Seated cross-legged on the rug in the center of the room, and looking like an impossible combination of the last Henry Tudor and Gautama Buddha, Thomas Boyd did nothing either. He was staring downward, his hands folded on his ample lap, wearing an expression of utter, burning frustration. And on a nearby chair sat the third member of the company, wearing the calm and patient expression of the gently born under all vicissitudes: Queen Elizabeth I.
"All right," Malone said into the silence. "Now let's see what we've got."
"I think we've got cerebral paresis," Boyd said. "It's been coming on for years."
"Don't be funny," Malone said.
Boyd gave a short, mirthless bark. "Funny?" he said. "I'm absolutely hysterical with joy and good humor. I'm out of my mind with happiness." He paused. "Anyway," he finished, "I'm out of my mind. Which puts me in good company. The entire FBI, Brubitsch, Borbitsch, Garbitsch, Dr. Thomas O'Connor and Sir Lewis Carter—we're all out of our minds. If we weren't, we'd all move away to the Moon."
"And drink to forget," Malone added. "Sure. But let's try and get some work done."
"By all means, Sir Kenneth," Her Majesty said. Boyd had not included her in his list of insane people, and she looked slightly miffed. It was hard for Malone to tell whether she was miffed by the mention of insanity, or at being left out.
"Let's review the facts," Malone said. "This whole thing started with some inefficiency in Congress."
"And some upheavals elsewhere." Boyd said. "Labor unions, gangster organizations—"
"Just about all over," Malone said. "And though we've found three spies, it seems pretty obvious that they aren't causing this."