said, "I knew you couldn't be American. Not after the
phone call. You don't have to hide your nationality here; we're quite
accustomed to foreign visitors. And we don't have special prices for
tourists."

Malone waited two breaths. "Will you please tell me," he said slowly,
"what it is you're talking about?"

"Certainly," BeeBee said with aplomb. "There's a call for you in the
upstairs booth. A long-distance call, personal."

"Oh," Malone said. "Who'd know I was--" He stopped, thinking hard.
There was no way for anybody in the world to know he was in Topp's.
Therefore, nobody could be calling him. "They've got the wrong name,"
he said decisively.

"Oh, no," BeeBee said. "I heard them quite distinctly. You _are_ Sir
Kenneth Malone, aren't you?"

Malone gaped for one long second, and then his mind caught up with the
facts. "Oh," he said. "Sure." He raced upstairs to the phone booth,
said, "This is Sir Kenneth Malone," into the blank screen, and waited.

After a while an operator said, "Person-to-person call, Sir Kenneth,
from Yucca Flats. Will you take this call?"

"I'll take it," Malone said. A face appeared on the screen, and Malone
knew he was right. He knew exactly how he'd been located, and by whom.

Looking only at the face in the screen, it might have been thought
that the woman who appeared there was somebody's grandmother, kindly,
red-cheeked, and twinkle-eyed. Perhaps that wasn't the only
stereotype; she could have been an old-maid schoolteacher, one of the
kindly schoolteachers who taught, once upon a time that never was, in
the little red schoolhouses of the dim past. The face positively
radiated kindliness, and friendship, and peace.

But if the face was the face of a sentimental dream, the garb was the
garb of royalty. Somebody's grandmother was on her way to a costume
party. She wore the full court costume of the days of Queen Elizabeth
I, complete with brocaded velvet gown, wide ruff collar, and bejeweled
skullcap.

She was, Malone knew, completely insane.

Like all the other telepaths Malone and the rest of the FBI had found
during their work in uncovering a telepathic spy, she had been located
in an insane asylum. Months of extensive psychotherapy, including all
the newest techniques and some so old that psychiatrists were a little
afraid to use them, had done absolutely nothing to shake the firm
conviction in the mind of Miss Rose Thompson.

She was, she insisted, Elizabeth Tudor, rightf