“Lady?” Malone said. “For hospital?” “Miss Garbitsch her name is,” the stretcher-man said, trying to get past Malone. The FBI agent shifted slightly, blocking the path. “We wait outside one revolution—” “One what?” “When hands revolve once,” the man said. “One hour. Now we get call so we take her to hospital.” It sounded suspicious to Malone. He heard more yells behind him, and they sounded a little closer. The sound of running men came to his ears. “Well,” he said happily, “goodbye all.” The stretcher-bearer said, “Vot?” Malone shoved him backward into the approaching mob, grabbed the stretcher away from the other three men, who were acting a little dazed, and swung it in a wide arc. He caught an MVD man in the stomach, and the man doubled up with a weird whistling groan, turned slightly in agony, and hit another MVD man with his bowed head. The second man fell; Malone heard more crashes and screaming, but he didn’t find out any details. Instead, he threw the stretcher at the milling mob and turned, already in motion, racing for the ladies’ room. He had no notion of what he was going to do when he got there, or what he was going to find. Her Majesty and Lou were in there, all right, but how were they going to get out without being arrested, clubbed, disemboweled or taken to a Russian hospital for God alone knew what novel purposes? His mind was still a little foggy from the vast amounts of vodka he had poured down, and he wasn’t in the least sure that teleportation would even work. He tried to figure out whether Her Majesty had already carried Lou off that way—but he doubted it. Lou was quite a burden for the old woman. And besides, he wasn’t at all sure whether it was possible to teleport a human being. A lump of inanimate matter is one thing; an intelligent woman with a mind of her own is definitely something else. It seemed to take forever for him to reach the door, and he was panting heavily when he reached for it. Suddenly, another hand shot in front of his, turning the doorknob. Malone looked up. It was impossible to figure out where she had come from, or what she thought she was doing, but a bulging, slightly intoxicated Russian matron with bluish hair piled high on her head, a rusty orange dress and altogether too many jewels scattered here and there about her ample person, stood regarding him with a mixture of scorn, surprise and shock. Malone crowded her aside without a thought and jerked the door open. Behind her he could see the melee still continuing, though it looked by now as if the Russians weren’t very sure who they were supposed to be fighting. The Mongol’s great head rose for a second above the storm, shouting something unintelligible, and dropped again into the crowd. Malone focused on the matron, who was standing with her mouth open staring at him. “Madam,” he said with stern dignity, “wait your turn!”