Pashkov glanced back at the house. Since the publication of Dentist Amigovitch, this house had become known all over the world as Boris Knackenpast's villa. Now the house was guarded by a company of soldiers to keep visitors out. From an open window Pashkov heard the clicking of a typewriter.
"It's when they're not like robots that everybody suspects them," he said, climbing into his flier. "Petchareff will send you word when to announce his 'death'."
"A question, brother."
"No questions."
"Who smuggled the manuscript out of Russia?"
Pashkov frowned convincingly. "Comrade Petchareff has suspected even me."
He took off for Moscow, poking his flier up through the clouds and flying close to them, as was his habit. Then he switched on the radio and got Petchareff's secretary. "Nadezhda?"
"I know what you're up to, Seven One Three," Nadezhda Brunhildova said. "Don't try to fool me, you confidence man. You are coming in?"
"In ten minutes. What have I done now?"
"You were supposed to make funeral arrangements for Knackenpast, so what are you doing in Stockholm?"