Tomorrow Might Be Different

Mike let him in and they sized each other up. Both, of course, wore the somber, austere black clothing of a minister of the Old Time Religion Church, complete with reversed collar.

"Jesus," Frank Jones said. "Is this the guy who almost clobbered that whale-sized Cossack in Torremolinos?"

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"I didn't know you were there that night," Mike said. "But at least I can say you look more authentic than I do."

"Like hell I do," Jones growled. "You were born to be a bishop. Let's adjourn to the bar. I had to practically slug that young jerk Masters to keep the thing in the place."

Mike remembered and raised his eyebrows and pointed to his ear. Jones stared at him for a minute, then caught on.

"Oh," he said. "No. No microphones, no secret police under the bed, nothing like that."

Mike looked at him.

Frank said reasonably. "Do you think that there's anybody more competent to check it out than I am?

I'm equipped with every electronic mop put out by the Department of Dirty Tricks in the Bureau of International Investigations. The fact of the matter is, the Russkies couldn't care less what we do-just so long as we don't sound off against the government or Andrei Zorin, or any of the other top bureaucrats."

That's what I thought," Mike said. "It's a bad sign for the West. The Russkies don't bother to have secrets any more."

He said to Frank, in front of the autobar, "What would you like? I could become an alcoholic playing with this gadget. We ought to introduce them into the States."

"Don't think they won't," Frank said glumly. "And throw a few hundred thousand bartenders out of work. They can mix better drinks than the average bartender. Let me have pivo."

"What's a pivo?" Mike said.

"What's wrong with your Russian? Beer. Russian beer is so thick you can pit it out of your teeth, but it's better than Spanish beer."

"Anything not thick enough to eat is better to drink than Spanish beer," Mike said, dialing himself a chilled Stolitschnaja vodka. "How're things going?"

Frank Jones took a chair and knocked back an initial swallow of his drink. "Mostly we've been waiting for you to arrive. However, we've done the preliminary groundwork. The country's ripe for it. Rotten ripe."

Mike found a chair too and looked at his companion, interested. "How do you know, Frank?"

The other took a pull of his beer again and scowled, looking for an example. "Well, for one thing…

listen, do you know a character named Galushko? Nicolas Galushko?"

"Nick? Sure. He was one of my tourists in Torremolinos. The last batch I had. He was about average.

He drank too much."

"Well, he doesn't any more," Frank said definitely. "He's just been making a tour through the Ukraine.

Converted several thousand farm people already."

Mike stared at him. "Converted them to what?"

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"Some land of a new religion all his own. Teaches moderation. Once we get going, I think we can swing them into our organization."

"Holy smokes," Mike said, awed. He knocked back his vodka. "I gave him the idea one night on a tapa tour through Malaga."

There came a timid knock on the door that joined the suite to the room of Reverend Masters.

Mike said, "Ditch these glasses, Frank. We don't want to louse up our images before the hired help."

Frank put the glasses in the disposal chute of the bar, and went over to the door and opened it.

It was young Masters and he had a book in his hand and puzzlement on his bland face. He had his thumb marking a page in the book.

Mike said, "What is it, son?"

"Bishop Edwards," the other said hesitantly, "Remember that Biblical quotation you gave me as we were driving from the airport?"

"Certainly."

"Well sir, I looked it up, just to be certain that I had it correctly. Genesis XIX. 5."

Oh, oh. He'd been caught out. He hadn't the vaguest idea what that Book, Chapter and Verse was.

However, he'd have to face his subordinate down.

"Well?" he said severely.

David Masters read, "And they called to Lot and said to him, where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us so we can cornhole them."

"What!" Mike blurted.

Frank Jones went over to the Reverend Masters and took the book from his hands. "What edition of the Bible is this?"

He looked at the cover. " The Holy Bible in Modern Idiom." What in the devil is this all about?"

