fifteen seconds boyd and malone marched down the hall and around a couple of corners and came to the doctor's office the door was opaque glass with nothing but a room number stenciled on it. Without ceremony, Boyd pushed the door open. Malone followed him inside. The office was small, but sunny. Dr. Willard Harmon sat behind a blonde wood desk, a chunky little man with crew-cut blonde hair and rimless eye-glasses, who looked about 32 and couldn't possibly Malone thought have been anywhere near that young. On a second look, Malone noticed a better age indication in the eyes and forehead, and revised his first guess upward between ten and fifteen years.

"'Come in, gentlemen,' Dr. Harmon boomed. "'His voice was that rarity, a really loud, high tenor.' Dr. Harmon, Boyd said, this is my superior, Mr. Malone. We'd like to have a talk with Miss Thompson. "'I anticipated that, sir,' Dr. Harmon said. "'Miss Thompson is in the next room. Have you explained to Mr. Malone that I haven't explained a thing, Boyd said quickly, and added in what was obviously intended to be a casual tone, Mr. Malone wants to get a picture of Miss Thompson directly without any preconceptions. I see, Dr. Harmon said. Very well, gentlemen, through this door. He opened the door in the right-hand wall of the room, and Malone took one look. It was a long, long, long.

look, standing, framed in the doorway, dressed in the starched white of a nurse's uniform, was the most beautiful blonde he had ever seen. She had curves. She definitely had curves. As a matter of fact, Malone didn't really think he had ever seen curves before. These were something new and different and truly three-dimensional. But it wasn't the curve. are the long, straight lines of her legs, or the quiet beauty of her face that made her so special. After all, Malone had seen legs and bodies and faces before. At least he thought he had.

Offhand he couldn't remember where. Looking at the girl, Malone was ready to write brand-new definitions for every anatomical term, even a term like hands. had never seen anything, especially arousing in the human hand before. Anyway, not when the hand was just lying around, so to speak, attached to its wrists, but not doing anything in particular. But these hands, long, slender and tapering, white and cool-looking. And yet it wasn't just the sheer physical beauty of the girl.

She had something else, something more and something bad. different. Something borrowed, Malone thought, in a semi-delirious haze and something blue. Personality? Character? Soul? Whatever it was, Malone decided. This girl had it. She had enough of it to supply the entire human race, and any others that might exist in the universe. Malone smiled at the girl, and she smiled back. After seeing the smile, Malone wasn't sure he could still walk evenly. Somehow, though, he managed to go over to her and extend his hand. The notion that a telepath would turn out to be this mind-searing epitome had never crossed his mind. But now, somehow, it seemed perfectly fitting and proper.

Good morning, Miss Thompson, he said in what he hoped was a winning voice. The smile disappeared. It was like the sun going out. The vision appeared to be troubled. Malone was about to volunteer his help, if necessary for the next seventy years, when she spoke. "'I'm not Miss Thompson,' she said. "'This is one of our nurses,' Dr. Harmon put in. Miss Wilson, Mr. Malone, and Mr. Boyd. Miss Thompson, gentlemen, is over there.' Malone turned.

There, in the corner of the room, an old lady sat. She was a small, old lady, with apple-red cheeks and twinkling eyes. She held some knitting in her hands, and she smiled up at the FBI men as if they were her grandsons come for tea and cookies of a Sunday afternoon. She had snow-white hair that shone like a crown around her old head in the lights of the room. Malone blinked at her. She didn't disappear.

You're Miss Thompson? he said. She smiled sweetly. Oh, my, no, she said. There was a long silence. Malone looked at her. Then he looked at the unbelievably beautiful Miss Wilson. Then he looked at Dr. Harmon, and at last he looked at Boyd.

All right, he said, I get it. You're Miss Thompson. Now, wait a minute, Malone, Boyd said. Wait a minute, Malone said. There are four people here, not counting me. I know I'm not, Miss Thompson. I never was, not even as a child. And Dr. Harmon isn't, and Miss Wilson isn't.

And Whistler's great-grandmother isn't either. So you must be. Unless she isn't here, or unless she's invisible, or unless I'm crazy. It isn't you, Malone, Boyd said. What isn't me? That's crazy. Boyd said, "'Okay,' Malone said,

"'I'm not crazy. Then will somebody please tell me?' The little old lady cleared her throat. A silence fell. When it was complete, she spoke, and her voice was as sweet and kindly as anything Malone had ever heard. "'You may call me, Miss Thompson,' she said. For the present, at any rate, they all do here. It's a pseudonym I have to use.

"'A pseudonym?' Malone said. "'You see, Mr. Malone,' Miss Wilson began. Malone stopped her. "'Don't talk,' he said. "'I have to concentrate, and if you talk, I can barely think.' He took off his hat suddenly and began twisting the brim in his hands. "'You understand, don't you?' The trace of a smile appeared on her face.

"'I think I do,' she said. "'Now,' Malone said, "'you're Miss Thompson, but not.' Not really, because you have to use a pseudonym." He blinked at the little old lady. Why? Well, she said, otherwise people would find out about my little secret. Your little secret, Malone said.

That's right, the little old lady said. I'm immortal, you see. Malone said, oh, then he kept quiet for a long time. It didn't seem to him that anyone in the room was breathing. He said, oh, again, but it didn't sound any better than it had the first time. He tried another phrase, You're immortal, he said. That's right, the little old lady agreed sweetly. There was only one other question to ask, and Malone set his teeth grimly and asked it.

It came out just a trifle indistinct, but the little old lady nodded. "'My real name?' she said. Elizabeth. Elizabeth, Tudor, of course. I used to be queen. "'Of England,' Malone said faintly. "'Malone, look,' Boyd began. "'Let me get it all at once,' Malone told him. I'm strong. I can take it.' He twisted his hat again and turned back to the little old lady. "'You're immortal, and you're not really Miss Thompson, but Queen Elizabeth the first," he said, slowly.

"'That's right!' she said, how clever of you! Of course, after little Jimmy, cousin Mary's boy, I mean, said I was dead and claimed the throne, I decided to change my name and all, and that's what I did. But I am Elizabeth Regina. She smiled, and her eyes twinkled merrily. Malone stared at her for a long minute. Burris, he thought, is going to love this. Oh, I'm so glad, the little old lady said.

Do you really think he will? Because I'm sure I'll like your Mr. Burris to, all you FBI men are so charming, just like poor, poor Essex. Well, Malone told himself that was that. He'd found himself a telepath. And she wasn't an imbecile. Oh, no. That would have been simple.

Instead, she was battyer than a cathedral spire. The long silence was broken by the voice of Miss Wilson. Mr. Malone, she said, you've been thinking. She stopped—I mean, you've been so quiet. I like being quiet, Malone said patiently. Besides, he stopped and turned to the little old lady. Can you really read it? my mind, he thought deliberately. After a second he added, Your Majesty.

How sweet of you, Mr. Malone, she said. Nobody's called me that for centuries. But of course I can. Although it's not reading, really. After all, that would be like asking if I can read your voice. Of course I can, Mr. Malone. That does it, Malone said. I'm not a hard man to convince, and when I see the truth, I'm the first to admit it, even if it makes me look like a nut." He turned back to the little old lady, begging your pardon, he said. Oh, my, the little old lady said, I really don't mind at all. Sticks and stones, you know, can break my bones, but being called nuts, Mr. Malone, can never hurt

me. After all, it's spent so many years. So many hundreds of years. Sure, Malone said easily. Board broke in. Listen, Malone, he said, do you mind telling me what is going on? It's very simple, Malone said. Miss Thompson here—partone me.

I mean Queen Elizabeth I first. Really is a telepath. That's all? I think I want to lie down somewhere until it goes away. Until what goes away, Miss Wilson said? Malone stared at her almost without seeing her, if not quite. everything he said he closed his eyes my goodness the little old lady said after a second everything's so confused poor mr malone is terribly shaken up by everything she stood up still holding her knitting and went across the room before the astonished eyes of the doctor and nurse and tom boyd she petted the fbi agent on the shoulder there there mr

Mr. Malone?" she said, "'It will all be perfectly all right. You'll see.' Then she returned to her seat." Malone opened his eyes. He turned to Dr. Harmon. You called up Boyd here, he said, and told him that, uh, Miss Thompson was a telepath. How'd you know?"

"'It's all right,' the little old lady put in from her chair. "'I don't mind you calling me Miss Thompson. Not right now, anyhow.' thanks malone said faintly dr harmon was blinking in a kind of befuddled astonishment you mean she really is a he stopped and brought his tenor voice to a squeaking halt regained his professional poise and began again i'd rather not discuss the patient in her presence mr malone he said if you'll just come into my office oh bosh dr harmon the little old lady said primly i do wish you'd give your own queen credit for some ability goodness knows you think you're smart enough now now miss thompson he said in what was obviously his best grade a choice government inspected couch side manner don't "'Upset yourself?' she finished for him. "'Now really, Doctor, I know what you're going to tell them.'

But Miss Thompson, I—' "'You didn't honestly think I was a telepath,' the little old lady said. "'Heavens, we know that! And you're going to tell them how I used to say I could read minds—oh, years and years ago. And because of that, you thought it might be worthwhile to tell the FBI about me, which wasn't very kind of you, doctor, before you knew anything about why they wanted somebody like me. Now, now, Miss Thompson, Miss Wilson said, walking across the room, to put an arm around the

little old lady's shoulder. Malone wished for one brief second that he were the little old lady. Maybe if he were a patient in the hospital he would get the same treatment. He wondered if he could possibly work such a deal. Then he wondered if it would be worth while being nuts. But of course it would. He was nuts, anyhow, wasn't he? Sure, he told himself.

They were all nuts. Nobody's going to hurt you, Miss Wilson said. She was talking to the old lady. You'll be perfectly all right, and you don't have to worry about a thing. Oh, yes, dear, I know that, the little old lady said. You only want to help me, dear. You are so kind. And these FBI men really don't mean any harm.

But Dr. Harmon didn't know that. He just thinks I'm crazy, and that's all. Please, Miss Thompson, Dr. Harmon began. Just crazy, that's all, the little old lady said. She turned away for a second and nobody said anything. Then she turned back. Do you all know what he's thinking now? she said.

Dr. Harmon turned a dull purple, but she ignored him. He's wondering why I didn't take the trouble to prove all this to you years ago. And besides that, he's thinking about— Miss Thompson, Dr. Harmon said. His bedside manner had cracked through, and his voice was harsh and strained. Please— Oh, all right, she said a little petulently, if you want to keep all that private. Malone broke in suddenly, fascinated.

Why didn't you prove you were telepathic before now, he said? The little old lady smiled at him. Why? Because you wouldn't have believed me, she said. She dropped her knitting neatly in her lap and folded her hands over it. None of you wanted to believe me, she said, and sniffed. Miss Wilson moved nervously, and she looked up. And don't tell me it's going to be all right. I know it's going to be all right.

I'm going to make sure of that." Malone felt a sudden chill, but it was obvious, he told himself, that the little old lady didn't mean what she was saying. She smiled at him again, and her smile was as sweet and guileless as the smile on the face of his very own sainted grandmother. Not that Malone remembered his grandmother.

She had died before he'd been born, But if he'd had a grandmother and if he'd remembered her, he was sure she would have had the same sweet smile. So she couldn't have meant what she said. Would Malone's own grandmother make things difficult for him? The very idea was ridiculous. Dr. Harmon opened his mouth, apparently changed his mind and shut it again. The little old lady turned to him. Were you going to ask why I bothered to prove anything to Mr. Malone?

She said. Of course you were, and I shall tell you. It's because Mr. Malone wanted to believe me. He wants me. He needs me. I'm a telepath, and that's enough for Mr. Malone, isn't it? Uh-g-uh, Malone said, taken by surprise. After a second, he added, I guess so.

You see, Doctor, the little old lady said. But you, Dr. Harmon began. I read minds, the little old lady said. That's right, Doctor. That's what makes me a telepath. Ballone's brain was whirling rapidly like a distant galaxy. Telepath was a nice word, he thought. How did you telepath from a road?

Simple. a road is paved. Malone thought that was pretty funny, but he didn't laugh. He thought he would never laugh again. He wanted to cry a little, but he didn't think he'd be able to manage that either. He twisted his hat, but it didn't make him feel any better. Gradually he became aware that the little old lady was talking to Dr. Harmon again. But, she said, since it will make you feel you feel.

so much better, Doctor. We give you our royal permission to retire and to speak to Mr. Malone alone." "'Mallone alone,' Dr. Harmon muttered. "'My, well, he turned and seemed to be surprised that Malone was actually standing near him. "'Yes,' he said, "'well, Mr. Alone, Malone, please, whoever you are, just come into my office, please. Malone looked at the little old lady, one of her eyes closed and opened. It was an unmistakable wink. Malone grinned at her in what he hoped was a cheerful manner. All right, he said to the

psychiatrist, let's go. He turned with the barest trace of regret. And Boyd followed him, leaving the little old lady and, unfortunately, the startling Miss Wilson behind, the procession filed back into Dr. Harmon's office. The doctor closed the door and leaned against it for a second. He looked as though someone had suddenly revealed to him that the world was square, but when he spoke his voice was almost even. Sit down, gentlemen, he said and indicated chairs, I really—well, I don't know what to say all this time.

All these years—she's been reading my mind—my mind. She's been reading—looking right into my mind, or whatever it is. Whatever what is, Malone asked, sincerely interested. He had dropped gratefully into a chair near Boyd's across the desk from Dr. Harmon. Whatever my mind is, Dr. Harmon said, reading it. Oh, my! Dr. Harmon, Bollone began, but the psychiatrist gave him a bright, blank stare. Don't you understand, he said? She's a telepath. We—the phone on Dr. Harmon's desk chimed gently. He glanced at it and said,

Excuse me, the phone. He picked up. the receiver and said, "'Hello. There was no image on the screen. But the voice was image enough. "'This is Andrew J. Burris, it said. Is Kenneth J. Malone there?' "'Mr. Malone,' the psychiatrist said. "'I mean, Mr. Burris? Mr. Malone is here. Yes. Oh, my. Do you want to talk to him?' "'No, you idiot,' the voice said. "'I just want to know if he's all tucked in.' "'Tucked in?' Dr. Harmon gave the phone a sudden smile.

A joke, he said. It is a joke, isn't it? The way things have been happening, you never know whether. A joke, Burris's voice said. That's right, yes. Am I talking to one of the patients? Dr. Harmon gulped, got mad and thought better of it. At last, he said, very gently,

I'm not at all sure. And handed the phone to Malone. The FBI agent said, Hello, Chief. Things are a little confused. Burris's face appeared on the screen. Confused, sure. He said, I feel confused already.

He took a breath. I called the San Francisco office, and they told me you and Boyd were out there. What's going on? Malone said cautiously. We found a telepath. Burris's eyes widened slightly. Another one? "'What are you talking about, another one?' Malone said.

"'We have one. Does anybody else have any more?' "'Well,' Burris said, "'we just got a report on another one, maybe. "'Besides yours, I mean.' "'I hope the one you've got is in better shape than the one I've got,' Malone said. He took a deep breath and then spat it all out at once. "'The one we found is a little old lady. She thinks she's Queen Elizabeth I first.

