Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

The turboelectric ship Baltika turned out to be the pride of the U.S.S.R. Baltic State Steamship Company. In fact, she turned out to be the whole fleet. Like the rest of the world, the Soviet complex had taken to the air so far as passenger travel was concerned and already the Baltika was a leftover from yesteryear. For some reason the C.I.A. thought there might be less observation on the part of the K.G.B. if Hank approached Moscow indirectly, that is by sea and from Leningrad. It was going to take an extra four or five days, but, if he got through, the squandered time would have been worth it.

An English speaking steward took up Hank’s bag at the gangplank and hustled him through to his quarters. His cabin was forward and four flights down into the bowels of the ship. There were four berths in all, two of them already had bags on them. Hank put his hand in his pocket for a shilling.

The steward grinned and said, “No tipping. This is a Soviet ship.”

Hank looked after him.

A newcomer entered the cabin, still drying his hands on a towel. “Greetings,” he said. “Evidently we’re fellow passengers for the duration.” He hung the towel on a rack, reached out a hand. “Rodriquez,” he said. “You can call me Paco, if you want. Did you ever meet an Argentine that wasn’t named Paco?”

Hank shook the hand. “I don’t know if I ever met an Argentine before. You speak English well.”

“Harvard,” Paco said. He stretched widely. “Did you spot those Russian girls in the crew? Blond, every one blond.” He grinned. “Not much time to operate with them⁠—but enough.”

A voice behind them, heavy with British accent said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

He was as ebony as a negro can get and as nattily dressed as only Savile Row can turn out a man. He said, “My name is Loo Motlamelle.” He looked at them expressionlessly for a moment.

Paco put out his hand briskly for a shake. “Rodriquez,” he said. “Call me Paco. I suppose we’re all Moscow bound.”

Loo Motlamelle seemed relieved at his acceptance, clasped Paco’s hand, then Hank’s.

Hank shook his head as the three of them began to unpack to the extent it was desirable for the short trip. “The classless society. I wonder what First Class cabins look like. Here we are, jammed three in a telephone booth sized room.”

Paco chucked, “My friend, you don’t know the half of it. There are five classes on this ship. Needless to say, this is Tourist B, the last.”

“And we’ll probably be fed borsht and black bread the whole trip,” Hank growled.

Loo Motlamelle said mildly, “I hear the food is very good.”

Paco stood up from his luggage, put his hands on his hips, “Gentlemen, do you realize there is no lock on the door of this cabin?”

“The crime rate is said to be negligible in the Soviet countries,” Loo said.

Paco put up his hands in despair. “That isn’t the point. Suppose one of us wishes to bring a lady friend into the cabin for⁠ ⁠… a drink. How can he lock the door so as not to be interrupted?”

Hank was chuckling. “What did you take this trip for, Paco? An investigation into the mores of the Soviets⁠—female flavor?”

Paco went back to his bag. “Actually, I suppose I am one of the many. Going to the new world to see whether or not it is worth switching alliances from the old.”

A distant finger of cold traced designs in Henry Kuran’s belly. He had never heard the United States referred to as the Old World before. It had a strange, disturbing quality.

Loo, who was now reclined on his bunk, said, “That’s approximately the same reason I visit the Soviet Union.”

Hank said quietly, “Who’s sending you, Paco? Or are you on your own?”

“No, my North American friend. My lips are sealed but I represent a rather influencial group. All is not jest, even though I find life the easier if one laughs often and with joy.”

Hank closed his bag and slid it under his bunk. “Well, you should have had this influencial group pony up a little more money so you could have gone deluxe class.”

Paco looked at him strangely. “That is the point. We are not interested in a red-carpet tour during which the very best would be trotted our for propaganda purposes. I choose to see the New World as humbly as is possible.”

“And me,” Loo said. “We evidently are in much the same position.”

Hank brought himself into character. “Well, lesson number one. Did you notice the teeth in that steward’s face? Steel. Bright, gleaming steel, instead of gold.”

Loo shrugged hugely. “This is the day of science. Iron rusts, it’s true, but I assume that the Soviet dentists utilize some method of preventing corrosion.”

“Otherwise,” Paco murmured reasonably, “I imagine the Russians expectorate a good deal of rusty spittal.”

“I don’t know why I keep getting into these arguments,” Hank said. “I’m just going for a look-see myself. But frankly, I don’t trust a Russian any farther than I can throw one.”

“How many Russians have you met?” Loo said mildly. “Or are your opinions formed solely by what you have read in American publications?”

Hank frowned at him. “You seem to be a little on the anti-American side.”

“I’m not,” Loo said. “But not pro-American either. I find much that is ridiculous in the propaganda of both the Soviets and the West.”

“Gentlemen,” Paco said, “the conversation is fascinating, but I must leave you. The ladies, crowding the decks above, know not that my presence graces this ship. It shall be necessary that I enlighten them. Adios amigos!”

The Baltika displaced eight thousand four hundred ninety-six tons and had accommodations for three hundred thirty passengers. Of these, Hank Kuran estimated, approximately half were Scandinavians or British being transported between London, Copenhagen, Stockholm and Helsinki on the small liner’s way to Leningrad.

Of the tourists, some seventy-five or so, Hank estimated that all but half a dozen