The younger man was evidently set back by his superior's vehemence. He said, looking back and forth between Frank and Mike, "It's a new edition brought out so that the present generation can understand it.

The King James version sometimes confuses them."

Mike, muttering, took up his own Bible from where it had been sitting on a table. He looked up the quotation, and read: "And they called unto Lot and said unto him, Where are them which come in to thee this night? Bring them out unto us, that we may know them."

"Humm," he grunted, under his breath. "I always wondered what that meant."

He put the book down again and turned severely to his assistant cum secretary. "That'll be all, Reverend Page 67

Masters. I'm a busy man and don't like to be bothered with such trivials."

Yes, Bishop Edwards." The other turned hurriedly to leave. Frank handed back to him his Bible in Idiom.

As a parting, Mike said, "One last thing, son. Verily he who holds doubts of the words of the Prophet shall come to a bitter end. Song of Solomon , Chapter 11, 3."

"Oh, yes, Your Reverence. How well put."

"Indeed, yes," Frank said piously.

The other baked through the door to his room, apologetically.

Frank Jones looked after him. "For Christ sakes," he said. "Do you mean to tell me that one's got an I.Q. of at least 125?" He looked at his watch. "We better get going, Mike. I've arranged for a meeting with the Minister of Culture, Alex Mikhailov."

"What for?" Mike said.

"1'll tell you on the way down," Jones said. "We've got to get TV time, and maybe get onto the newscasts. Possibly we can talk them into doing a movie about the Old Time Religion Church."

Mike let himself be led to the door. "You're getting too optimistic, aren't you? Why in the hell should they do a movie about us, or allow us TV time, for that matter? I doubt if they'd even sell us time."

Jones explained on the way down in the elevator. "You've got some surprises coming. You know how lousy the TV programs are back in the States? Well, they've got the same problem here. They've gone through every bag of tricks of every producer and writer and have scraped the bottom of the barrel as far as every idea is concerned."

They were in the street now, and Frank Jones pressed a button set next to the New Metropole's main entrance. In a moment, an aircushion taxi disengaged itself from the traffic flow and pulled up to the curb before them.

Mike Edwards forced himself to climb in. He was far from happy about driverless cabs. The Russkies certainly went all out in their efforts to save labor.

Jones dialed the address co-ordinates and went on with his point. "They're on an automation kick.

Twenty years ago they put a million youngsters into their universities to study time and motion engineering and became automation technicians. Now they're reaping the harvest. And every time some new discovery comes along that would ordinarily toss a couple of hundred thousand people into the ranks of the unemployed, they just lower the work week for everybody in that industry. It's got down to an average of ten hours now."

"What's all that got to do with television programs?" Mike said.

Jones shrugged glumly. "In the States we've got twenty million unemployed living high on the hog on unemployment insurance and spending their time glued to the idiot box. Over here they're all supposedly employed but everybody works only ten hours a week, thirty weeks a year. The rest of the time they're looking for entertainment and the Minister of Culture in the Soviet Complex gets just as big an ulcer trying Page 68

to provide his country with new TV ideas as a Madison Avenue tycoon does in our country."

Frank Jones hesitated a moment before going on. "You know, something's been building up in me ever since I got this assignment"

"Oh?" Mike said. "What?"

"I'm not so sure that there are as many differences between the West and the Soviet Complex as we usually think."

The Palace of Rest and Culture was one of the biggest eyesores in Moscow. Located on Kalugo Boulevard and immediately across from Niezkuchny Park, it dominated the skyline of this section of Moscow.

At Dobryninskaya Square Mike Edwards and Frank Jones had turned west of Gorgi Park which they paralleled on Kaluga until the Palace of Rest and Culture loomed before them.

Mike had been looking out the window of the cab at the maze of taxis and limousines that charged at headlong speed through the streets. There was something shaking to see three boisterous Russkies, often bottles in hand, carousing in the back seat of a car that had no driver. You momentarily expected disaster.