She's a telepath, sure, but she's nuts. Queen Elizabeth? Burris said. Of England? That's right, Malone said. He held his breath. Damn it, Burris exploded. They've already got one. Malone sighed.

There is another one, he said, or rather the original one. She also claims she's immortal. Lives forever? Burris said, you mean like that? "'Immortal,' Malone said. "'Right.' Burris nodded. Then he looked worried.

"'Tell me, Malone. He said, she isn't, is she?' "'Isn't immortal, you mean?' Malone said. Burris nodded. Malone said confidently. "'Of course not. There was a little pause.

Malone thought things over. Hell, maybe she was immortal. Stranger things had happened, hadn't they?' He looked over at Dr. Dr. Harmon. How about that? He said, could she be immortal? The psychiatrist shook his head decisively.

She's been here for over forty years, Mr. Malone, ever since her late teens. Her records show all that, and her birth certificate is in perfect order. Not a chance. Malone sighed and turned back to the phone. Of course she is an immortal chief, he said. She couldn't be. Nobody is. Just a nut.

I was afraid of that, Burris said. Afraid? Malone said. Burris nodded. We've got another one, if he checks out. He said right here in Washington, St. Elizabeth's. Another nut? Straight jacket case, Burris said.

Delusions of persecution, paranoia, and a lot of other things I can't pronounce. But I'm sending him on out to Yucca Flats anyhow under guard. you might find a use for him. Oh, sure, Malone said. We can't afford to overlook a thing, Burris said. Malone sighed. I know, he said, but all the same. Don't worry about a thing, Malone, Burris said with a pulpably false air of confidence.

You get this Queen Elizabeth of yours out of there and take her to Yucca Flats, too. Malone considered the possibilities. Maybe they would find more telepaths. Maybe all the telepaths would be nuts. It didn't seem unlikely. Imagine having a talent that nobody would believe you had. It might very easily drive you crazy to be faced with a situation like that. And there they would be in Yucca Flats.

Kenneth J. Malone and a convention of Looney Bin inhabitants. Fun! Malone began to wonder why he had gone into FBI work in the first place. Listen, Chief, he said, I— Sure, I understand, Burris said quickly. She's batty. But what else can we do? Malone, don't do anything you'll regret. What?

I mean, don't resign. Chief, how did you know? You're not telepathic, too, are you? Of course not, Burris said, but that's what I would do. in your place, and don't do it." "'Look, Chief,' Malone said. "'These nuts. Malone, you've done a wonderful job so far,' Burris said.

"'You'll get a raise and a better job when all this is over.' Who else would have thought of looking at the twitch-bens for a telepaths? But you did, Malone, and I'm proud of you and you're stuck with it. We've got to use them now. We have to find that spy.' He took a breath. "'On to Yucca Flats,' he said. Malone gave up.

"'Yes, sir,' he said. "'Anything else?' "'Not right now,' Burris said. "'If there is, I'll let you know.' Malone hung up unhappily as the image vanished. He looked at Dr. Harmon. "'Well, he said, that's that. What do I have to do to get a release for Miss Thompson?'

Harmon stared at him. "'But Mr. Malone,' he said, That just isn't possible. Really? Miss Thompson is a ward of the state, and we couldn't possibly allow her release without a court order. Malone thought that over. Okay, he said, I can see that.

He turned to Boyd. Here's the job for you, Tom. He said, get one of the judges on the phone. You know which one will do us the most good, fastest. Hmm, Boyd said. Say Judge Dunning, he said, good man. fast worker. I don't care who, Malone said.

Just get going and get us a release for Miss Thompson. He turned back to the doctor. By the way, he said, has she got any other name besides Elizabeth Tudor, I mean? He added hurriedly. Her full name, Dr. Harmon said, is Rose Walker Thompson. She is not Queen Elizabeth I, second, or 28th. and she is not immortal. But she is, Malone pointed out, a telepath.

And that's why I want her. She may, Dr. Harmon said, be a telepath. It was obvious that he had partly managed to forget the disturbing incidents that had happened a few minutes before. I don't even want to discuss that part of it. Okay, never mind it, Malone said agreeably. Tom, get us a court. order for Rose Walker Thompson, effective yesterday, day before if possible. Boyd nodded.

But before he could get to the phone, Dr. Harmon spoke again. Now, wait a moment, gentlemen, he said. Court order or no court order, Miss Thompson is definitely not a well woman, and I can't see my way clear to. I'm not well myself, Malone said. I need sleep and I probably have a cold. But I've got to work. for the National Security, and— This is important, Boyd put in. I don't dispute that, Dr. Harmon said. Nevertheless, I—

The door that led into the other room suddenly burst open. The three men turned to stare at Miss Wilson, who stood in the doorway for a long second, and then stepped into the office, closing the door quietly behind her. I'm sorry to interrupt, she said. Not at all. Malone said, it's a pleasure to have you. Come again soon. He smiled at her. She didn't smile back. Doctor, she said, you'd better talk to Miss Thompson. I'm not at all sure what I can do. It's something new. New? He said. The worry lines on his face were increasing, but he spoke softly.

The poor dear thinks she's going to get out of the hospital now, Miss Wilson said. some reason she's convinced that the FBI is going to get her released, and as she saw the expressions on three faces, she stopped. What's wrong? She said. Miss Wilson, Malone said. We— May I call you by your first name?

Of course, Mr. Malone, she said. There was a little silence. Miss Wilson, Malone said, what is your first name? She smiled now. very gently. Malone wanted to walk through mountains or climb fire. He felt confused, but wonderful. Barbara, she said. Lovely, he said. Well, Barbara, and please call me Kin, it's short for Kenneth. The smile on her face broadened. I thought it might be, she said. Well, Malone said softly, it is. Kenneth. That's my name. And you're Barbara.

Boyd cleared his throat. "'Ah, Malone said, yes, of course. Well, Barbara, "'Well, that's just what we intend to do, take Miss Thompson away. We need her, badly.' Dr. Harmon had said nothing at all and had barely moved. He was staring at a point on his desk. "'She couldn't possibly have heard us,' he muttered. "'That's a soundproof door. She couldn't have heard us.' "'But you can't have heard us.' "'But you can't take Miss Thompson away,' Miss Wilson said.

"'We have to, Barbara,' Malone said gently. "'Try to understand. It's for the national security.' "'She heard us thinking,' Dr. Harmon muttered. "'That's what. She heard us thinking. Behind a soundproof door. She can see inside their minds. She can even see inside my mind. She's a sick woman, Barbara said.

But you have to understand. Vital necessity, Boyd put in absolutely vital. Nevertheless, Barbara said. She can read minds, Dr. Harmon whispered in an awed voice. She knows. Everything. She knows. It's out of the question, Barbara said.

Whether you like it or not, Miss Thompson is a little. not going to leave this hospital. Why, what could she do outside these walls? She hasn't left in over forty years. And furthermore, Mr. Malone—Kenneth—Malone put in as the door opened again—I mean, kin. The little old lady put her haloed head into the room. Now, now, Barbara, she said, don't you go sparling things? Just let these nice men take me away and everything will be fine, believe me. Besides, I've been outside more often than you imagine. Outside? Barbara said.

Of course, the little old lady said. In other people's minds, even yours. I remember that nice young man. What was his name? Never mind his name, Barbara said, flushing furiously. Malone felt instantly jealous of every nice young man he had ever heard of. He wasn't a nice young man. man. He was an FBI agent, and he liked to drink and smoke cigars and carouse. All nice young

men, he decided, should be turned into ugly old men as soon as possible. That had fixed them. He noticed the little old lady smiling at him and tried to change his thoughts rapidly, but the little old lady said nothing at all. At any rate, Barbara said, I'm afraid that we just can't. Dr. Harmon cleared his throat imperiously. It was a most impressive noise, and everyone turned to look at him. His face was a little gray, but he looked otherwise like a rather pudgy, blonde, crew-cut Roman emperor. Just a moment, he said with dignity. I think you're doing the United States of America a grave injustice, Miss Wilson, and that you're doing an injustice to Miss Thompson, too.

What do you mean, she said? I think it would be nice for her to get away from me, I mean from here, the psychiatrist said. Where did you say you were taking her? he asked Malone. Yucca Flats, Malone said. Ah, the news seemed to please the psychiatrist. That's a long distance from here, isn't it? It's quite a few hundred miles away, perhaps even a few thousand miles away. I feel sure that will be the best thing for me.

I mean, of course, for Miss Thompson. I shall recommend that the court so order. Doctor, but even Barbara saw Malone could tell, that it was no good arguing with Dr. Harmon. She tried a last attack. Doctor, who's going to take care of her? A light the size and shape of North America burst in Malone's mind. He almost chartled, but he managed to keep his voice under control.

What she needs, he said, is a trained psychiatric nurse. Barbara Wilson gave him a look that had carloads of U-235 stacked away in it, but Malone barely minded. She'd get over it, he told himself. Now, wasn't that sweet of you to think of that, the little old lady said. Malone looked at her and was rewarded with another wink. "'I'm certainly glad you thought of Barbara,' the little old lady went on. "'You will go with me, won't you, dear? I'll make you a Duchess. Wouldn't you like to be a

Duchess, dear?' Barbara looked from Malone to the little old lady, and then she looked to Dr. Harmon. Apparently what she saw failed to make her happy. We'll take good care of her, Barbara, Malone said. She didn't even bother to give him an answer. After a second, Boyd said, Well, I guess that settles it. If you let me use your phone, Dr. Harmon, I'll call Judge Dunning. Go right ahead, Dr. Harmon said.

Go right ahead. The little old lady smiled softly without looking at anybody at all. Won't it be wonderful? she whispered. At last I've been recognized. My country is about to pay me for my services. My loyal subjects. She stopped and wiped what Malone thought was a tear from one corn-flower-blue eye. Now, now, Miss Thompson, Barbara said.

I'm not sad, the little old lady said, smiling up at her. I'm just so very happy. I'm about to get my reward, my well-deserved reward at least. last, from all of my loyal subjects, you'll see." She paused, and Malone felt a faint stirring of stark, chill fear. Won't it be wonderful? said the little old lady. End of Chapter 3.

Chapter 4 of That Sweet Little Old Lady by Randall Garrett. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4. "'You're where?' Andrew J. Burris said. Malone looked at the surprised face on the screen and wished he hadn't called. He had to report in, of course, but if he'd had any sense he'd have ordered Boyd to do the job for him. Oh, well, it was too late for that now. I'm in Las Vegas, he said. I tried to get you last night, but I couldn't.

So I—' Las Vegas, Burris said. "'Well, well, Las Vegas.' His face darkened and his voice became very loud. "'Why aren't you in Yucca Flats?' he screamed. "'Because she insisted on it,' Malone said. "'The old lady, Miss Thompson. She said there's another telepath here.' Burris closed his eyes.

"'Well, that's a relief,' he said at last. "'Somebody in one of the gambling houses, I suppose. Fine, Malone. He went right on without a pause. The boys have uncovered two more in various parts of the nation. Not one of them is even close to sane. He opened his eyes. Where's this one?

He said. Malone sighed. In the loony bin, he said. Burris's eyes closed again. Malone waited in silence. At last, Burris said, All right. Add him out.

Right, Malone said. Tell me, Burris said, why did Miss Thompson insist that you go to Las Vegas? Somebody else could have done the job? You could have sent Boyd, couldn't you? Chief, Malone said slowly. What sort of mental condition are those other telepaths in? Pretty bad, Burris said. As a matter of fact, very bad.

Miss Thompson may be off her trolley, but the others haven't even got any tracks. He paused. What's that got to do with it, he said. Well, Malone said, I figured we'd better handle Miss Thompson with kid gloves, at least until we find a better telepath to work with. He didn't mention Barbara Wilson. The chief he told himself didn't want to be bothered with details. Doggone right, you'd better, Burr said.

You'd treat that old lady as if she were the queen herself, understand? And?" Don't worry, Malone said unhappily. We are. He hesitated. She says she'll help us find our spy all right, but we've got to do it her way, or else she won't cooperate. Do it her way, then, Burris said.

That's by. Chief, are you sure?" Burris blinked. Well then, he said, what is her way? Bollone took a deep breath. First he said we had to come here and pick the this guy up, this William Logan, who's in a private sanitarium just outside of Las Vegas. That's number one.

Miss Thompson wants to get all the telepaths together so they can hold mental conversations or something. And all of them batty, Burris said. Sure, Malone said, a convention of nuts. And me in the middle. Listen, Chief. Later, Burris said. When this is over, we can all resign our guns.

go fishing, or just playing shoot ourselves. But right now, the national security is primary Malone. Remember that. Okay, Malone sighed. Okay, but she wants all the nuts here. Go along with her, Burris snapped. Keep her happy. So far, Malone, she's the only lead we have on the guy who's swiping information from

Yucca Flats. If she wants something Malone, you do it. But, Chief, don't interrupt me, Burris said. If she wants to be treated like a queen, you treat her like one Malone. That's an order. Yes, sir, Malone said sadly. But, Chief, she wants us to buy her some new clothes. Burris exploded.

Is that all? New clothes? Get them. Put them on the expense account. New clothes are a drop in the bucket. Well, she thinks we need new clothes, too. Maybe you do, Burris said. Put the whole thing on the expense account.

You don't think I'm going to quibble about a few dollars, do you? Well, get the clothes. Just don't bother me with details like this. Handle the job yourself, Malone. You're in charge out there and get to Yucca Flats as soon as possible. Malone gave up. "'Yes, sir,' he said. "'All right, then,' Burris said.

"'Call me tomorrow. Meanwhile, good luck, Malone. Chin up.' Malone said, "'Yes, sir,' and reached for the switch. But Burris's voice stopped him. "'Just one thing,' he said. "'Yes, Chief,' Malone said. Burris frowned,

"'Don't spend any more for the clothes, than you have to,' he said. Malone nodded and cut off. When the director's image had vanished, he got up and went to the window of the hotel room. Outside a huge sign told the world, and Malone, that this was the Thunderbird Hilton-Zekendorf Hotel. But Malone ignored it. He didn't need a sign. He knew where he was. In hot water, he thought, that's where he was.

Behind him the door opened. Boulogne turned as Boyd came in. I found a costume shopkin, he said. Great, Malone said. The chief authorized it. He did? Boyd's round face fell at the news. He said to buy her whatever she wants.

He said to treat her like a queen. That, Boyd said, we're doing now. I know it, Malone said. I know it altogether too well. Anyhow, Boyd said Brightening. The costume shop doesn't do us any good. They've only got cowboy stuff and bullfighters costumes and Mexican stuff, you know, for their Helderado week here.

You didn't give up, did you? Malone said. Boyd shook his head. Of course not. He said, Ken, this is on the expense account, isn't it? Expense account, Malone said? Sure it is. Boyd looked relieved.

Good, he said. Because I had the appropriation. Prior to her phone her size in to New York. Better get two of them, Malone said. The chief said anything she wanted she was supposed to have. I'll go back right away. I told him we wanted to stop on the afternoon plane, so— And give him—Miss Wilson's size, and yours and mine.

Tell him to dig up something appropriate. "'For us?' Boyd blanched visibly. "'For us,' Malone said grimling. Boyd set his jaw. No, he said. Listen, Tom, Malone said. I don't like this any better than you do. But if I can't resign, you can't either.

