ow. It gives a person a sort of
sense of security."

"Ah," Petkoff said. "But take us, for instance. We pride ourselves on
our ability to camouflage ourselves. GPU, and then OGPU--which were, I
understand, subject for many capitalist jokes."

Malone tried to look as if he couldn't imagine such a thing. "I
suppose they might have been," he said.

"Then we were NKVD," Petkoff said, "and now MVD. And I understand,
quite between us, Mr. Malone, that there is talk of further change."

There was a sudden burst of applause. Malone wondered what for, looked
at the dance floor and realized that the six Slavic dancers were
taking bows. As he watched, one of them slipped and nearly fell. The
musicians obliged with a final series of chords and the dancers
trotted away. A waltz began, and couples from the tables began
crowding the floor.

"How can you manage the proletariat," Petkoff asked, "if you do not
keep them confused?"

"We don't, exactly," Malone said. "They more or less manage us."

"Ha," Petkoff said, dismissing this with a wave of his hand.
"Propaganda." And then he, too, turned to watch the dancers. The waltz
was finishing, and a fox-trot had begun. "With your permission, Mr.
Malone," he said, rising, "I should like to ask so-lovely Miss
Garbitsch to dance with me."

Malone glanced at the girl. She gave him a quick smile, with just a
hint of nervousness or strain in it, and turned to Petkoff. "I'd be
delighted, Major," she said. Malone shut his own mouth. As the girl
rose, he got to his feet and gave the couple a small, Victorian bow.
Petkoff and Lou walked to the floor, and Malone, sitting down again,
watched enviously as he took her in his arms and began to guide her
expertly across the floor in time to the music.

Malone sighed. Some men, he told himself, had all the luck. But, of
course, Lou had to be polite, too. She didn't really like Petkoff, he
told himself; she was just being diplomatic. And he had made some
progress with her on the plane, he thought.

He looked over at Her Majesty, but the Queen was staring abstractedly
at a crystal chandelier. Malone sighed again, took a little caviar and
washed it down with vodka. The vodka felt nice and warm, he thought
vaguely. Vodka was good. It was too bad that the people who made such
good vodka had to be enemies. But that was the way things were, he
told himself philosophically.

Terrible. That's how things were.

The fox-trot went to its conclusion. Mal