"That's right," she said.
"But that's—" He had to fight for control. "That's the head of the
FBI," he managed to say. "Do you mean to say he's a spy?"
Burris was saying: "… I'm afraid this is a matter of importance, Dr. Dowson. We cannot tolerate delay. You have the court order. Obey it."
"Very well, Mr. Burris," Dowson said with an obvious lack of grace.
"I'll release him to Mr. Malone immediately, since you insist."
Malone stared, fascinated. Then he turned back to the little old lady. "Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that Andrew J. Burris is a telepathic spy?"
"Oh, dear me," Her Majesty said, obviously aghast. "My goodness gracious. Is that Mr. Burris on the screen?"
"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?"