The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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. Malone saw Petkoff, chatting animatedly with Lou, lead her off to a small bar at the opposite side of the room. "Some people," he muttered, "have too much luck. Or too much diplomacy."

      Her Majesty was tugging at his arm. That, Malone thought, was going to be more bad news.

      It was.

      "Sir Kenneth," she said softly, "do you realize that this place is full of MVD men? Of course you don't; I haven't told you yet."

      Malone opened his mouth, shut it again, and thought in a hurry. If the place were full of MVD men, that meant they probably had it bugged. And that meant several things, all of them unpleasant. Her Majesty shouldn't have said anything--she shouldn't have shown any nervousness or anxiety in the first place, she shouldn't have known there were so many MVD men in the second place--because there was no way for her to know, except through her telepathy, a little secret Malone did not want the Russians to find out about. And she should definitely, most definitely, not have called him "Sir Kenneth."

      "Oh," Her Majesty said. "I am sorry, Sir--er--Mr. Malone. You're quite right, you know."

      "Sure," Malone said. "Well. My goodness." He thought of something to say, and said it at once. "Of course there are MVD men here. This is just the place for good old MVD men to come when they go off duty. A nice, relaxing place full of fun and dancing and food and vodka..." And he was thinking, at the same time: Are they doing anything odd?

      "Russian, you know," Her Majesty said, almost conversationally, "is an extremely difficult language. It takes a great deal of practice to learn to think in it really fluently."

      "Yes, I should think it would," Malone said absently. You mean you haven't been able to pick up what these people are thinking?

      Chapter 8

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      The door rattled against Malone's back as a hand twisted the knob and shook it. He braced himself for the next assault, and it came: the shudder of a heavy body slamming up against it. Miraculously, the door held, at least for the moment. But the roars outside were growing louder and louder as the second team came up.

      Where was the Mongol? he wondered. But there was no time for idle contemplation. The scene inside the room demanded his immediate attention.

      He was in the anteroom, a gilded and decorated parlor filled with overstuffed chairs and couches. There was a door at the far side of the room, and a woman suddenly came out of it holding a pocketbook in one hand and a large powder-puff in the other. She saw Malone and reacted instantly.

      Her scream seemed to be a signal. The two other women sitting on couches screamed, too, and jumped up with their hands to their faces. Malone shouted something unintelligible but very loud at them and brandished a fist menacingly. They shrieked again and ran for the interior room.

      Malone heard the roaring outside, and pressed his back tighter against the door. Then, suddenly, he broke away from it and ran over to Her Majesty and Lou. He looked down. Lou was apparently completely unconscious by this time, and there was a peaceful look on her face. The Queen looked down at her, then up at Malone.

      "I'm sorry, Sir Kenneth," she said, "but we really haven't time for romantic thoughts just now."

      Malone passed a hand over his brow. "We haven't got time for anything," he said. "You can see what's going on outside."

      "My goodness," Her Majesty said. "Oh, yes. My goodness, yes."

      "Okay," Malone said. "We've got to teleport out, if we can--and if we can take Lou with us."

      "I don't know, Sir Kenneth," 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."

      The pilot blinked again. "You're--"

      "Malone," Malone said. "Kenneth J. Malone, FBI. My friends call me Snookums, but don't try it. Why not let's put the gun away and be friends?"

      "Oh," the colonel said weakly. "Mr.--sure. I'm sorry, Mr. Malone. Didn't recognize you for a second there."

      "Perfectly all right," Malone said. The gun was still pointing at him, and in spite of the fact that he felt