The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  Hank said, “Look, we’re going to be on a tour together, what do you say to a drink?”

  She considered that, prettily, “Well…well, of course. Why not?”

  Hank said to the fright, “There wouldn’t be a nice bar around would there?”

  “Down the street three blocks and to your left is Dirty Dick’s.” She added scornfully, “All the tourists go there.”

  “Then we shouldn’t make an exception,” Hank said. “Miss Moore, my arm.”

  * * * *

  On the way over she said, “Are you excited about going to the Soviet Union?”

  “I wouldn’t say excited. Curious, though.”

  “You don’t sound very sympathetic to them.”

  “To Russia?” Hank said. “Why should I be? Personally, I believe in democracy.”

  “So do I,” she said, her voice clipped. “I think we ought to try it some day.”

  “Come again?”

  “So far as I can see, we pay lip service to democracy, that’s about all.”

  Hank grinned inwardly. He’d already figured that during this tour he’d be thrown into contact with characters running in shade from gentle pink to flaming red. His position demanded that he remain inconspicuous, as average an American tourist as possible. Flaring political arguments weren’t going to help this, but, on the other hand to avoid them entirely would be apt to make him more conspicuous than ever.

  “How do you mean?” he said now.

  “We have two political parties in our country without an iota of difference between them. Every four years they present candidates and give us a choice. What difference does it make which one of the two we choose if they both stand for the same thing? This is democracy?”

  Hank said mildly, “Well, it’s better than sticking up just one candidate and saying, which one of this one do you choose? Look, let’s steer clear of politics and religion, eh? Otherwise this’ll never turn out to be a beautiful friendship.”

  Charity Moore’s face portrayed resignation.

  Hank said, “I’m Hank, what do they call you besides Charity?”

  “Everybody but my parents call me Chair. You spell it C-H-A-R but pronounce it like Chair, like you sit in.”

  “That’s better,” Hank said. “Let’s see. There it is, Dirty Dick’s. Crummy looking joint. You want to go in?”

  “Yes,” Char said. “I’ve read about it. An old coaching house. One of the oldest pubs in London. Dickens wrote a poem about it.”

  * * * *

  The pub’s bar extended along the right wall, as they entered. To the left was a sandwich counter with a dozen or so stools. It was too early to eat, they stood at the ancient bar and Hank said to her, “Ale?” and when she nodded, to the bartender, “Two Worthingtons.”

  While they were being drawn, Hank turned back to the girl, noticing all over again how impossibly pretty she was. It was disconcerting. He said, “How come Russia? You’d look more in place on a beach in Biarritz or the Lido.”

  Char said, “Ever since I was about ten years of age I’ve been reading about the Russian people starving to death and having to work six months before making enough money to buy a pair of shoes. So I’ve decided to see how starving, barefooted people managed to build the largest industrial nation in the world.”

  “Here we go again,” Hank said, taking up his glass. He toasted her silently before saying, “The United States is still the largest single industrial nation in the world.”

  “Perhaps as late as 1965, but not today,” she said definitely.

  “Russia, plus the satellites and China has a gross national product greater than the free world’s but no single nation produces more than the United States. What are you laughing at?”

  “I love the way the West plasters itself so nicely with high flown labels. The free world. Saudi Arabia, Ethiopia, Pakistan, South Africa—just what is your definition of free?”

  Hank had her placed now. A college radical. One of the tens of thousands who discover, usually somewhere along in the sophomore year, that all is not perfect in the land of their birth and begin looking around for answers. Ten to one she wasn’t a Commie and would probably never become one—but meanwhile she got a certain amount of kicks trying to upset ideological applecarts.

  For the sake of staying in character, Hank said mildly, “Look here, are you a Communist?”

  She banged her glass down on the bar with enough force that the bartender looked over worriedly. “Did it ever occur to you that even though the Soviet Union might be wrong—if it is wrong—that doesn’t mean that the United States is right? You remind me of that…that politician, whatever his name was, when I was a girl. Anybody who disagreed with him was automatically a Communist.”

