got the satisfaction, as he left, of seeing one of the FBI men grabbing
for a phone in a hurry. It was good to be _doing_ things again,
important things.

Burris, Boyd and Dr. Gamble were still talking as Malone entered.

"That," Burris said, "was one hell of a quick lunch. What's Her Majesty
doing now--running a diner?"

Malone ignored the bait. "Gentlemen," he said solemnly, "Her Majesty has
asked that all of us attend her in audience. She has information of the
utmost gravity to impart, and wishes an audience at once."

Burris looked startled. "Has she--" he began, and stopped, leaving his
mouth open and the rest of the sentence unfinished.

Malone nodded gravely. "I believe, gentlemen," he said, "that Her
Majesty is about to reveal the identity of the spy who has been
battening on Project Isle."

The silence didn't last three seconds.

"Let's go," Burris snapped. He and the others headed for the door.

"Gentlemen!" Malone sounded properly shocked and offended. "Your dress!"

"Oh, _no_," Boyd said. "Not now."

Burris simply said: "You're quite right. Get dressed, Boyd ... I mean,
of course, Sir Thomas."

While Burris, Boyd and Dr. Gamble were dressing, Malone put in a call to
Dr. O'Connor and told him to be at Her Majesty's court in ten
minutes--and in full panoply. O'Connor, not unnaturally, balked a little
at first. But Malone talked fast and sounded as urgent as he felt. At
last he got the psionicist's agreement.

Then he put in a second call to the psychiatrists from St. Elizabeths
and told them the same thing. More used to the strange demands of
neurotic and psychotic patients, they were readier to comply.

Everyone, Malone realized with satisfaction, was assembled. Even Burris
and the others were ready to go. Beaming, he led them out.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later, there were nine men in Elizabethan costume standing
outside the room which had been designated as the Queen's Court. Dr.
Gamble's costume did not quite fit him; his sleeve ruffs were halfway up
to his elbows and his doublet had an unfortunate tendency to creep. The
St. Elizabeths men, all four of them, looked just a little like
moth-eaten versions of old silent pictures. Malone looked them over with
a somewhat sardonic eye. Not only did he have the answer to the whole
problem that had been plaguing them, but _his_ costume was a stunning,
perfect fit.

"Now, I want you men to let me handle this," Malon