Joe grunted amusement at the little man, even as he took up his
jacket. "No, it doesn't," he said, "and take the chip off your
shoulder. When you were back home you were continually beefing about
what a rugged go you had being a Mid-Lower in the West-world. Now that
you're over here the merest suggestion that all is not peaches at home
and you're ready to fight."
Max said, his ugly face twisted in a grimace, even as he helped Joe
with the jacket. "Well, all these characters over here are up to their
tonsils in curd about the West. They think everybody's starving over
there because they're unemployed. And they think the Lowers are, like,
ground down, and all. And that there's lots of race troubles, and
all."
Even as they left the apartment, Joe was realizing how much closer Max
had already got to the actual people, than either he or Nadine. But he
was still amused. He said, "And wasn't that largely what you used to
think about things over here, when you were back home? How many
starving have you seen?"
Max grunted. "Well, you know, that's right. They're not as bad off as
I thought. Some of those Telly shows I used to watch was kind of
exaggerated, like."
Joe said absently, "If international fracases would be won by
newspapers and Telly reporters, the Sovs would have lost the Frigid
Fracas as far back as when they still called it the Cold War."
The Becsikapu turned out to be largely what Max had reported and Joe
expected. A rather small cellar cabaret, specializing in Hungarian
wines and such nibbling delicacies as turos csusza, the cheese
gnocchis; but specializing as well or even more so in romantic
atmosphere dominated by heartstring touching of gypsy violins, as
musicians strolled about quietly, pausing at this table or that to
lean so close to a feminine ear that the lady was all but caressed. It
came to Joe that there was more of this in the Sov world than at home.
The Sov proletarians evidently spent less time at their Telly sets
than did the Lowers in the West-world.
They found a table, crowded though the nightspot was, and ordered a
bottle of chilled Feteasca. It wasn't until the waiter had recorded
the order against Joe's international credit identification, that it
was realized he and Max were of the West. So many non-Hungarians, from
all over the Sov-world, were about Budapest that the foreigner was an
accepted large percentage of the man-in-the street.
Max said, making as usual no attempt to lower his voice. "Well, look
there. There's a sample of them not being as advanced, like, as the
West-world. A waiter! Imagine using waiters in a beer joint. How come
they don't have auto-bars and all?"
"Sure, sure, sure," Joe said dryly. "And canned music, and a big Telly
screen, instead of a live show. Maybe they prefer it this way, Max.
You can possibly carry automation too far."
"Naw," Max protested, taking a full half glass of his wine down in one
gulp. "Don't you see how this takes up people's time? All these
waiters and musicians and all could be home, relaxing, like."
"And watching Telly and sucking on tranks," Joe said, not really
interested and largely arguing for the sake of conversation.
A voice from the next table said coldly in accented Anglo-American,
"You don't seem to appreciate our entertainment, gentlemen of the
west."
Joe looked at the source of the words. There were three officers, only
one in the distinctive pinch-waisted uniform of the Hungarians, a
captain. The other two wore the Sov epaulets which proclaimed them
majors, but Joe didn't place the nationality of the uniforms. There
were several bottles upon the table, largely empty.