He came to a dead stop in the middle of the street. In one sudden flash of insight, all the pieces of the case he'd been looking at for so long fell together and formed one consistent picture. The pattern was complete. Malone blinked. In that second, he knew exactly who the spy was. A jeep honked raucously and swerved around him. The driver leaned out to curse and remained to stare. Malone was already halfway back to the offices. On the way, he stopped in at another small office, this one inhabited by the two FBI men from Las Vegas. He gave a series of quick orders, and got the satisfaction, as he left, of seeing one of the FBI men grabbing for a phone in a hurry. It was good to be _doing_ things again, important things. Burris, Boyd and Dr. Gamble were still talking as Malone entered. "That," Burris said, "was one hell of a quick lunch. What's Her Majesty doing now--running a diner?" Malone ignored the bait. "Gentlemen," he said solemnly, "Her Majesty has asked that all of us attend her in audience. She has information of the utmost gravity to impart, and wishes an audience at once." Burris looked startled. "Has she--" he began, and stopped, leaving his mouth open and the rest of the sentence unfinished. Malone nodded gravely. "I believe, gentlemen," he said, "that Her Majesty is about to reveal the identity of the spy who has been battening on Project Isle." The silence didn't last three seconds. "Let's go," Burris snapped. He and the others headed for the door. "Gentlemen!" Malone sounded properly shocked and offended. "Your dress!" "Oh, _no_," Boyd said. "Not now." Burris simply said: "You're quite right. Get dressed, Boyd ... I mean, of course, Sir Thomas." While Burris, Boyd and Dr. Gamble were dressing, Malone put in a call to Dr. O'Connor and told him to be at Her Majesty's court in ten minutes--and in full panoply. O'Connor, not unnaturally, balked a little at first. But Malone talked fast and sounded as urgent as he felt. At last he got the psionicist's agreement. Then he put in a second call to the psychiatrists from St. Elizabeths and told them the same thing. More used to the strange demands of neurotic and psychotic patients, they were readier to comply. Everyone, Malone realized with satisfaction, was assembled. Even Burris and the others were ready to go. Beaming, he led them out. * * * * * Ten minutes later, there were nine men in Elizabethan costume standing outside the room which had been designated as the Queen's Court. Dr. Gamble's costume did not quite fit him; his sleeve ruffs were halfway up to his elbows and his doublet had an unfortunate tendency to creep. The St. Elizabeths men, all four of them, looked just a little like moth-eaten versions of old silent pictures. Malone looked them over with a somewhat sardonic eye. Not only did he have the answer to the whole problem that had been plaguing them, but _his_ costume was a stunning, perfect fit.