Malone gave him a brief and highly censored version of the melee at Trotkin’s, particularly omitting the details of the final escape from the MVD men. When he had finished, the pilot gave a long, low whistle. “You have been having fun,” he said. “Can I go on your next adventure, or is it only for accredited Rover Boys?” “You have to buy a pin and a special compass that works in the dark,” Malone said. “I don’t think you’d like it. How about that doctor?” The pilot nodded wearily. “I’ll send my navigator over to the airfield phone,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’ll tell him to tell the doctor I’m the one who’s sick, so the Russians don’t get suspicious. It may even be true.” “Just so he gets here,” Malone said. The pilot was flagging his navigator through the viewport as Malone went out, closing the door gently behind him. He went back down the plane corridor to Her Majesty and Lou. Lou was still lying on the makeshift bed, her eyes closed. She looked more beautiful and defenseless than ever, and Malone wanted to do something big and terrible to all the Russians who had tried to take her away or dope her. With difficulty, he restrained himself. “How is she?” he asked. “She seems to be all right,” the Queen said. “The substance they put in her drink doesn’t appear to have had any other effect than putting her to sleep and making her a little sick—and that was a good thing.” “Oh, sure,” Malone said. “That was fine.” “Well,” Her Majesty said, “she did get rid of quite a bit of the drug in the ladies’ room.” She smiled, just a trifle primly. “I think she’ll be all right,” she said. “There’s a doctor on the way, anyhow,” Malone said, staring down at her. He tried to think of something he could do for her—fan her, or bring her water, or cool her fevered brow. But she didn’t look very fevered. She just looked helpless and beautiful. He felt sorry for all the nasty things he had said to her, and all the nasty things she had said to him. If she got well—and of course she was going to get well, he told himself firmly—things would be different. They’d be sweet and kind to each other all the time, and do nice things for each other. And she was definitely going to get well. He wouldn’t even think about anything else. She was going to be fine again, and very soon. Why, she was hardly hurt at all, he told himself, hardly hurt at all. “Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said. “I’ve been thinking: while we were about it, why didn’t we just teleport all the way back home?” Malone turned. “Because,” he said, “we’d have had the devil of a time explaining just how we managed to do it.” “Oh,” she said. “I see. Of course.” “This teleportation gimmick is supposed to be a secret,” Malone went on. “We don’t want to let out anything more about it than we have to. As it is, there’s going to be some fierce wondering among the Russians about how we got out of that restaurant.” “Obviously,” the Queen said, entirely unexpectedly, “a bourgeois capitalistic trick.”