The dancers on the floor were no concern of his, Malone told himself grimly. He didn’t decide to move; he was on his way before any thought filtered through into his mind. Officers and their ladies looked after him with shocked stupor as he plowed his way across the dance floor, using legs, elbows, shoulders and anything else that allowed him free passage. Sometimes the dancers managed to get out of his way. Sometimes they didn’t. It was all the same to Kenneth J. Malone. Her Majesty followed in his wake, silent and stricken, scurrying after him like a small destroyer following a battleship, or like a ball-carrying grandmother following up her interference. Malone caught sight of Lou, standing at the bar. In that second, she seemed to realize for the first time that something was wrong. She pushed herself violently away from the bar, and looked frantically around, her mouth opening to call. Petkoff was a blur next to her; Malone didn’t look at him clearly. Lou took a step.... And two men with broken, lumpy faces came through a door somewhere in the rear of the restaurant, closer to her than Malone. Petkoff suddenly swam into sight; he was standing very still and looking entirely baffled. Malone pushed through a pair of dancers, ignored their glares and the man’s hissed insult, which he didn’t understand anyhow, and found his view suddenly blocked by a large expanse of dark grey. It was somebody’s chest, in a uniform. Malone shifted his gaze half an inch and saw a row of gold buttons. He looked upward. There, towering above him, was a face. It stared down, looking heavy and cruel and stupid. Malone, his legs still carrying him forward, bounced off the chest and staggered back a step or two. He heard a hissed curse behind him, and realized without thinking about it that he had managed to collide with the same pair of dancers again. He didn’t look around to see them. Instead, he looked ahead, at the giant who blocked his path. The man was about six feet six inches tall, a great Mongol who weighed about a sixth of a ton. But he didn’t look fat; he looked strong instead, and enormously massive. Malone sidestepped, and the Mongol moved slightly to block him. To one side, Malone saw Her Majesty scurrying by. The Mongol was apparently more interested in Malone than in trying to stop sweet little old ladies. Malone saw Her Majesty heading for the bar, and forgot about her for the second. The Mongol shifted again to block Malone’s forward progress. “What seems to be such great hurry, _Tovarishch_?” he said in a voice that sounded like an earthquake warning. “Have you no culture? Why you run across floor in such impolite manner?” The man might have been blocking his way because of Lou, or might simply want to teach an uncultured _Amerikanski_ a lesson. Malone couldn’t tell which, and it didn’t seem to matter. He whirled and reached for a glass of vodka standing momentarily unattended on a nearby table.