Costumes for everybody. But, Boyd said and stopped. After a second, he went on. Malone, Ken, FBI agents are supposed to be inconspicuous, aren't they? Bollone nodded. Well, how inconspicuous are we going to be in this stuff? It's an idea, Malone said, but it isn't a very good one. Our first job is to keep Miss Thompson happy, and that means costumes.

And what's more, Malone added. From now on she's your majesty, got that? Ken, Boyd said, you've gone nuts. Malone shook his head. No, I haven't. He said, I just wish I had. It would be a relief. Me, too, Boyd said.

He started for the door and turned. I wish I could have stayed in San Francisco. He said, why should she insist on taking me along? The beard, Malone said. My beard? Boyd recoiled. Right, Malone said. She says it reminds her of someone she knows. Frankly, it reminds me of someone, too, only I don't know who.

Boyd gulped. I'll shave it off. He sat with the air of a man who can do no more to propitiate the gods. You will not, Malone said firmly. Touch but a hair of yon black chin, and I'll peel off your entire skin. Boyd winced. Now, Malone said, go back to that costume shop and arrange things. Here.

He fished in his pockets, came out with a crumpled slip of paper, and handed it to Boyd. That's a list of my clothing sizes. Get another list from B—Miss Wilson. Boyd nodded. Malone thought he detected a strange glint in the other man's eye. Don't measure her yourself, he said. Just ask her. Boyd scratched his bearded chin and nodded slowly.

All right, Ken. said, "'But if we just don't get anywhere, don't blame me.' "'If you get anywhere,' Malone said, "'I'll snatch you bald-headed, and I'll leave the beard.' "'I didn't mean with Miss Wilson kin,' Boyd said. "'I meant in general.' He left, with the air of a man whose world has betrayed him. His back looked to Malone, like the back of a man on his way to the scaffold or guillotine. The door closed.

Now, Malone thought, Who does that beard remind me of? Who do I know who knows Miss Thompson? And what difference does it make? Nevertheless, he told himself, Boyd's beard was really an admirable fact of nature. Ever since beards had become popular again in the mid-60s, and FBI agents had been permitted to wear them, Malone had thought about growing one,

but somehow it didn't seem right. Now, looking at Boyd, he began to think about the prospect again. He shrugged the notion away. There were things to do. He picked up the phone and called information. Can you give me, he said, the number of the Desert Edge Sanitarium? The crimson blob of the setting sun was already painting the desert sky with its customary purples and oranges by the time the little caravan arrived at the

Desert Edge Sanitarium, a square white building several miles out of Las Vegas. Malone, in the first car, wondered briefly about the kind of patients they catered to. People driven mad by Van-e-e-or-Poker-Dice, neurotic corus ponies, gambling czars with delusions of none persecution, sitting in the front seat next time. avoid, he watched the unhappy San Francisco agent manipulating the wheel. In the back seat, Queen Elizabeth Thompson and Lady Barbara the nurse were located, and Her Majesty was chattering away like a magpie. Malone eyed the rear-view mirror to get a look at the car following them and the two local

FBI agents in it. They were, he thought, unbelievably lucky. He had to sit and listen. to the royal personage in the back seat. Of course, as soon as Parliament convenes and recognizes me, she was saying, I shall confer personages on all of you. Right now the best I can do is tonight you all, and of course that's hardly enough, but I think I shall make Sir Kenneth the Duke of Columbia.

Sir Kenneth, Malone realized, was himself. He wondered how he'd like being. Duke of Columbia. And wouldn't the President be surprised? And Sir Thomas, the Queen continued, will be the Duke of what, Sir Thomas? Yes, Your Majesty. Boyd said, trying to sound both eager and properly respectful. What would you like to be Duke of? she said.

Oh, Boyd said after a second's thought, anything that pleases your majesty. But apparently his thoughts gave him away. You're from upstate New York, the Queen said. How very nice! Then you must be made the Duke of Poughkeepsie. Thank you, Your Majesty, Boyd said. Malone thought he detected a note of pride, the man's voice, and shot a glance at Boyd, but the agent was striving with a serene face and an economy of motion.

Duke of Poughkeepsie, Malone thought. Ha! He leaned back and adjusted his fur-trimmed coat. The plume that fell from his cap kept itching his neck, and he brushed at it without success. All four of the inhabitants of the car were dressed in late-16th-century costumes, complete with roughs and velvet and lace filigree. Her Majesty and Lady Barbara were wearing the full skirts

and small skull-caps of the era, and on Barbara Malone thought privately, the low-cut gowns didn't look at all disappointing. And Sir Thomas and Malone, Sir Kenneth, he thought sourly, were clad in doublet, hose, and long-coats with fur-trim and slashed sleeves. And all of them were loaded down, weighted down, staggeringly with gyms. Naturally the gems were fake, but then Malone thought the queen was mad. It all balanced out in the end. As they approached the sanitarium, Malone breathed a thankful prayer

that he called up to tell the head physician how they'd all be dressed. If he hadn't, he didn't want to think about that. He didn't even want to pass it by hurriedly on a dark night. The head physician, Dr. Frederick Douse, was waiting for them on the steps of the building. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man, with almost no hair and very deep sunken eyes. He had the kind of face that a gushing female

would probably describe Malone thought as craggy, but it didn't look in the least attractive to Malone. Instead it looked tough and forbidding. He didn't turn a hair as the magnificently robed Boyd slid from the front seat, opened the rear door, doffed his plumed hat, and in one low sweep made a great bow. We are here, Your Majesty, Boyd said. Her Majesty got out, clutching at her voluminous skirts in a worried manner,

to keep from catching them on the door jam. You know, Sir Thomas, she said when she was standing free of the car. I think we must be related." Ah, Boyd said wordly. I'm certain of it, in fact, her majesty went on. You look just exactly like my poor father. Just exactly. I dare say you come from one of the sinister branches of the family.

Perhaps you are a half-brother of mine, removed, of course. Malone grinned and tried to hide the... expression. Boyd was looking puzzled, then, distantly angered. Nobody had ever called him illegitimate in just that way before. But Her Majesty was absolutely right, Malone thought. The agent had always reminded him of someone, and now at last he knew exactly who. The hair hadn't been black either, but red. Boyd was, in Elizabethan costume, The deadest of dead-ringers for Henry VIII." Malone went up the steps to where Dr. Dawson was standing.

"'I'm Malone,' he said, checking a tendency to bow. "'I called earlier today. "'Is this William Logan of yours ready to go? We can take him back with us in the second car.' Dr. Dawson compressed his lips and looked worried. "'Come in, Mr. Malone,' he said. He turned just as the same. second carload of FBI agents began emptying itself over the hospital grounds.

The entire procession filed into the hospital office, the two local agents bringing up the rear. Since they were not a part of Her Majesty's personal retinue, they had not been required to wear court costumes. In a way, Malone was beginning to feel sorry for them. He himself cut a nice figure in the outfit, he thought, rather like Errol Flynn in the old black and white print of the Prince and the Pupper. But there was no denying that the procession looked strange. File clerks and receptionists stopped their work to gait at the four bedizened walkers and their plainly dressed satellites. Malone needed no telepathic talent to tell what they were thinking.

A whole round-up of nuts, they were thinking, and those two fellows in the back must be bringing them in along with Dr. Dawson. Malone straightened his spine. Really, he didn't see why Elizabethan costumes had ever gone out of style. Elizabeth was back, wasn't she? Either Elizabeth II on the throne or Elizabeth I, the first, right behind him. Either way you looked at it. when they were all inside the waiting-room dr dowson said now mr malone just what is all this about he rubbed his long hands together i fail to see the humor of the situation humor malone said

doctor barbara wilson began let me explain you see these ridiculous costumes dr dowson said waving a hand at them You may feel that poking fun at insanity is humorous, Mr. Malone, but let me tell you, it wasn't like that at all, Boyd said. And, Dr. Dawson continued in a somewhat louder voice, wanting to take Mr. Logan away from us. Mr. Logan is a very sick man, Mr. Malone. He should be properly cared for. I promise we'll take good care of him, Malone said earnestly.

The Elizabethan clothes were fine outdoors, but in a heated room one had a tendency to sweat. "'I take leave to doubt that,' Dr. Dawson said, eyeing their costumes pointedly. "'Miss Wilson here,' Malone volunteered, is a trained psychiatric nurse. Barbara in her gown stepped forward. "'Dr. Dawson,' she said, "'let me assure you that these costumes have their purpose. We—not only that, Malone said, there are a group of trained men from St. Elizabeth's Hospital in Washington, who are going to take the best care of him. He said nothing whatever about Yucca Flats or about telepathy. Why spread around information unnecessarily?

But I don't understand, Dr. Dawson said. What interest could the FBI have in an insane man? That's none of your business, Malone said. He reached inside his fur-trimmed robe, and, again suppressing a tendency to bow deeply, withdrew an impressive-looking legal document. This, he said, is a court order instructing you to hand over to us the person of one William Logan, herein identified, and described. He waved it at the doctor. That's your William Logan, he said.

Only now he's ours. Dr. Dawson took the papers and put in some time frowning at them. Then he looked up again at Malone. "'I assume that I have some discretion in this matter,' he said. "'And I wonder if you realize just how ill Mr. Logan is. We have his case histories here, and we have worked with him for some time.' Barbara Wilson said, "'But I might say that we are beginning to understand his illness,' Dr. Dawson said.

I honestly don't think it would be proper to transfer this work to another group of therapists. It might set his illness back, cause, as it were, a relapse. All our work could easily be nullified. Please, Doctor, Barbara Wilson began. I'm afraid the court orders got to stand, Malone said. Privately he felt sorry for Dr. Dawson, who was obviously enough, a conscientious man, trying to do the best he could for his patient. But—I'm sorry, Dr. Dawson, he said.

We'll expect you to send all of your data to the government psychiatrists. And, naturally, any concern for the patient's welfare will be our concern also. The FBI isn't anxious for its workers to get the reputation of careless men. He paused, wondering what other bone he could throw them in. I have no doubt that the St. Elizabeth's... us men will be happy to accept your cooperation," he said at last. But I'm afraid that our duty is clear. William Logan goes with us.

Dr. Dawson looked at them sourly. Does he have to get dressed up like a masquerade, too? Before Malone could answer, the psychiatrist added, Anyhow, I don't even know your FBI men. After all, why should I comply with orders from a group of men dressed insanely, whom I don't even know. Malone didn't say anything. He just got up and walked to a phone on a small table near the wall. Next to it was a door, and Malone wondered uncomfortably what was behind it. Maybe Dr. Dawson had a small arsenal there to protect his patients and prevent people from pirating

them. He looked back at the set and dialed Burris's private number in Washington. When the director's face appeared on the screen, Malone said, Mr. Burris, will you please identify me to Dr. Dawson? He looked over at Dawson. You recognize Mr. Andrew J. Burris, I suppose, he said. Dawson nodded. His grim face showed a faint shock. He walked to the phone, and Malone stepped back to let him talk with Bobris. Burris. My name is Dawson, he said. I'm a psychiatric director here at Desert Edge Sanitarium, and your men—

My men have orders to take William Logan from your care, Burris said. That's right, Dawson said, but— While they were talking, Queen Elizabeth I, sideled quietly up to Malone and tapped him on the shoulder. Sir Kenneth! She whispered in the faintest of voices. I know where you. your telepathic spy is. And I know who he is.

Who, Malone said. What? Why? Where? He blinked in world. It couldn't be true. They couldn't solve the case so easily. But the queen's face was full of a majestic assurance. He's right there, she said, and she pointed. Malone followed her finger. It was aimed directly at the glowing image of Andrew J. Burris, director of the FBI. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of That Sweet Little Old Lady by Randall Garrett. This Libre V recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5

Malone opened his mouth, but nothing came out. not even air he wasn't breathing he stared at burris for a long moment then took a breath and looked again at her majesty the spy he whispered that's right she said but that's he had to fight for control that's the head of the fbi he managed to say do you mean to say he's a spy burris was saying i'm afraid this is a matter of importance dr dowson we cannot tolerate delay you have the court order obey it very well mr burris dowson said with an obvious lack of grace i'll release him to mr malone immediately since you insist malone stared fascinated then he turned back to the little old lady do you mean to tell me he said that andrew j burris is a telepathic spy oh dear me her majesty said obviously aghast my goodness gracious is that mr burris on the screen it is malone assured her a look out of the corner of his eye told him that neither burris is that mr burris on the screen it is malone assured her a look out of the corner of his eye told him that neither burris in Washington, nor Dowson or any others in the room, had heard any of the conversation. Malone lowered his whisper some more, just in case.

That's the head of the FBI, he said. Well, then, her majesty said. Mr. Burris couldn't possibly be a spy, then, could he? Not if he's the head of the FBI. Of course not. Mr. Burris simply isn't a spy. He isn't the type. Forget all about Mr. Burris.

Forget all about Mr. Burris. I can't, Malone said at random. I work for him. He closed his eyes. The room he had discovered was spinning slightly. Now he said, you're sure he's not a spy? Certainly I'm sure, she said with her most regal tones. Do you doubt the word of your sovereign?

Not exactly, Malone said. said. Truthfully, he wasn't at all, sure, not at all. But why tell that to the Queen? Shame on you, she said. You shouldn't even think such things. After all, I am the Queen, aren't I? But there was a sweet gentle smile on her face when she spoke.

She did not seem to be really irritated. Sure you are, Malone said, but— Malone, it was Burris's voice from the phone. malone spun around take mr logan burr said and get going there's been enough delay as it is yes sir malone said right away sir anything else that's all burr said good-night the screen blanked there was a little silence all right doctor boyd said he looked every inch of king and malone knew exactly what king bring him out Dr. Dawson heaved a great sigh. Very well, he said heavily, but I wanted known that I resent this high-handed treatment, and I shall write a letter complaining of it.

He pressed the button on an instrument panel in its desk. Bring Mr. Logan in, he said. Malone wasn't in the least worried about the letter. Burris he knew would take care of anything like that, and besides he had other things to think of. about. The door to the next room had opened almost immediately, and two husky white-clad men were bringing in a straight-jacketed figure whose arms were wrapped against his chest, while the jacket's extra-long sleeves were tied behind his back. He walked where the attendants

led him, but his eyes weren't looking at anything in the room. But his eyes weren't looking at anything in the room. They stared at something far away and invisible, an impalpable shifting nothingness somewhere in the infinite distances beyond the world. For the first time, Boulogne felt the chill of panic. Here, he thought, was insanity of a very real and frightening kind. Queen Elizabeth Thompson was one thing, and she was almost funny and likeable after all, but William Logan was something else, and something that sent a wave of cold shivering into the room. What made it worse was that Logan wasn't a man but a boy, barely nineteen.

Malone had known that, of course, but seeing it was something different. The lanky, awkward figure wrapped in a hospital strait-jacket was horrible, and the smooth, the unconcerned face was somehow worse. There was no threat in that face, no terror or anger or fear. It was merely a blank. It was not a human face. Its complete lack of emotion or expression could have belonged to a sleeping child of ten or to a member of a different race.

