all, how can I predict when they're going
to rebel?"

Petkoff gave him an unbelieving smile. "Well," he said. "We must have
patience, eh, colleague?"

"I guess so," Malone said, watching Petkoff pour more vodka.

By the time the meal came, Malone was feeling a warm glow in his
interior, but no real fogginess. The dance floor had been cleared by
this time, and a group of six costumed professionals glided out and
took places. The musicians broke out into a thunderous and bumpy
piece, and the dancers began some sort of Slavic folk dance that
looked like a combination of a _kazotska_ and a shivaree. Malone
watched them with interest. They looked like good dancers, but they
seemed to be plagued with clumsiness; they were always crashing into
one another. On the other hand, Malone thought, maybe it was part of
the dance. It was hard to tell.

The dinner was as extensive as anything Malone had ever dreamed of:
_borshcht_, beef Stroganoff, smoked fish, vegetables in gigantic
tureens, ices and cheeses and fruits. And always, between the courses,
during the courses and at every available moment, there was vodka.

The drinking didn't bother him too much. But the food was too much.
Unbelieving, he watched Petkoff polish off a large red apple, a pear
and a small wedge of white, creamy-looking cheese at the end of the
towering meal. Her Majesty was staring, too, in a very polite manner.
Lou simply looked glassy-eyed and overstuffed. Malone felt a good deal
of sympathy for her.

Petkoff finished the wedge of cheese and ripped off a belch of
incredible magnitude and splendor. Malone felt he should applaud, but
managed to restrain himself. Her Majesty looked startled for a second,
and then regained her composure. Only Lou seemed to take the event as
a matter of course, which set Malone to wondering about her home-life.
Somehow he couldn't picture her wistful little father ever producing a
sound of such awesome magnitude.

"My dear colleague," Petkoff was saying. Malone turned to him and
tried to look interested. "There is one thing I have wondered for many
years."

"Really?" Malone said politely.

"That is right," Petkoff said. "For years, there has never been a
change of name in your organization of secret police."

"We're not secret police," Malone said.

Petkoff gave a massive shrug. "Naturally," he said, "one must say
this. But surely, one tires of being called FBI all the time."

"One does?" Malone said. "I don't kn