He winced as their cab seemed all but ready to crash into a brilliantly-hued driverless limousine. "Don't any cabs have drivers in this God forsaken town?" he complained to Jones.

"That's more of the labor saving bit," Jones said sourly. "They automated the streets so as to eliminate all the manpower formerly involved in driving the cars and then they pulled the conductors off buses and stopped selling tickets for the subways. Made all transportation free. It was wasted labor, they said, collecting fares. They've really got the bug on this wasted labor thing."

They pulled up before the skyscraper which was the entertainment center of the country and climbed from the cab. Mike slammed the door after him and the cab whizzed off into the traffic.

"Where does it all finally wind up?" he muttered, staring after the vehicle.

"Where does what wind up?" Jones said.

"This automation. Finally, they'll get it down to where no work at all is necessary. Then what happens?"

Jones grunted. 'The same thing's happening in the West. Weren't you automated out of your job?"

"Sometimes I get the feeling," Mike said, "that the human race has opened up Pandora's Box, that we've built ourselves a monster like Frankenstein never dreamed of, that we've got a Saber-Tooth tiger by the tail, that we've dropped the reins and the horse is running away with us."

"All at once?" Jones said.

"All at once," Mike said.

In the brutally large reception hall of the Palace of Rest and Culture, they spoke their piece into the screen of an auto-secretary receptionist and waited for instructions.

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A voice behind them said in astonishment. "Why, it's Mike!"

They turned.

She was still unforgettably fair of skin, blue of eyes, blonde of hair, as only a northern Slav can be.

Mike said, "Catherina!"

Automatically, his eyes dropped from her face to check, but she was wearing, by current Russkie standards, a comparatively conservative suit.

Jones cleared his throat warningly.

Mike beamed at her. "What in the world are you doing here?" he said, before she could ask him the same.

"I work here, Mike. I told you once, I think. I'm a production secretary for Bolshi-Films. But you… ?"

She looked at Frank, as though vaguely remembering him from Torremolinos, but then must have decided that was unlikely. Mike introduced them hurriedly and wracked his brains, not knowing exactly what to do with the situation.

Frank turned and was obtaining directions from the automatic receptionist. Now he coughed gently again and said, "Ah, well have to hurry."

Mike said, "Look Catherina, could I see you later? Tonight. I'll bring you up to date on what has been happening to me and why I'm here in Moscow."

"When? Where?" she said, smiling her Catherina smile at him. His stomach rolled over twice, happily.

He said, "I don't know any places. I just arrived this very day."

She thought a moment, then said, "At the cocktail bar of the Hotel Tsentralnaya, at eight."

"Wonderful," he said.

Frank said, "We should hurry," and hurry they did, Mike looking over his shoulder after the girl. Of course, she still had that fabulous set of rounded buttocks.

On the way up to the offices of Alex Mikhailov, Jones looked at him. "Who's that? I seem to have seen her somewhere before. How could you be in this town no more than a, couple of hours and already have become acquainted with a broad?"

"Catherina is no broad," Mike said. "You saw her in Torremolinos. One of the tourists," Mike added dreamily-

"And you've made a date with her to meet in a bar, eh," Frank said disgustedly.

"Ummm. Why not?"

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"Remember?" Frank said accusingly. "You're a bishop of the Old Time Religion Church. You don't drink. You don't smoke. You don't dance. You don't go out with flighty looking blondes. I remember her now. She's the one that someway or other always had her tits out. But above all, you don't hang around in the most popular bar in Moscow."

"Holy smokes," Mike said. "I forgot."

"Yeah," Jones said dryly.

Mike said, "Well, Catherina Saratov is in a position to wonder how it is that a tourist guide in Southern Spain is suddenly a bishop of the Old Time Religion Church." He let his voice go thoughtful. "I suppose I'll have to spend some time with her covering up."

"Yeah," Frank said. "And obviously that's going to be one hell of a chore, so far as you're concerned.

