brakes. Now he came downhard on the accelerator instead.
The chorus of shrieks from the Lincoln's back seat increased slightlyin volume. Barbara, Malone knew, wasn't badly hurt; she hadn't evenstopped for breath since the first shot had been fired. Anybody whocould scream like that, he told himself, had to be healthy.
As the Lincoln leaped ahead, Malone pulled the trigger of his .44twice more. The heavy, high-speed chunks of streamlined copper-coatedlead leaped from the muzzle of the gun and slammed into the driver ofthe Buick without wasting any time. The Buick slewed across thehighway.
The two shots fired by the man in the back seat went past Malone'shead with a _whizz_, missing both him and Boyd by a margin too narrowto think about.
But those were the last shots. The only difference between the FBI andthe Enemy seemed to be determination and practice.
The Buick spun into a flat sideskid, swiveled on its wheels andslammed into the ditch at the side of the road, turning over and over,making a horrible noise, as it broke up.
Boyd slowed the car again, just as there was a sudden blast of fire.The Buick had burst into flame and was spitting heat and smoke andfire in all directions. Malone sent one more bullet after it in a lastflurry of action--saving his last one for possible later emergencies.
Boyd jammed on the brakes and the Lincoln came to a screaming halt. Insilence he and Malone watched the burning Buick roll over and overinto the desert beyond the shoulder.
"My God," Boyd said. "My ears!"
Malone understood at once. The blast from his own still-smoking .44had roared past Boyd's head during the gun battle. No wonder the man'sears hurt. It was a wonder he wasn't altogether deaf.
But Boyd shook off the pain and brought out his own .44 as he steppedout of the car. Malone followed him, his gun trained.
From the rear, Her Majesty said: "It's safe to rise now, isn't it?"
"You ought to know," Malone said. "You can tell if they're stillalive."
There was silence while Queen Elizabeth frowned for a moment inconcentration. A look of pain crossed her face, and then, as herexpression smoothed again, she said: "The traitors are dead. Allexcept one, and he's--" She paused. "He's dying," she finished. "Hecan't hurt you."
There was no need for further battle. Malone reholstered his .44 andturned to Boyd. "Tom, call the State Police," he said. "Get 'em downhere fast."
He waited while Boyd climbed back under the wheel and began punchingbuttons on the dashboard. Then Malone went toward the burning Buick.
He tried to drag the men out, but it wasn't any use. The first two, inthe front seat, had the kind of holes in them people talked aboutthrowing elephants through. Head and chest had been hit.
Malone couldn't get close enough to the fiercely blazing automobile tomake even a try for the men in the back seat.
* * * * *
He was sitting quietly on the edge of the rear seat when the NevadaHighway Patrol cars drove up next to them. Barbara Wilson had stoppedscreaming, but she was still sobbing on Malone's shoulder. "It's allright," he told her, feeling ineffectual.
"I never saw anybody killed before," she said.
"It's all right," Malone said. "Nothing's going to hurt you. I'llprotect you."
He wondered if he meant it, and found, to his surprise, that he did.Barbara Wilson sniffled and looked up at him. "Mr. Malone--"
"Ken," he said.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Ken--I'm so afraid. I saw the hole in one ofthe men's heads, when you fired--it was--"
"Don't think about it," Malone said. To him, the job had been anunpleasant occurrence, but a job, that was all. He could see, though,how it might affect people who were new to it.
"You're so brave," she said.
Malone tightened his arm around the girl's shoulder. "Just depend onme," he said. "You'll be all right if you--"
The State Trooper walked up then, and looked at them. "Mr. Malone?" hesaid. He seemed to be taken slightly aback at the costuming.
"That's right," Malone said. He pulled out his ID card and the littlegolden badge. The State Patrolman looked at them, and looked back atMalone.
"What's with the getup?" he said.
"FBI," Malone said, hoping his voice carried conviction. "Officialbusiness."
