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?” Petkoff nodded. The headwaiter led the party through the dancers, snaking slowly along until they reached a large table near the musicians and at the edge of the dance floor. Her Majesty automatically took the seat nearest the musicians, which she imagined to be the head of the table. Lou sat at her left hand, and Malone at her right, his back against a wall. Petkoff took the foot of the table, called a waiter over, and ordered for the party. He did a massive job of it, with two waiters, at last, taking down what seemed to be his entire memoirs, plus the list of all soldiers in the Red Army below the rank of Grand Exalted Elk, or whatever it might have been. Malone had no idea what the major was ordering, except that it sounded extensive and very, very Russian. Finally the waiter went on his way. Major Petkoff turned to Malone and smiled. “Naturally,” he said, “we will begin with vodka, _nyet_?” Malone considered saying _nyet_, but he didn’t feel that this was the time or the place. Besides, he told himself grimly, it would be a sad day when a Petkoff could drink a Malone under the table. His proudest heritage from his father was an immense capacity, he told himself. Now was his chance to test it. “And, naturally, a little caviar to go with it,” Petkoff added. “Certainly,” Malone said, as if caviar were the most common thing in the world in his usual Washington saloons. It wasn’t long before the waiter reappeared, bringing four glasses and three bottles of vodka chilled in an ice-bucket, like a bouquet of champagne. Petkoff bowed him out after one bottle had been opened, set the glasses up and began to pour. “Oh, goodness,” Her Majesty started to say. “None for me, thanks,” Lou chimed in.