  “McCarthy,” Hank said. “I’m sorry, so you’re not a Communist.”

  She took up her glass again, still in a huff. “I didn’t say I wasn’t. That’s my business.”

  * * * *

  The turboelectric ship Baltika turned out to be the pride of the U.S.S.R. Baltic State Steamship Company. In fact, she turned out to be the whole fleet. Like the rest of the world, the Soviet complex had taken to the air so far as passenger travel was concerned and already the Baltika was a left-over from yesteryear. For some reason the C.I.A. thought there might be less observation on the part of the KGB if Hank approached Moscow indirectly, that is by sea and from Leningrad. It was going to take an extra four or five days, but, if he got through, the squandered time would have been worth it.

  An English speaking steward took up Hank’s bag at the gangplank and hustled him through to his quarters. His cabin was forward and four flights down into the bowels of the ship. There were four berths in all, two of them already had bags on them. Hank put his hand in his pocket for a shilling.

  The steward grinned and said, “No tipping. This is a Soviet ship.”

  Hank looked after him.

  A newcomer entered the cabin, still drying his hands on a towel. “Greetings,” he said. “Evidently we’re fellow passengers for the duration.” He hung the towel on a rack, reached out a hand. “Rodriquez,” he said. “You can call me Paco, if you want. Did you ever meet an Argentine that wasn’t named Paco?”

  Hank shook the hand. “I don’t know if I ever met an Argentine before. You speak English well.”

  “Harvard,” Paco said. He stretched widely. “Did you spot those Russian girls in the crew? Blond, every one blond.” He grinned. “Not much time to operate with them—but enough.”

  A voice behind them, heavy with British accent said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  He was as ebony as a negro can get and as nattily dressed as only Savile Row can turn out a man. He said, “My name is Loo Motlamelle.” He looked at them expressionlessly for a moment.

  Paco put out his hand briskly for a shake. “Rodriquez,” he said. “Call me Paco. I suppose we’re all Moscow bound.”

  Loo Motlamelle seemed relieved at his acceptance, clasped Paco’s hand, then Hank’s.

  Hank shook his head as the three of them began to unpack to the extent it was desirable for the short trip. “The classless society. I wonder what First Class cabins look like. Here we are, jammed three in a telephone booth sized room.”

  Paco chucked, “My friend, you don’t know the half of it. There are five classes on this ship. Needless to say, this is Tourist B, the last.”

  “And we’ll probably be fed borsht and black bread the whole trip,” Hank growled.

  Loo Motlamelle said mildly, “I hear the food is very good.”

  Paco stood up from his luggage, put his hands on his hips, “Gentlemen, do you realize there is no lock on the door of this cabin?”

  “The crime rate is said to be negligible in the Soviet countries,” Loo said.

  Paco put up his hands in despair. “That isn’t the point. Suppose one of us wishes to bring a lady friend into the cabin for…a drink. How can he lock the door so as not to be interrupted?”

  Hank was chuckling. “W
hat did you take this trip for, Paco? An investigation into the mores of the Soviets—female flavor?”

  Paco went back to his bag. “Actually, I suppose I am one of the many. Going to the new world to see whether or not it is worth switching alliances from the old.”

  A distant finger of cold traced designs in Henry Kuran’s belly. He had never heard the United States referred to as the Old World before. It had a strange, disturbing quality.

  Loo, who was now reclined on his bunk, said, “That’s approximately the same reason I visit the Soviet Union.”

  Hank said quietly, “Who’s sending you, Paco? Or are you on your own?”

  “No, my North American friend. My lips are sealed but I represent a rather influencial group. All is not jest, even though I find life the easier if one laughs often and with joy.”

  Hank closed his bag and slid it under his bunk. “Well, you should have had this influencial group pony up a little more money so you could have gone deluxe class.”