Malone looked at the boy and looked away. Was it possible that Logan knew, what he was thinking? Answer me, he thought directly at the still-boy. There was no reply, none at all. Malone forced himself to look away, but the air in the room seemed to have become much colder. The attendants stood on either side of him, waiting, for one long second no one moved, and then Dr. Dawson reached into his desk drawer and produced a sheaf of papers. if you'll sign these for the government he said you may have mr logan there seems little else that i can do mr malone in spite of my earnest pleas i'm sorry malone said after all he needed logan didn't he after a look at the boy he wasn't sure any more but the queen had said she wanted him and the queen's word was law or would pass for law anyhow at least for the moment

Malone took the papers and looked them over. There was nothing special about them. They were merely standard release forms, absolving the staff and management of Desert Edge Sanitarium from every conceivable responsibility under any conceivable circumstances, as far as William Logan, was concerned. Dr. Dawson gave Malone a look that said, Very well, Mr. Malone, I will play pilot and wash my hands of the matter. but you needn't think I like it.

It was a lot for one look to say, but Dr. Dawson's darken-sung-eyes got the message across with no loss in transmission. As a matter of fact, there seemed to be more coming. A much less printable message was apparently on the way through those glittering, sad, and angry eyes. Malone avoided them nervously, and went over the papers again instead. At last he signed them and handed them back.

Thanks for your cooperation, Dr. Dawson. He said briskly, feeling ten kinds of a traitor. Not at all, Dawson said bitterly. Mr. Logan is now in your custody. I must trust you to take good care of him. The best care we can, Malone said. It didn't seem sufficient. He added,

the best possible care, doctor, and tried to look dependable and trustworthy like a boy scout. He was aware that the effort failed miserably. At his signal, the two plainclothes FBI men took over from the attendants. They marched to Logan out to their car, and Malone led the procession back to Boyd's automobile, a procession that consisted in order of Sir Kenneth Malone, prospective Duke of Columbia, Queen Elizabeth I, Lady Barbara, prospective Duchess of an unspecified country, and Sir Thomas Boyd, prospective Duke of Poughkeepsie. Malone hummed a little of pomp and circumstances as they walked. Somehow he thought it was called for.

They piled into the car, Boyd at the wheel and Malone next to him, and the two ladies in back, with Queen Elizabeth sitting directly behind Sir Thomas. Boyd started the engine, and they turned and roared off. Well, said Her Majesty with an air of great complacence, That's that, that makes six of us. Malone looked around the car. He counted the people. There were four.

He said puzzled. Six? That's right, Sir Kenneth, her majesty said. "'You have it exactly, six?' "'You mean six telepaths?' Sir Thomas asked in a deferrent tone of voice. "'Certainly I do,' Her Majesty replied. "'We telepaths, you know, must stick together. That's the reason I got poor little Willie out of that sanitarium of his, you know,

and, of course, the others will be joining us.' "'Don't you think it's time for your nap, dear?' Lady Barbara put in suddenly. "'My what?' It was obvious that Queen Elizabeth was not amused. Your nap, dear, Lady Barbara said. Don't call me dear. Her Majesty snapped.

I'm sorry, Your Majesty murmured, but really, my dear girl, her majesty said. I am not a child. I am your sovereign. Do try to have a little respect. Why, I remember when Shakespeare used to say to me, but that's a child. That's no matter, not now." About those telepaths, Boyd began. Telepaths, Her Majesty said, ah, yes, we must all stick together.

In the hospital, you know, we had a little joke. The patients for insulin shock therapy used to say, if we don't stick together, we'll all be stuck separately. Do you see, Sir Thomas? But Sir Kenneth Below said, trying desperately to return. to the point. Six? He had counted them up in his mind. Burris had mentioned one found in St. Elizabeth's, two more picked up later, with Queen Elizabeth and now William Logan that made five. Unless the Queen was counting him in. There didn't seem any good reason why not.

Oh, no, Her Majesty said, with a little trill of laughter, not you, Sir Kenneth, I mean Mr. Miles. Sir Thomas Boyd asked Mr. Miles? That's right, her majesty said. His name is Barry Miles, and your FBI men found him an hour ago in New Orleans. They're bringing him to Yucca Flats to meet the rest of us. Isn't that nice? Lady Barbara cleared her throat. It really isn't necessary for you to try to get my attention, dear, the Queen said.

After all, I do know what you're. her thinking. Lady Barbara blinked. I still want to suggest respectfully about that nap, she began. My dear girl, the Queen said, with the faintest trace of impatience. I do not feel the least bit tired, and this is such an exciting day that I just don't want to miss any of it. Besides, I've already told you I don't want a nap. It isn't polite to be insistent to your queen, no matter how strongly you feel about a matter. I'm sure you'll learn to understand that, dear."

Lady Barbara opened her mouth, shut it again, and opened it once more. "'My goodness,' she said. "'That's the idea,' Her Majesty said approvingly. "'Think before you speak, and then don't speak. It really isn't necessary, since I know what you're thinking.' Malone said grimly. About this new telepath, this Barry Miles, did they find him in and not house? Her Majesty said sweetly.

Why, of course, Sir Kenneth. You were right. When you thought that telepaths went insane, because they had a sense they couldn't effectively use, and because no one believed them, how would you feel if nobody believed you could see? Strange, Malone admitted. There, her majesty said, you see? Telepaths do go insane. It's sort of an occupational disease.

Of course, not all of them are insane. Not all of them? Malone felt the faint stirrings of hope. Perhaps they would turn up a telepath yet, who was completely sane and rational. There's me, of course, her majesty said. Lady Barbara gulped audibly. Boyd said nothing,

but gripped the wheel of the car more. tightly and Malone thought to himself that's right there's Queen Elizabeth who says she isn't crazy and then he thought of one more sane telepath but the knowledge did not make him feel any better it was of course the spy how many more are going to turn up Malone wondered oh that's about all of us the Queen said and there is one more but She's in a hospital in Honolulu, and your men won't find her until tomorrow." Boyd turned, "'Do you mean you can foretell the future, too?' he asked in a strained voice. Lady Barbara screamed.

"'Keep your eyes on the wheel and your hands on the road.' "'What?' Boyd said. There was a terrific blast of noise, and the truck went by in the opposite direction. The driver, a big, ugly man, with no hair on his head, leaned out to curse at the quartet, but his mouth remained open. He stared at the four Elizabethans and said nothing at all as he whizzed by. "'What was that?' Boyd asked faintly. "'That,' Malone snapped, was a truck,

and it was due entirely to the mercy of God that we didn't hit it. Barber's right. Keep your eyes on the wheel and your hands on the road.' He paused and thought that over. Then he said, "'Does that mean anything at all?' Lady Barbara was confused by the excitement, the Queen said calmly. It's all right now, dear.

Lady Barbara blinked across the seat. I was afraid, she said. It's all right, the Queen said. I'll take care of you. This Malone announced to no one in particular is ridiculous. Boyd swept the car around a curve and concentrated grimly on the road. After a second, the Queen said, Since you're still thinking about the question, I'll answer you.

What question? Malone said, thoroughly baffled. Sir Thomas asked me if I could foretell the future, the Queen said equably. Of course I can't. That's silly. Just because I'm immortal and a telepath don't go hog wild. Then how did you know the FBI agents were going to find the girl in Honolulu tomorrow, Boyd said? because, the Queen said, they're thinking about looking in the hospital tomorrow, and when they look they'll certainly find her.

Boyd said, oh, and was silent. But Malone had a grim question. Why didn't you tell me about these other telepaths before, he said. You could have saved us a lot of work. Oh, heavens to Betsy, Sir Kenneth, her majesty exclaimed, How could I? After all, the proper precautions had to be taken first, didn't they? I told you all the others were crazy, really crazy, I mean,

and they just wouldn't be safe without the proper precautions. Perhaps you ought to go back to the hospital, too, Barbara said, and added, Your Majesty, just in time. But if I did, dear, her majesty said, you'd lose your chance to become a Duchess, and that wouldn't be at all nice. Besides, I'm having so much fun. She trilled a laugh again,

riding around like this is just wonderful, she said. And you're important for national security, Malone said to himself. That's right, Sir Kenneth, the queen said. The country needs me, and I'm happy to serve. That is the job of a sovereign. Fine, Boulogne said, hoping it was. Well, then, said Her Majesty, that settles it. We have a whole night ahead of us, Sir Kenneth.

What do you say we make a night of it? Knight who, Boulon said. He felt confused again. It seemed as if he was always feeling confused lately. Don't be silly, Sir Kenneth, her majesty said. there are times and times. Sure, Malone said at random. And time and a half, he thought possibly for overtime.

What is your majesty thinking of? he asked with trepidation. I want to take a tour of Las Vegas, her majesty said primly. Lady Barbara shook her head. I'm afraid that's not possible, your majesty, she said. And why not pray? Her Majesty said. No, I can see what you're thinking. It's not safe for me to go wandering around in a strange city,

and particularly if that city is Las Vegas. Well, dear, I can assure you that it's perfectly safe. We've got work to do, Boyd contributed. Malone said nothing. He stared bleakly at the hood ornament on the car. I have made my wishes known, the Queen said. Lady Barbara said, But, Boyd, however, knew when to give in.

Yes, Your Majesty, he said. She smiled graciously at him and answered Lady Barbara only by a slight lift of her regal eyebrow. Malone had been thinking about something else. When he was sure he had a firm grip on himself, he turned. Your Majesty, tell me something, he said. you can read my mind, right? Well, of course, Sir Kenneth, her majesty said. I thought I'd prove that to you.

And as for what you're about to ask, no, Malone said, please. Let me ask the questions before you answer them. It's less confusing that way. I'll cheerfully admit that it shouldn't be, but it is. Please. Certainly, Sir Kenneth, if you wish, the Queen said. She folded her hands in her life. and waited quietly.

Okay, Malone said. Now, if you can read my mind, then you must know that I don't really believe that you are Queen Elizabeth of England. The first, I mean. Mr. Malone, Barbara Wilson said suddenly, I— It's all right, child, the Queen said.

He doesn't disturb me. And I do wish you'd call him Sir Kenneth. That's his title, you know. Now, that's what I know. mean, Malone said. Why do you want us to act as if we believe you when you know we don't? Because that's the way people do act, the Queen said calmly. Very few people really believe that their so-called superiors are superior.

Almost none of them do, in fact. Now, wait a minute, Boyd said. No, no, it's quite true, the Queen said. And, unpleasant as it may be, we must learn to feel. the truth. That's the path of sanity." Lady Barbara made a strangled noise, but her majesty continued unruffled. Nearly everybody suffers from the silly delusion that he's possibly equal to, or very probably superior to, everybody else. My goodness, where would we be if that were true? Malone felt that a comet was called for, and he made one. Who knows? He said,

said. All the things people do toward their superiors," the Queen said, are done for social reasons. For instance, Sir Kenneth, you don't realize fully how you feel about Mr. Burris. He's a nice guy. Boulone said, I work for him. He's a good director of the FBI. Of course, the Queen said, but you believe you could do the job just as well, or perhaps

a little better. "'I do not,' Malone said angrily. Her Majesty reserved a dignified silence. After a while Malone said, and what if I do?' "'Why nothing,' her majesty said. "'You don't think Mr. Burris is any smarter or better than you are. But you treat him as if you did. All I am insisting on is the same treatment.'

But if we don't believe,' Boyd began. You," Her Majesty said. I can't help the way you think, but as Queen I do have some control over the way you act." Malone thought it over. You have a point there, he said at last. Barbara said, but— Yes, Sir Kenneth, the Queen said, I do. She seemed to be ignoring Lady Barbara.

Perhaps Malone thought she was still angry over the nap affair. It's not that," the Queen said. Not what, Boyd said, thoroughly confused. Not the Naps, the Queen said. What Naps, Boyd said. Malone said, I was thinking, good, Boyd said, keep it up. I'm driving. Everything's going to hell around me, but I'm driving.

A red light appeared ahead. Boyd jammed on the brakes with somewhat more than the necessary force, and Malone was thrown forward with a grunt. Behind him there were two lady-like squeals. Malone struggled upright. Barbara, he called. Are you all right? Then he remembered the queen.

It's all right, her majesty said. I can understand your concern for Lady Barbara. She smiled at Malone as he turned. Malone gaped at her. Of course, she knew what he thought about Barbara. She'd been reading his mind. And apparently she was on his side, that was good, even though it made him slightly nervous to think about.

Now, the queen said suddenly, what about to-night? Tonight? Yes, of course, the queen said. She smiled and put up a hand to pat at her white hair under the Elizabethan skullcap. I think I should like to go to the palace, she said. After all, isn't that where a queen should be? Boyd said in a kind of explosion. London?

England. Oh, dear me, the Queen began, and Barbara said, I'm afraid that I simply can't allow anything like that. Overseas—I didn't mean overseas, dear, her majesty said. Sir Kenneth, please explain to these people. The palace Malone knew was more properly known as the Golden Palace. It was right in Las Vegas. convenient to all sources of money. As a matter of fact, it was one of the biggest gambling

houses along the Las Vegas Strip, a veritable chaos of wheels, cards, dice, chips, and other such devices. Malone explained all this to the others, wondering meanwhile why Miss Thompson wanted to go there. "'Not Miss Thompson, please, Sir Kenneth,' Her Majesty said. "'Not Miss Thompson, what?' Boyd said. What's going on, anyhow?" She's reading my mind," Malone said.

Well, then, Boyd snapped, tell her to keep it to herself. The car started up again with a roar, and Malone and the others were thrown around again this time toward the back. There was a chorus of groans and squeals, and they were on their way once more. To reply to your question, Sir Kenneth, the Queen said, Lady Barbara said with some composure, What question your majesty? The Queen nodded regally at her.

Sir Kenneth was wondering why I wished to go to the Golden Palace, she said. And my reply is this. It is none of your business why I want to go there. After all, is my word law or isn't it? There didn't seem to be a good enough answer to that, Malone thought sadly. he kept quiet and was relieved to note that the others did the same however after a second he thought of something else your majesty he began carefully we've got to go to yucca flats to-morrow remember certainly the queen said my memory is quite good thank you but that is to-morrow morning we have the rest of the night left it's only a little after nine you know heavens barbara said is a good thank you-but that is tomorrow morning we have the rest of the night left it's only a little after nine you know heavens barbara said is a that late?"

