Short Fiction, Mack Reynolds [best book reader txt] 📗

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 shepherded 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