“Never mind that,” Malone said. “We call it a white house, and it is a white house. You call this a red square, and it isn’t even pink. Not even a little bit pink. It’s just—just—”
“Just building-colored,” Luba put in. Malone turned to her and executed a small bow.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Think nothing of it,” Luba said.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Malone said. “I will.”
The MVD man hissed like a teakettle and both heads swung round to look at him again. Her Majesty, who had been admiring some dresses in a shop window, also turned. “My goodness,” she said. “That’s a terrible wheeze. Do you take something for it?”
“Is not wheeze,” the MVD man said. “Is noise representing impatience with arrogance and stupidity of capitalist warmonger conversation.”
“Arrogance?” Luba said.
“Stupidity?” Malone said.
Her Majesty drew herself to her full height. “We do not monger war,” she said. “Not in the least. We are not mongers.”