"'It's even later,' Boyd said sourly. "'It's much later than you think.' "'And it's getting later all the time,' Malone added. Pretty soon the sun will go out and all life on earth will end. "'Won't that be nice and peaceful?' "'I'm looking forward to it,' Boyd said. "'I'm not,' Barbara said. "'But I've got to get some sleep tonight,

if I'm going to be any good at all to-morrow.' "'You're pretty good right?' now, Malone thought, but he didn't say a word. He felt the queen's eye on him but didn't turn around. After all, she was on his side, wasn't she? At any rate, she didn't say anything. Perhaps it would be best, Barbara said, if you and I, your majesty, just went home and rested up. Some other time then when there's nothing vital to do, we could know, the queen said. We couldn't. Really, Lady Barbara, how often will I have to remind you of the duties you owe your sovereign,

not the least of which is obedience, as dear old Ben used to say. Ben? Malone said and immediately wished he hadn't. Johnson, dear boy, the Queen said, really a remarkable man, and such a good friend to poor Will. Why did you ever hear the story of how he actually paid Will's rent in London, once upon a time. That was while Will and that Anne of his were having one of their arguments, of course. I didn't tell you that story, did I? No, Malone said truthfully, but his voice was full of foreboding. If I might remind your majesty on the subject he added tentatively,

I should like to say, remind me of the subject, the queen said, obviously delighted. what a lovely pun and how much better because purely unconscious my my sir kenneth i never suspected you of a pointed sense of humor could you be a descendant of sir richard green i wonder i doubt it malone said my ancestors were all poor but irish he paused or if you prefer irish but poor another pause and then he added if that means anything at all which i doubt in any case the queen said her eyes twinkling you were about to enter a new objection to our little visit to the palace were you not malone admitted as much i really think that Her eyes grew suddenly cold. If I hear any more objections, Sir Kenneth, I shall not only rescind your knighthood, and, when I regain my rightful kingdom,

deny you your dukedom, but I shall refuse to cooperate any further in this business of Project Isle. Malone turned cold. His face, he knew, without glancing in the mirror, was white and pale. He thought of what Burris would do to him if he didn't follow through on his assigned job. Even if he wasn't as good as Burris thought he was, he really liked being an FBI agent. He didn't want to be fired.

And Burris had said, give her anything she wants. He gulped and tried to make his face look normal. All right, he said, fine, we'll go to the palace. He tried to ignore the pall of apprehension that fell over the car. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of That Sweet Little Old Lady by Randall Garrett. This Lieber Fox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6

The management of the Golden Palace had been in business for many long, dreary, profitable years. Then each member of the staff thought he or she, She had seen just about everything there was to be seen, and those that were new felt an obligation to look as if they'd seen everything. Therefore, when the entourage of Queen Elizabeth I strolled into the main salon, not a single eye was batted, not a single gasp was heard. Nevertheless, the staff kept a discreet eye on the crew. rich men or Arabian millionaires were all familiar.

But a group out of the 16th century was something else again. Malone almost strutted, conscious of the side-long glances the group was drawing, but it was obvious that Sir Thomas was the major attraction. Even if you could accept the idea of people in strange costumes, the sight of a living, breathing, absolute duplicate of King Henry VIII, was a little too much to take. It had been reported that two ladies named Jane, and one named Catherine, came down with sudden headaches

and left the salon within five minutes of the group's arrival. Malone felt he knew, however, why he wasn't drawing his full share of attention. He felt a little out of place. The costume was one thing, and to tell the truth, he was beginning to enjoy it. even with the weight of the stuff it was going to be a wrench to go back to single-breasted suits and plain white shirts but he felt that he should have been carrying a sword instead he had a forty-four magnum colt snuggled beneath his left armpit somehow a forty-four magnum colt didn't seem as romantic as a sword boulogne pictured himself saying take that vollet was varlet what you call them he wondered maybe it was valid take that vellet he muttered no that sounded even worse oh well he could look it up later the truth was that he had been born in the wrong century he could imagine himself at the mermaid tavern hobnobbing with shakespeare and all the rest of them he wondered if sir richard green would be there

then he wondered who sir richard green was behind sir kenneth sir thomas boyd strode looking majestic as if he were about to fling purses of gold to the citizenry as a matter of fact malone thought he was they all were purses of good old united states of america gold behind sir thomas came queen elizabeth and her lady-in-waiting lady barbara wilson They made a beautiful forsome. The roulette table, her majesty said with dignity, precede me. They pushed their way through the crowd. Most of the customers were either excited enough, drunk enough, or both, to see nothing in the least incongruous about a royal family of the Tudors invading the Golden Palace. Very few of them, as a matter of fact, seemed to notice the group.

They were roulette players. They noticed nothing but the table and the wheel. Malone wondered what they were thinking about, decided to ask Queen Elizabeth, and then decided against it. He felt it would make him nervous to know. Her Majesty took a handful of chips. The handful was worth Malone knew exactly five thousand dollars. That he thought ought to last them an evening, even in the Golden Palace.

In the center of the strip, inside the city limits of Las Vegas itself, the five thousand would have lasted much longer, but her majesty wanted the palace and the palace it was. Malone began to smile. Since he couldn't avoid the evening, he was determined to enjoy it. It was sort of fun in its way, indulging a sweet, harmless old lady, and there was nothing they could do until the morning anyhow. His indulgent smile faded very suddenly. Her Majesty plunked the entire handful of chips.

Five thousand dollars, Malone thought dazedly onto the table. Five thousand, she said in clear, cool, measured tones. On number one. The croupier blinked only slightly. He bowed, yes, your majesty, he said. Malone was briefly thankful in the midst of the moment. of his black horror, but he had called the management and told them that the Queen's plays were backed by the United States government. Her Majesty was going to get unlimited credit,

and a good deal of awe in somewhat puzzled respect. Malone watched the spin began with mixed feelings. There was five thousand dollars riding on the little ball, but after all her Her Majesty was a telepath. Did that mean anything?" He hadn't decided by the time the wheel stopped, and by then he didn't have to decide. Therny-Vor, the croupier said tonelessly, red even and high. He raked in the chips with a nonchalant air. Malone felt as if he had swallowed his stomach.

Boyd and Lady Barbara, standing nearby, had absolutely no experience. impressions on their faces. Boulogne needed no telepath to tell him what they were thinking. They were exactly the same as he was. They were incapable of thought. But her majesty never batted an eyelash. Come Sir Kenneth, she said, let's go on to the poker tables. She swept out.

Her entourage followed her, shambling a little and blank-eyed. Malone was still thinking about the $5,000. Oh, well, Burris had said to give the lady anything she wanted. But he thought, did she have to play for royal stakes? I am, after all, a queen, she whispered back to him. Malone thought about the national debt. He wondered if a million more or less would make any real difference. There would be questions asked in committees about it.

He tried to imagine himself explaining the evening to a group of congressmen. Well, you see, gentlemen, there was this roulette wheel. He gave it up. Then he wondered how much hotter the water was going to get, and he stopped thinking altogether in self-defense. In the next room there were scattered tables. At one a poker game was in full swing. Only five were playing.

one by his white tie and tails uniform, was easily recognizable as a house-dealer. The other four were all men, one of them in full cowboy regalia. The tutors descended upon them with great suddenness, and the house-dealer looked up and almost lost his cigarette. "'We haven't any money, your majesty,' Malone whispered. She smiled up at him sweetly, then drew him aside. If you were a telepath, she said, how would you play poker? Malone thought about that for a minute, and then he turned to look at Boyd.

But Sir Thomas didn't even have to be given instructions. Another five hundred, he said. Her Majesty sniffed audibly. Another five thousand, she said regally. Boyd looked Malonewards. Malone looked defeated. Boyd turned with a son. small sigh, and headed for the cashier's booth. Three minutes later, he was back with a fat fistful

of chips. Five grand, Malone whispered to him. Ten, Boyd said, I know when to back a winner. Her Majesty went over to the table. The dealer had regained control, but looked up at them with a puzzled stare. You know, the queen said with an obvious attempt to put the man at his ease, I've always wanted to visit a gambling hall. Sure, lady, the dealer said, naturally. May I sit down? The dealer looked at the group. How about your friends?

He said cautiously. The queen shook her head. They would rather watch, I'm sure. For once Malone blessed the woman's telepathic talent. He, Boyd, and Barbara Wilson formed a kind of guard of honor around the chair which her majesty occupied. Boyd handed over the new pile of chips and was favored with a royal smile.

"'This is a poker game, ma'am,' the dealer said to her quietly. "'I know, I know,' her majesty said with a trace of testiness. "'Rollum?' The dealer stared at her pop-eyed. Next to her the gentleman in the cowboy outfit turned, "'Mam, are you from around these parts?' he said. Oh, no, the Queen said, I'm from England. England?

The cowboy looked puzzled. You don't seem to have any accent, ma'am, he said at last. Certainly not, the Queen said. I've lost to that. I've been over here a great many years. Malone hoped fervently that Her Majesty wouldn't mention just how many years. He didn't think he could stand it, and he was almost grateful for the cowboy's nasal twang.

Oil? he said. Oh, no, Her Majesty said. The government is providing this money. The government? Certainly, her majesty said. The FBI, you know. There was a long silence. At last, the dealer said,

Five-card draw your game, ma'am. If you please, her majesty said. The dealer shrugged and apparently commended his soul to a gambler's god. He passed the pasteboards around the table with the air of one who will have nothing more to do with the world. Her Majesty picked up her hand. "'The ante's tin, ma'am,' the dealer said softly. Without looking, Her Majesty removed a ten-dollar chip from the pile before her, and sent it spinning to the middle of the table. The dealer opened his mouth, but said nothing.

Malone, meanwhile, was peering over the Queen's shoulder. She held a pair of nines, a four, a three, and a jack. The man to the left of the dealer announced, clumly, "'It open.' The next man grinned. "'Open for twenty?' he said. Boulogne closed his eyes. He heard the cowboy say,

"'I'm in.' And he opened his eyes again. The queen was pushing two ten-dollar chips toward the center of the table. The next man dropped and the dealer looked round the table. How many? The man who couldn't open took three cards. The man who'd opened for twenty stood Pat. Malone shuddered invisibly.

That he figured meant at least a straight, and Queen Elizabeth Thompson was going in against a straight or better with a pair of nine's Jack High. For the first time it was born in on Malone that being a telepath did not necessarily mean that you were a good poker player. Even if you knew what every other person at the table held, you could still make a whole lot of stupid mistakes. He looked nervously at Queen Elizabeth, but her face was serene. Apparently she'd been following the thoughts of the poker players and not concentrating on him at all.

That was a relief. He felt for the first time in days as if he could think freely. The cowboy said, too, and took them. It was her majesty's turn. I'll take two, she said, and threw away the three and four. It left her with the nine of spades and the nine of hearts and the jack of diamonds. These were joined in a matter of seconds by two bright new cards, the six of clubs and the three of hearts. Boulogne closed his eyes.

Oh, well, he thought. It's only thirty bucks down the drain, practically. Of course, Her Majesty dropped at once, knowing what the other players held. She knew she couldn't beat them after the draw, but she did like to take long chances Malone thought miserably. Imagine trying to fill a full house on one pair. Slowly as the minutes passed, the pile of chips before her majesty dwindled. Once Malone saw her win with two pair against a reckless man trying to fill a straight

on the other side of the table. But whatever was going on, her majesty's face was as calm as if she were asleep. Malones worked overtime. If the queen hadn't been losing so obviously, the dealer might have mistaken the play of naked emotion across his visage for a series of particularly obvious signals. An hour went by.

Barbara left to find a lady's lounge where she could sit down and try to relax. Fascinated in a horrible sort of way, both Malone and Boyd stood, rooted to the spot, while hand after hand went by, and the ten thousand dollars dwindled to half that, to a quarter, and even less. Her Majesty, it seemed, was a mighty poor poker-player. The ante had been raised by this time. Her Majesty was losing $100 a hand even before the betting began, but she showed not the slightest indication to stop. "'We've got to get up in the morning,' Malone announced to no one in particular, when he thought

he couldn't possibly stand another half-hour of the game. "'So we do,' her majesty said with a little regretful sigh. "'Very well, then. Just one more hand.' "'It's a shame to lose. you," the cowboy said to her quite sincerely. He had been winning steadily ever since Her Majesty sat down, and Malone thought that the man should by this time be awfully grateful to the United States government. Somehow he doubted that this gratitude existed. Malone wondered

if she should be allowed to stay for one more hand. There was, he estimated, about $2,000 in front of her. Then he wondered. how he was going to stop her. The cards were dealt. The first man said quietly, open for two hundred. Malone looked at the queen's hand. It contained the ace, king, queen, and ten of clubs, and the seven of spades. Oh, no, he thought. She couldn't possibly be thinking of filling a flush. He knew perfectly well that she was. The second man said,

And raised two hundred? The queen, equably tossed, counting Malone thought the ante, five hundred into the pot. The cowboy muttered to himself for a second and finally shoved in his buddy. I think I'll raise it another five hundred, the queen said calmly. Malone wanted to die of shock. Unfortunately, he remained alive and watching. he was the last man after some debate internal to shove a total of one thousand dollars into the pot cards said the dealer the first man said one it was too much to hope for malone thought if that first man were trying to fill a straight or a flush maybe he wouldn't make it and maybe something final would happen to all the other players but that was the only one was the only one who were trying to fill a straight or a flush maybe he wouldn't make it and maybe something final would happen to all the other players

but that was the only way he could see for her majesty to win the card was dealt the second man stood pat and malone's green tinge became obvious to the various dunce the cowboy on her majesty's right asked for a card received it and sat back without a trace of expression the queen said i'll try one for size she picked up poker lingo and the basic rules of the basic rules of expression the queen said I'll try one for size." She'd picked up poker lingo and the basic rules of the game, Malone realized, from the other players or possibly from someone at the hospital itself years ago. He wished she'd picked up something less dangerous instead, like a love of big-game hunting or stunt-flying. But no, it had to be poker.

The queen threw away her seven of spades, showing more sense than Malone had given her credit for it any time during the game. She let the other card fall and didn't look at it. She smiled up at Malone and Boyd. Live dangerously, she said gaily. Malone gave her a hollow laugh. The last man drew one card, too, and the betting began. The Queen's remaining thousand was gone before an eye could notice it.

She turned to Boyd. Sir Thomas, she said, another five thousand, please, at once. Boyd said nothing at all but marched off. Ballone noticed, however, that his step was neither as springy nor as confident as it had been before. For himself Malone was sure that he could not walk at all. Maybe, he thought hopefully, the floor would open up and swallow them all. He tried to imagine explaining the loss of twenty thousand dollars to burn.

and some congressman, and after that he watched the floor narrowly, hoping for the smallest hint of a crack in the palazzo marble. "'May I raise the whole five thousand?' the queen said. "'It's okay with me,' the dealer said. "'How about the rest of you?' The four grunts he got expressed a suppressed eagerness. The queen took the new chips, boy and had brought her, and shoved them into the center of the table, with a fine, careless gesture of her hand. She smiled gaily at everybody.

Seeing me? she said. Everybody was. Well, you see it was this way, Malone muttered to himself rehearsing. He half thought that one of the others would raise again, but no one did. After all, each of them must be convinced that he held a great hand, and, though raising had gone on throughout the hand, each must not. be afraid of going the least little bit too far and scaring the others out. Mr. Congressman, Malone muttered, there's this game called poker. You play it with cards, and money, chiefly money. That wasn't any good. You've been called, the dealer said to the first man, who'd opened the hand a year or so before.

Why, sure, the player said, and laid down. down a pair of aces, a pair of threes, and a four. One of the threes and the four were clubs. That reduced the already improbable chances of the queens coming up with the flush. Sorry, said the second man, and laid down a strait with a single gesture. The straight was nine high and there were no clubs in it. Malone felt devoutly thankful for that. The second man reached for the money, but under the Popeye's gaze of the dealer, the fifth man laid down another straight, this one ten high. The nine was a club. Malone felt the odds go down right in his own stomach. And now the cowboy put down

his cards. The king of diamonds. The king of hearts, the jack of diamonds, the jack of spades, and the jack of hearts. Full house. Well, said the cowboy, I suppose that does it. The queen said, Please, one moment. The cowboy stopped halfway in his reach for the enormous pile of chips. The queen laid down her four clubs, Ace, King, Queen, and Ten,

and for the first time flipped over her fifth card. It was the jack of clubs. My God, the cowboy said, and it sounded like a prayer. A royal flush. Naturally, the queen said, What else? Her Majesty calmly scooped up the tremendous pile of chips.

