Red Square was, somehow, disappointing. It was crowded with men and women, all looking very Russian in an undefined sort of way, and the big glass windows sparkled from every side. “I know it’s silly,” Luba said in a baffled voice, “but, somehow, I always expected Red Square to be red.” “And why should that be?” the MVD man next to her said. He was a burly man with a sour expression, as if he had eaten too many onions the day before. “Well,” Malone said, “it is Red Square, after all.” “But red is symbolic only,” the MVD man said surlily. “Is not color. Only symbol of glorious Russia.” “I suppose so,” Luba said. “But it’s still disappointing.” “You expect, perhaps, that we recruit our glorious Red Army from American Indian tribes?” the MVD man said sourly. “You are literal-minded bourgeois intellectual. This is not good thing to be.” “Somehow,” Malone mused, “I didn’t think it was.” “But this is different,” Luba said. “The Red Army is made up of Russians. But this is just a square. You could paint it.” “After all,” Malone offered, “the White House is white, isn’t it?” “White is cowardly color,” the MVD man pointed out with satisfaction. “Never mind that,” Malone said. “We call it a white house, and it is a white house. You call this a red square, and it isn’t even pink. Not even a little bit pink. It’s just—just—” “Just building-colored,” Luba put in. Malone turned to her and executed a small bow. “Thank you,” he said. “Think nothing of it,” Luba said. “Oh, don’t worry,” Malone said. “I will.” The MVD man hissed like a teakettle and both heads swung round to look at him again. Her Majesty, who had been admiring some dresses in a shop window, also turned. “My goodness,” she said. “That’s a terrible wheeze. Do you take something for it?” “Is not wheeze,” the MVD man said. “Is noise representing impatience with arrogance and stupidity of capitalist warmonger conversation.” “Arrogance?” Luba said. “Stupidity?” Malone said. Her Majesty drew herself to her full height. “We do not monger war,” she said. “Not in the least. We are not mongers.” The MVD man looked at her, blinked, sighed and looked away. “This color discussion,” he said, “it is very silly. Look at the Blue Ridge Mountains, in your country. Are they blue?” “Well—” Malone said. “What color, for example, is the Golden Gate Bridge?” the MVD man continued, with heavy sarcasm. “Is not even a gate. Is a bridge. Is not golden. But you say we disappoint. No. You disappoint.”