Pug strode toward Stalin, with Slote hurrying behind him. The dictator said with an amiable grin, as they met near the dais and clinked glasses amid smiles and handclapping, “I thank you for that fine toast, and in response, you can keep California.” “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” Pug said, and they both drank. “That’s a good start, and can you do anything else for us?” “Certainly. Fast action,” said Stalin, linking his arm in Pug’s. They were so close that Pug caught an odor of fish on Stalin’s breath. “American style. We Russians can sometimes do it too.”