  Paco looked at him strangely. “That is the point. We are not interested in a red-carpet tour during which the very best would be trotted our for propaganda purposes. I choose to see the New World as humbly as is possible.”

  “And me,” Loo said. “We evidently are in much the same position.”

  Hank brought himself into character. “Well, lesson number one. Did you notice the teeth in that steward’s face? Steel. Bright, gleaming steel, instead of gold.”

  Loo shrugged hugely. “This is the day of science. Iron rusts, it’s true, but I assume that the Soviet dentists utilize some method of preventing corrosion.”

  “Otherwise,” Paco murmured reasonably, “I imagine the Russians expectorate a good deal of rusty spittal.”

  “I don’t know why I keep getting into these arguments,” Hank said. “I’m just going for a look-see myself. But frankly, I don’t trust a Russian any farther than I can throw one.”

  “How many Russians have you met?” Loo said mildly. “Or are your opinions formed solely by what you have read in American publications?”

  Hank frowned at him. “You seem to be a little on the anti-American side.”

  “I’m not,” Loo said. “But not pro-American either. I find much that is ridiculous in the propaganda of both the Soviets and the West.”

  “Gentlemen,” Paco said, “the conversation is fascinating, but I must leave you. The ladies, crowding the decks above, know not that my presence graces this ship. It shall be necessary that I enlighten them. Adios amigos!”

  * * * *

  The Baltika displaced eight thousand four hundred ninety-six tons and had accommodations for three hundred thirty passengers. Of these, Hank Kuran estimated, approximately half were Scandinavians or British being transported between London, Copenhagen, Stockholm and Helsinki on the small liner’s way to Leningrad.

  Of the tourists, some seventy-five or so, Hank estimated that all but half a dozen were convinced that Russian skunks didn’t stink, in spite of the fact that thus far they’d never been there to have a whiff. The few such as Loo Motlamelle, who was evidently the son of some African paramount chief, and Paco Rodriquez, had also never been to Russia but at least had open minds.

  Far from black bread and borscht, he found the food excellent. The first morning they found caviar by the pound nestled in bowls of ice, as part of breakfast. He said across the table to Paco, “Propaganda. I wonder how many people in Russia eat caviar.”

  Paco spooned a heavy dip of it onto his bread and grinned back. “This type of propaganda I can appreciate. You Yankees should try it.”

  Char was also eating at the other side of the community type table. She said, “How many Americans eat as well as the passengers on United States Lines ships?”

  It was as good an opportunity as any for Hank to place his character in the eyes of his fellow Progressive Tours pilgrims. His need was to establish himself as a moderately square tourist on his way to take a look-see at highly publicized Russia. Originally, the C.I.A. men had wanted him to be slightly pro-Soviet, but he hadn’t been sure he could handle that convincingly enough. More comfortable would be a role as an averagely anti-Russian tourist—not fanatically so, but averagely. If there were any KGB men aboard, he wanted to dissolve into mediocrity so far as they were concerned.

  Hank said now, mild indignation in his voice. “Do you contend that the average Russian eats as well as the average American?”

  Char took a long moment to finish the bite she had in her mouth. She shrugged prettily. “How would I know? I’ve never been to the Soviet Union.” She paused for a moment before adding, “However, I’ve done a certain amount of traveling and I can truthfully say that the worst slums I have ever seen in any country that can be considered civilized were in the Harlem district and the lower East Side of New York.”

  All eyes were turned to him now, so Hank said, “It’s a big country and there are exceptions. But on the average the United States has the highest standard of living in the world.”

  Paco said interestedly, “What do you use for a basis of measurement, my friend? Such things as the number of television sets and movie theaters? To balance such statistics, I understand that per capita your country has the fewest number of legitimate theaters of any of—I use Miss Moore’s term—the civilized countries.”

  A Londoner, two down from Hank, laughed nastily. “Maybe schooling is the way he measures. I read in the Express the other day that even after Yankees get out of college they can’t read proper. All they learn is driving cars and dancing and togetherness—wotever that it.”