The cowboy's hands fell away. Five mouths were open around the table. Her Majesty stood up. She smiled sweetly at the men around the table. Thank you very much, gentlemen, she said. She handed the chips to Malone, who took them in nerveless fingers. Sir Kenneth, she said,

I hereby appoint you, temporary chancellor of the exchequer, at least until Parliament convenes. There was, Malone thought, at least $35,000 in the pile. He could think of nothing to say. So, instead of using up words, he went and cashed in the chips. For once he realized, the government had made money

on an investment. It was probably the first time since 1775. Malone thought vaguely that the government ought to make more investments like the one he was cashing in. If it did, the national debt could be wiped out in a matter of days. He brought the money back. Boyd and the queen were waiting for him, but Barbara was still in the ladies' lounge. She's on the way out, the queen informed him, and sure enough, in a minute they saw the figure approaching them. Malone smiled at her, and tentatively she smiled back. They began the long march to the exit of the club, slowly and regally, though not by choice. The crowd, it seemed, wouldn't let them go.

Malone never found out then, or later, how the news of Her Majesty's winnings had gone through the place so fast. but everyone seemed to know about it. The queen was the recipient of several low boughs and a few drunken curtsies, and when they reached the front door at last, the doorman said in a most respectful tone, Good evening, your majesty. The queen positively beamed at him.

So, to his own great surprise, did Sir Kenneth Malone. Outside it was about four in the morning. They climbed into the car and headed back toward the hotel. Malone was the first to speak. How did you know that was a jack of clubs? He said in a strangled sort of voice. The old lady said calmly. He was cheating.

The dealer, Malone asked. The little old lady nodded. In your favor? He couldn't have been cheating, Boyd said at the same instant. Why would you want to give you all that? money the little old lady shook her head he didn't want to give it to me she said he wanted to give it to the man in the cowboy's suit his name is elliot by the way bernard l elliot and he comes from wehawken but he pretends to be a westerner so nobody will be suspicious of him he and the dealer are in cahoots isn't that the word yes your majesty boyd said that's the word his tone was awed and respectful, and the little old lady gave a nod and became Queen Elizabeth I once

more. "'Well,' she said, "'the dealer and Mr. Elliot were in cahoots, and the dealer wanted to give the hand to Mr. Elliott, but he made a mistake and dealt the jack of clubs to me. I watched him, and of course I knew what he was thinking. The rest was easy.' "'My God,' Boulogne said. Easy. Barbara said, did she win?

She won, Malone said with what he felt was positively magnificent understatement. Good, Barbara said, and lost interest at once. Malone had seen the lights of a car in the rear-view mirror a few minutes before. When he looked now, the lights were still there, but the fact just didn't register until a couple of blocks later, the car began to pull around. them on the left. It was a Buick, while Boyd's was a new Lincoln, but the edge wasn't too apparent yet. Malone spotted the gun barrel protruding from the Buick and yelled just before the first

shot went off. Boyd at the wheel didn't even bother to look. His reflexes took over and he slammed his foot down on the brake. The specially-built FBI Lincoln slowed down instantly. The shotgun Sunblast splattered the glass of a curved windshield all over, but none of it came into the car itself. Malone already had his hand on the butt of the 44 Magnum under his left armpit, and he even had time to be grateful for once that it wasn't a small sword. The women were in the backseat frozen, and he yelled, Doc! And felt, rather than saw, both of them sink down onto the floor of the car.

The Buick had slowed down, too, and the gun barrel was swiveling back for a second shot. Malone felt naked and unprotected. The Buick and the Lincoln were even on the road now. Malone had his revolver out. He fired the first shot without even realizing fully that he'd done so, and he heard a piercing scream from Barbara in the back seat. He had no time to look back. A 44 Magnum is not by any means a small gun.

As handguns go, revolvers and automatics, it is about as large as a gun can get to be, an ordinary car has absolutely no chance against it, much less the glass in an ordinary car. The first slug drilled its way through the window glass as though it were not there, and slammed its way through an even more unprotected obstacle, the frontal bones of the trigger man's skull. The second slug from Malone's gun missed the hole the first slug made by something less than an inch. The big ape-like thug who was holding the shotgun had a chance to pull the trigger once

more, but he wasn't aiming very well. The blast merely scored the paint off the top of the Lincoln. The rear window of the Buick was open, and Malone caught sight of another glint of blueed steel from the corner of his eye. There was no time to shift aim, not with bullets flying like swallows on the way to Capistrano. Ballone thought faster than he had ever imagined himself capable of doing, and decided to aim for the driver. Evidently the man in the rear seat of the Buick had had the same inspiration.

Malone blasted two more high-velocity-led slugs at the driver of the Big Buick, and at the same time the man in the Buick's rear seat fired at Boyd. But Boyd had shifted tactics. He'd hit the brakes. Now he came down hard on the accelerator instead. The chorus of shrieks from the Lincoln's backseat increased slightly in volume. Barbara Malone knew wasn't badly hurt. She hadn't even stopped for a breath since the first shot had been fired. Anybody who could scream like that, he told himself had to be healthy.

As the Lincoln leaped ahead, Boulone pulled the trigger of his forty-four twice more. The heavy, high-speed chunks of streamlined copper-coated lead leaped from the muzzle of the gun and slammed into the driver of the Buick without wasting any time. The Buick slewed across the highway. The two shots, fired by the man in the back seat, went past Malone's head with a whiz, missing both him and Boyd by a margin too narrow to think about. But those were the last shots. The only difference between the FBI and the enemy seemed to be determination and practice.

The Buick spun into a flat side skid, swiveled on its wheels and slammed into the ditch at the side of the road, turning over and over, making a horrible noise as it broke up. Boyd slowed the car again, just as there was a sudden blast to fire. The Buick had burst into flame and was spitting heat and smoke and fire in all directions. Malone sent one more bullet after it in a last flurry of action, saving his last one for possible later emergencies. Boyd slammed on the brakes, and the Lincoln came to a screaming halt. In silence, he and Malone watched the burning Buick roll over and over into the desert beyond the shoulder.

My God, Boyd said. My ears! Malone understood it once. The blast from his own still-smoking forty-four had roared past Boyd's head during the gun battle. No wonder the man's ears hurt. It was a wonder he wasn't altogether deaf. But Boyd shook off the pain and brought out his own forty-four as he stepped out of the car. Malone followed him.

His gun trained. From the rear, Her Majesty said, It's safe to rise now, isn't it? You ought to know, Malone said. You can tell if they're still alive. There was silence, while Queen Elizabeth frowned for a moment in concentration. A look of pain crossed her face, and then, as her expression smoothed again, she said, "'The traitors are dead, all except one, and he's—' she paused. He's dying,

she finished. He can't hurt you. There was no need for a further battle. Malone reholstered his forty-four and turned to Boyd. Tom, call the state police, he said, get him down here fast. He waited while Boyd climbed back under the wheel and began punching buttons on the dashboard. Then Malone went toward the burning Buick. He tried to drag the men out, but it wasn't any use. The first two in the front seat had the kind of holes in them people talked about throwing elephants through. Head and chest had been hit. Malone couldn't get close enough to the fiercely blazing automobile to make even a try for the men in the back seat.

He was sitting quietly on the edge of the rear seat when the Nevada Highway Patrol cars drove up next to them. Barbara Wilson had stopped screaming, but she was still sobbing on Malone's shoulder. It's all right, he told her, feeling ineffectual. I never saw anybody kill before, she said. It's all right, Malone said. Nothing's going to hurt you. I'll protect you. He wondered.

if he meant it, and found to his surprise that he did. Barbara Wilson sniffled and looked up at him. Mr. Malone, he said. I'm sorry, she said, Ken, I'm so afraid. I saw the hole in one of the men's heads. When you fired it was— Don't think about it, Malone said. To him the job had been an unpleasant occurrence, but a job, that was all.

He could see, though, how it might have felt. people who were new to it. You're so brave, she said. Malone tightened his arm around the girl's shoulder. Just depend on me. He said, you'll be all right if you— The state trooper walked up then and looked at them. Mr. Malone, he said.

He seemed to be taken slightly aback at the costuming. That's right, Malone said. He pulled out his ID card and the little golden badge. The State Patrolman looked at them and looked back at Malone. What's with the get-up? He said. FBI, Malone said, hoping his voice carried conviction. Official business.

In costume? Never mind the details. Malone snapped. He's an FBI agent, sir, Barbara said. And what are you? The patrolman said. Lady Jane Grey? I'm a nurse, Barbara said.

A psychiatric nurse. nurse. For nuts? For disturbed patients. The patrolman thought that over. You've got the identity cards and stuff, he said at last. Maybe you've got a reason to dress up. How would I know? I'm only a state patrolman. Let's cut the monologue, Malone said savagely and get to business. The patrolman stared. Then he said, all right, sir. Yes, sir. I'm Lieutenant Adams, Mr. Malone. Suppose you tell me what happened?" Carefully and concisely, Malone told him the story of the Buick that had pulled up beside them and what had happened afterward.

Meanwhile, the other cops had been looking over the wreck. When Malone had finished his story, Lieutenant Adams flipped his notebook shut and looked over toward them. "'I guess it's okay, sir,' he said. As far as I'm concerned, it's just aifiable homicide. Self-defense. 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 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. End of Chapter 6.

Chapter 7 of That Sweet Little Old Lady by Randall Garrett. This Libre-Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 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 it yuckeye? 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 thought. 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 sky and glanced with blinding force off the road. Sir Thomas Boyd squinted at it through the rather incongruous sunglasses he was wearing,

while Malone wondered idly if it was the sunglasses or the rest of the world that was the anachronism. But Sir Thomas kept his eyes grimly on the road as he gunned the powerful Lincoln's toward the Yucca Flats Labs at eighty miles an hour. Malone twisted himself around and faced the women in the backseat. Passed them through the rear window of the Lincoln. He could see the second car. It followed them gamely, carrying the newest addition to Sir Kenneth Malone's collection of bats.

"'Bats,' her majesty said suddenly but gently, "'shame on you, Sir Kenneth. Those are poor sick people.' We must do our best to help them, not to think up silly names for them, for shame." "'I suppose so,' Malone said wearily. He sighed, and for the fifth time that day he asked, "'Does your majesty have any idea where our spy is now?' "'Well, really, Sir Kenneth,' the queen said with the slightest of hesitations.

"'It isn't easy, you know. telepathy has certain laws just like everything else. After all, even a game has laws. Being telepathic did not help me to play poker. I still had to learn the rules. And telepathy has rules too. A telepath can easily confuse another telepath by using some of those rules. Oh, fine, Malone said.

Well, have you got into contact with his mind yet? Oh, yes. Her Majesty said happily. And my goodness, he's certainly digging up a lot of information, isn't he? Malone moaned softly. But who is he? He asked after a second. The queen stared at the roof of the car in what looked like concentration.

He hasn't thought of his name yet, she said. I mean, at least if he has, he hasn't mentioned it to me. Really, Sir Kenneth. You have no idea how difficult all this is." Malone swallowed with difficulty. Where is he then? he asked. Can you tell me that at least? His location?

Her Majesty looked positively desolated with sadness. I can't be sure, she said. I really can't be exactly sure where he is. He does keep moving around. I know that. But you have to remember. that he doesn't want me to find him. He certainly doesn't want to be found by the FBI.

Would you?" Your Majesty, Malone said. I am the FBI. Yes, the Queen said, but suppose you weren't. He's doing his best to hide himself, even for me. It's sort of a game he's playing. A game! Her Majesty looked contrite.

Believe me, Sir Kenner. the minute I know exactly where he is, I'll tell you, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die, which I can't, of course, being immortal. Nevertheless, she made an X-mark over her left breast. All right? All right, Malone said out of sheer necessity. Okay, but don't waste any time telling me, do it right away. We've got to find that spy and isolate him somehow.

"'How?' "'Please don't worry yourself, Sir Kenneth,' her majesty said. "'Your queen is doing everything she can.' "'I know that, Your Majesty Malone said. I'm sure of it.' Privately. He wondered just how much even she could do. Then he realized, for perhaps the ten-thousandth time, that there was no such thing as

wondering privately any more. "'That's quite right, Sir Kenneth,' the Queen said sweetly. "'And it's about time you got used to it.' "'What's going on?' Boyd said. "'More reading minds back there?' "'That's right, Sir Thomas,' the Queen said. "'I've about gotten used to it,' Boyd said almost cheerfully. "'Pretty soon they'll come and take me away, and I don't mind at all.'

He whipped the car around a bend in the road savagely. Pretty soon they'll put me with the other sane people, and let the bats inherit the world. But I don't mind at all. Sir Thomas, Her Majesty said in shocked tones. Please, Boyd said with deceptive calmness, just Mr. Boyd. Not even Lieutenant Boyd or Sergeant Boyd, just Mr. Boyd. Or if you prefer, Tom. Sir Thomas.

Her Majesty said, "'I really can't understand this sudden.' "'Then don't understand it,' Boyd said. "'All I know is everybody's nuts, and I'm sick and tired of it.' A pall of silence fell over the company. "'Look, Tom,' Malone began at last. "'Don't you try smoothing me down,' Boyd snapped. Malone's eyebrows rose.

"'Okay, he said I won't smooth you down. I'll just tell you to shut up. Keep driving and to show some respect to her majesty. I— Boyd stopped. There was a second of silence. That's better, her majesty said with satisfaction. Lady Barbara stretched in the back seat next to her majesty. This is certainly a long drive, she said.

Have we got much farther to go? Not too far, Malone said we ought to be there soon. I—I'm sorry for the way I acted, Barbara said. What do you mean the way you acted? Crying like that, Barbara said with some hesitation, making an absolute 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 it. the trouble you cause him, she said quietly. Oh, 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 flat slabs. 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 laboratory's 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 to 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 address 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 two, and in general that the four of them were not insane, not spying, 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 in height, with brush-cut brown hair, round horn-rimmed spectacles, large hands, and a small Sir Francis straight beard. Malone looked at the two figures blankly. "'Something wrong, Chief?' he said. Burris came toward the car.

The thin gentleman followed him, walking with an odd bouncing step that must have been acquired, Malone thought, over years of treading on rubber eggs. I don't know, Burris said when he'd reached the door. When I was in Washington, I seemed to know, but when I get out here in the desert, everything just goes haywire. He rubbed at his forehead. Then he looked into the car. Hello, boyd, he said.

pleasantly. Hello, Chief, Boyd said. Burris blinked. Boyd, you look like Henry VIII. He said with only the faintest trace of surprise. Doesn't he, though, Her Majesty said from the rear seat. I've noticed that resemblance myself. Burris gave her a tiny smile.

Oh, he said, hello, your majesty. I'm Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI. The Queen finished for him. "'Yes, I know. It's very nice to meet you at last. I've seen you on television and over the video phone. You photograph badly, you know.' "'I do,' Burris said pleasantly.

