There is an old story about a general who went on an inspection tour of the front during World War I, and, putting his head incautiously up out of a trench, was narrowly missed by a sniper's bullet. He turned to a nearby sergeant and bellowed: "Get that sniper!" "Oh, we've got him spotted, sir," the sergeant said. "He's been there for six days now." "Well, then," the general said, "why don't you blast him out of there?" "Well, sir, it's this way," the sergeant explained. "He's fired about sixty rounds since he's been out there, and he hasn't hit anything yet. We're afraid if we get rid of him they'll put up somebody who _can_ shoot." This was standard FBI policy when dealing with minor spies. A great many had been spotted, including four in the Department of Fisheries. But known spies are easier to keep track of than unknown ones. And, as long as they're allowed to think they haven't been spotted, they may lead the way to other spies or spy networks. "I thought it was worth the risk," Boyd said. "After all, if they have something to do with the case--" "But they don't," Malone said. Boyd exploded, "Let me find out for myself, will you? You're spoiling all the fun." "Well, anyhow," Malone said, "they don't." "You can't afford to take any chances," Boyd said. "After all, when I think about William Logan, I tell myself we'd better take care of every lead." "Well," Malone said finally, "you may be right. And then again, you may be normally wrong." "What is that supposed to mean?" Boyd said. "How should I know?" Malone said "I'm too busy to go around and around like this. But since you've picked up the spies, I suppose it won't do any harm to find out if they know anything." Boyd snorted again. "Thank you," he said, "for your kind permission." "I'll be right down," Malone said. "I'll be waiting," Boyd said. "In Interrogation Room 7. You'll recognize me by the bullet hole in my forehead and the strange South American poison, hitherto unknown to science, in my oesophagus." "Very funny," Malone said. "Don't give up the ship." * * * * * Boyd switched off without a word. Malone shrugged at the blank screen and pushed his own switch. Then he turned slowly back to Her Majesty, who was standing, waiting patiently, at the opposite side of the desk. Interference, he thought, located around him-- "Why, yes," she said. "That's exactly what I did say." Malone blinked. "Your Majesty," he said, "would you mind terribly if I asked you questions before you answered them? I know you can see them in my mind, but it's simpler for me to do things the normal way, just now." "I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I do agree that matters are confused enough already. Please go on." "Thank you, Your Majesty," Malone said. "Well, then. Do you mean that _I'm_ the one causing all this ... mental static?" "Oh, no," she said. "Not at all. It's definitely coming from somewhere else, and it's beamed at you, or beamed around you."