Occasion ... for Disaster
costume arrangement were first set up, but the FBI and the Government
had finally decided that it was better and easier to humor Her
Majesty.
Malone spent ten minutes dressing himself magnificently in hose and
doublet, slash-sleeved, ermine-trimmed coat, lace collar, and plumed
hat. By the time he presented himself at the door to the Throne Room
he felt almost cheerful. It had been a long time since he had entered
the world of Elizabethan knighthood over which Her Majesty held sway,
and it always made him feel taller and more sure of himself. He bowed
to a chunkily-built man of medium height in a stiffly brocaded jacket,
carrying a small leather briefcase. The man had a whaler's beard of
blond-red hair that looked slightly out of period, but the costume
managed to overpower it. "Dr. Lord?" Malone said.
The bearded man peered at him. "Ah, Sir Kenneth," he said. "Yes, yes.
Just been giving Her Majesty a few tests. Normal weekly check, you
know."
"I know," Malone said. "Any change?"
"Change?" Lord said. "In Her Majesty? Sir Kenneth, you might as well
expect the very rocks to change. Her Majesty remains Her Majesty--and
will, in all probability, throughout the foreseeable future."
"The same as ever?" Malone asked hopefully.
"Exactly," Lord said. "But--if you do want background on the case--I'm
flying back to New York tonight. Look me up there, if you have a
chance. I'm afraid there's little information I can give you, but it's
always a pleasure to talk with you."
"Thanks," Malone said dully.
"Barrow Street," Lord said with a cheery wave of the briefcase.
"Number 69." He was gone. The Security Officer at the door, a young
man in the uniform of a page, opened it and peered out at Malone. The
FBI Agent nodded to him and the Security Officer announced in a firm,
loud voice: "Sir Kenneth Malone, of Her Majesty's Own FBI!"
The Throne Room was magnificent. The whole place had been done 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 spectaculars to set it up. At the far end of
the room, past the rich hangings and the flaming chandeliers, was a
great golden throne, and on it Her Majesty was seated.
Lady Barbara Wilson, Her Majesty's personal nurse, was sitting on a
camp-chair arrangement nearby. She smiled slowly at Malone as he went
by, and Malone returned the smile with a good deal of interest. He
strode firmly down the long crimson carpet that stretched from the
doorway to the throne. At the steps leading up toward the dais that
held the Throne, his free hand went up and swept off the plumed hat.
He sank to one knee.
"Your Majesty," he said gravely.
The queen looked down on him. "Rise, Sir Kenneth," she said in a tone
of surprise. "We welcome your presence."
Malone got up off his knee and stood, his hat in his hand.
"What is your business with us?" Her Majesty asked.
Malone looked her full in the face for the first time. He realized
that her expression was rather puzzled and worried. She looked even
more confused than she had the last time he'd seen her.
He took a deep breath, wished for a cigar and plunged blindly ahead
into the toils of court etiquette.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I know full well that you are aware of the
thoughts that I have had concerning the case we have been working on.
I beg Your Majesty's pardon for having doubted Your Majesty's Royal
Word. Since my first doubts, of which I am sore ashamed, I have been
informed by Our Majesty's Royal Psychiatrist that my doubts were
ill-founded, and I wish to convey my deepest apologies. Now, having
been fully convinced of the truth of Your Majesty's statements, I have
a theory I would discuss with you, the particulars of which you can
doubtless see in my mind."
He paused. Her Majesty was staring at him, her face pale.
"Sir Kenneth," she said in a strained voice, "we appreciate your
attitude. However--" She paused for a moment, and then continued.
"However, Sir Kenneth, it is our painful duty to inform you--"
She stopped again. And when she managed to speak, she had dropped all
pretense of Court Etiquette.
"Sir Kenneth, I've been so worried! I was afraid you were dead!"
Malone blinked. "Dead?" he asked.
"For the past twenty-four hours," Her Majesty said in a frightened
voice, "I've been unable to contact your mind. And right now, as you
stand there, I can't read anything!
"It's as though you weren't thinking at all!"
PART 3
IX
Malone stared at Her Majesty for what seemed like a long time. "Not
thinking at all?" he said at last, weakly. "But I _am_ thinking. At
least, I _think_ I am." He suddenly felt as if he had gone René
Descartes one better. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.
Her Majesty regarded Malone for an interminable, silent second. Then
she turned to Lady Barbara. "My dear," she said, "I would like to
speak to Sir Kenneth alone. We will go to my chambers."
Malone, feeling as though his brain had suddenly turned to quince
jelly, followed the two women out of a small door at the rear of the
Throne Room, and into Her Majesty's private apartments. Lady Barbara
left them alone with some reluctance, but she'd evidently been getting
used to following her patient's orders. Which, Malone thought with
admiration, must take a lot of effort for a nurse.
The door closed and he was alone with the Queen. Malone opened his
mouth to speak, but Her Majesty raised a monitory hand. "Please, Sir
Kenneth," she said. "Just a moment. Don't say anything for a little
bit."
Malone shut his mouth. When the minute was up, Her Majesty began to
nod her head, very slowly. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and
calm.
