Part 2 (1/2)
The chauffeur rapped on the gla.s.s that divided their seat from his, and motioned ahead.
”Here's the airport,” Jimmy said. ”We'll drive right over to the plane. Hid your face with your hat, just for luck.”
”Wait a minute, now,” Hank said. ”Listen, how do I contact these beat generation characters?”
”You don't. They contact you.”
”How.”
”That's up to them. Maybe they won't at all; they're plenty careful.”
Jimmy snorted without humor. ”It must be getting to be an instinct with Russians by this time. Nihilists, Anarchists, Mensheviks, Bolsheviks, now anti-Communists. Survival of the fittest. By this time the Russian underground must consist of members that have bred true as revolutionists. There've been Russian undergrounds for twenty generations.”
”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 how Sheridan Hennessey expects me to get to these Galactic Confederation people--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 we cross the Atlantic. You don't step into character until you enter the offices of Progressive Tours, in London.”
The door of Progressive Tours, Ltd. 100 Rochester Row, was invitingly open. Hank Kuran entered, looked around the small room. He inwardly winced at the appearance of the girl behind the counter. What was it about Commies outside their own countries that they drew such crackpots into their camp? Heavy lenses, horn rimmed to make them more conspicuous, wild hair, mawkish tweeds, and dirty fingernails to top it 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 take this tour to Leningrad and Moscow. I've been reading propaganda for and against Russia as long as I've been able to read and I've finally decided I want to see for myself. Can I get the tour that leaves tomorrow?”
She became businesslike as was within her ability. ”There is no country 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 pa.s.sport and two photos and we'll have everything ready in the morning. The _Baltika_ leaves at twelve. The visa will cost ten s.h.i.+llings. What cla.s.s do you wish to travel?”
”The cheapest.” _And least conspicuous_, Hank added under his breath.
”Third cla.s.s comes to fifty-five guineas. The tour lasts eighteen days including the time it takes to get to Leningrad. You have ten days in Russia.”
”I know, I read the folder. Are there any other Americans on the tour?”
A voice behind him said, ”At least one other.”
Hank turned. She was somewhere in her late twenties, he estimated. And if her clothes, voice and appearance were any criterion he'd put her in the middle-middle cla.s.s with a bachelor's degree in something or other, unmarried and with the aggressiveness he didn't like in American girls after living the better part of eight years in Latin countries.
On top of that she was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, in a quick, red headed, almost puckish sort of way.
Hank tried to keep from displaying his admiration too openly.