n 1914, it was enemy aliens. In 1930, it was Wobblies. In 1957, it was fellow travelers. And, in 1971.... "They could be anywhere," Andrew J. Burris said, with an expression which bordered on exasperated horror. "They could be all around us. Heaven only knows." He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up—a chunky little man with bright blue eyes and large hands. He paced to the window and looked out at Washington, and then he came back to the desk. A persistent office rumor held that he

Early the next morning, Malone awoke on a plane, heading across the continent toward Nevada. He had gone home to sleep, and he'd had to wake up to get on the plane, and now here he was, waking up again. It seemed, somehow, like a vicious circle. The engines hummed gently as they pushed the big ship through the middle stratosphere's thinly distributed molecules. Malone looked out at the purple-dark sky and set himself to think out his problem again. He was still mulling things over when the ship

The telephone rang. Malone rolled over on the couch and muttered under his breath. Was it absolutely necessary for someone to call him at seven in the morning? He grabbed at the receiver with one hand, and picked up his cigar from the ashtray with the other. It was bad enough to be awakened from a sound sleep—but when a man hadn't been sleeping at all, it was even worse. He'd been sitting up since before five that morning, worrying about the telepathic spy, and at the moment he wanted sleep more

"You're where ?" Andrew J. Burris said. Malone looked at the surprised face on the screen and wished he hadn't called. He had to report in, of course—but, if he'd had any sense, he'd have ordered Boyd to do the job for him. Oh, well, it was too late for that now. "I'm in Las Vegas," he said. "I tried to get you last night, but I couldn't, so I—" "Las Vegas," Burris said. "Well, well. Las Vegas." His face darkened and his voice became very loud. "Why aren't you in Yucca Flats?" he screamed. "Beca

alone opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Not even air. He wasn't breathing. He stared at Burris for a long moment, then took a breath and looked again at Her Majesty. "The spy?" he whispered. "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,

The management of the Golden Palace had been in business for many long, dreary, profitable years, and each member of the staff thought he or she had seen just about everything there was to be seen. And those that were new felt an obligation to look as if they'd seen everything. Therefore, when the entourage of Queen Elizabeth I strolled into the main salon, not a single eye was batted. Not a single gasp was heard. Nevertheless, the staff kept a discreet eye on the crew. Drunks, rich men or Arabi

Yucca Flats, Malone thought, certainly deserved its name. It was about as flat as land could get, and it contained millions upon millions of useless 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 the cacti 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 he coul

Four days later, he was more than tired. He was exhausted. The six psychopaths—including Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I—had been housed in a converted dormitory in the Westinghouse area, together with four highly nervous and even more highly trained and investigated psychiatrists from St. Elizabeths in Washington. The Convention of Nuts, as Malone called it privately, was in full swing. And it was every bit as strange as he'd thought it was going to be. Unfortunately, five of the six—Her Majesty