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they're plenty careful."Jimmy snorted without humor. "It must be getting to be an instinctwith Russians by this time. Nihilists, Anarchists, Mensheviks,Bolsheviks, now anti-Communists. Survival of the fittest. By this timethe Russian underground must consist of members that have bred true asrevolutionists. There've been Russian undergrounds for twentygenerations."

  "Hardly long enough to affect genetics," the older one said wryly.

  Hank said, "Let's stop being witty. I still haven't a clue as to howSheridan Hennessey expects me to get to these Galactic Confederationpeople--or things, or whatever you call them."

  "They evidently are humanoid," Jimmy said. "Look more or less human.And stop worrying, we've got several hours to explain things while wecross the Atlantic. You don't step into character until you enter theoffices of Progressive Tours, in London."

  * * * * *

  The door of Progressive Tours, Ltd. 100 Rochester Row, was invitinglyopen. Hank Kuran entered, looked around the small room. He inwardlywinced at the appearance of the girl behind the counter. What was itabout Commies outside their own countries that they drew suchcrackpots into their camp? Heavy lenses, horn rimmed to make them moreconspicuous, wild hair, mawkish tweeds, and dirty fingernails to topit off.

  She said, "What can I do for you, Comrade?"

  "Not _Comrade_," Hank said mildly. "I'm an American."

  "What did you want?" she said coolly.

  Hank indicated the travel folder he was carrying. "I'd like to takethis tour to Leningrad and Moscow. I've been reading propaganda forand against Russia as long as I've been able to read and I've finallydecided I want to see for myself. Can I get the tour that leavestomorrow?"

  She became businesslike as was within her ability. "There is nocountry in the world as easy to visit as the Soviet Union, Mr--"

  "Stevenson," Hank Kuran said. "Henry Stevenson."

  "Stevenson. Fill out these two forms, leave your passport and twophotos and we'll have everything ready in the morning. The _Baltika_leaves at twelve. The visa will cost ten shillings. What class do youwish to travel?"

  "The cheapest." _And least conspicuous_, Hank added under his breath.

  "Third class comes to fifty-five guineas. The tour lasts eighteen daysincluding the time it takes to get to Leningrad. You have ten days inRussia."

  "I know, I read the folder. Are there any other Americans on thetour?"

  A voice behind him said, "At least one other."

  Hank turned. She was somewhere in her late twenties, he estimated. Andif her clothes, voice and appearance were any criterion he'd put herin the middle-middle class with a bachelor's degree in something orother, unmarried and with the aggressiveness he didn't like inAmerican girls after living the better part of eight years in Latincountries.

  On top of that she was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, ina quick, red headed, almost puckish sort of way.

  Hank tried to keep from displaying his admiration too openly."American?" he said.

  "That's right." She took in his five-foot ten, his not quite ruffledhair, his worried eyes behind their rimless lenses, darkish tinted forthe Peruvian sun. She evidently gave him up as not worth the effortand turned to the fright behind the counter.

  "I came to pick up my tickets."

  "Oh, yes, Miss...."

  "Moore."

  The fright fiddled with the papers on an untidy heap before her. "Oh,yes. Miss Charity Moore."

  "Charity?" Hank said.

  She turned to him. "Do you mind? I have two sisters named Honor andHope. My people were the Seventh Day Adventists. It wasn't my fault."Her voice was pleasant--but nature had granted that; it wasn'tparticularly friendly--through her own inclinations.

  Hank cleared his throat and went back to his forms. The visaquestionnaire was in both Russian and English. The first line wanted,_Surname, first name and patronymic_.

  To get the conversation going again, Hank said, "What does patronymicmean?"

  Charity Moore looked up from her own business and said, lessantagonism in her voice, "That's the name you inherited from yourfather."

  "Of course, thanks." He went back to his forms. Under _what type ofwork do you do_, Hank wrote, _Capitalist in a small sort of way. AutoAgency owner._

  He took the forms back to the counter with his passport. Charity Moorewas putting her tickets, suitcase labels and a sheaf of tourinstructions into her pocketbook.

  Hank said, "Look, we're going to be on a tour together, what do yousay 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 wouldthere?"

  "Down the street three blocks and to your left is Dirty Dick's." Sheadded scornfully, "All the tourists go there."

  "Then we shouldn't make an exception," Hank said. "Miss Moore, myarm."

  * * * * *

  On the way over she said, "Are you excited about going to the SovietUnion?"

  "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 indemocracy."

  "So do I," she said, her voice clipped. "I think we ought to try itsome day."

  "Come again?"

  "So far as I can see, we pay lip service to democracy, that's aboutall."

  Hank grinned inwardly. He'd already figured that during this tour he'dbe thrown into contact with characters running in shade from gentlepink to flaming red. His position demanded that he remaininconspicuous, as _average_ an American tourist as possible. Flaringpolitical arguments weren't going to help this, but, on the other handto avoid them entirely would be apt to make him more conspicuous thanever.

  "How do you mean?" he said now.

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

  Hank said mildly, "Well, it's better than sticking up just onecandidate and saying, which one of this one do you choose? Look, let'ssteer clear of politics and religion, eh? Otherwise this'll never turnout 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 butpronounce 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 ofthe oldest pubs in London. Dickens wrote a poem about it."

  The pub's bar extended along the right wall, as they entered. To theleft was a sandwich counter with a dozen or so stools. It was tooearly 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, noticingall over again how impossibly pretty she was. It was disconcerting. Hesaid, "How come Russia? You'd look more in place on a beach inBiarritz or the Lido."

  Char said, "Ever since I was about ten years of age I've been readingabout the Russian people starving to death and having to work sixmonths before making enough money to buy a pair of shoes. So I'vedecided to see how starving, barefooted people managed to build thelargest industrial nation in the world."

  "Here we go again," Hank said, taking up his glass. He toasted hersilently before saying, "The United States is still the largest singleindustrial 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 productgreater than the free world's but no single nation produces more thanthe United States. What are you laughing at?"

  "I love the way the
West plasters itself so nicely with high flownlabels. The _free world_. Saudi Arabia, Ethiopia, Pakistan, SouthAfrica--just what is your definition of _free_?"

  Hank had her placed now. A college radical. One of the tens ofthousands who discover, usually somewhere along in the sophomore year,that all is not perfect in the land of their birth and begin lookingaround for answers. Ten to one she wasn't a Commie and would probablynever become one--but meanwhile she got a