The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett - Randall Garrett

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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 getup?" he said.

      "FBI," Malone said, hoping his voice carried conviction. "Official business."

      "In costume?"

      "Never mind about 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."

      "For nuts?"

      "For disturbed patients."

      The Patrolman thought that over. "Hell, 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 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 justifiable homicide. Self-defense. Any 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 on 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.

      Chapter 7

       Table of Contents

      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 that yucci?

      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 felt. 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 an anachronism. But Sir Thomas kept his eyes grimly on the road as he gunned the powerful Lincoln toward the Yucca Flats Labs at eighty miles an hour.

      Malone twisted himself around and faced the women in the back seat. Past 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. These 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 didn't 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," said. "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 just 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 from me. It's sort of a game he's playing."

      "A game!"

      Her Majesty looked contrite. "Believe me, Sir Kenneth, 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."

      "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

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