s, singing, drinking, making
love. There was an awful lot of activity going on up on the ceiling,
and it wasn't until Malone lowered his gaze that he realized that none
of this activity had been exaggerated.

True, there were no white puffy clouds, and he couldn't immediately
locate a bunch of grapes anywhere. But there were the musicians, in
the same Victorian outfits as the doorman: three fiddlers, a cellist,
and a man who played piano. "Just like in night-clubs in bourgeois
Paris," Petkoff said, following Malone's gaze with every evidence of
pride.

Between the musicians and Malone were a lot of tables and chairs and
ancient, proud-looking waiters who appeared to have been hired when
Trotkin's had opened--and that, Malone thought, had been a long, long
time ago. He felt like those two ladies, whose names he couldn't
remember, who said they'd slipped back in time. Officers and their
ladies, the men in glittering uniforms, the ladies in ball dresses of
every imaginable shade, cut, material and degree of exposure, were
waltzing around the room looking very polite and old-world. Others
were sitting at the tables, where candles fluttered, completely
useless in the electric glare. The noise was something terrific, but,
somehow, it was all very well-bred.

The headwaiter was suddenly next to them. He hadn't walked there, at
least not noticeably; he appeared to have perfected the old-world
manner of the silent servant. Or, of course, Malone thought, the man
might be a teleport.

"Ah, Major Petkoff," he said, in a silken voice. "It is so good to see
you again. And your friends?"

"Americans," Petkoff said. "They have come to see the glorious Soviet
Union."

"Ah," the headwaiter said. "Your usual table, Major?"

Petkoff nodded. The headwaiter led the party through the dancers,
snaking slowly along until they reached a large table near the
musicians and at the edge of the dance floor. Her Majesty
automatically took the seat nearest the musicians, which she imagined
to be the head of the table. Lou sat at her left hand, and Malone at
her right, his back against a wall. Petkoff took the foot of the
table, called a waiter over, and ordered for the party. He did a
massive job of it, with two waiters, at last, taking down what seemed
to be his entire memoirs, plus the list of all soldiers in the Red
Army below the rank of Grand Exalted Elk, or whatever it might have
been. Malone had no idea what the major was ordering, exc