"Because I don't want the things to get loose and run around saying _Boo!_ to everybody," Malone said brightly, and went on. * * * * * He opened the door of his private office, went inside and sat down at the desk there. He took his time about framing a thought, a single, clear, deliberate thought: _Your Majesty, I'd like to speak to you._ [Illustration] He hardly had time to finish it. A flash of color appeared in the room, just a few feet from his desk. The flash resolved itself into a tiny, grandmotherly-looking woman with a corona of white hair and a kindly, twinkling expression. She was dressed in the full court costume of the First Elizabethan period, and this was hardly surprising to Malone. The little old lady believed, quite firmly, that she was Queen Elizabeth I, miraculously preserved over all these centuries. Malone, himself, had practically forgotten that the woman's real name was Rose Thompson, and that she had only been alive for sixty-five years or so. For most of that time, she had been insane. For all of that time, however, she had been a genuine telepath. She had been discovered during the course of Malone's first psionic case, and by now she had even learned to teleport by "reading" the process in Malone's mind. "Good afternoon, Sir Kenneth," she said in a regal, kindly voice. She was mad, he knew, but her delusion was nicely kept within bounds. All of her bright world hinged on the single fact that she was unshakably certain of her royalty. As long as the FBI catered to that notion--which included a Royal dwelling for her in Yucca Flats, and the privilege of occasionally knighting FBI Agents who had pleased her unpredictable fancy--she was perfectly rational on all other points. She co-operated with Dr. O'Connor and with the FBI in the investigation of her psionic powers, and she had given her Royal word not to teleport except at Malone's personal request. "I'd like to talk to you," Malone said, "Your Majesty." There was an odd note in the Queen's voice, and an odd, haunted expression on her face. "I've been hoping you'd ask me to come," she said. "I had a hunch you were following me telepathically," Malone said. "Can you give me any help?" "I ... I really don't know," she said. "It's something new, and something ... disturbing. I've never come across anything like it before." "Like what?" Malone asked. "It's the--" She made a gesture that conveyed nothing at all to Malone. "The ... the static," she said at last. Malone blinked. "Static?" he said. "Yes," she said. "You're not telepathic, so I can't tell you what it's really like. But ... well, Sir Kenneth, have you ever seen disturbance on a TV screen, when there's some powerful electric output nearby? The bright, senseless snowstorms, the meaningless hash?" "Sure," Malone said. "It's like that," she said. "It's a ... a sudden, meaningless, disturbing blare of telepathic energy." The telephone rang once. Malone ignored it.