"You both look like a couple of crooks to me," said the young prince. "I want two hundred million dollars--in gold." Broncov's hand shook as he reached for a row of buttons. "How about a bit of tea and cakes, or, perhaps something stronger before we discuss this matter with the Council? They're waiting just below us, and I'd like to present the deal already consummated." "Got any Old Style Lager around?" Cletus asked. "We have some good Bavarian beer, a stock we--ah--bought some time ago." "I've heard how much you paid the Heinies. The beer I want is made in Wisconsin, USA, so I think I'll fly over there tonight. Super-San Oil keeps begging me to visit their country. Offered me two hundred million for my wells but only half in gold. I want all gold, and I won't discuss any other terms." "Bungler!" Broncov whispered in dialect. "Why didn't you get him drunk, first? Without oil we can't carry on this cold war or kid the peasants much longer. Where in hell could we get even two hundred dollars in gold?" "Go to hell and find all you want," Nick said with a wicked grin. "I understood what you high-binders said," Cletus put in. "My cousin told me before I left home Communist clucks don't savvy Saturday from Sunday. Everybody knows you top boys have stolen everything not nailed down, and have stashed it away against the time your own people kick out Communism for good." "Oh, come, Prince Navi, I don't understand how such an evil story started. Our people wouldn't dare--" "Wouldn't they?" Cletus laughed nastily. "We have spies too, and we know your common herd would settle for anything else. Most of them want their church and their Tsar back, bad as he was." "Bah! The capitalist press started that myth." "Why, Bronco," Nick protested, "you can read that story in Pravda, 'The Organ of Truth.'" The fake Minister of Culture cleared his throat to keep from laughing when the glowering Premier began thinking of various ways to torture unsympathetic comrades. In silent Hell language, Nick added: "Good work, Cleet. I'll take it from here." "Lies put out by the war mongerers of Wall Street," Broncov shouted. He continued raving, but Nick no longer listened. Sounds outside the window told him time had begun pressing. He shook the hat he'd been carrying. "Gold, is it you want, Prince Navi? You think we have none? How about this?" A glittering gold piece tinkled on the floor and rolled toward the amazed Red Premier. Puffing, he bent over and scooped up a newly minted coin the size of the American gold eagle. "It's a new issue--I--never mind. We have lots more where this came from, haven't we, comrade Vychy?" "I'll say," Nick said. "Watch!" Gold pieces continued falling from the hat, one by one, then in a steady stream. Stunned, Broncov clutched his throat, muttering: "It can't be true. Miracles don't happen."