It was obvious that he was keeping himself under very tight control. Malone felt remotely sorry for the man, but only remotely. Burris might as well know, he thought, what they had all been going through the past. several days. Her Majesty was saying something about the honorable estate of knighthood and the Queen's List. Malone began paying attention when she came to, and I hereby dubbed thee. She stopped suddenly, turned, and said, Sir Kenneth, give me your weapon. Malone hesitated for a long, long second, but Burris's eye was on him, and he could interpret the look without much trouble. There was only one thing for him to do.

He pulled out his forty-four, ejected the remaining cartridge in his palm, and reminded himself to reload the gun as soon as he got it back, and handed the weapon to the queen but foremost. She took the butt of the revolver in her right hand, leaned out the window of the car, and said, in a fine, distinct voice, Neil Andrew, Malone watched with wide astonished, as Andrew J. Burris, director of the FBI, went to one knee in a low and solemn genuflection. Queen Elizabeth Thompson nodded her satisfaction.

She tapped Burris gently on each shoulder with the muzzle of the gun. "'I knight thee, Sir Andrew,' she said. She cleared her throat. "'My, this desert air is dry. rise, Sir Andrew, and know that you are henceforth Knight-Commander of the Queen's own FBI. Thank you, Your Majesty, Burris said humbly. He rose to his feet silently. The Queen withdrew into the car again and handed the gun back to Malone.

He thumbed cartridges into the chambers of the cylinder and listened dumbly. Your Majesty, Burris said, This is Dr. Harry Gamble, the head of Project Isle. Dr. Gamble, this is her majesty, the queen, Lady Barbara Wilson, her lady-in-waiting, Sir Kenneth Malone, and King—I mean, Sir Thomas Boyd. He gave the four a single, bright, impartial smile. Then he tore his eyes away from the others, and bent his gaze on Sir Kenneth Malone. Come over here a minute, Malone.

he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. I want to talk to you. Malone climbed out of the car and went around to meet Burris. He felt just a little worried as he followed the director away from the car. True, he had sent Burris a long telegram the night before, in code. But he hadn't expected the man to show up at Yucca Flats. There didn't seem to be any reason for it. And when there isn't any reason, Malone told himself sagely,

It's a bad one." "'What's the trouble, Chief?' he asked. Burris sighed. "'None so far,' he said quietly. "'I got a report from the Nevada State Patrol and ran it through R&I. They identified the men you killed all right. But it didn't do us any good. They're hired hoods.'

"'Who hired them?' Malone said. Burris shrugged. Somebody with money. He said, Hell, men like that would kill their own grandmothers if the price were right. You know that. We can't trace them back any farther. Malone nodded.

That was he had to admit, bad news. But then when had he last had any good news? We're nowhere near our telepathic spy, Burris said. We haven't come any closer than we were when we started. Have you got anything? Anything at all? No matter how. small?"

Not that I know of, sir," Malone said. What about the little old lady? What's her name, Thompson? Anything from her?" Malone hesitated. She has a close fix on the spy, sir," he said slowly. But she doesn't seem able to identify him right away. What else does she want?"

Burris said. We've made her queen and given her a full retinue in costume. We've let her play roulette and we've let her play roulette and and poker with government money? Does she want to hold a mass execution? If she does, I can supply some congressman, Malone. I'm sure it could be arranged. He looked at the agent narrowly. I might even be able to supply an FBI man or two, he added. Malone swallowed hard. I'm trying the best I can, sir. He said, what about the others? Burris looked even unhappier than usual.

"'Come along,' he said I'll show you.' When they got back to the car, Dr. Gamble was talking spiritedly with her majesty about Roger Bacon. "'Before my time, of course,' the queen was saying. "'But I'm sure he was a most interesting man.' Now when dear old Malone wrote his faust, he said I had several long discussions about such matters. Alchemy,' Burris interrupted with,

I beg your pardon, your majesty, but we must get on. Perhaps you'll be able to continue your audience later on. He turned to Boyd. Sir Thomas, he said with an effort, Drive directly to the Westinghouse buildings. Over that way. He pointed. Dr. Gamble will ride with you, and the rest of us will follow in the second car.

Let's move. He stepped back as the project head got into the car. and watched it roar off. Then he and Malone went to the second car, another FBI, Lincoln. Two agents were sitting in the back seat with a still figure between them. With a shock, Malone recognized William Logan and the agents he detailed to watch the telepath. Logan's face did not seem to have changed expressions since Malone had seen it last, and he wondered wildly if perhaps it had to be dusted once a week.

He got in behind the wheel, and Burris slid in next to him. Westinghouse, Burris said, and let's get there in a hurry. Right, Malone said and started the car. We just haven't had a single lead, Burris said. I was hoping you'd come up with something. Your telegram detail the fight, of course, and the rest of what's been happening. But I hoped it'd be something more. There isn't.

Malone was forced to. to admit. All we can do is to try to persuade Her Majesty to tell us, Oh, I know it isn't easy, Burris said. But it seems to me— By the time they'd arrived at the administrative offices of Westinghouse's Scionics research area, Malone found himself wishing that something would happen. Possibly he thought lightning might strike, or an earthquake swallow everything up.

He was, suddenly, profoundly tired of the intent. entire affair. End of chapter seven. Chapter 8 of That Sweet Little Old Lady by Randall Garrett. This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8. Four days later, he was more than tired. He was exhausted.

The six psychopaths, including Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I, had been housed in a converted. dormitory in the Westinghouse area, together with four highly nervous and even more highly trained and investigated psychiatrists from St. Elizabeth's in Washington. The convention of Nuts, as Malone called it privately, was in full swing, and it was every bit as strange as he thought it was going to be. Unfortunately, five of the six, Her Majesty being the only exception, were completely out of contact with the world. The psychiatrists referred to them in worried tones as unavailable for therapy, and spent most of their time brooding over

possible ways of bringing them back into the real world for a while. Malone stayed away from the five who were completely psychotic. The weird babblings of fifty-year-old Barry Miles disconcerted him. They sounded like little charred. Charlie O'Neill's strange, semi-connected jabber, but Westinghouse's Dr. O'Connor said that it seemed to represent another phenomenon entirely. William Logan's blank face was a memory of horror, but the constant tinkling giggles giggles of Ardeth Parker, the studied and concentrated way that Garden McEllan wove meaningless patterns in the air with his waving fingers, and the rhythmless, melodious humming that seemed to be

all there was to the personality of Robert Cassidy, were simply too much for Malone. Taken singly, each was frightening and remote. Altogether, they wove a picture of insanity that chilled him more than he wanted to admit. When the seventh telepath was flown in from Honolulu, Malone didn't even bother to see her. He let the psychiatrists take over directly and simply avoided their sessions. Queen Elizabeth I, on the other hand, he found genuinely likable. According to the psych boys, she had been, as both Malone and Her Majesty had theorized, heavily frustrated by being the possessor of a talent which no one else recognized.

Beyond that, the impact of other minds was disturbing. There was a slight loss of identity, which seemed to be a major factor in every case. of telepathic insanity. But the Queen had compensated for her frustrations in the easiest possible way. She had simply traded her identity for another one and had rationalized a single overruling delusion, that she was Queen Elizabeth I of England, still alive and wrongfully deprived of her throne. It's a beautiful rationalization, one of the psychiatrists.

said with more than a trace of admiration in his voice. Complete and thoroughly consistent. She's just traded identities, and everything else she does, everything else, stems logically out of her delusional premise. Beautiful. She might have been crazy, Malone realized, but she was a long way from stupid. The project was in full swing.

The only trouble was that they were no. nearer finding the telepath than they had been three weeks before. With five completely blank human beings to work with and the sixth Queen Elizabeth, Malone heard privately that the last telepath, the girl from Honolulu, was no better than the first five. She had apparently regressed into what one of the psychiatrists called a nun identity childhood syndrome. Malone didn't know what it meant, but it sounded terrible. Malone could see why progress was their most difficult commodity. Dr. Harry Gamble, the head of Project Isle, was losing poundage by the hour with worry,

and Malone reflected, he could ill afford it. Burris Malone and Boyd had set themselves up in a temporary office within the Westinghouse area. The director had left his assistant in charge in Washington. nothing he said over and over again was as important as the spy in Project Isle. Apparently Boyd had come to believe that, too. At any rate, though he was still truculent, there were no more outbursts of rebellion. But on the fourth day, what do we do now? Burris asked. Shoot ourselves, Boyd said promptly.

Now look here. Malone began, but he was overruled. Boyd," Burris said levely. If I hear any more of that sort of pessimism, you're going to be an exception to the beard rule. One more crack out of you and you can go out and buy yourself a razor. Boyd put his hand over his chin protectively and said nothing at all. Wait a minute, Malone said. Aren't there any sane telepaths in the world?

We can't find any, Burris said. we—there was a knock at the office door. Who's there? Burris said. Dr. Gamble said the man's surprisingly baritone voice. Burris called, come in, doctor, and the door opened. Dr. Gamble's lean face looked almost haggard. Mr. Burris, he said, extending his arms a trifle,

Can't anything be done? Malone had seen Gamble speaking before, and had wondered if it would be possible for the man to do. to talk with his hands tied behind his back. Apparently it wouldn't be. We feel that we are approaching a critical stage in Project Isle, the scientists said, enclosing one fist within the other hand. If anything more gets out to the Soviets, we might as well publish our findings.

A wide, outflung gesture of both arms in the newspapers. Burris stepped back. We're doing the best we can, Dr. Gamble. He said. All things considered his obvious try at radiating confidence was nearly successful. After all, he went on, we know a great deal more than we did four days ago. Miss Thompson has assured us that the spy is right here within the compound of Yucca Flats labs. We've bottled everything up in this compound,

and I'm confident that no information is at present getting through to the Soviet government. Miss Thompson agrees with me. Miss Thompson, Gamble said one hand at his bearded chin. The queen, Burris said. Gamble nodded, and two fingers touched his forehead. Ah, he said, of course. He rubbed at the back of his neck. But we can't keep everybody who's here now locked up forever. Sooner or later we'll have to let them. His left hand described the gesture of a man tossing away a wad of paper. Go! His hands fell to his sides.

We're lost unless we can find that spy. We'll find him, Burris said, with a show of great confidence. But give her time, Burris said, give her time. Remember her mental condition. Boyd looked up. Rome, he said in an absent fashion, wasn't built in a daze. Burris glared at him but said nothing. Malone filled the conversational hole with what he thought would be nice and hopeful and untrue.

We know he's somewhere on the reservation, so we'll catch him eventually, he said, and as long as his information isn't getting into Soviet hands, we're safe. He glanced at his wristwatch. Dr. Gamble said, but my, my, Malone said, almost lunchtime. I have to go over and have lunch with Her Majesty. Maybe she's dug up something more. I hope so, Dr. Gamble said, apparently successfully deflected. I do hope so.

Well, Malone said, pardon me. He shucked off his coat and trousers. Then he proceeded to put on the doublet and hose that hung in the little office closet. He shrugged into the fur-trimmed slash-sleeved coat, adjusted the plumed hat to his satisfaction with great care, and gave Burris and the others a small bow. "'I go to an audience with Her Majesty, gentlemen,' he said in a grave, well-modulated voice, "'I shall return anon.'

He went out the door and closed it carefully behind him. When he had gone a few steps, he allowed himself the luxury of a deep sigh. Then he went outside and across the dusty street to the barracks where Her Majesty and the other telepaths were housed. No one paid any attention to him, and he rather missed the stairs he'd become used to drawing. By now everyone was used to seeing Elizabethan clothing. Her Majesty had arrived at a new plateau. She would now allow no one to have audience with her, unless he was properly dressed. Even the psychiatrists, whom she had with a careful sense of meiosis, appointed physicians to

the royal house, had to wear the stuff. Malone went over the whole case in his mind. For about the thousandth time he told himself bitterly, who could the telepathic spy be? It was like looking for a needle in a rolling stone, he thought, or something. He did remember clearly that a stitch in time. saved nine, but he didn't know nine what, and suspected it had nothing to do with his present problem. How about Dr. Harry Gamble, Malone thought.

It seemed a little unlikely that the head of Project Isle would be spying on his own men, particularly since he already had all the information, but on the other hand, he was just as probable a spy as anybody else. Malone moved onward. Dr. Thomas O'Connor, the Westinghouse Scionics man, was the next nominee. Before Malone had actually found her majesty, he had had a suspicion that O'Connor had cooked the whole thing up to throw the FBI off the trail and confuse everybody, and that he'd intended merely to have the FBI chase ghosts, while the real spy did his work

undetected. But what if O'Connor were the spy himself, a telepath? What if he were so confident in his ability to throw the queen off the track that he'd allowed the FBI to find all the other telepaths? There was another argument for that. He'd had to report the findings of his machine no matter what it cost him. There were too many other men on his staff who knew about it. O'Connor was a perfectly plausible spy, too, but he didn't seem very likely. The head of a government project is likely to be a much-investigated man. Could any tie up with Russia, even a psionic one, stand against that kind of investigation? Malone doubted it.

Malone thought of the psychiatrists. There wasn't any evidence. That was the trouble. There wasn't any evidence either way. Then he wondered if Boyd had been thinking of him, Malone, as the possible spy. Certainly it worked in reverse. Boyd—no, that was silly. Malone told himself that he might as well consider Andrew J. Burris.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Well, Queen Elizabeth had seemed pretty certain when she'd pointed him out in Dr. Dawson's office. And even though she'd changed her mind, how much faith could be placed in her majesty. After all, if she'd made a mistake about Burris, she could just as easily have made a mistake about the spies being at Yucca Flats. In that case, Malone thought sadly they were right back where they'd started from, behind their own goal line. One way or another, though, her majesty had made me.

a mistake. She'd pointed Burris out as a spy, and then she'd said she'd been wrong. Either Burris was a spy or he wasn't. You couldn't have it both ways. Why couldn't you, Malone thought suddenly? And then something Burris himself had said came back to him, something that I'll be damned, he thought. He came to a dead stop in the middle of the street. In one sudden flash of insight. All the pieces of the case he'd been looking at for so long fell together and formed one consistent picture. The pattern was complete. Malone blinked. In that second he knew exactly who the spy was. A jeep honked raucously and swerved around him. The driver leaned out to curse and remained to stare. Malone was always,

already halfway back to the offices. On the way he stopped in at another small office, this one inhabited by the two FBI men from Las Vegas. He gave a series of quick orders and got the satisfaction as he left of seeing one of the FBI men grabbing for a phone in a hurry. It was good to be doing things again, important things. Burris, Boyd, and Dr. Gamble were still talking as Malone entered. That, Burris said, was one hell of a quick lunch. What's Her Majesty doing now, running a diner? Malone ignored the bait.

Gentlemen, he said solemnly, Her Majesty has asked that all of us attend her in audience. She has information of the utmost gravity to import, and wishes an audience at once. Burris looks startled. Has she? He began in so. stopped leaving his mouth open and the rest of the sentence unfinished.

Malone nodded gravely. "'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 didn't last three seconds. "'Let's go,' Burris snapped. He and the others headed for the door. "'Gentlemen!'

