one saw Petkoff, chatting
animatedly with Lou, lead her off to a small bar at the opposite side
of the room. "Some people," he muttered, "have too much luck. Or too
much diplomacy."

Her Majesty was tugging at his arm. That, Malone thought, was going to
be more bad news.

It was.

"Sir Kenneth," she said softly, "do you realize that this place is
full of MVD men? Of course you don't; I haven't told you yet."

Malone opened his mouth, shut it again, and thought in a hurry. If the
place were full of MVD men, that meant they probably had it bugged.
And that meant several things, all of them unpleasant. Her Majesty
shouldn't have said anything--she shouldn't have shown any nervousness
or anxiety in the first place, she shouldn't have known there were so
many MVD men in the second place--because there was no way for her to
know, except through her telepathy, a little secret Malone did not
want the Russians to find out about. And she should definitely, most
definitely, not have called him "Sir Kenneth."

"Oh," Her Majesty said. "I am sorry, Sir--er--Mr. Malone. You're quite
right, you know."

"Sure," Malone said. "Well. My goodness." He thought of something to
say, and said it at once. "Of course there are MVD men here. This is
just the place for good old MVD men to come when they go off duty. A
nice, relaxing place full of fun and dancing and food and vodka..."
And he was thinking, at the same time: _Are they doing anything odd?_

"Russian, you know," Her Majesty said, almost conversationally, "is an
extremely difficult language. It takes a great deal of practice to
learn to think in it really fluently."

"Yes, I should think it would," Malone said absently. _You mean you
haven't been able to pick up what these people are thinking?_

"Oh, one can get the main outlines," Her Majesty went on, "but a
really full knowledge is nearly impossible. Though, of course, it
isn't quite as bad as all that. A man who speaks both languages, like
our dear Major Petkoff, for instance--so charming, so full of _joie de
vivre_--could be an invaluable assistant to anyone interested in
learning exactly how Russians really think." She smiled nervously. Her
face was suddenly set and strained. "I find that--"

She stopped then, very suddenly. Her eyes widened, and her right hand
reached out to grasp Malone's arm more strongly than he had thought
she ever could. "Sir Kenneth!" Her voice, all restraint gone, was a
hissing whisper. Malone