“Lies put out by the war mongerers of Wall Street,” Broncov shouted. He continued raving, but Nick no longer listened.
Sounds outside the window told him time had begun pressing. He shook the hat he’d been carrying. “Gold, is it you want, Prince Navi? You think we have none? How about this?”
A glittering gold piece tinkled on the floor and rolled toward the amazed Red Premier. Puffing, he bent over and scooped up a newly minted coin the size of the American gold eagle. “It’s a new issue—I—never mind. We have lots more where this came from, haven’t we, comrade Vychy?”
“I’ll say,” Nick said. “Watch!”
Gold pieces continued falling from the hat, one by one, then in a steady stream. Stunned, Broncov clutched his throat, muttering: “It can’t be true. Miracles don’t happen.”
He watched in silence while his Minister of Culture made a pile of gold coins four feet high. When the floor timbers began creaking, Nick made another similar heap; then, others, till the thick walls began bulging inward.
“Stop!” Broncov cried. “A couple of tons is enough.” Eyes now popping, he waved his arms as the floor sagged under fifty times that weight. “There’s the two hundred million for you, Prince. The rest is for—us. We’ll sign the papers in another room.”
Ignoring frightened cries, Nick made more piles of gold next to the windows. Outside on Red Square, people were running in all directions, shouting and waving newspapers. A cannon roared. A hundred or more machine guns began rattling. Plainly, the bullets were not fired at any one, for the people were laughing and weeping, singing and dancing.
“Come here and have a look, Bronco,” Nick suggested.
“It’s—a trick, a revolution,” Broncov panted. “Damn you, Volonsky, you started it.” He snatched a heavy revolver from his desk and fired it at Nick without warning.