enneth," the Queen said.

"We've got to try," Malone said grimly, looking down. There was a
crash as something hit the door. It shuddered, creaked, and held.
Malone took a breath. Lou was too beautiful to leave behind, no matter
what.

"I'll mesh my mind with yours," Her Majesty said, "so we'll be
synchronized."

"Right," Malone said. "The plane. Let's go."

There was another crash, but he hardly heard it. He closed his eyes
and tried to visualize the interior of the plane that was waiting for
them at the airfield. He wasn't sure he could do it; the vodka might
have clouded his mental processes just enough to make teleporting
impossible. He concentrated. The crash came again, and a shout. He
almost had it ... he almost had it...

The last sound he heard was the splintering of the door, and a great
shout that was cut off in the middle.

Malone opened his eyes.

"We made it," he said softly. "And I wonder what the MVD is going to
think."

Her Majesty took a deep breath. "My goodness," she said. "That _was_
exciting, wasn't it?"

"Not half as exciting as it's going to be if we don't hurry now,"
Malone said. "If you know what I mean."

"I do," Her Majesty said.

"That's good," Malone said at random. "I don't." He helped the Queen
ease the unconscious body of Luba Garbitsch into one of the padded
seats, and Malone pushed a switch. The seat gave a tiny squeak of
protest, and then folded back into a flat bedlike arrangement. Lou was
arranged on this comfortable surface, and Malone took a deep breath.
"Take care of her for a minute, Your Majesty," he said.

"Of course," the Queen said.

Malone nodded. "I'm going to see who's up front," he said. He walked
through the corridors of the plane and rapped authoritatively on the
door of the pilot's cabin. A second passed, and he raised his hand to
knock again.

It never reached the door, which opened very suddenly. Malone found
himself facing a small black hole.

It was the muzzle and the bore of the barrel of an M-2 .45 revolver,
and it was pointing somewhere in the space between Malone's eyes.
Behind the gun was a hard-eyed air force colonel with a grim
expression.

"You know," Malone said pleasantly, "they're good guns, but they
really can't compare to the .44 Magnum."

The pilot blinked, and his gun wavered just a little. "What?" he said.

"Well," Malone said, "if you'd only join the FBI, like me, you'd have
a .44 Magnum, and you could compare the guns."