“Ah,” Petkoff said, smiling approvingly. Malone executed a little bow in Lou’s direction and followed Petkoff in downing the drink. Two more glasses of vodka wended their tortuous ways into the interior. “Tell me, colleague,” Petkoff said as be spooned up some more caviar, “how are things in the United States?” Malone shot a glance at Her Majesty, but she was concentrating on something else, and her eyes seemed far away. “Oh, all right,” he said at last. “Of course, you must say so,” Petkoff murmured. “But, as one colleague to another, tell me: how much longer do you think it will be before the proletarian uprising in your country?” There were a lot of answers to that, Malone told himself. But he chose one without too much difficulty. “Well, that’s hard to judge,” he said. “I’d hate to make any prediction. I don’t have enough information.” “Not enough information?” Petkoff said. “I don’t understand.” Malone shrugged. “Since our proletariat,” he said, “have shown no sign of wanting any rebellion at all, how can I predict when they’re going to rebel?” Petkoff gave him an unbelieving smile. “Well,” he said. “We must have patience, eh, colleague?” “I guess so,” Malone said, watching Petkoff pour more vodka. By the time the meal came, Malone was feeling a warm glow in his interior, but no real fogginess. The dance floor had been cleared by this time, and a group of six costumed professionals glided out and took places. The musicians broke out into a thunderous and bumpy piece, and the dancers began some sort of Slavic folk dance that looked like a combination of a _kazotska_ and a shivaree. Malone watched them with interest. They looked like good dancers, but they seemed to be plagued with clumsiness; they were always crashing into one another. On the other hand, Malone thought, maybe it was part of the dance. It was hard to tell. The dinner was as extensive as anything Malone had ever dreamed of: _borshcht_, beef Stroganoff, smoked fish, vegetables in gigantic tureens, ices and cheeses and fruits. And always, between the courses, during the courses and at every available moment, there was vodka. The drinking didn’t bother him too much. But the food was too much. Unbelieving, he watched Petkoff polish off a large red apple, a pear and a small wedge of white, creamy-looking cheese at the end of the towering meal. Her Majesty was staring, too, in a very polite manner. Lou simply looked glassy-eyed and overstuffed. Malone felt a good deal of sympathy for her. Petkoff finished the wedge of cheese and ripped off a belch of incredible magnitude and splendor. Malone felt he should applaud, but managed to restrain himself. Her Majesty looked startled for a second, and then regained her composure. Only Lou seemed to take the event as a matter of course, which set Malone to wondering about her home-life. Somehow he couldn’t picture her wistful little father ever producing a sound of such awesome magnitude.