"It is," Malone assured her. A look out of the corner of his eye told him that neither Burris, in Washington, nor Dowson or any others in the room, had heard any of the conversation. Malone lowered his whisper some more, just in case. "That's the head of the FBI," he said. "Well, then," Her Majesty said, "Mr. Burris couldn't possibly be a spy, then, could he? Not if he's the head of the FBI. Of course not. Mr. Burris simply isn't a spy. He isn't the type. Forget all about Mr. Burris." "I can't," Malone said at random. "I work for him." He closed his eyes. The room, he had discovered, was spinning slightly. "Now," he said, "you're sure he's not a spy?" "Certainly I'm sure," she said, with her most regal tones. "Do you doubt the word of your sovereign?" "Not exactly," Malone said. Truthfully, he wasn't at all sure. Not at all. But why tell that to the Queen? "Shame on you," she said. "You shouldn't even think such things. After all, I am the Queen, aren't I?" But there was a sweet, gentle smile on her face when she spoke; she did not seem to be really irritated. "Sure you are," Malone said. "But--" "Malone!" It was Burris' voice, from the phone. Malone spun around. "Take Mr. Logan," Burris said, "and get going. There's been enough delay as it is." "Yes, sir," Malone said. "Right away, sir. Anything else?" "That's all," Burris said. "Good night." The screen blanked. There was a little silence. "All right, doctor," Boyd said. He looked every inch a king, and Malone knew exactly what king. "Bring him out." Dr. Dowson heaved a great sigh. "Very well," he said heavily. "But I want it known that I resent this high-handed treatment, and I shall write a letter complaining of it." He pressed a button on an instrument panel in his desk. "Bring Mr. Logan in," he said. Malone wasn't in the least worried about the letter. Burris, he knew, would take care of anything like that. And, besides, he had other things to think about. The door to the next room had opened almost immediately, and two husky, white-clad men were bringing in a strait-jacketed figure whose arms were wrapped against his chest, while the jacket's extra-long sleeves were tied behind his back. He walked where the attendants led him, but his eyes weren't looking at anything in the room. They stared at something far away and invisible, an impalpable shifting nothingness somewhere in the infinite distances beyond the world. For the first time, Malone felt the chill of panic. Here, he thought, was insanity of a very real and frightening kind. Queen Elizabeth Thompson was one thing--and she was almost funny, and likable, after all. But William Logan was something else, and something that sent a wave of cold shivering into the room.