"In costume?"
"Never mind about the details," Malone snapped.
"He's an FBI agent, sir," Barbara said. "And what are you?" thePatrolman said. "Lady Jane Grey?"
"I'm a nurse," Barbara said. "A psychiatric nurse."
"For nuts?"
"For disturbed patients."
The Patrolman thought that over. "Hell, you've got the identity cardsand stuff," he said at last. "Maybe you've got a reason to dress up.How would I know? I'm only a State Patrolman."
"Let's cut the monologue," Malone said savagely, "and get tobusiness."
The Patrolman stared. Then he said: "All right, sir. Yes, sir. I'mLieutenant Adams, Mr. Malone. Suppose you tell me what happened?"
Carefully and concisely, Malone told him the story of the Buick thathad pulled up beside them, and what happened afterward.
Meanwhile, the other cops had been looking over the wreck. When Malonehad finished his story, Lieutenant Adams flipped his notebook shut andlooked over toward them. "I guess it's okay, sir," he said. "As far asI'm concerned, it's justifiable homicide. Self-defense. Any reason whythey'd want to kill you?"
Malone thought about the Golden Palace. That might be a reason--but itmight not. And why burden an innocent State Patrolman with the factsof FBI life?
"Official," he said. "Your chief will get the report."
The Patrolman nodded. "I'll have to take a deposition tomorrow, but--"
"I know," Malone said. "Thanks. Can we go on to our hotel now?"
"I guess," the Patrolman said. "Go ahead. We'll take care of the restof this. You'll be getting a call later."
"Fine," Malone said. "Trace those hoods, and any connections theymight have had. Get the information to me as soon as possible."
Lieutenant Adams nodded. "You won't have to leave the state, willyou?" he asked. "I don't mean that you _can't_, exactly--hell, you'reFBI. But it'd be easier--"
"Call Burris in Washington," Malone said. "He can get hold of me--andif the Governor wants to know where we are, or the State's Attorney,put them in touch with Burris too. Okay?"
"Okay," Lieutenant Adams said. "Sure." He blinked at Malone. "Listen,"he said. "About those costumes--"
"We're trying to catch Henry VIII for the murder of Anne Boleyn,"Malone said with a polite smile. "Okay?"
"I was only asking," Lieutenant Adams said. "Can't blame a man forasking, now, can you?"
Malone climbed into his front seat. "Call me later," he said. The carstarted. "Back to the hotel, Sir Thomas," Malone said, and the carroared off.
7
Yucca Flats, Malone thought, certainly deserved its name. It was aboutas flat as land could get, and it contained millions upon millions ofuseless yuccas. Perhaps they were good for something, Malone thought,but they weren't good for _him_.
The place might, of course, have been called Cactus Flats, but thecacti were neither as big nor as impressive as the yuccas.
Or was that yucci?
Possibly, Malone mused, it was simply yucks.
And whatever it was, there were millions of it. Malone felt hecouldn't stand the sight of another yucca. He was grateful for onlyone thing.
It wasn't summer. If the Elizabethans had been forced to drive inclosed cars through the Nevada desert in the summertime, they mighthave started a cult of nudity, Malone felt. It was bad enough now, inwhat was supposed to be winter.
The sun was certainly bright enough, for one thing. It glared throughthe cloudless sky and glanced with blinding force off the road. SirThomas Boyd squinted at it through the rather incongruous sunglasseshe was wearing, while Malone wondered idly if it was the sunglasses,or the rest of the world, that was an anachronism. But Sir
Thomas kepthis eyes grimly on the road as he gunned the powerful Lincoln towardthe Yucca Flats Labs at eighty miles an hour.
Malone twisted himself around and faced the women in the back seat.Past them, through the rear window of the Lincoln, he could see thesecond car. It followed them gamely, carrying the newest addition toSir Kenneth Malone's Collection of Bats.
"Bats?" Her Majesty said