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 Andrew, and know that you are henceforth Knight Commander of the Queen's Own FBI." "Thank you, Your Majesty," Burris said humbly. He rose to his feet silently. The Queen withdrew into the car again and handed the gun back to Malone. He thumbed the cartridges into the chambers of the cylinder and listened dumbly.