Malone sounded properly shocked and offended. your dress. Oh, no, Boyd said not now. Burris simply said, You're quite right, get dressed, Boyd. I mean, of course, Sir Thomas. While Burris Boyd and Dr. Gamble were dressing, Malone put in a call to Dr. O'Connor

and told him to be at Her Majesty's Court in ten minutes and in full panoply. O'Connor, not unnaturally, balked a little at first, but Malone talked fast and sounded as urgent as he, felt. At last he got the psionicists' agreement. Then he put in a second call to the psychiatrists from St. Elizabeth's, and told them the same thing. More used to the strange demands of neurotic and psychotic patients, they were readier to comply. Everyone, Malone realized with satisfaction, was assembled. Even Burris and the others were ready to go. Beaming, he led them out.

Ten minutes later, there were nine men in Elizabethan costume standing outside the room which had been designated as the Queen's Court. Dr. Gamble's costume did not quite fit him. His sleeve ruffs were halfway up to his elbows, and his doublet had an unfortunate tendency to creep. The St. Elizabeth's men, all four of them, looked just a little like Moth-Eaten versions of old silent pictures. Malone looked them over with a sifted.

somewhat sardonic eye. Not only did he have the answer to the whole problem that had been plaguing them, but his costume was a stunning, perfect fit. Now I want you men to let me handle this, Malone said. I know just what I want to say, and I think I can get the information without too much trouble. One of the psychiatrists spoke up, I trust you want to serve the patient, Mr. Malone, he said. Sir Kenneth, Malone snapped. The psychiatrist looked both abashed and worried.

I'm sorry, he said doubtfully. Malone nodded. That's all right, he said. I'll try not to disturb Her Majesty unduly. The psychiatrist conferred. When they came out of the huddle, one of them, Malone was never able to tell them apart, said, Very well, we'll let you handle it,

but we will be forced to interfere if we feel you're going too far. malone said that's fair enough gentlemen let's go he opened the door it was a magnificent room the whole place had been done over in plastic and synthetic fibers to look like something out of the sixteenth century It was as garish and as perfect as a Hollywood movie set, which wasn't surprising, since two stage designers had been hired away from color TV spectacles to set it up. At the far end of the room past the rich hangings and the flaming chandeliers was a great throne, and on it her majesty was seated. Lady Barbara reclined on the steps at her feet. saw the expression on her majesty's face. He wanted to talk to Barbara, but there wasn't time.

Later there might be. Now he collected his mind and drove one thought at the queen, one single, powerful thought. Read me. You know by this time that I have the truth, but read deeper. The expression on her face changed suddenly. She was smiling a Sad, gentle little smile. Lady Barbara, who had looked up at the approach of Sir Kenneth and his entourage, relaxed again, but her eyes remained on Malone. "'You may approach, my lords,' said the queen. Sir Kenneth led the procession with Sir Thomas and Sir Andrew close behind him.

O'Connor and Gamble came next, and, bringing up the rear were the four psychiatrists. They strode slowly along the red carpet that stretched from the door to the foot of the throne. They came to a halt, a few feet from the steps leading up to the throne, and bowed in unison. "'You may explain, Sir Kenneth,' her majesty said. "'Your majesty understands the conditions,' Malone asked. "'Perfectly,' said the queen. "'Proceed.' "'Now the expression on Barbara's face changed to wonder.

and a kind of fright. Malone didn't look at her. Instead, he turned to Dr. O'Connor. Dr. O'Connor, what are your plans for the telepaths who have been brought here? He shot the question out quickly, and O'Connor was caught off balance. Well, we would like their cooperation in further research, which we planned to do into the actual mechanisms of telepathy. Provided, of course, he coughed, provided that they become accessible. Miss—I mean, of course, her majesty has already been a great deal of help. He gave Malone an odd look. It seemed to say, what's coming next?

Malone simply gave him a nod and said, thank you, doctor, and turned to Burris. He could feel Barbara's eyes on him, but he went on with his prepared questions. Chief, he said, what about you? After we nail our spy, what happens to Her Majesty, I mean? You don't intend to stop giving her the homage, do her, do you?' Burris stared, open-mouthed. After a second he managed to say, Why, no, of course not Sir Kenneth, that is,

and he glanced over at the psychiatrists. If the doctors think— There was another hurried consultation. The four psychiatrists came out of it with a somewhat shaky statement to the effect that treatments which had been proven to have some therapeutic value ought not to be discontinued, although, of course, there was always the chance that, thank you, gentlemen, Malone said smoothly. He could see that they were nervous, and no wonder. He could imagine how difficult it was for a psychiatrist to talk about a patient in her presence.

But they'd already realized that it didn't make any difference. Their thoughts were an open book anyway. Lady Barbara said, sir, I mean, Ken, are you going to— What's this all about? Burris snapped. Just a minute, Sir Andrew, Malone said. I'd like to ask one of the doctors here, or all of them for that matter. One more question.

He whirled and faced them. I'm assuming that not one of these persons is legally responsible for his or her actions. Is that correct? Another hurried huddle. The psych boys were beginning. beginning to remind Malone of a semi-pro football team in rather unusual uniforms. Finally, one of them said, You are correct.

According to the latest statuses, all of these people are legally insane, including Her Majesty. He paused and gulped. I accept the FBI, of course, and ourselves. Another pause. And Dr. O'Connor and Dr. Gamble. And, said Lady Barbara, me.

She smiled sweetly at them all. Ah, the psychiatrist said, certainly, of course. He retired into his group with some confusion. Malone was looking straight at the throne. Her Majesty's countenance was serene and unruffled. Barbara said suddenly, You don't mean, but she—and closed her mouth. Malone shot her one quick look, and then turned to the Queen.

Well, your majesty? he said, you have seen the thoughts of every man here. How do they appear to you? Her voice contained both tension and relief. They are all good men, basically, and kind men, she said. And they believe us. That's the important thing you know. Their belief in us, just as you did that first day we met.

We've needed belief for so long, for so long. Her voice trailed off, it seemed, to become lost in a constellation of thoughts. Barbara had turned to look up at her majesty. Malone took a step forward, but Burris interrupted him. How about the spy? he said. Then his eyes widened. Boyd, standing next to him, leaned suddenly forward. That's why you mentioned all that about legal immunity, because of insanity, he whispered,

because— No, Barbara said. said, no, she couldn't. She's not— They were all looking at Her Majesty now. She returned them, stare for a stare, her back stiff and straight, and her white hair in haloed in the room's light. Sir Kenneth, she said, and her voice was only the least bit unsteady. They all think I'm the spy.

Barbara stood up. Listen, she said. I didn't like her majesty at first. Well, she was a patient, and that was all. And when she started putting on airs, but since I've gotten to know her, I do like her. I like her because she's good and kind herself, and because she wouldn't be a spy.

She couldn't be, no matter what any of you think, even you, Sir Kenneth. There was a second of silence. Of course she's not, Malone said quietly. She's no spy. Would I spy on my own subjects?" she said. Use your reason. You mean, Burris began, and Boyd finished for him. She isn't?

No, Malone snapped, she isn't. Remember, you said it would take a telepath to catch a telepath. Well, Burris began. Well, Her Majesty remembered it, Malone said, and acted on it. Barbara remained standing. She went to the Queen and put an arm around the little old lady's shoulder. Her Majesty did not object. I knew, she said, you couldn't have been a spy.

Listen, dear, the Queen said. Your Kenneth has seen the truth of the matter. Listen to him. Her Majesty not only caught the spy, Malone said, but she turned the spy right over to us. He turned it once and went back down the lawn. red carpet to the door. I really ought to get a sword, he thought, and didn't see her majesty smile.

He opened the door with a great flourish and said quietly, Bring him in, boys. The FBI men from Las Vegas marched in. Between them was their prisoner, a boy with a vacuous face, clad in a straight jacket that seemed to make no difference at all to him. His mind was somewhere else, but his body was trapped between the FBI agents, the body of William Logan. Impossible, one of the psychiatrists said. Malone spun on his heel and led the way back to the throne.

Logan and his guards followed closely. Your Majesty, Malone said, may I present the prisoner? Perfectly correct, Sir Kenneth, the queen said. poor Willie is your spy. You won't be too hard on him, will you?' "'I don't think so, Your Majesty,' Malone said, after all. "'Now wait a minute,' Burris exploded. How did you know any of this?' Malone bowed to her majesty and winked at Barbara. He turned to Burris. "'Well,' he said, I had one piece of information none of the rest of you had.

when we were in the Desert Edge Sanitarium, Dr. Dawson called you on the phone, remember. Sure, I remember, Burris said, so. Well, Malone said, Her Majesty said she knew just where the spy was. I asked her where. Why didn't you tell me? Burris screamed. You knew all this time, and you didn't tell me? Hold on, Malone said.

I asked her where, and she said. He's right there. And she was pointing right at your image on the screen. Burris opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He closed it and tried again. At last he managed one word. Me?

He said. You, Malone said. But that's what I realized later. She wasn't pointing at you. She was pointing at Logan, who was in the next room. Barbara whispered, Is that right, your majesty? Certainly, dear, the queen said calmly.

Would I lie to Sir Kenneth? Malone was still talking. The thing that set me off this noon was something you said, Sir Andrew, he went on. You said there weren't any sane telepaths, remember? Burris, incapable of speech, merely nodded. But according to her majesty, Malone said, We had every telepath in the United States right here.

She told me that, and I didn't even see it. Don't blame yourself, Sir Kenneth, the Queen put in. I did do my best to mislead you, you know. You sure did, Boulone said. And later on, when we were driving here, you said the spy was moving around. That's right. He was in the car behind us, going eighty miles an hour. Barbara stared.

Malone got a lot of satisfaction out of that stare, but there was still more ground to cover. Then he said, you told us he was here at Yucca Flats. After we brought him here, it had to be one of the other six telepaths. The psychiatrist who'd muttered Impossible was still muttering it. Malone ignored him. And when I remembered her pointing at Yucson, You, Malone told Burris, and remembered that she'd only said, he's right there. I knew it had to be Logan.

You weren't there. You were only an image on a TV screen. Logan was there in the room behind the phone. Burris had found his tongue. All right, he said, okay, but what's all this about misleading us, and why didn't she tell us right away anyhow? Malone turned to her majesty on the throne. I think that the Queen had better explain that, if she will."

Queen Elizabeth Thompson nodded very slowly. "'I—I only wanted you to respect me,' she said. "'To treat me properly.' Her voice sounded uneven, and her eyes were glistening with unspilled tears. Lady Barbara tightened her arm about the Queen's shoulders once more. "'It's all right,' she said, we do respect you. The queen smiled up at her. Malone waited. After a second, her majesty continued. I was afraid that as soon as you found poor Willie, you'd send me back to the hospital, she said.

And Willie couldn't tell the Russian agents anymore once he'd been taken away. So I thought I'd just—just let things stay the way they were as long as I could. That's—that's all. Malone nodded. After a second he said, You see that we couldn't possibly send you back now, don't you? I—you know all the state secrets, Your Majesty, Malone said. We would rather that Dr. Harmon in San Francisco didn't try to talk you out of them or anyone else.

The queen smiled tremulously. I—no too much, do I? She said. Then her grin faded. "'Poor Dr. Harmon,' she said. "'Poor Dr. Harmon.' "'You'll hear about him in a day or so,' she said. "'I peeked inside his mind.

"'He's very ill.' "'I'll, Lady Barbara asked. "'Oh, yes,' the Queen said. "'The trace of a smile appeared on her face. "'He thinks that all the patients in the hospital "'can see inside his mind.' "'Oh, my,' Lady Barbara said and began to laugh. It was the nicest sound Malone had ever heard.

"'Fregate Harmon,' Burris snapped. "'What about this spy ring? How was Logan getting his information out?' "'I've already taken care of that,' Malone said. "'I had Desert Edge Sanitarium, surrounded as soon as I knew what the score was.' He looked at one of the agents holding Logan. "'They ought to be in the Las Vegas jail within half an hour,'

the agent said in confirmation. "'Dr. Dawson was in on it, wasn't. your majesty, Malone said. Certainly, the queen said. Her eyes were suddenly very cold. I hope he tries to escape. I hope he tries it. Malone knew just how she felt.

One of the psychiatrists spoke up suddenly. I don't understand it, he said. Logan is completely catatonic. Even if he could read minds, how could he tell Dawson what he'd read? It doesn't make any sense. In the first place, the Queen said patiently, Willie isn't catatonic. He's just busy, that's all.

He's only a boy, and, well, he doesn't much like being who he is. So he visits other people's minds, and that way he becomes them for a while, you see? Vaguely, Malone said. But how did Dowson get his information? I had everything worked out but that. I know you did, the Queen said, and I'm not. I'm proud of you. I intend to award you with the order of the bath for this day's work.

Unaccountably, Malone's chest swelled with pride. As for Dr. Dowson, the Queen said, that traitor hurt, Willie. If he's hurt enough, he'll come back. Her eyes weren't hard anymore. He didn't want to be a spy, really, she said. But he's just a boy, and it must have sounded rather, Exciting. He knew that if he told Dowson everything he'd found out, they'd let him go, go away again. There was a long silence. Well, Boulogne said, that wraps it up. Any questions?

He looked around at the men, but before any of them could speak up, her majesty rose. I'm sure there are questions, she said, but I'm really very tired. My lords, you are excused. She extended a hand. Come, Lady Barbara, she said, I think I really may need that nap now. Malone put the cufflinks in his shirt with great care. They were great stones, and Malone thought that they gave his costume

that necessary Elizabethan flair. Not that he was wearing the costume of the Queen's Court now. Instead, he was dressed in a tailor-proud suit of dark blue, a white-on-white shirt and no tie. He selected one of a gorgeous peacock pattern from his closet rack. Boyd yawned at him from the bed in the room they were sharing. Stepping out, he said. I am, Malone said with restraint.

He whipped the tie round his neck and drew it under the collar. Anybody I know? I am meeting Lady Barbara, if you wish to know. Malone said. Calm down, Boyd said. Relax. "'Anyhow, I've got a question for you. There was one little thing her ever-loven majesty didn't explain.'

"'Yes,' said Malone. "'Well, about those hoods who tried to got us down,' Boyd said. "'Who hired him, and why?' "'Dowson,' Malone said. "'He wanted to kill us off and then kidnapped Logan from the hotel room, "'but we foiled his plan by killing his hoods. "'By the time he could work up something else, we were on our way to Yucca Flats.

Great, Boyd said. And how did you find out this startling piece of information? There haven't been any reports then from Las Vegas, have there? No, Balone said. Okay, Boyd said, I give up, mastermind. Malone wished Boyd would stop using that nickname. The fact was, as he and apparently nobody else was willing to recognize, that he wasn't anything like a terrific.

FBI agent. Even Barbara thought he was something special. He wasn't. He knew. He was just lucky. Her Majesty informed me, Malone said. Her boy stood with his mouth dropped open, like a fish waiting for some bait. You mean she knew? Well, Malone said. She did know the guys in the Buick weren't the best in the business, and she knew all about the specially built FBI Lincoln. She got that from our minds. He nodded his tie with an air of great aplomb, and went slowly to the door. And she knew we were a good team. She got that from our minds, too. But, Boyd said. After a second, he said, but, again, and followed it with, why didn't she tell us? Malone opened the door. Her Majesty wished to see the Queen's own FBI,

In action, said Sir Kenneth Malone. End of Chapter 8. End of That Sweet Little Old Lady by Randall Garrett.