Burris stepped back. "We're doing the best we can, Dr. Gamble," he said. All things considered, his obvious try at radiating confidence was nearly successful. "After all," he went on, "we know a great deal more than we did four days ago. Miss Thompson has assured us that the spy is right here, within the compound of Yucca Flats Labs. We've bottled everything up in this compound, and I'm confident that no information is at present getting through to the Soviet Government. Miss Thompson agrees with me." "Miss Thompson?" Gamble said, one hand at his bearded chin. "The Queen," Burris said. Gamble nodded and two fingers touched his forehead. "Ah," he said. "Of course." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "But we can't keep everybody who's here now locked up forever. Sooner or later we'll have to let them"--his left hand described the gesture of a man tossing away a wad of paper--"go." His hands fell to his sides. "We're lost, unless we can find that spy." "We'll find him," Burris said with a show of great confidence. "But--" "Give her time," Burris said. "Give her time. Remember her mental condition." Boyd looked up. "Rome," he said in an absent fashion, "wasn't built in a daze." Burris glared at him, but said nothing. Malone filled the conversational hole with what he thought would be nice, and hopeful, and untrue. "We know he's someone on the reservation, so we'll catch him eventually," he said. "And as long as his information isn't getting into Soviet hands, we're safe." He glanced at his wrist watch. Dr. Gamble said: "But--" "My, my," Malone said. "Almost lunchtime. I have to go over and have lunch with Her Majesty. Maybe she's dug up something more." "I hope so," Dr. Gamble said, apparently successfully deflected. "I do hope so." [Illustration: "One more crack out of you...."] "Well," Malone said, "pardon me." He shucked off his coat and trousers. Then he proceeded to put on the doublet and hose that hung in the little office closet. He shrugged into the fur-trimmed, slash-sleeved coat, adjusted the plumed hat to his satisfaction with great care, and gave Burris and the others a small bow. "I go to an audience with Her Majesty, gentlemen," he said in a grave, well-modulated voice. "I shall return anon." He went out the door and closed it carefully behind him. When he had gone a few steps he allowed himself the luxury of a deep sigh. * * * * * Then he went outside and across the dusty street to the barracks where Her Majesty and the other telepaths were housed. No one paid any attention to him, and he rather missed the stares he'd become used to drawing. But by now, everyone was used to seeing Elizabethan clothing. Her Majesty had arrived at a new plateau. She would now allow no one to have audience with her unless he was properly dressed. Even the psychiatrists--whom she had, with a careful sense of meiosis, appointed Physicians to the Royal House--had to wear the stuff.