hip of our two countries!" Petkoff said. He
raised his glass for a second, then downed the contents. Malone
followed suit. The vodka burned its merry way into his stomach. They
sat.

A waiter arrived with a large platter. "Ah," Petkoff said, turning.
"Try some of this caviar, Mr. Malone. You will find it the finest in
the world."

Malone, somehow, had never managed to develop a taste for caviar. He
was willing to admit, if pressed, that this made him an uncultured
slob, but caviar always made him think of the joke about the country
bumpkin who thought it was marvelous that you could soften up buckshot
just by soaking it in fish oil.

Now, though, he felt he had to be polite, and he tried some of the
stuff. All things considered, it wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought
it was going to be. And it did make a pretty good chaser for the
vodka.

Her Majesty also helped herself to some caviar. "My goodness," she
said. "This reminds me of the old days."

Malone waited, once again, with bated breath. But, though Her Majesty
may have been crazy, she wasn't stupid. She said nothing more.

Petkoff, meanwhile, refilled the glasses and looked expectantly at
Malone. This time it was his turn to propose the toast. He thought for
a second, then stood up and raised his glass.

"To the most beautiful woman in all the world," he said, feeling just
a little like a character in _War and Peace_. "Luba Vasilovna
Garbitsch."

"Ah," Petkoff said, smiling approvingly. Malone executed a little bow
in Lou's direction and followed Petkoff in downing the drink. Two more
glasses of vodka wended their tortuous ways into the interior.

"Tell me, colleague," Petkoff said as be spooned up some more caviar,
"how are things in the United States?"

Malone shot a glance at Her Majesty, but she was concentrating on
something else, and her eyes seemed far away. "Oh, all right," he said
at last.

"Of course, you must say so," Petkoff murmured. "But, as one colleague
to another, tell me: how much longer do you think it will be before
the proletarian uprising in your country?"

There were a lot of answers to that, Malone told himself. But he chose
one without too much difficulty. "Well, that's hard to judge," he
said. "I'd hate to make any prediction. I don't have enough
information."

"Not enough information?" Petkoff said. "I don't understand."

Malone shrugged. "Since our proletariat," he said, "have shown no sign
of wanting any rebellion at