ept that it
sounded extensive and very, very Russian.

Finally the waiter went on his way. Major Petkoff turned to Malone and
smiled. "Naturally," he said, "we will begin with vodka, _nyet_?"

Malone considered saying _nyet,_ but he didn't feel that this was the
time or the place. Besides, he told himself grimly, it would be a sad
day when a Petkoff could drink a Malone under the table. His proudest
heritage from his father was an immense capacity, he told himself. Now
was his chance to test it.

"And, naturally, a little caviar to go with it," Petkoff added.

"Certainly," Malone said, as if caviar were the most common thing in
the world in his usual Washington saloons.

It wasn't long before the waiter reappeared, bringing four glasses and
three bottles of vodka chilled in an ice-bucket, like a bouquet of
champagne. Petkoff bowed him out after one bottle had been opened, set
the glasses up and began to pour.

"Oh, goodness," Her Majesty started to say.

"None for me, thanks," Lou chimed in.

"Oh, yes," Her Majesty said. "I don't think I'll have any either. An
old lady has to be very careful of her system, you know."

"You do not look like an old lady," Petkoff said gallantly.
"Middle-aged, perhaps, to be cruel. But certainly not old. Not over
... oh, perhaps forty."

Her Majesty smiled politely at him. Malone began to wonder if it had
been gallantry, after all. From what he'd seen of the Russian women,
it was likely, after all, that Petkoff really thought Her Majesty
wasn't much over forty at that.

"You're very flattering, Major," Her Majesty said. "But I assure you
that I'm a good deal older than I look."

Malone tried to tell himself that no one else had noticed the stifled
gulp that had followed that remark. It had been his own stifled gulp.
And his face, he felt sure, had aged one hundred and twelve years
within a second or so. He waited for Her Majesty to tell Major Petkoff
just how old she really was...

But she said nothing else. After a second she turned and smiled at
Malone.

"Thanks," he said.

"Oh, you're quite welcome," she said.

Petkoff frowned at both of them, shrugged, and readied the bottle.
"Well, then," he said. "It seems as if the drinking will be done by
men--and that is right. Vodka is the drink for men."

He had filled his own glass full of the cold, clear liquid. Now he
filled Malone's. He stood, glass in hand. Malone also climbed to his
feet.

"To the continued friends