r uniformed guards, none of whom paid them any
attention.

They passed through three joined rooms, each heavily furnished in
Seventeenth Century style, each thick with icons. The guide brought
them up abruptly at a small door.

He said, an air almost of defiance in his tone, "I go no further.
Through this door and you are in the Great Palace, in the bathroom of
the apartments of Catherine Second. You remember your maps?"

"Yes," Hank said.

"I hope so." The guard hesitated. "You are armed?"

"No. We were afraid that my things might be thoroughly searched. Had a
gun been found on me, my mission would have been over then and there."

The guard produced a heavy military revolver, offered it butt
foremost.

But Hank shook his head. "Thanks. But if it comes to the point where
I'd need a gun--I've already failed. I'm here to talk, not to shoot."

The guard nodded. "Perhaps you're right. Now, I repeat. On the other
side of this door is the bathroom of the Czarina's apartments. Beyond
it is her _paradnaya divannaya_, her dressing room and beyond that the
_Ekaterininskaya sala_, the throne room of Catherine Second. It is
probable that there will be nobody in any of these rooms. Beyond that,
I do not know."

He ended abruptly with "Good luck," turned and scurried away.

"Thanks," Hank Kuran said after him. He turned and tried the
door-knob. Inwardly he thought, _All right Henry Kuran. Hennessey
said you had a reputation for being able to think on your feet. Start
thinking. Thus far all you've been called on to do is exchange
low-level banter with a bevy of pro-commie critics of the United
States. Now the chips are down._

* * * * *

The apartments of the long dead czarina were empty. He pushed through
them and into the corridor beyond.

And came to a quick halt.

Halfway down the hall, Loo Motlamelle crouched over a uniformed,
crumpled body. He looked up at Hank Kuran's approach, startled, a
fighting man at bay. His lips thinned back over his teeth. A black
thumb did something to the weapon he held in his hand.

Hank said throatily, "Is he dead?"

Loo shook his head, his eyes coldly wary. "No. I slugged him."

Hank said, "What are you doing here?"

Loo came erect. "It occurs to me that I'm evidently doing the same
thing you are."

But the dull metal gun in his hand was negligently at the ready and
his eyes were cold, cold. It came to Hank that banjos on the levee
were very