Part 9 (2/2)
For the first time a near smile appeared on the young Russian's face.
”A ludicrous situation. We have here a Russian revolutionary organization devoted to the _withering away_ the Russian Communist State. To gain its ends, it co-operates with a Capitalist country's agent.” His grin broadened. ”I suspect that neither Nicolai Lenin nor Karl Marx ever pictured such contingencies.”
Hank said, ”I wouldn't know I'm not up on my Marxism. I'm afraid that when I went to school academic circles weren't inclined in that direction.” He returned the Russian's wry smile.
Which only set the other off again. ”Academic circles!” he snorted.
”Sterile in both our countries. All professors of economics in the Soviet countries are Marxists. On the other hand, no American professor would admit to this. Coincidence? Suppose an American teacher was a convinced Marxist. Would he openly and honestly teach his beliefs? Suppose a Russian wasn't? Would he?” Georgi slapped his knee with a heavy hand and stood up. ”I'll speak to various others.
We'll let you know.”
Hank said, ”Wait. How long is this going to take? And _can_ you help me if you want to? Where are these extraterrestrials?”
Georgi looked down at him. ”They're in the Kremlin. How closely guarded we don't know, but we can find out.”
”The Kremlin,” Hank said. ”I was hoping they stayed in their own s.h.i.+p.”
”Rumor has it that they're quartered in the _Bolshoi Kremlevski Dvorets_, the Great Kremlin Palace. We'll contact you later--perhaps.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and strode away, in all appearance just one more pedestrian without anywhere in particular to go.
One of the younger boys, the ham who had first approached Hank, smiled and said, ”Perhaps we can talk a bit more of radio?”
”Yeah,” Hank muttered, ”Swell.”
The next development came sooner than Henry Kuran had expected. In fact, before the others returned from their afternoon tour of the city. Hank was sprawled in one of the king-sized easy-chairs, turning what little he had to work on over in his mind. The princ.i.p.al decisions to make were, first, how long to wait on the a.s.sistance of the _stilyagi_, and, if that wasn't forthcoming, what steps to take on his own. The second prospect stumped him. He hadn't the vaguest idea what he could accomplish singly.
He wasn't even sure where the s.p.a.ce aliens were. _The Bolshoi Kremlevski Dvorets_, Georgi had said. But was that correct, and, if so, where was the _Bolshoi Kremlevski Dvorets_ and how did you get into it? For that matter, how did you get inside the Kremlin walls?
Under his breath he cursed Sheridan Hennessey. Why had he allowed himself to be dragooned into this? By all criteria it was the desperate clutching of a drowning man for a straw. He had no way to know, for instance, if he did reach the s.p.a.ce emissaries, that he could even communicate with them.
He caught himself wis.h.i.+ng he was back in Peru arguing with hesitant South Americans over the relative values of American and Soviet complex commodities--and then he laughed at himself.
There was a knock at the door.
Hank came wearily to his feet, crossed and opened it.
She still wore too much make-up, the American sweater and the flared heel shoes. And her eyes were still cool and alert. She slid past him, let her eyes go around the room quickly. ”You are alone?” she said in Russian, but it was more a statement than question.
Hank closed the door behind them. He scowled at her, put a finger to his lips and then went through an involved pantomime to indicate looking for a microphone. He raised his eyebrows at her.
She laughed and shook her head. ”No microphones.”
”How do you know?”
”We know. We have contacts here in the hotel. If the KGB had to put microphones in the rooms of every tourist in Moscow, they'd have to increase their number by ten times. In spite of your western ideas to the contrary, it just isn't done. There are exceptions, of course, but there has to be some reason for it.”
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