Malone eyed the rear-view mirror to get a look at the car following them and the two local FBI agents in it. They were, he thought, unbelievably lucky. He had to sit and listen to the Royal Personage in the back seat. "Of course, as soon as Parliament convenes and recognizes me," she was saying, "I shall confer personages on all of you. Right now, the best I can do is to knight you all, and of course that's hardly enough. But I think I shall make Sir Kenneth the Duke of Columbia." Sir Kenneth, Malone realized, was himself. He wondered how he'd like being Duke of Columbia--and wouldn't the President be surprised! "And Sir Thomas," the queen continued, "will be the Duke of ... what? Sir Thomas?" "Yes, Your Majesty?" Boyd said, trying to sound both eager and properly respectful. "What would you like to be Duke of?" she said. "Oh," Boyd said after a second's thought, "anything that pleases Your Majesty." But, apparently, his thoughts gave him away. "You're from upstate New York?" the Queen said. "How very nice. Then you must be made the Duke of Poughkeepsie." "Thank you, Your Majesty," Boyd said. Malone thought he detected a note of pride in the man's voice, and shot a glance at Boyd, but the agent was driving with a serene face and an economy of motion. _Duke of Poughkeepsie!_ Malone thought. _Hah!_ He leaned back and adjusted his fur-trimmed coat. The plume that fell from his cap kept tickling his neck, and he brushed at it without success. All four of the inhabitants of the car were dressed in late Sixteenth Century costumes, complete with ruffs and velvet and lace filigree. Her Majesty and Lady Barbara were wearing the full skirts and small skullcaps of the era--and on Barbara, Malone thought privately, the low-cut gowns didn't look at all disappointing--and Sir Thomas and Malone--Sir Kenneth, he thought sourly--were clad in doublet, hose and long coats with fur trim and slashed sleeves. And all of them were loaded down, weighted down, staggeringly, with gems. Naturally, the gems were fake. But then, Malone thought, the Queen was mad. It all balanced out in the end. As they approached the sanitarium, Malone breathed a thankful prayer that he'd called up to tell the head physician how they'd all be dressed. If he hadn't-- He didn't want to think about that. He didn't even want to pass it by hurriedly on a dark night. The head physician, Dr. Frederic Dowson, was waiting for them on the steps of the building. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man with almost no hair and very deep-sunken eyes. He had the kind of face that a gushing female would probably describe, Malone thought, as "craggy," but it didn't look in the least attractive to Malone. Instead, it looked tough and forbidding. He didn't turn a hair as the magnificently robed Boyd slid from the front seat, opened the rear door, doffed his plumed hat, and in one low sweep made a great bow. "We are here, Your Majesty," Boyd said.