There was another crash, but he hardly heard it. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the interior of the plane that was waiting for them at the airfield. He wasn’t sure he could do it; the vodka might have clouded his mental processes just enough to make teleporting impossible. He concentrated. The crash came again, and a shout. He almost had it ... he almost had it.... The last sound he heard was the splintering of the door, and a great shout that was cut off in the middle. Malone opened his eyes. “We made it,” he said softly. “And I wonder what the MVD is going to think.” Her Majesty took a deep breath. “My goodness,” she said. “That _was_ exciting, wasn’t it?” “Not half as exciting as it’s going to be if we don’t hurry now,” Malone said. “If you know what I mean.” “I do,” Her Majesty said. “That’s good,” Malone said at random. “I don’t.” He helped the Queen ease the unconscious body of Luba Garbitsch into one of the padded seats, and Malone pushed a switch. The seat gave a tiny squeak of protest, and then folded back into a flat bedlike arrangement. Lou was arranged on this comfortable surface, and Malone took a deep breath. “Take care of her for a minute, Your Majesty,” he said. “Of course,” the Queen said. Malone nodded. “I’m going to see who’s up front,” he said. He walked through the corridors of the plane and rapped authoritatively on the door of the pilot’s cabin. A second passed, and he raised his hand to knock again. It never reached the door, which opened very suddenly. Malone found himself facing a small black hole. It was the muzzle and the bore of the barrel of an M-2 .45 revolver, and it was pointing somewhere in the space between Malone’s eyes. Behind the gun was a hard-eyed air force colonel with a grim expression. “You know,” Malone said pleasantly, “they’re good guns, but they really can’t compare to the .44 Magnum.” The pilot blinked, and his gun wavered just a little. “What?” he said. “Well,” Malone said, “if you’d only join the FBI, like me, you’d have a .44 Magnum, and you could compare the guns.” The pilot blinked again. “You’re—” “Malone,” Malone said. “Kenneth J. Malone, FBI. My friends call me Snookums, but don’t try it. Why not let’s put the gun away and be friends?” “Oh,” the colonel said weakly. “Mr.—sure. I’m sorry, Mr. Malone. Didn’t recognize you for a second there.” “Perfectly all right,” Malone said. The gun was still pointing at him, and in spite of the fact that he felt pleasantly like Philip Marlowe, or maybe the Saint, he was beginning to get a little nervous. “The gun,” he said. The colonel stared at it for a second, then reholstered it in a hurry. “I am sorry,” he said. “But we’ve been worried about Russians coming aboard. I’ve got my copilot and navigator outside, guarding the plane, and they were supposed to let me know if anybody came in. When they didn’t let me know, and you knocked, I assumed you were Russians. But, of course, you—”