So far, two experts had told him that his theory was full of lovely little holes. Worse than that, they had told him that mass control of human beings was impossible, as far as they knew. And maybe it was impossible, he told himself sadly. Maybe he should just junk his whole theory and think up a new one. Maybe there was no psionics involved in the thing at all, and Boyd and O’Connor were right. Of course, he had a deep-seated conviction that psionics was somewhere at the root of everything, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. A lot of people had deep-seated convictions that they were beetles, or that the world was flat And then again, murderers often suffered as a result of deep-seated convictions of one sort or another. On the other hand, maybe he had invented a whole new psionic theory or, at least, observed some new psionic facts. Maybe they would call the results Malonizing, instead of O’Connorizing. He tried to picture a man opening a door and saying: “Come out quick, Mr. Frembits is Malonizing again.” It didn’t sound very plausible. But, after all, he did have a deep-seated conviction. He tried to think of a shallow-seated conviction, and failed. Didn’t convictions ever stand up, anyhow, or lie down? He shook his head, discovered that he was on 69th Street, and headed for the FBI Headquarters. His convictions, he had found, were sometimes an expression of his precognitive powers; he determined to ride with them, at least for awhile. By the time he came to the office of the agent-in-charge, he had figured out the beginnings of a new line of attack. “How about the ghosts?” the agent-in-charge asked as he passed. “They’ll be along,” Malone said. “In a big bundle, addressed to me personally. And don’t open the bundle.” “Why not?” the agent-in-charge asked. “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._ 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.