Supermind
“To eat?” Petkoff said, still looking pleased. “You wish to eat?”
“Well,” Malone said, “I’m rather hungry, and I guess the ladies must
be, too.”
“What?” Luba said, returning to the group. She had joined Her Majesty
in viewing the display of dresses. The Queen came scurrying over, too,
through the silent and jostling Russian crowds.
“I was suggesting a restaurant,” Malone said.
“Best idea anybody’s had all day,” Lou said. Her Majesty graciously
consented to agree, and Petkoff beamed like the rising sun.
“My friends,” he said. “My very fine friends—although you are
capitalistic bourgeois intellectuals, thrown aside by the path of
progress—in Moskva we have the finest restaurants in all the world.”
“How about ... oh, Leningrad?” Malone said in a low voice.
“In Leningrad,” Petkoff admitted, “the restaurants are better. But in
Moskva, the restaurants are very good indeed. Much better than one
might expect, if one knows Leningrad.”
“Well,” Malone said, “I suppose we’ve just got to put up with Moscow.”
They went back to the corner, and hailed the long, black,
sleek-looking limousine that had brought them in from the airport. The
two silent men in the front seat of the gleaming Volga sedan were
waiting patiently. Malone, Her Majesty and Lou got into the back,
Petkoff in front. The two men were as still as statues—and rather
unpleasant-looking statues, Malone thought—until Petkoff snapped
something in Russian. Then one of them, at the wheel, said: “_Da,
Tovarishch_.”
The car started down the Moscow streets.
Her Majesty was silent and somewhat abstracted during the ride, just
as she had been during the entire trip so far. She was, Malone knew,
prying into every mind she could touch. He smiled inwardly when he
thought about that.
The MVD, all unbeknownst to itself, was busily carrying around and
protecting the single most dangerous spy in Moscow.
Nobody else spoke, either, until the car was moving along at a good
clip. Petkoff began some small talk then, but it wasn’t very
interesting until he finally managed to edge it around to the subject
he really wanted to talk about.
“By the way, Mr. Malone,” he said, in a voice that sounded as if
Petkoff were trying to establish an offhand manner, and not succeeding
in the least. “It was thoughtful, very thoughtful, of American
government, to return to us those men. Very kind.”
Malone’s expression conveyed nothing but the sheerest good will.
“Well, you know how it is,” he said. “Anything we can do to preserve
peace and amity between our countries—we’ll do it. You know that.
Getting along, coexistence, that sort of thing. Oh, we’re glad to
oblige.”
“I am sure,” Petkoff said darkly. “You realize, of course, that they
are criminals? Deserters from Red Army, embezzlers. Embezzlers of
money.”
Wondering vaguely what else you could be an embezzler of, Malone
nodded. “That’s what your ambassador in Washington said, when we told
him about the deportation order.”
“But Dad’s not an embezzler,” Luba broke in. “Or a deserter, either.
He—”
“We have the records,” Petkoff said.
“But—”
“Ordinarily, Mr. Malone,” Petkoff said pointedly, “we do not find it
the policy of the American government to send back political
refugees.”
“Now, listen,” Lou said. “If you think you can shut me up—”
“That is exactly what I think,” Petkoff said. “Let me assure you that
no offense has been intended.”
Lou opened her mouth and started to say something. Then she shut it
again. “Well,” she said, “I guess this isn’t the time to argue about
it. I’m sorry, Mr. Petkoff.”
The MVD man beamed back at her. “Call me Vladimir,” he said.
Malone broke in hastily. “You see, Major,” he said, “these men are all
embezzlers, as you’ve said yourself. We have the word of your
government on that.”
Petkoff took his eyes off Lou with what seemed real reluctance. “Oh,”
he said. “Yes. Of course you do.”
“Therefore,” Malone said smoothly, “the three are criminals and not
political refugees.”
“Indeed,” Petkoff said blandly. “Very interesting. Your government has
done a good deal of thinking in this matter.”
“Sure we have,” Malone said. “After all, we don’t want to cause any
trouble.”
“No,” Petkoff said, and frowned. “Of course not.”
“Naturally,” Malone said.
After that, there was silence for almost a full minute. Then Major
Petkoff turned to Malone again with a frown. “Wait,” he said.
“Wait?” Malone said.
“The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics,” Petkoff said, “has no
extradition treaty with your capitalist warmongering country.”
“We’re not warmongers,” Her Majesty put in. Both men ignored her.
“True,” Malone admitted.
“Then there was no reason to send these men back to us,” Petkoff said.
“Oh, no,” Malone said. “There was a very good reason. You see, we
didn’t want them in our country, either.”
“But—”
“And when we found that they’d lied on their naturalization papers,
why, naturally, we took immediate steps. The only steps we could take,
as a matter of fact.”
“The only steps?” Petkoff said. “You could have preferred charges.
This was not done. Why was it not done?”
“That,” Malone said, sidestepping neatly, “is a matter of governmental
policy, Major Petkoff. And I can’t provide any final answer.”
“Ah?” Petkoff said.
“But, after all, a trial would not make sense,” Malone said, now
busily attacking from the side. “You see, at first we thought they
were espionage agents.”
“A foolish conclusion,” Petkoff said uneasily.
Malone nodded. “That’s what we finally realized,” he said. “We
questioned them, but their stories were nonsense, absolute nonsense.
Of course, we had no idea of what foreign government might have
employed them.”
