Short Fiction Mack Reynolds (best ereader for pdf and epub .txt) 📖

that swarmed Moscow and Leningrad, became a little on the ridiculous side. Besides, what secret does a tourist know, or what secrets could he discover?

At any rate, Hank found no interference in his wanderings. He deliberately avoided Red Square and its spaceship, taking no chances on bringing himself to attention. Short of that locality, he wandered freely.

At noon they ate at the Grand and the Intourist guide outlined the afternoon program which involved a general sightseeing tour ranging from the University to the Park of Rest and Culture, Moscow’s equivalent of Coney Island.

Loo said, “That all sounds very tiring, do we have time for a nap before leaving?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Motlamelle,” the guide told him.

Paco shook his head. “I’ve seen a university, and I’ve seen a sport stadium and I’ve seen statues and monuments. I’ll sit this one out.”

“I think I’ll lie this one out,” Loo said. He complained plaintively to Hank. “You know what happened to me this morning, just as I was napping up in our room?”

“Yes,” Hank said, “I was with our Argentine Casanova when he picked her up.”

Hank took the conducted tour with the rest. If he was going to beg off the next day, he’d be less conspicuous tagging along on this one. Besides it gave him the lay of the land.

And he took the morning trip the next day, the automobile factories on the outskirts of town. It had been possibly fifteen years since Hank had been through Detroit but he doubted greatly that automation had developed as far in his own country as it seemed to have here. Or, perhaps, this was merely a showplace. But he drew himself up at that thought. That was one attitude the Western world couldn’t afford⁠—deprecating Soviet progress. This was the very thing that had led to such shocks as the launching of the early Sputniks. Underestimate your adversary and sooner or later you paid for it.

The Soviets had at long last built up a productive machine as great as any. Possibly greater. In sheer tonnage they were turning out more gross national product than the West. This was no time to be underestimating them.

All this was a double interest to a field man in Morton Twombly’s department, working against the Soviets in international trade. He was beginning to understand at least one of the reasons why the Commies could sell their products at such ridiculously low prices. Automation beyond that of the West. In the Soviet complex the labor unions were in no position to block the introduction of ultra-efficient methods, and featherbedding was unheard of. If a Russian worker’s job was automated out from under him, he shifted to a new plant, a new job, and possibly even learned a new trade. The American worker’s union, to the contrary, did its best to save the job.

Hank Kuran remembered reading, a few months earlier, of a British textile company which had attempted to introduce a whole line of new automation equipment. The unions had struck, and the company had to give up the project. What happened to the machinery? It was sold to China!

Following the orders of his underground contact, he begged out of the afternoon tour, as did half a dozen of the others. Sightseeing was as hard on the feet in Moscow as anywhere else.

After lunch he looked up Sovietska Park on his tourist map of the city. It was handy enough. A few blocks up Gorky Street.

It turned out to be typical. Well done so far as fountains, monuments and gardens were concerned. Well equipped with park benches. In the early afternoon it was by no means empty, but, on the other hand not nearly so filled as he’d noticed the parks to be the evening before.

Hank stopped at one of the numerous cold drink stands where for a few kopecks you could get raspberry syrup fizzed up with soda water. While he sipped it, a teenager came up beside him and said in passable English, “Excuse me, are you a tourist? Do you speak English?”

This had happened before. Another kid practicing his school language.

“That’s right,” Hank said.

The boy said, “You aren’t a ham, are you?” He brought some cards from an inner pocket. “I’m UA3-K.G.B.”

For a moment Hank looked at him blankly, and then he recognized the amateur radio call cards the other was displaying. “Oh, a ham. Well, no, but I have a cousin who is.”

Two more youngsters came up. “What’s his call?”

Hank didn’t remember that. They all adjourned to a park bench and little though he knew about the subject, international amateur radio was discussed in detail. In fifteen minutes he was hemmed in by a dozen or so and had about decided he’d better make his excuses and circulate around making himself available to the stilyagi outfit. He was searching for an excuse to shake them when the one sitting next to him reverted to Russian.

“We’re clear now, Henry Kuran.”

Hank said, “I’ll be damned. I hadn’t any idea⁠—”

The other brushed aside trivialities. Looking at him more closely, Hank could see he was older than first estimate. Possibly twenty-two or so. Darker than most of the others, heavyset, sharp and impatient.

“You can call me Georgi,” he said. “These others will prevent outsiders from bothering us. Now then, we’ve been told you Americans want some assistance. What? And why should we give it to you?”

Hank said, worriedly, “Haven’t you some place we could go? Where I could meet one of your higher-ups? This is important.”

“Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here,” Georgi said impatiently. “For that matter there is no higher-up. We don’t have ranks; we’re a working democracy. And I’m afraid the day of the secret room in some cellar is past. With housing what it is, if there was an empty cellar in Moscow a family would move in. And remember, all buildings are State owned and operated. I’m afraid you’ll have to tell your story here. Now, what is it you want?”

“I want an opportunity to