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 slovakian, no one appeared to be doing anything. The extra people wandered about the huge stage, in and out of the set, talking and smoking.

When do they start work? Ambrose demanded.

Well, they've been trying to shoot this scene for four days now. Everybody's been made up and dressed for it for about ninety hours, roughly speaking. Something always goes wrong. . . . Philip interrupted himself long enough to extend a roguish hand towards the back of an extra boy who presently sailed in the air emitting a prodigious scream. . . . Grinning, Philip continued, I've forgotten what's wrong today, if anybody knows.

Nothing's wrong today, declared Martell Hallam who had approached from behind. Swell set, eh, Mr. Deacon? Carries out your idea, don't it?

I hadn't dreamed of anything so magnificent, Ambrose replied.

This is an exact copy of one of the rooms in the Romanoff palace at Petrograd before the Revolution. It was a hell of a lot of trouble to get it right, but it's worth it. That malachite table, that Sèvres vase, everything's real.

Does it make any difference? Ambrose asked innocently.

Difference! Hell yes! Every God damn thing has