The bright, pink faced C.I.A. man chuckled and began to say something
but the older one cut him off. "Let me, Jimmy." He continued to Hank.
"Actually, we don't know nearly as much as we should about it, but a
Soviet underground is there and getting stronger. You've heard of the
_stilyagi_ and the _metrofanushka_?"
Hank nodded. "Moscow's equivalent to the juvenile delinquents, or the
Teddy Boys, as the British call them."
"Not only in Moscow, they're everywhere in urban Russia. At any rate,
our underground friends operate within the _stilyagi_, the so-called
jet-set, using them as protective coloring."
"This is new to me," Hank said. "And I don't quite get it."
"It's clever enough. Suppose you're out late some night on an
underground job and the police pick you up. They find out you're a
juvenile delinquent, figure you've been out getting drunk, and toss
you into jail for a week. It's better than winding up in front of a
firing squad as a counterrevolutionary, or a Trotskyite, or whatever
they're currently calling anybody they shoot."
The chauffeur rapped on the glass 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.