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 — ah — we would like their cooperation in further research which we — ah — plan to do into the actual mechanisms of telepathy. Provided, of course—” He coughed gently — “provided that they become — ah — 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 a “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 due her, do you?”
Burris stared, openmouthed. 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 tc 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 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 statutes, all of these persons are legally insane — including Her Majesty.” He paused and gulped. “I except 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 said 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. “No. She couldn’t — she’s not—”
They were all looking at Her Majesty, now. She returned them stare for stare, her back stiff and straight and her white hair enhaloed 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 — 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 at once and went back down the long 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 straitjacket 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 the hell 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 Sanatorium, Dr. Dowson 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.”