Part 2

"It is a good thing you do for us, Colonel James," Gustavus IX said, "and a courageous thing. Please accept our thanks."

Professor Kristin saw Pashkov to the door. "One suggestion, Colonel. Your r's are still too soft for a real Russian. Why do you Americans slur them like that? And I beg you, if you value your life, do not fail to watch your fricatives."

* * * * *

The roof captain saluted as Pashkov stepped out of the lift. His flier was serviced and ready.

"What weather in Moscow, Captain?"

"Ceiling four thousand. We're having patrols half way out to sea. They are instructed to let you pass."

A small incident, the roof captain explained. A Swedish Red Cross flier was missing from the National Hospital. Two Cuban agents had been arrested and a cache of small arms and ammunition was found. But no trace of the ambulance.

"I suppose the Cubans deny stealing the ambulance?" Pashkov asked.

"They say they've been framed by a fat little Russian. But it's transparent, a clumsy job. Imagine, they left a stolen car in the ambulance court and in it an invoice for six cases of ammunition. It was traced to the Cubans in half an hour."

Pashkov climbed into his flier. "Well, it's fashionable to blame the Russians for everything." He waved his chubby hand, and took off. Flying over the Baltic, he set the controls on the Moscow beam.

Ten minutes west of Moscow he tuned the communicator in on Petchareff's office.

"Seven One Three here, Nadezhda. Tell Petchareff--no, let me talk to him."

"Seven One ... but that's impossible! Gospodin Pashkov is in conference with Comrade Petchareff."

"Stupid!" Petchareff's voice sounded behind Nadezhda's, and the speaker clicked and went dead.

Pashkov dove into the clouds and brought his flier to a hovering stop.

Petchareff did not believe he was Pashkov. Colonel James, it was clear, was at that moment in Petchareff's office, impersonating Pashkov. And Zubov was probably getting a rest cure.

Pashkov crawled out of the cloud and skimmed northeast to Mir, Boris Knackenpast's villa.

"You came fast, sir," the lieutenant of guards welcomed him at Mir. "We did not expect you for another fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes. The colonel was not wasting time.

"Listen carefully, lieutenant." Pashkov described the American agent. "But his left cheekbone is lower than mine--about four centimeters. He may be armed, so be careful."

The lieutenant stared. "Shall we kill him?"

"No, no. Put him in a cage."

As Pashkov ran up the steps to the villa, the curtain in the vestibule window stirred. But when he entered, the vestibule was empty.

He looked in the dining room, the music room, the library. Nobody. The house was strangely quiet. He came to the door of the study and listened. Not a sound. He went in and there, behind the large writing desk, sat Boris Knackenpast.

The robot was unscrewing screws imbedded in his neck.

"My God, sir," said Pashkov, "what are you doing?"

* * * * *

The robot's eyes, large disks of glittering mirror, flashed as he looked up. "Ah, Colonel James," Boris said in a voice that seemed to come from a deep well. "Excuse the poor welcome, but I understand we have little time. You scared my valet; he thought you were Gospodin Pashkov."

The door burst open and Medvedev rushed in, the old valet at his heels. Medvedev stopped, gaped, then seized Pashkov's hand. "Colonel James! What an artist, that Monsieur Fanti. But quick, Boris, Pashkov is on his way."

Boris pulled off his head, and crawled out of the robot shell. Pashkov saw Boris as he really was, a tall human with a gaunt, ascetic face.

The sad thing about us, thought Pashkov, is that Medvedev could not trust even me. But then I could not trust Medvedev, either. Yes, that's the trouble with us.

"I hope you need no luggage, Mister Knackenpast," Pashkov said. "We must be off at once."

"Too late!" the old valet said from the window.

Colonel James had landed. But as he climbed down from his flier, the guards closed a circle about him.

"He'll keep," Pashkov said, hitching up his pants. "Let's be off, Mister Knackenpast. It won't take long for Petchareff to smell us out."

"Look!"

The guards fell back from the flier and snapped to attention. Chewing on his cigar furiously, out stepped Petchareff.

Zubov leaped out next, his big front tooth flashing. Then his two assistants, Petya and Kolya, tumbled out in their coats and hats. Last of all to emerge from the flier was Nadezhda Brunhildova.

"Pretend not to know me, will he?" she yelled at Colonel James, picking up a rock.

"Hold it, citizenress," Colonel James said.

"Citizenress, is it?" The rock flew over his head and felled Zubov.

"I warned you both, no kitchen squabbles while on duty," Petchareff roared. He snapped an order to the lieutenants of guards, and the guards surrounded the house.

"No alarm, no alarm," Pashkov said, pulling Boris away from the window. "Mister Knackenpast, when you see your way clear to my flier, run for it. But get back into your robot costume."

"I can't operate the machine."

"I'll be right behind you. The rest of us will go out to Petchareff."

As they came out, Petchareff was reviving Zubov by slapping his face. The kidnaping expert lay stretched cold on the ground, and Nadezhda Brunhildova stood by, holding the rock and weeping.

Colonel James said, "There he is, the American spy."

Petchareff looked up as Pashkov was led forward by the guards. "Not bad," Petchareff said. "We could use Monsieur Fanti. What's his price?"

"Don't you know me, chief? Me, Pashkov."

"Curse me," Nadezhda said, staring at him. "Another Pashkov."

A terrible howl came from Zubov. Petya and Kolya, imitating Petchareff's efforts to revive their master, were battering Zubov's face with their slouched hats.

"Stand back!" Kolya screamed, smashing his hat into Zubov's face. "He is trying to say something!"

"He's moving!" Petya kicked Zubov and looked up for approval, his hair standing up like spikes.

Petchareff slapped Kolya's face and crushed the glowing end of his cigar on Petya's forehead. The apes reeled back to a tree.

* * * * *

Pashkov whispered to Colonel James.

"Capitalist hell and damnation, now I can't tell them apart myself," Petchareff said. "Zubov!"

"Hhng?"

"Which one's the real Pashkov?"

"Hhng?"

But Colonel James was running to the flier, throwing Nadezhda's rock at Petchareff and running.

"Grenade!" Pashkov yelled, and flung himself to the ground.

At the same moment Boris Knackenpast ran from the house to the flier, his robot gear clattering like Don Quixote's armor.

The guards scattered and dove for cover.

"Down, lads! Grenade!" Pashkov yelled.

The two apes took up the cry, "Grenade, grenade!" and flattened themselves behind the tree.

Nadezhda and Medvedev collided, digging in behind the valet.

Only Petchareff remained standing. "Stop the robot!"

Nobody moved.

Boris reached the flier, Colonel James pulled him in, the engine hummed, and they were off. A moment later the flier vanished in the clouds towards Stockholm.

Petchareff relit his cigar. "Tfui, tastes of monkey hair."

Medvedev shambled over. "Was the grenade a dud?"

"One of these days I'll catch you, Pashkov," Petchareff spat. "Your deviousness, that's one thing. It could be useful. But your levity--"

"Darling!" Nadezhda threw on Pashkov.

"Not in public," Pashkov said.

"Wait a minute," Petchareff said. "Nadezhda Brunhildova, how do you know he really is Pashkov? If he's actually Colonel James, I can shoot him summarily. He _does_ look like Colonel James to me."

"But if you're mistaken?" Medvedev put in nervously.

"We all make mistakes," Petchareff said. "What would history be without mistakes?"

"I don't trust him either," Nadezhda said. "But I know my Pashkov. If he's not Pashkov, I shall let you know in the morning."