“Very well,” Sir Kenneth said. “This means that some force is being directed in this way, toward us. And how do we know that all the deduction, all the careful case-building we have done, hasn’t been influenced by this group? That might mean, of course, that we are miles, or even light-years, from the solution.”
Malone said: “Yeep.” The sound was echoed by Sir Kenneth, and the two halves of the coruscating mind of Kenneth J. Malone were once more one.
Your Majesty, the minds thought, I’d like to talk to you.
Nothing happened. Evidently, Her Majesty was temporarily out of mental contact with him.
“Hell,” Malone said. “Not to mention od’s blood.” He flipped on the visiphone and dialed Yucca Flats.
The figure that appeared on the screen was that of a tall, solidly-built man with a red face and the uniform of a Beefeater. This Tower Warder had the British royal crest embroidered on his chest, and the letters: “E. R.”
“Good evening, Sir Kenneth,” he said politely.
Malone had sometimes wondered what it would be like to be on the Queen’s permanent, personal staff. Evidently, it soaked in so thoroughly that one began to stay in character all the time. The little old lady’s delusion was such a pleasant one that it was painlessly infectious.
“I’d like to speak to Her Majesty, Colonel Fairfax,” Malone said.
“Her Majesty,” Colonel Fairfax said with regret, “is asleep, sir. I understand that she has had rather a trying time, of late.”