"I thought," said Pashkov, "that Gospodin Pashkov's face has a more
brutal look."
"Propaganda," said the artist. But he came closer and looked at
Pashkov's face with sudden interest.
Professor Kristin said, "Colonel James, we presume you have studied
the problem in detail. I'm afraid we have delayed announcing the Nobel
prize for literature much too long. How soon can you bring Boris
Knackenpast to Stockholm?"
So there it was: Boris Knackenpast a supreme success, as Pashkov had
suspected. It would be amusing to tell robotist Medvedev about it.
"Delicate, very delicate," Pashkov said. "Everything depends on my not
running into Gospodin Pashkov."
"We can't wait any longer," Professor Kristin said. "Fortunately, we
have an ally in the enemy camp. The robotist, Medvedev, is expecting
you at Knackenpast's villa."
"Bad show," M. Fanti said suddenly. "No good. His left cheekbone is at
least four centimeters too high."
The men looked at the surgeon, then at Pashkov.
M. Fanti fingered Pashkov's cheekbone. "How could I have made such a
mistake! Just look at him. People laugh at such faces."
"How much time to correct the error then, Monsieur Fanti?" the king
asked.
"A week at least. His skin needs a rest. I must rework the whole left
side of his face--it's all lopsided."
"But we can't spare a week," Professor Kristin said.
"With your majesty's permission," Pashkov offered, "I am willing to go
as I am. Indeed, my plans call for immediate departure."
"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."