The Queen nodded agreement. “It’s terrible,” she said. “I get those same flashes of telepathic static, too.” “You do?” Malone said, leaning forward. “Just the same,” the Queen said. “Whatever is operating in the United States is operating over here, too.” Malone sat down in a seat on the aisle. “Everything,” he announced, “is now perfectly lovely. The United States is being confused and mixed up by somebody, and the Somebody looked like a Russian spy. But now Russia is being confused, too.” “Do you think there are some American spies working here?” the Queen said. “If they’re using psionics,” Malone said, “as they obviously are—and I don’t know about them, Burris doesn’t know about them, O’Connor doesn’t know about them and nobody else I can find knows about them— then they don’t exist. That’s flat.” “How about outer space?” the Queen said. “I mean, spies from outer space trying to take over the Earth.” “It’s a nice idea,” Malone said sourly. “I wish they’d hurry up and do it.” “Then you don’t think—” “I don’t know what to think,” Malone said. “There’s some perfectly simple explanation for all this. And somewhere, in all the running around and looking here and there I’ve been doing, I’ve got all the facts I need to come up with that answer.” “Oh, my,” the Queen said. “That’s wonderful.” “Sure it is,” Malone said. “There’s only one trouble, as a matter of fact. I don’t know what the explanation is, and I don’t know which facts are important and which ones aren’t.” There was a short silence. “I wish Tom Boyd were here,” Malone said wistfully. “Really?” the Queen said. “Why?” “Because,” Malone said, “I feel like hearing some really professional cursing.” * * * * * Three-quarters of an hour passed, each and every minute draped in some black and gloomy material. Malone sat in his seat, his head supported by both hands, and stared at the back of the seat ahead of him. No great messages were written on it. The Queen, respecting his need for silent contemplation, sat and watched Lou and said nothing at all. It was always possible, of course, Malone thought, that he would fall asleep and dream of an answer. That kind of thing kept happening to detectives in books. Or else a strange man in a black trenchcoat would sidle up to him and hand him a slip of paper. The words: “Five o’clock, watch out, the red snake, doom,” would be written on the paper and these words would provide him with just the clues he needed to solve the whole case. Or else he would go and beat somebody up, and the exercise would stimulate his brain and he would suddenly arrive at the answer in a blinding flash. Wondering vaguely if a blinding flash were anything like a dungeon, because people kept being in them and never seemed to come out, Malone sighed. Detectives in books were great, wonderful people who never had any doubts or worries. Particularly if they were with the FBI. Only Kenneth J. Malone was different.