  Hank grinned inwardly and thought, You don’t sound as though you read any too well yourself, my friend. Aloud he said, “Very well, in a couple of days we’ll be in the promised land, I contend that free enterprise performs the greatest good for the greatest number.”

  “Free enterprise,” somebody down the table snorted. “That means the freedom for the capitalists to pry somebody else out of the greatest part of what he produces.”

  By the time they’d reached Leningrad aside from Paco and Loo, his cabinmates, Hank had built an Iron Curtain all of his own between himself and the other members of the Progressive Tours trip. Which was the way he wanted it. He could foresee a period when having friends might be a handicap when and if he needed to drift away from the main body for any length of time.

  Actually, the discussions he ran into were on the juvenile side. Hank Kuran hadn’t spent eight years of his life as a field man working against the Soviet countries in the economic sphere without running into every argument both pro and con in the continuing battle between Capitalism and Communism. Now he chuckled to himself at getting into tiffs over the virtues of Russian black bread versus American white, or whether Soviet jets were faster than those of the United States.

  With Char Moore, though she tolerated Hank’s company, in fact, seemed to prefer it to that of whatever other males were aboard, it was continually a matter of rubbing fur the wrong way. She was ready to battle it out on any phase of politics, international affairs or West versus East.

  But it was the visitors from space that actually dominated the conversation of the ship—crew, tourists, business travelers, or whoever. Information was still limited, and Taas the sole source. Daily there were multilingual radio broadcasts tuned in by theBaltika but largely they added little to the actual information on the extraterrestrials. It was mostly Soviet back-patting on the significance of the fact that the Galactic Confederation emissaries had landed in the Soviet complex rather than among the Western countries.

  Hank learned little that he hadn’t already known. The Kremlin had all but laughingly declined a suggestion on the part of Switzerland that the extraterrestrials be referred to that all but defunct United Nations. The delegates from the Galactic Confederation had chose to land in Moscow. In Moscow they should remain until they desired to go elsewhere. The Soviet implication was that the alien emissaries had no desire, intention nor reason to visit other sections of Earth. Th
ey had contacted the dominant world power and could complete their business within the Kremlin walls.

  * * * *

  Leningrad came as only a mild surprise to Henry Kuran. With his knowledge of Russian and his position in Morton Twombly’s department, he had kept up with the Soviet progress though the years.

  As early as the middle 1950s unbiased travelers to the U.S.S.R. had commented in detail upon the explosion of production in the country. By the end of the decade such books as Gunther’s “Inside Russia Today” had dwelt upon the ultra-cleanliness of the cities, the mushrooming of apartment houses, the easing of the restrictions of Stalin’s day—or at least the beginning of it.

  He actually hadn’t expected peasant clad, half starved Russians furtively shooting glances at their neighbors for fear of the secret police. Nor a black bread and cabbage diet. Nor long lines of the politically suspect being hauled off to Siberia. But on the other hand he was unprepared for the prosperity he did find.

  * * * *

  Not that this was any paradise, worker’s or otherwise. But it still came as a mild surprise. Henry Kuran couldn’t remember so far back that he hadn’t had his daily dose of anti-Russianism. Not unless it was for the brief respite during the Second World War when for a couple of years the Red Army had been composed of heroes and Stalin had overnight become benevolent old Uncle Joe.

  There weren’t as many cars on the streets as in American cities, but there were more than he had expected nor were they 1955 model Packards. So far as he could see, they were approximately the same cars as were being turned out in Western Europe.

  Public transportation, he admitted, was superior to that found in the Western capitals. Obviously, it would have to be, without automobiles, buses, streetcars and subways would have to carry the brunt of traffic. However, it was the spotless efficiency of public transportation that set him back.

  The shops were still short of the pinnacles touched by Western capitals. They weren’t empty of goods, luxury goods as well as necessities, but they weren’t overflowing with the endless quantities, the hundred-shadings of quality and fashion that you expected in the States.