Had she? Maybe, after all, you _could_ have it both ways. The thought occurred to him with a startling suddenness and he stood silent upon a peak in Yucca Flats, contemplating it. A second went by. And then something Burris himself had said came back to him, something that-- "I'll be damned," he muttered. He came to a dead stop in the middle of the street. In one sudden flash of insight, all the pieces of the case he'd been looking at for so long fell together and formed one consistent picture. The pattern was complete. Malone blinked. In that second, he knew exactly who the spy was. A jeep honked raucously and swerved around him. The driver leaned out to curse and Malone waved at him, dimly recognizing a private eye he had once known, a middle-aged man named Archer. Wondering vaguely what Archer was doing this far East, and in a jeep at that, Malone watched the vehicle disappear down the street. There were more cars coming, but what difference did that make? Malone didn't care about cars. After all, he had the answer, the whole answer.... "I'll be damned," he said again, abruptly, and wheeled around to head back to the offices. On the way, he stopped in at another small office, this one inhabited by the two FBI men from Las Vegas. He gave a series of quick orders, and 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, and drew himself to his full height. "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 this audience at once." Dr. Gamble made a puzzled, circular gesture with one hand. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Is something--" The hand dropped--"wrong?" Burris barely glanced at him. A startled expression came over his features. "Has she--" he began, and stopped, leaving his mouth open and the rest of the sentence unfinished. Malone nodded gravely and drew in a breath. Elizabethan periods were hard on the lungs, he had begun to realize: you needed a lot of air before you embarked on a sentence. "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 lasted no more than three seconds. Dr. Gamble didn't even make a gesture during that time. Then Burris spoke. "Let's go," he snapped. He wheeled and headed for the door. The others promptly followed. "Gentlemen!" Malone said, sounding, as far as he could tell, properly shocked and offended. "Your dress!" "What?" Dr. Gamble said, throwing up both hands. "Oh, _no_," Boyd chimed in. "Not now." Burris simply said: "You're quite right. Get dressed, Boyd--I mean, of course, Sir Thomas."