es, large hands and a small Sir Francis Drake
beard. Malone looked at the two figures blankly.

"Something wrong, Chief?" he said.

Burris came toward the car. The thin gentleman followed him, walking
with an odd bouncing step that must have been acquired, Malone
thought, over years of treading on rubber eggs. "I don't know," Burris
said when he'd reached the door. "When I was in Washington, I seemed
to know--but when I get out here in this desert, everything just goes
haywire." He rubbed at his forehead.

Then he looked into the car. "Hello, Boyd," he said pleasantly.

"Hello, Chief," Boyd said.

Burris blinked. "Boyd, you look like Henry VIII," he said with only
the faintest trace of surprise.

"Doesn't he, though?" Her Majesty said from the rear seat. "I've
noticed that resemblance myself."

Burris gave her a tiny smile. "Oh," he said. "Hello, Your Majesty.
I'm--"

"Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI," the Queen finished for him.
"Yes, I know. It's very nice to meet you at last. I've seen you on
television, and over the video phone. You photograph badly, you know."

"I do?" Burris said pleasantly. It was obvious that he was keeping
himself under very tight control.

Malone felt remotely sorry for the man--but only remotely. Burris
might as well know, he thought, what they had all been going through
the past several days.

Her Majesty was saying something about the honorable estate of
knighthood, and the Queen's list. Malone began paying attention when
she came to:"--and I hereby dub thee--" She stopped suddenly, turned
and said: "Sir Kenneth, give me your weapon."

Malone hesitated for a long, long second. But Burris' eye was on him,
and he could interpret the look without much trouble. There was only
one thing for him to do. He pulled out his .44, ejected the cartridges
in his palm (and reminded himself to reload the gun as soon as he got
it back), and handed the weapon to the Queen, butt foremost.

She took the butt of the revolver in her right hand, leaned out the
window of the car, and said in a fine, distinct voice: "Kneel,
Andrew."

Malone watched with wide, astonished eyes as Andrew J. Burris,
Director of the FBI, went to one knee in a low and solemn
genuflection. Queen Elizabeth Thompson nodded her satisfaction.

She tapped Burris gently on each shoulder with the muzzle of the gun.
"I knight thee Sir Andrew," she said. She cleared her throat. "My,
this desert air is dry.... Rise, Sir An