Part 7 (1/2)

Hank shook his head and muttered, ”They call me Dobbin, I've been ridden so much.”

Paco laughed and rubbed his hands together happily. ”It's still early.

We have nothing to do until lunch time. I suggest we sally forth and take a look at Russian womanhood. One never knows.”

Loo said, ”As an alternative, I suggest we rest until lunch.”

Paco snorted. ”A rightest-Trotskyite wrecker, and an imperialist war-monger to boot.”

Loo said, dead panned, ”Smile when you say that stranger.”

Hank said, ”Hey, wait a minute.”

He went down the room to the far window and bug-eyed. One block away, at the end of Gorky Street, was Red Square. St. Basil's Cathedral at the far end, and unbelievable candy-cane construction of fanciful spirals, and every-colored turrets; the red marble mausoleum, Mecca of world Communism, housing the prophet Lenin and his two disciples; the long drab length of the GUM department store opposite. But it wasn't these.

There on the square, nestled in the corner between St. Basil's and the mausoleum, squatted what Henry Kuran had never really expected to see, in spite of his a.s.signment, in spite of news broadcasts, in spite of everything to the contrary. Boomerang shaped, resting on short stilts, six of them in all, a baby blue in color--an impossibly beautiful baby blue.

The s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p.

Paco stood at one shoulder, Loo at the other.

For once there was no humor in Paco's words. ”There it is,” he said.

”Our visitors from the stars.”

”Possibly our teachers from the stars,” Hank said huskily.

”Or our judges.” Loo's voice was flat.

They stood there for another five minutes in silence. Loo said finally, ”Undoubtedly our Intourist guides will take us nearer, if that's allowed, later during our stay. Meanwhile, my friends, I shall rest up for the occasion.”

”Let's take our quick look at the city,” Paco said to Hank. ”Once the Intourist people take over they'll run our feet off. Frankly, I have little interest in where the first shot of the revolution was fired, the latest tractor factory, or where Rasputin got it in the neck.

There are more important things.”

”We know,” Loo said from the bed. ”Women.”

”Right!”

Hank was wondering whether or not to leave the room. The _Stilyagi_ were to contact him. Where? When? Obviously, he'd need their help. He had no idea whatsoever on how to penetrate to the Interplanetary emissaries.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

He spoke Russian. Fine. So what? Could he simply march up to the s.p.a.cecraft and knock on the door? Or would he make himself dangerously conspicuous by just getting any closer than he now was to the craft?

As he stood now, he felt he was comparatively safe. He was sure the Russkies had marked him down as a rather ordinary American. Heavens knows, he'd worked hard enough at the role. A simple, average tourist, a little on the square side, and not even particularly articulate.

However, he wasn't going to accomplish much by remaining here in this room. He doubted that the _Stilyagi_ would get in touch with him either by phone or simply knocking at the door.

”O.K., Paco,” he said. ”Let's go. In search of the pin-up girl--Moscow style.”

They walked down to the lobby and started for the door.