LITMIR.BIZ

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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. Yot/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

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