."

"Lies put out by the war mongerers of Wall Street," Broncov shouted.
He continued raving, but Nick no longer listened.

Sounds outside the window told him time had begun pressing. He shook
the hat he'd been carrying. "Gold, is it you want, Prince Navi? You
think we have none? How about this?"

A glittering gold piece tinkled on the floor and rolled toward the
amazed Red Premier. Puffing, he bent over and scooped up a newly
minted coin the size of the American gold eagle. "It's a new
issue--I--never mind. We have lots more where this came from, haven't
we, comrade Vychy?"

"I'll say," Nick said. "Watch!"

Gold pieces continued falling from the hat, one by one, then in a
steady stream. Stunned, Broncov clutched his throat, muttering: "It
can't be true. Miracles don't happen."

He watched in silence while his Minister of Culture made a pile of
gold coins four feet high. When the floor timbers began creaking, Nick
made another similar heap; then, others, till the thick walls began
bulging inward.

"Stop!" Broncov cried. "A couple of tons is enough." Eyes now popping,
he waved his arms as the floor sagged under fifty times that weight.
"There's the two hundred million for you, Prince. The rest is for--us.
We'll sign the papers in another room."

Ignoring frightened cries, Nick made more piles of gold next to the
windows. Outside on Red Square, people were running in all directions,
shouting and waving newspapers. A cannon roared. A hundred or more
machine guns began rattling. Plainly, the bullets were not fired at
any one, for the people were laughing and weeping, singing and
dancing.

"Come here and have a look, Bronco," Nick suggested.

"It's--a trick, a revolution," Broncov panted. "Damn you, Volonsky,
you started it." He snatched a heavy revolver from his desk and fired
it at Nick without warning.

The false Volonsky laughed when five of the slugs bounced off the
invisible shield around him. A sixth bullet splintered the window
glass. The other five returned and struck the raging Red boss, cutting
his face and arms enough to bring streams of blood. He dashed for the
door but collided with the six guards who burst into the room.

Broncov wiped off some of the blood running into his eyes well enough
to see all six waving copies of Pravda. "What's going on here?" he
screamed.

"Read about it in Pravda," bellowed Gorkzy, the huge guard. "It always
prints the truth--you've taught us."

"What truth?" qu