My heart is pumping piss for you."

Chapter XVII

The Interview with the Minister of Culture had been a howling success. In fact, he had practically fallen into their arms.

After a rundown on just what it was that their Old Time Religion Church advocated, and assurances that they had nothing whatsoever to say against the Soviet Complex State and no opinions whatsoever about Russkie bureaucrats from Andrei Zorin right on down, he's practically turned over the resources of the Ministry of Rest and Culture to them.

In appearance Alex Mikhailov could have been any one of a hundred of Mike's tourist charges down on the Costa del Sol. He was big, Slavic, full of energy, gleaming of teeth, hail fellow well met, hand shaking, well-hell, lavishly-dressed, and obviously of the cream of Soviet Complex bureaucracy. If Mike had had to work under him for a month, he knew damned well he'd have ulcers, and probably D.T.s.

"Why, do you realize," he said happily, "the nearest thing to a really new attraction we've had for six months is a dancing Panda? This calls for a celebration!" He banged happily on the bell. "Religion," he chortled. "Everybody will be overwhelmed. Something absolutely new. Who ever heard of religion?"

An underling entered from another office.

"Champagne!" Mikhailov roared. "The best Armenian vintages. Send in some of the girls from the distribution office. Dial us some food. Caviar, smoked salmon, sturgeon. Stolichny salad, Soodak fish, everything! And lots of champagne. Kirill, we're celebrating. Have the best sent in!"

Kirill was impressed. Before Mike could open his mouth, he had disappeared again.

Mike said, "But Your Excellency, we just finished telling you. The Old Time Religion Church teaches moderation."

"Yes, indeed," Jones said with a holier-than-thou tone.

"Moderation?" Alex Mikhailov said. "But a celebration is in order. Why, you'll be the hit of the season.

I'll be awarded the Hero Medal for outstanding Socialist Labor. What do you mean, moderation?"

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"Moderation in all things," Mike said gently. "Ostentatious display, ostentatious use of luxuries, spending one's time in such frivolities as foreign travel, is the curse x>f the spiritual side of the race."

Mikhailov was flabbergasted. They are?" he said blankly. "Why?"

For the next hour they told him why, fascinating him to the point that when Kirill, his secretary, returned smiling widely and heading a procession of would-be revelers, he was snarled out of the office, champagne, girls, caviar and all.

It wound up eventually with Mikhailov promising to attend their initial meeting which was to be held in St. Basil's, the candy cane cathedral on Red Square. It was the first time the building had been used other than as a museum for generations. The Bishop's sermon was to be covered by TV and newsreel photographers.

Chapter XVIII

The interview at the Palace of Rest and Culture over, Mike hurried back to the hotel to prepare himself for his date with Catherina. He debated on whether or not to wear his clergyman clothes and then decided that he might as well stick to them. Sooner or later he was going to have to explain to Catherina that he was now a bishop.

He showered, shaved, did himself up as nattily as he could make it in black, and then impatiently waited the time out in the living room. Frank Jones had made off to finish the arrangements for the St. Basil's meeting.

Mike eyed the auto-bar thirstily, but shook his head. Just as sure as hell if he took that first drink, it would be followed by more, and it wouldn't do to meet Catherina half smashed.

A knock came on the door to the Reverend Master's room, and Mike pushed the release button and growled, 5*Come on in." I David Masters said, "Your Reverence, I wonder if you could spare a moment to clear me up on a point of theology."

"Why, certainly, Reverend," Mike said, being in no position to reveal that in actuality he knew about as much on theology as he did orbiting Mars. "What can it be? I understand that you were top man in your class at the seminary."

His assistant cum secretary brought his hand around from behind his back. It held a black book. He said, Tour Reverence, remember that quotation you gave me from the Song of Solomon ? Chapter 11, 3.?"

Oh, oh. Here they went again.

"Well?"

