Malone took the papers and looked them over. There was nothing special about them; they were merely standard release forms, absolving the staff and management of Desert Edge Sanatorium from every conceivable responsibility under any conceivable circumstances, as far as William Logan was concerned. Dr. Dowson gave Malone a look that said: "Very well, Mr. Malone; I will play Pilate and wash my hands of the matter-- but you needn't think I like it." It was a lot for one look to say, but Dr. Dowson's dark and sunken eyes got the message across with no loss in transmission. As a matter of fact, there seemed to be more coming--a much less printable message was apparently on the way through those glittering, sad and angry eyes. Malone avoided them nervously, and went over the papers again instead. At last he signed them and handed them back. "Thanks for your cooperation, Dr. Dowson," he said briskly, feeling ten kinds of a traitor. "Not at all," Dowson said bitterly. "Mr. Logan is now in your custody. I must trust you to take good care of him." "The best care we can," Malone said. It didn't seem sufficient. He added: "The best possible care, Doctor," and tried to look dependable and trustworthy, like a Boy Scout. He was aware that the effort failed miserably. At his signal, the two plainclothes FBI men took over from the attendants. They marched Logan out to their car, and Malone led the procession back to Boyd's automobile, a procession that consisted (in order) of Sir Kenneth Malone, prospective Duke of Columbia, Queen Elizabeth I, Lady Barbara, prospective Duchess of an unspecified county, and Sir Thomas Boyd, prospective Duke of Poughkeepsie. Malone hummed a little of the first _Pomp and Circumstance_ march as they walked; somehow, he thought it was called for. They piled into the car, Boyd at the wheel with Malone next to him, and the two ladies in back, with Queen Elizabeth sitting directly behind Sir Thomas. Boyd started the engine and they turned and roared off. "Well," said Her Majesty with an air of great complacence, "that's that. That makes six of us." Malone looked around the car. He counted the people. There were four. He said, puzzled: "Six?" "That's right, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. "You have it exactly. Six." "You mean six telepaths?" Sir Thomas asked in a deferent tone of voice. "Certainly I do," Her Majesty replied. "We telepaths, you know, must stick together. That's the reason I got poor little Willie out of that sanatorium of his, you know--and, of course, the others will be joining us." "Don't you think it's time for your nap, dear?" Lady Barbara put in suddenly. "My _what_?" It was obvious that Queen Elizabeth was Not Amused. "Your nap, dear," Lady Barbara said. "Don't call me dear," Her Majesty snapped. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty," Barbara murmured. "But really--"