The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  But what struck nearest to him was the fact that the people in the streets were not broken spirited depressed, humorless drudges. In fact, why not admit it, they looked about the same as people in the streets anywhere else. Some laughed, some looked troubled. Children ran and played. Lovers held hands and looked into each other’s eyes. Some reeled under an overload of vodka. Some hurried along, business bent. Some dawdled, window shopped, or strolled along for the air. Some read books or newspapers as they shuffled, radar directed, and unconscious of the world about them.

  They were only a day and half in Leningrad. They saw the Hermitage, comparable to the Louvre and far and above any art museum in America. They saw the famous subway—which deserved its fame. They were ushered through a couple of square miles of the Elektrosile electrical equipment works, claimed ostentatiously by the to be the largest in the world. They ate in restaurants as good as any Hank Kuran had been able to afford at home and stayed one night at the Astoria Hotel.

  At least, Hank had the satisfaction of grumbling about the plumbing.

  Paco and Loo, the only single bachelors on the tour besides himself, were again quartered with him at the Astoria.

  Paco said, “My friend, there I agree with you completely. America has the best plumbing in the world. And the most.”

  Hank was pulling off his shoes after an arch-breaking day of sightseeing. “Well, I’m glad I’ve finally found some field where it’s agreeable that the West is superior to the Russkies.”

  Loo was stretched out on his bed, in stocking feet, gazing at the ceiling which towered at least fifteen feet above him. He said “In the town where I was born, there were three bathrooms, one in the home of the missionary, one in the home of the commissioner, and one in my father’s palace.” He looked up at Hank. “Or is my country considered part of the Western World?”

  Paco laughed. “Come to think of it, I doubt if one third the rural homes of Argentina have bathrooms. Hank, my friend, I am afraid Loo is right. You use the word West too broadly. All the capitalist world is not so advanced as the United States. You have been very lucky, you Yankees.”

  Hank sank into one of the huge, Victorian era armchairs. “Luck has nothing to do with it. America is rich because private enterprise works.”

  “Of course,” Paco pursued humorously, “the fact that your country floats on a sea of oil, has some of the richest forest land in the world, is blessed with some of the greatest mineral deposits anywhere and millions of acres of unbelievably fertile land has nothing to do with it.”

  “I get your point,” Hank said. “The United States was handed the wealth of the world on a platter. But that’s only part of it.”

  “Yes,” Loo agreed. “Also to be considered is the fact that for more than a hundred years you have never had a serious war, serious, that is, in that your land was not invaded, your industries destroyed.”

  “That’s to our credit. We’re a peace loving people.”

  Loo laughed abruptly. “You should tell that to the American Indians.”

  Hank scowled over at him. “What’d you mean by that Loo? That has all the elements of a nasty crack.”

  “Or tell it to the Mexicans. Isn’t that where you got your whole South-west?”

  Hank looked from Loo to Paco and back.

  * * * *

  Paco brought out cigarettes and tossed one to each of the others. “Aren’t these long Russian cigarettes the end? I heard somebody say that by the time the smoke got through all the filter, you’d lost the habit.” He looked over at Hank. “Easy my friend, easy. On a trip like this it would be impossible not to continually be comparing East and West, dwelling continually on politics, the pros and cons of both sides. All of us are continually assimilating what we hear and see. Among other things, I note that on the newsstands there are no publications from western lands. Why? Because still, after fifty years, our Communist bureaucracy dare not allow its people to read what they will. I note, too, that the shops on 25th October Avenue are not all directed toward the Russian man on the street, unless he is paid unbelievably more than we have heard. Sable coats? Jewelery? Luxurious furniture? I begin to suspect that our Soviet friends are not quite so classless as Mr. Marx had in mind when he and Mr. Engels worked out the rough framework of the society of the future.”

  Loo said seriously, “Oh, there are a great many things of that type to notice here in the Soviet Union.”

  Hank had to grin. “Well, I’m glad you jokers still have open minds.”

