Her Majesty waved a gracious hand. “If you like, Sir Kenneth,” she said. Malone nodded. “We’re going on down to Interrogation Room 7 now,” he said. “Next door to it, there’s an observation room, with a one-way panel in the wall. You’ll be able to see us, but we won’t be able to see you.” “I really don’t require an observation panel,” Her Majesty said. “If I enter your mind, I can see through your eyes.” “Oh, sure,” Malone said. “But the observation room was built for more normal people—saving your presence, Your Majesty.” “Of course,” she said. “Now,” Malone went on, “I want you to watch all three of the men we’re going to bring in, and dig everything you can out of their minds.” “Everything?” she said. “We don’t know what might be useful,” Malone said. “Anything you can find. And if you want any questions asked—if there’s anything you think I ought to ask the men, or say to them—there’s a non-vision phone in the observation room. Just lift the receiver. That automatically rings the one in the interrogation room and I’ll pick it up. Understand?” “Perfectly, Sir Kenneth,” she said. “Okay, then,” Malone said. “Let’s go.” They headed for the door. Malone stopped as he opened it. “And by the way,” he said. “Yes?” “If you get any more of those disturbances, let me know.” “At once,” Her Majesty promised. They went on down the hall and took the elevator down to Interrogation Room 7, on the lowest level. There was no particular reason for putting the interrogation section down there, except that it tended to make prisoners more nervous. And a nervous prisoner, Malone knew, was very possibly a confessing prisoner. Malone ushered Her Majesty through the unmarked door of the observation chamber, made sure that the panel and phone were in working order, and went out. He stepped into Interrogation Room 7 trying hard to look bored, businesslike and unbeatable. Boyd and four other agents were already there, all standing around and talking desultorily in low tones. None of them looked as if they had a moment’s worry in their lives. It was all part of the same technique, of course, Malone thought. Make the prisoner feel resistance is useless, and you’ve practically got him working for you. The prisoner was a hulking, flabby fat man in work coveralls. He had black hair that spilled all over his forehead, and tiny button eyes. He was the only man in the room who was sitting down, and that was meant to make him feel even more inferior and insecure. His hands were clasped fatly in his lap, and he was staring down at them in a regretful manner. None of the agents paid the slightest attention to him. The general impression was that something really tough was coming up, but that they were in no hurry for it. They were willing to wait for the third degree, it seemed, until the blacksmith had done a really good job with the new spikes for the Iron Maiden.