“Of course not,” Petkoff said, shifting slightly in his seat. The car
took a wide curve and swayed slightly, and Malone found himself nearly
in Lou’s lap. The sensation was so pleasant that all conversation was
delayed for a couple of seconds, until the car had righted itself.
“So,” Malone went on when he had straightened out, “we decided to save
ourselves the expense of a trial.”
“Very natural,” Petkoff said. The slight delay had apparently allowed
him to recover his own mental balance. “The capitalist countries think
only of money.”
“Sure,” Malone said agreeably. “Well, anyhow, that’s the way it was.
There was no point, really, in putting them in prison—what for? What
good could it do us?”
“Who knows?” Petkoff said.
“Exactly,” Malone said. “So, since all we wanted to do was get rid of
them, and since we had an easy way to do that, why, we took it, that’s
all, and shipped them here.”
“I see,” Petkoff said. “And the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics is
properly grateful.”
“My goodness,” Her Majesty put in, apparently out of an irrepressible
sense of fun. “Maybe we’ll get medals.”
“Medals,” Petkoff said sternly, “are not given to capitalist
agitators.”
“We are not agitated,” Her Majesty said, and folded her hands in her
lap, looking quite satisfied with herself.
Petkoff thought for a second. “And why,” he said, “did you feel that
such elaborate precautions were necessary in returning these men to
us?”
Malone shrugged. “Well, we couldn’t have them just running around all
over the world, could we?” he said. “We felt that here they’d be
properly housed and fed, in their own homeland, even if they didn’t
get a job.”
“They will be properly taken care of,” Petkoff prophesied darkly.
“Now, wait a minute—” Lou began, and then stopped. “Sorry,” she said.
Malone felt sorry for her, but there was nothing he could say to make
things any better. “Exactly,” he told Petkoff with what he hoped was a
smile.
“Ah, well,” Petkoff said. “My friend and colleague, we should cease
this shoptalk. Shoptalk?”
“Quite correct,” Malone said.
“I have studied English a long time,” Petkoff said. “It is not a
logical language.”
“You’re doing very well,” Malone said. Petkoff gave him a military
duck of the head.
“I appreciate your compliments,” he said. “But I fear we are boring
the ladies.”
The major had timed his speech well. At that moment, the ornate Volga
pulled up to a smooth stop before a large, richly decorated building
that glowed brightly under the electric lights of a large sign. The
sign said something incomprehensible in Cyrillic script. Under it, the
building entrance was gilded and carved into fantastic rococo shapes.
Malone stared at the sign, and was about to ask a question about it
when Petkoff spoke.
“Trotkin’s,” he said. “The finest restaurant in all the world—in
Moskva, this is what they say of it.”
“I understand,” Malone said.
“Come,” Petkoff said grandly, and got out of the car. One of the two
silent men leaped out and opened the back door, and Her Majesty, Lou
and Malone climbed out and stood blinking on the sidewalk under the
sign.
Petkoff leaned over and said something to the driver. The second
silent man got back into the car, and it drove away down the street,
turned a corner and disappeared. The party of four started toward the
entrance of the restaurant.
The door swung open before Major Petkoff reached it. A doorman was
holding it, and bowing to each of the four as they passed. He was
dressed in Victorian livery, complete to knee-breeches and lace, and
Malone thought this was rather odd for the classless Russian society.
But the doorman was only the opening note of a great symphony.
Inside, there were tables and chairs—or at least, Malone told
himself, that’s what he thought they were. They were massive wood
affairs, carved into tortuous shapes and gilded or painted in all
sorts of colors that glittered madly under the barrage of several
electric chandeliers.
The chandeliers hung from a frescoed ceiling, and looked much too
heavy. They swayed and tinkled in time to the music that filled the
room, but for a second Malone looked past them at the ceiling. It
appeared to represent some sort of Russian heaven, at the end of the
Five-Year Plan. There were officers and ladies eating grapes,
waltzing, strolling on white puffy clouds, singing, drinking, making
love. There was an awful lot of activity going on up on the ceiling,
and it wasn’t until Malone lowered his gaze that he realized that none
of this activity had been exaggerated.
True, there were no white puffy clouds, and he couldn’t immediately
locate a bunch of grapes anywhere. But there were the musicians, in
the same Victorian outfits as the doorman: three fiddlers, a cellist,
and a man who played piano. “Just like in night-clubs in bourgeois
Paris,” Petkoff said, following Malone’s gaze with every evidence of
pride.
Between the musicians and Malone were a lot of tables and chairs and
ancient, proud-looking waiters who appeared to have been hired when
Trotkin’s had opened—and that, Malone thought, had been a long, long
time ago. He felt like those two ladies, whose names he couldn’t
remember, who said they’d slipped back in time. Officers and their
ladies, the men in glittering uniforms, the ladies in ball dresses of
every imaginable shade, cut, material and degree of exposure, were
waltzing around the room looking very polite and old-world. Others
were sitting at the tables, where candles fluttered, completely
useless in the electric glare. The noise was something terrific, but,
somehow, it was all very well-bred.
The headwaiter was suddenly next to them. He hadn’t walked there, at
least not noticeably; he appeared to have perfected the old-world
manner of the silent servant. Or, of course, Malone thought, the man
might be a teleport.
“Ah, Major Petkoff,” he said, in a silken voice. “It is so good to see
you again. And your friends?”
“Americans,” Petkoff said. “They have come to see the glorious Soviet
Union.”
“Ah,” the headwaiter said. “Your usual table, Major?”