  Paco waggled a finger negatively at him. “We’ve had open minds all along, my friend. It is yours that seems closed. In spite of the fact that I spent four years in your country I sometimes confess I don’t understand you Americans. I think you are too immersed in your TV programs, your movies and your light fiction.”

  “I can feel myself being saddled up again,” Hank complained. “All set for another riding.”

  Loo laughed softly, his perfect white teeth gleaming in his black face.

  Paco said, “You seem to have the fictional good guys and bad guys outlook. And, in this world of controversy, you assume that you are the good guys, the heroes, and since that is so then the Soviets must be the bad guys. And, as in the movies, everything the good guys do is fine and everything the bad guys do, is evil. I sometimes think that if the Russians had developed a cure for cancer first you Americans would have refused to use it.”

  Hank had had enough. He said, “Look, Paco, there are two hundred million Americans. For you, or anyone else, to come along and try to lump that many people neatly together is pure silliness. You’ll find every type of person that exists in the world in any country. The very tops of intelligence, and submorons living in institutions; the most highly educated of scientists, and men who didn’t finish grammar school; you’ll find saints, and gangsters; infant prodigies and juvenile delinquents; and millions upon millions of just plain ordinary people much like the people of Argentina, or England, or France or whatever. True enough, among all our two hundred million there are some mighty prejudiced people, some mighty backward ones, and some downright foolish ones. But if you think the United States got to the position she’s in today through the efforts of a whole people who are foolish, then you’re obviously pretty far off the beam yourself.”

  Paco was looking at him narrowly. “Accepted, friend Hank, and I apologize. That’s quite the most effective outburst I’ve heard from you in this week we’ve known each other. It occurs to me that perhaps you are other than I first thought.”

  Oh, oh. Hank backtracked. He said, “Good grief, let’s drop it.”

  Paco said, “Well, just to change the subject, gentlemen, there is one thing above all that I noted here in Leningrad.”

  “What was that?” Loo said.

  “It’s the only town I’ve ever seen where I felt an urge to kiss a cop,” Paco said soulfully. “Did you notice? Half the traffic police in town are cute little blondes.”

  Loo rolled over. “A fascinating observation, but personally I am going to take a nap. Tonight it’s the Red Arrow Express to Moscow and rest might be in order, particularly if the train has square wheels, burns wood and stops and repairs bridges all along the way, as I’m sure Hank believes.”

  Hank reached down, got hold of one of his shoes and heaved it.

  “Missed!” Loo grinned.

  * * * *

  The Red Arrow Express had round wheels, burned Diesel fuel and made the trip between Leningrad and Moscow overnight. In one respect, it was the most unique train ride Hank Kuran had ever had. The track contained not a single curve from the one city to the other. Its engineers must have laid the roadbed out with a ruler.

  The cars like the rest of public transportation, were as comfortable as any Hank knew. Traveling second class, as the Progressive Tours pilgrims did, involved four people in a compartment for the night, with one exception. At the end of the car was a smaller compartment containing two bunks only.

  The Intourist guide who had shepherde
d them around Leningrad took them to the train, saw them all safely aboard, told them another Intourist employee would pick them up at the station in Moscow.

  It was late. Hank was assigned the two-bunk compartment. He put his glasses on the tiny window table, sat on the edge of the lower and began to pull off his shoes. He didn’t look up when the door opened until a voice said, icebergs dominating the tone, “Just what are you doing in here?”

  Hank blinked up at her. “Hello, Char. What?”

  Char Moore snapped, “I said, what are you doing in my compartment?”

  “Yours? Sorry, the conductor just assigned me here. Evidently there’s been some mistake.”

  “I suggest you rectify it, Mr. Stevenson.”

  Out in the corridor a voice, heavy with Britishisms, complained plaintively, “Did you ever hear the loik? They put men and women into the same compartment. Oim expected to sleep with a loidy in the bunk under me.”

