"Zubov will make your trip to Moscow comfortable. All right, Zubov." Zubov focused his crossed eyes on Pashkov. "Take him straight to Petchareff," Colonel James said to Zubov. "I'll report as soon as I know what these Swedes are up to." Zubov seized Pashkov by the scruff of the neck and dragged him towards the window. "Hold your claws, Zubov lad," Pashkov said. "You have got the wrong man, can't you see? _That_ is Colonel James." "Eh?" "Use your eyes, blockhead. _I_ am Pashkov." Zubov did use his eyes. He looked from one to the other, and back. The more he focused, the more his eyes crossed. "Eh?" Colonel James sat calmly on the bed. He said, "Carry him out." Zubov lifted Pashkov off the floor, crashed with his weight against the wall, but held on, grinned and staggered with Pashkov in his arms to the window. "You miserable idiot," Pashkov shouted. "You'll get a rest cure for this!" Zubov dropped him, pulled his gun and backed off into a corner. "How can I tell you two apart just by looking!" he cried hysterically. "I'm not a learned man." "One small but decisive proof," Pashkov said, unbuttoning his hospital gown. "I have a mole." Zubov yanked the colonel up by an arm. "Send _me_ to rest cures, will you?" Colonel James sighed. "I guess we have to keep up appearances," he muttered, and climbed out the window into the hovering ambulance. Zubov leaped in after, and they were off. * * * * * The suit of clothes hanging in the closet might have been Pashkov's own, identical with the clothes Kolya had taken to Moscow not an hour before. Even the underwear had facsimiles of the Order of Lenin sewn in. Satisfied, he crawled into the bed and fell into a pleasant snooze. He was awakened by the nurse, Anastina Bjorklund--alias Anastasia Semionovna Bezumnaya, formerly of the Stakhanovite Booster's Committee, Moscow Third Worker's District. "Wonderful morning, Colonel James!" Petchareff seldom let one agent know what another was doing. She put a big breakfast tray on Pashkov's lap. "Cloudy, damp, and windy. London stock market caves in, race riots in South Africa, famine in India, earthquake in Japan, floods in the United States, general strike in France, new crisis in Berlin. I ask you, what more can an idealist want?" "Good morning, Miss Bjorklund." The breakfast tray was crammed with a liter of orange juice, four boiled eggs, six slices of bacon, four pancakes, two pork chops, four slices of toast, a tumbler of vodka, a pot of coffee and two cigars. "Ah, Colonel," Anastina said as Pashkov fell to, "why did you let them change your face? It does not become you at all." "Part of my job. Don't you think I am more handsome now?" Anastina laughed shrilly. "That bulbous nose handsome? What woman could fall in love with a nose like that?" "It shows determination. I wish I had this nose permanently."