ur Highness, we appreciate your giving us a chance
to buy your wells. Surely, a banquet is in order."

"No, I want to get out of this place. It's too cold."

Nick peered over his Volonsky nose-glasses. "How much, kid? No
fooling."

"Volonsky!" Broncov barked. "Mind your speech. I'll handle this little
deal. You're excused."

"Uh-uh." Nick grinned. "I stay for _my_ cut."

"You both look like a couple of crooks to me," said the young prince.
"I want two hundred million dollars--in gold."

Broncov's hand shook as he reached for a row of buttons. "How about a
bit of tea and cakes, or, perhaps something stronger before we discuss
this matter with the Council? They're waiting just below us, and I'd
like to present the deal already consummated."

"Got any Old Style Lager around?" Cletus asked.

"We have some good Bavarian beer, a stock we--ah--bought some time
ago."

"I've heard how much you paid the Heinies. The beer I want is made in
Wisconsin, USA, so I think I'll fly over there tonight. Super-San Oil
keeps begging me to visit their country. Offered me two hundred
million for my wells but only half in gold. I want all gold, and I
won't discuss any other terms."

"Bungler!" Broncov whispered in dialect. "Why didn't you get him
drunk, first? Without oil we can't carry on this cold war or kid the
peasants much longer. Where in hell could we get even two hundred
dollars in gold?"

"Go to hell and find all you want," Nick said with a wicked grin.

"I understood what you high-binders said," Cletus put in. "My cousin
told me before I left home Communist clucks don't savvy Saturday from
Sunday. Everybody knows you top boys have stolen everything not nailed
down, and have stashed it away against the time your own people kick
out Communism for good."

"Oh, come, Prince Navi, I don't understand how such an evil story
started. Our people wouldn't dare--"

"Wouldn't they?" Cletus laughed nastily. "We have spies too, and we
know your common herd would settle for anything else. Most of them
want their church and their Tsar back, bad as he was."

"Bah! The capitalist press started that myth."

"Why, Bronco," Nick protested, "you can read that story in Pravda,
'The Organ of Truth.'" The fake Minister of Culture cleared his throat
to keep from laughing when the glowering Premier began thinking of
various ways to torture unsympathetic comrades. In silent Hell
language, Nick added: "Good work, Cleet. I'll take it from here