  Hank cleared his throat, didn’t allow himself the luxury of a smile. He said, “I’ll see what I can do, Char. Seems to me I did read somewhere that the Russkies see nothing wrong in putting strangers in the same sleeping compartment.”

  Char Moore stood there, saying nothing but breathing deeply enough to express American womanhood insulted.

  “All right, all right,” he said, retying his shoes and retrieving his glasses. “I didn’t engineer this.” He went looking for the conductor.

  He was back, yawning by this time, fifteen minutes later. Char Moore was sitting on the side of the bottom bunk, sipping a glass of tea that she’d bought for a few kopecks from the portress. She looked up coolly as he entered, but her voice was more pleasant. “Get everything fixed?”

  Hank said, “What bunk do you want, upper or lower?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s not supposed to be.” Hank pulled his bag from under the bunk and from it drew pajamas and his dressing gown. “Check with the rest of the tour if you want. The conductor couldn’t care less. We were evidently assigned compartments by Intourist and where we were assigned we’ll sleep. Either that or you can stand in the corridor all night. I’ll be damned if I will.”

  “You don’t have to swear,” Char bit out testily. “What are we going to do about it?”

  “I just told you what I was going to do.” Taking up his things he opened the door. “I’ll change in the men’s dressing room.”

  “I’ll lock the door,” Char Moore snapped.

  Hank grinned at her. “I’ll bet that if you do the conductor either has a passkey or will break it down for me.”

  When he returned in slippers, nightrobe and pajamas, Char was in the upper berth, staring angrily at the compartment ceiling. There were no hooks or other facilities for hanging or storing clothes. She must have put all of her things back into her bag. Hank grinned inwardly, carefully folded his own pants and jacket over his suitcase before climbing into the bunk.

  “Don’t snore, do you?” he said conversationally.

  No answer.

  “Or walk in your sleep?”

  “You’re not funny, Mr. Stevenson.”

  “That’s what I like about this country,” Hank said. “Progressive. Way ahead of the West. Shucks, modesty is a reactionary capitalistic anachronism. Shove ’em all into bed together, that’s what I always say.” He laughed.

  “Oh, shut up,” Char said. But then she laughed, too. “Actually, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it. We are rather Victorian about such things in the States.”

  Hank groaned. “There you are. If a railroad company at home suggested you spend the night in a compartment with a strange man, you’d sue them. But here in the promised land it’s O.K.”

  After a short silence Char said, “Hank, why do you dislike the Soviet Union so much?”

  “Why? Because I’m an American!”

  She said so softly as to be almost inaudible, “I’ve known you for a week now. Somehow you don’t really seem to be the type who would make that inadequate a statement.”

  Hank said “Look, Char. There’s a cold war going on between the United States and her allies and the Soviet complex. I’m on our side. It’s going to be one or the other.”

  “No it isn’t, Hank. If it ever breaks out into hot war, it’s going to be both. That is, unless the extraterrestrials add some new elements to the whole disgusting situation.”

  “Let’s put it another way. Why are you so pro-Soviet?”

  She raised herself on one elbow and scowled down over the edge of her bunk at him. Inside, Hank turned over twice to see the unbound red hair, the serious green eyes. Imagine looking at that face over the breakfast table for the rest of your life. The hell with South American senoritas.

  Char said earnestly, “I’m not. Confound it, Hank, can’t the world get any further than this cowboys and Indians relationship between nations? Our science and industry has finally developed to the point where the world could be a paradise. We’ve solved all the problems of production. We’ve conquered all the major diseases. We have the wonders of eternity before us—and look at us.”

  “Tell that to the Russkies and their pals. They’re out for the works.”

  “Well, haven’t we been?”

  “The United States isn’t trying to take over the world.”

  “No? Possibly not in the old sense of the word, but aren’t we trying desperately to sponsor our type of government and social system everywhere? Frankly, I’m neither pro-West nor pro-Soviet. I think they’re both wrong.”

