tly," he told Petkoff with what he hoped was a
smile.

"Ah, well," Petkoff said. "My friend and colleague, we should cease
this shoptalk. Shoptalk?"

"Quite correct," Malone said.

"I have studied English a long time," Petkoff said. "It is not a
logical language."

"You're doing very well," Malone said. Petkoff gave him a military
duck of the head.

"I appreciate your compliments," he said. "But I fear we are boring
the ladies."

The major had timed his speech well. At that moment, the ornate Volga
pulled up to a smooth stop before a large, richly decorated building
that glowed brightly under the electric lights of a large sign. The
sign said something incomprehensible in Cyrillic script. Under it, the
building entrance was gilded and carved into fantastic rococo shapes.
Malone stared at the sign, and was about to ask a question about it
when Petkoff spoke.

"Trotkin's," he said. "The finest restaurant in all the world--in
Moskva, this is what they say of it."

"I understand," Malone said.

"Come," Petkoff said grandly, and got out of the car. One of the two
silent men leaped out and opened the back door, and Her Majesty, Lou
and Malone climbed out and stood blinking on the sidewalk under the
sign.

Petkoff leaned over and said something to the driver. The second
silent man got back into the car, and it drove away down the street,
turned a corner and disappeared. The party of four started toward the
entrance of the restaurant.

The door swung open before Major Petkoff reached it. A doorman was
holding it, and bowing to each of the four as they passed. He was
dressed in Victorian livery, complete to knee-breeches and lace, and
Malone thought this was rather odd for the classless Russian society.
But the doorman was only the opening note of a great symphony.

Inside, there were tables and chairs--or at least, Malone told
himself, that's what he thought they were. They were massive wood
affairs, carved into tortuous shapes and gilded or painted in all
sorts of colors that glittered madly under the barrage of several
electric chandeliers.

The chandeliers hung from a frescoed ceiling, and looked much too
heavy. They swayed and tinkled in time to the music that filled the
room, but for a second Malone looked past them at the ceiling. It
appeared to represent some sort of Russian heaven, at the end of the
Five-Year Plan. There were officers and ladies eating grapes,
waltzing, strolling on white puffy cloud