“Wastepaper basket,” Malone said instantly. “Grapefruit rinds. Lemon peels. Coffee grounds.” “Damn it, Malone,” Burris said, “this is serious.” “Well,” Malone said, “it doesn’t sound serious. What are we doing, deporting the entire family?” “I suppose we could,” Burris said, “if we really wanted to get complicated about it. What with Garbitsch’s false declaration, I haven’t the faintest idea what his daughter’s status would be—but she _was_ born here, Malone, and as far as we can tell she’s perfectly loyal to the United States.” “Fine,” Malone said. “So you’re sending her to Russia. This is making less and less sense, you know.” Burris rubbed a hand over his face. “Malone,” he said in a quiet, patient voice, “why don’t you wait for me to finish? Then everything will make sense. I promise.” “Well, all right,” Malone said doubtfully. “Luba Garbitsch is going along to Russia, in spite of the fact that she’s perfectly loyal.” “True,” Burris said. “You see, Malone, she loves her traitorous old daddy just the same. Family affection. Very touching.” “And if he’s going to Moscow—” “She wants to go along,” Burris said. “That’s right.” “And you’re going to send her along,” Malone said, “out of the goodness of your kindly old heart. Just like Santa Claus. Or the Easter bunny.” Burris looked acutely uncomfortable. “Now, Malone,” he said. “It’s not exactly that, and you know it.” “It isn’t?” Malone said, trying to look surprised. Burris shook his head. “If we send Luba Garbitsch along,” he said, “that gives us a good excuse for Her Majesty. As a chaperone.” “Are you sure,” Malone asked slowly, “that anybody with a name like Luba Garbitsch could plausibly need a chaperone? Even in a den of vice? Because somehow it doesn’t sound right: Luba Garbitsch, chaperoned by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I.” “Well,” Burris said, “it won’t be the Queen. I mean, she won’t be known as the Queen.” “Incognito?” Malone said. Burris shrugged. “In away,” he said. “What do you think would be a good name for her to travel under?” Malone considered. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “But no more Lubas.” “I was thinking,” Burris said carefully. “How about Rose Thompson?” There was a long silence. “I don’t know whether she’ll go for the idea,” Malone said. “But I’ll try it.” “You can do it, Malone,” Burris said instantly. “I know you can. I just know it.” “Your faith,” Malone said with a sigh, “is going to be too much for me one of these days.” Burris shrugged. “Just take it easy, Malone,” he said. “You said you wanted to have Her Majesty over there to read a few minds, and you’ve got her. But remember, don’t get involved in anything complicated. Don’t start any fireworks.” “I hope not,” Malone said. “Stay out of political arguments,” Burris said. Malone blinked. “What do you think I’m going to do?” he said. “Bring along a soapbox?” “You never know,” Burris said. “Just keep quiet, and don’t go prowling around where you’re not wanted.”