  “Fine,” Hank said. “What is your answer?”

  She remained silent for a long time. Finally, “I don’t claim to have an answer. But the world is changing like crazy. Science, technology, industrial production, education, population all are mushrooming. For us to claim that sweeping and basic changes aren’t taking place in the Western nations is just nonsense. Our own country’s institutions barely resemble the ones we had when you and I were children. And certainly the Soviet Union has changed and is changing from what it was thirty or forty years ago.”

  “Listen, Char,” Hank said in irritation, “you still haven’t come up with any sort of an answer to the cold war.”

  “I told you I hadn’t any. All I say is that I’m sick of it. I can’t remember so far back that there wasn’t a cold war. And the more I consider it the sillier it looks. Currently the United States and her allies spend between a third and a half of their gross national product on the military—ha! the military!—and in fighting the Soviet complex in international trade.”

  “Well,” Hank said, “I’m sick of it, too, and I haven’t any answer either, but I’ll be darned if I’ve heard the Russkies propose one. And just between you and me, if I had to choose between living Soviet style and our style, I’d choose ours any day.”

  Char said nothing.

  Hank added flatly, “Who knows, maybe the coming of these Galactic Confederation characters will bring it all to a head.”

  She said nothing further and in ten minutes the soft sounds of her breathing had deepened to the point that Hank Kuran knew she slept. He lay there another half hour in the full knowledge that probably the most desirable woman he’d ever met was sleeping less than three feet away from him.

  * * * *

  Leningrad had cushioned the first impression of Moscow for Henry Kuran. Although, if anything, living standards and civic beauty were even higher here in the capital city of world Communism.

  They pulled into the Leningradsky Station on Komsomolskaya Square in the early morning to be met by Intourist guides and buses.

  Hank sat next to Char Moore still feeling on the argumentative side after their discussion of the night before. He motioned with his head at some excavation work going on next to the station. “There you are. Women doing manual labor.”

  Char said, “I’m from the Western states, it doesn’t impress me. Have you ever seen fruit pickers, potato diggers, or just about any type of itinerant harvest workers? There is no harder wor
k and women, and children for that matter, do half of it at home.”

  He looked at the husky, rawboned women laborers working shoulder to shoulder with the men. “I still don’t like it.”

  Char shrugged. “Who does? The sooner we devise machines to do all the drudgery the better off the world will be.”

  To his surprise, Hank found Moscow one of the most beautiful cities he had ever observed. Certainly the downtown area in the vicinity of the Kremlin compared favorably with any.

  The buses whisked them down through Lermontovskaya Square, down Kirov Street to Novaya and then turned right. The Intourist guide made with a running commentary. There was the famous Bolshoi Theater and there Sverdlova Square, a Soviet cultural center.

  Hank didn’t know it then but they were avoiding Red Square. They circled it, one block away, and pulled onto Gorky Street and before a Victorian period building.

  “The Grand Hotel,” the guide announced, “where you will stay during your Moscow visit.”

  Half a dozen porters began manhandling their bags from the top of the bus. They were ushered into the lobby and assigned rooms. Russian hotel lobbies were a thing apart. No souvenir stands, no bellhops, no signs saying To the Bar, To the Barber Shop or to anything else. A hotel was a hotel, period.

  Hank trailed Loo and Paco and three porters to the second floor and to the room they were assigned in common. Like the Astoria’s rooms, in Leningrad, it was king-sized. In fact, it could easily have been divided into three chambers. There were four full sized beds, six arm chairs, two sofas, two vanity tables, a monstrous desk—and one wash bowl which gurgled when you ran water.

  Paco, hands on hips, stared around. “A dance hall,” he said. “Gentlemen, this room hasn’t changed since some Grand Duke stayed in it before the revolution.”

  Loo, who had assumed his usual prone position on one of the beds, said, “From what I’ve heard about Moscow housing, you could get an average family in this amount of space.”