"It's as though you were almost invisible," she said. "I can see you
with my eyes, of course, but mentally you are almost completely
indetectable. Knowing you as well as I do, and being this close to
you, it is just possible for me to detect very faint traces of
activity."
"Now, wait a minute," Malone said. "I am thinking. I know I am. Maybe
it's not me. Your telepathy might be fading out temporarily, or
something like that. It's possible, isn't it?" He was reasonably sure
it wasn't, but it was a last try at making sense. Her Majesty shook
her head.
"I can still receive Sir Thomas, for instance, quite clearly," she
said. She seemed a little miffed, but the irritation was overpowered
by her worry. "I think, Sir Kenneth, that you just don't know your own
power, that's all. I don't know how, but you've managed somehow to
smother telepathic communication almost completely."
"But not quite?" Malone said. Apparently, he was thinking, but very
weakly. Like a small child, he told himself dismally. Like a small
Elizabethan child.
Her Majesty's face took on a look of faraway concentration. "It's like
looking at a very dim light," she said, "a light just at the threshold
of perception. You might say that you've got to look at such a light
sideways. If you look directly at it, you can't see it. And, of
course, you can't see it at all if you're a long way off." She
blinked. "It's not exactly like that, you understand," she finished.
"But in some ways--"
"I get the idea," Malone said. "Or I think I do. But what's causing
it? Sunspots? Little green men?"
"Not so little," Her Majesty said with some return of her old humor,
"and not green, either. As a matter of fact, _you_ are, Sir Kenneth."
Malone opened his mouth, shut it again and finally managed to say:
"Me?" in a batlike squeal of surprise.
"I don't know how, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty went on, "but you are.
It's ... rather frightening to me, as a matter of fact; I've never
seen such a thing before. I've never even considered it before."
"You?" Malone said. "How about me?" It was like suddenly discovering
that you'd been lifting two-hundred-pound barbells and not knowing it.
"How could I be doing anything like that without knowing anything
about it?"
Her Majesty shook her head. "I haven't the faintest idea," she said.
But Malone, very suddenly, did. He remembered deciding to keep a close
check on his mental processes to make sure those bursts of energy
didn't do anything to him. Subconsciously, he knew, he was still
keeping that watch.
And maybe the watch itself caused the complete blanking of his
telepathic faculties. It was worth a test, at least, he decided. And
it was an easy test to make.
"Listen," he said. He told himself that he would now allow
communication between himself and Her Majesty--and only between those
two. Maybe it wasn't possible to let down the barrier in a selective
way, but he gave it all he had. A long second passed.
"My goodness!" Her Majesty said in pleased surprise. "There you are
again!"
"You can read me?" Malone asked.
"Why ... yes," Her Majesty said. "And I can see just what you're
thinking. I'm afraid, Sir Kenneth, that I don't know whether it's
selective or not. But ... oh. Just a minute. You go right on thinking,
now, just the way you are." Her Majesty's eyes unfocused slightly and
a long time passed, while Malone tried to keep on thinking. But it was
difficult, he told himself, to think about things without having any
things to think about. He felt his mind begin to spin gently with the
rhythm of the last sentence, and he considered slowly the possibility
of thinking about things when there weren't any things thinking about
you. That seemed to make as much sense as anything else, and he was
turning it over and over in his mind when a voice broke in.
* * * * *
"I was contacting Willie," Her Majesty said.
"Ah," Malone said. "Willie. Of course. Very fine for contacting."
Her Majesty frowned. "You remember Willie, don't you?" she said.
"Willie Logan--who used to be a spy for the Russians, just because he
didn't know any better, poor boy?"
"Oh," Malone said. "Logan." He remembered the catatonic youngster who
had used his telepathic powers against the United States until Her
Majesty, the FBI, and Kenneth J. Malone had managed to put matters
right. That had been the first time he'd met Her Majesty; it seemed
like fifty years before.
"Well," Her Majesty said, "Willie and I had a little argument just
now. And I think you'll be interested in it."
"I'm fascinated," Malone said.
"Was he thinking about things or were things thinking about him?"
"Really, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, "you do think about the
silliest notions when you don't watch yourself."
Malone blushed slightly. "Anyhow," he said after a pause, "what was
the argument about?"
"Willie says you aren't here," Her Majesty said. "He can't detect you
at all. Even when I let him take a peek at you through my own
mind--making myself into sort of a relay station, so to speak--Willie
wouldn't believe it. He said I was hallucinating."
"Hallucinating me?" Malone said. "I think I'm flattered. Not many
people would bother."
"Don't underestimate yourself, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said, rather
severely. "But you do see what this little argument means, don't you?
I think you may assume that your telepathic contact is quite
selective. If Willie can't read you, Sir Kenneth, believe me, nobody
at all can ... unless you let them."
How he had developed this mental shield, he couldn't imagine, unless
his subconscious had done it for him. Good old subconscious, he
thought, always looking out for a person's welfare, preparing little
surprises and things. Though he hoped vaguely that the next surprise,
if there were a next one, would sneak up a little more gently. Being
told flatly that your mind was not in operation was not a very good
way to start an investigation.