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.