Chapter 3

The telephone rang.

Malone rolled over on the couch and muttered four words under his breath. Was it absolutely necessary for someone to call him at seven in the morning?

He grabbed at the receiver with one 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.

“Gur?” he said, sleepily and angrily, thankful that he’d never had a visiphone installed in his apartment. A taste for blondes was apparently hereditary. At any rate, Malone felt he had inherited it from his father, and he didn’t want any visible strangers calling him at odd hours to interfere with his process of collection and research.

He blinked at the audio circuit, and a feminine voice said: “Mr. Kenneth J. Malone?”

“Who’s this?” Malone said peevishly, beginning to discover himself capable of semirational 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 a desire to tell the voice that he didn’t want to talk to St. Francis, not even in Spanish, 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 had been clear, the man would have dialed direct, instead of going through what Malone 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,” Malone 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.

... And the sound of Irish laughter... “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 damned good agent. But why a call at this hour?

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 scrambled circuit. But Malone got the message without difficulty.

“Yeah?” he said, 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,” Boyd 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 timetables 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,” Malone 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 slightly risible sight. Six feet one and one-half inches tall in his flat feet, Boyd posted 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, half startlingly childlike. In an apparent effort to erase those childlike qualities, Boyd sported a fringe of beard and a moustache which reminded Malone 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, Ken, 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 could make up your own mind. All right?”

“All right,” Malone said wearily. “Do it your own 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. “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 (and imagined, therefore, that it wasn’t hereditary, like a taste for blondes), 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 reasonable sitting position. “I don’t suppose you have a drink hidden away in the 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 Christian Brothers 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.

Boyd 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.”

“Whadyamean, wakeup,” 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. Harman 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. Harman, anyhow?”

The car was moving up a long, curving driveway toward a large, lawn- surrounded building. Boyd spoke without looking away from the road.

“Well,” he said, “this Dr. Wilson Harman 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. Harman 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. Lady.”

“And?”

“And I talked to her,” Boyd 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 nonchalantly 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,” he said. “Dr. Harman’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 opaqued 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. Wilson Harman sat behind a blond- wood desk, a little man with crew-cut blond hair and rimless eyeglasses, who looked about thirty-two 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. Harman called. His voice was that rarity, a really loud high tenor.

“Dr. Harman,” Boyd said, “this is my superior, Mr. Malone. We’d like to have a talk with Miss Thompson, if we might.”

“I anticipated that, sir,” Dr. Harman 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. Harman 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 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 curves, or 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.” Malone 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 wrist 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 different. (Something borrowed, Malone thought in a semidelirious 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. Harman put in. “Miss Wilson, Mr. Malone. And Mr. Boyd. Miss Thompson, gentlemen, is over there.”

Malone turned.

There, in a 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. Harman. And, at last, he looked at Boyd.

“All right,” he said. “I get it. You’re Miss Thompson.”

“Now, wait a minute, Malone,” Boyd began.

“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. Harman 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 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 I?” 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 your really think he will? Because I’m sure I’ll like your Mr. Burris, too. All of 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 battier 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 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 one 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 been so many years--so many hundreds of years--”

“Sure,” Malone said easily.

Boyd broke in. “Listen, Malone,” he said. “Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

“It’s very simple,” Malone said. “Miss Thompson here--pardon me; I mean Queen Elizabeth I--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 patted the FBI agent on the shoulder. “There, there, Mr. Malone,” she said. “It will all be perfectly all right. You’ll see.” Then she returned to her seat.

Malone opened his eyes. “My God,” he said. He closed them again but they flew open as if of their own accord. He turned to Dr. Harman. “You called up Boyd here,” he said, “and told him that--er--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 your calling me Miss Thompson, not right now, anyhow.”

“Thanks,” Malone said faintly.

Dr. Harman 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. Harman,” 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 couchside 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 know 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 worthwhile, being nuts. But of course it would. He was nuts anyhow, wasn’t he?