The Reverend Masters coughed gently, apologetically, and read, "I went down on my beloved with great delight and his dong was sweet to my taste."

"What!" Mike bellowed. "Give me that book." He grabbed it. "Oh, The Holy Bible in Modern Idiom again, eh?" He went over to his bookshelf and got his own copy.

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He read, "I sat down under his shadow with great delight and his fruit was sweet to my taste."

He stared at it for a moment and muttered. "Whoever did this translation had a vivid imagination, is all I can say. In fact, a dirty mind." He read a little more of the Song of Solomon and shook his head. "On the other hand, maybe he didn't."

He put his Bible down and looked back at the Reverend Masters severely. "You must have misunderstood me. That's the wrong quotation."

"Oh, yes, sir. I was sure it was, Bishop Edwards."

"Very well, Reverend. That will be all. The next time you want to consult someone on theology, look up the Reverend Jones. I haven't time for it. And always remember, Blessed is he who performs the duties set him by his superiors without question. Two Kings XXIII 7."

"Oh, yes Your Reverence."

When the other was gone, Mike Edwards checked his watch. At long last, it was time to meet Catherina.

The cocktail bar of the Tsentralnaya was currently the most popular place in town and, when Mike Edwards first entered, the shock wave of sound generated by Russkies en masse in their cups, all but staggered him back through the door again. In Spain, at least, he'd got his Russians in no larger numbers than a couple of hundred at a time. The so-called cocktail bar must have held at least twice that, and all of them seemingly stoned, Russkie style.

He had to circle the room twice before spotting Catherina Saratov. As he made his way to her table, he tried to think what it was that was so different about her in Moscow as compared to Spain. Finally, it came to him. Catherina was absolutely conservative, compared to the others in the room. And then he realized that she was undoubtedly dressed in the Old-Fashioned Look fashion.

He sat down across from her wordlessly, let his eyes take her in with complete enjoyment. The fact that she was doing the same, was obviously as pleased with his presence as he was with hers, didn't lessen the enjoyment.

Somehow they had no immediate need to speak. They both knew that this was it and that something wonderful would come of it all. Something very wonderful.

Mike opened his mouth at last but the blast of sound which surrounded them all but drowned out his words.

He shouted to her, "Why did you suggest that we meet here?"

She shouted back, "I wanted you to see it."

"Why?" he shouted.

She stood, put a hand on his arm and led him toward the entry.

In the lobby, Mike shook his head for clarity. "Holy smokes," he said. "I used to think all bars were essentially the same. Evidently Moscow has exceptions to offer. Can't we go somewhere and talk?"

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"Of course. Do you like Georgian cuisine? The Aragvi restaurant, over on Gorki Street, is comparatively quiet."

"Anything is comparatively quiet to that place in there."

She chuckled. "We Russians have several generations of-what is your term?- living-it-up to catch up with."

Mike said, "In spite of the success of your speed-up projects in other fields, I wonder about this one."

Catherina laughed. "We shall have to make a new Seven Year Plan."

Mike gestured at the bar they'd just left. "They seem to want to accomplish it in seven weeks. Why did you say you wanted me to see that place?"

"I'll tell you when we get to the Aragvi."

The Aragvi was located at 6 Gorki Street, only a few steps off Revolution Place. It turned out to be one of the older top restaurants in the Russkie capital. Mike and Catherina got as far away from the orchestra as possible and Mike dialed a bottle of Teliani.

However, when the bottle came, Catherina shook her head as he began to pour. "I'm not drinking these days. It ties in with my reason for wanting you to see that terrible bar-just as an example. Actually, I haven't forgotten what you said in Malaga. Mike, what is happening to my people?"

He twirled his glass in his fingers. They had arrived at the point where it looked as though he was going to have to go into his act. He hated the idea. This was Catherina. He didn't want any falseness between them.

Mike said slowly, "You touched on it earlier when you were joking about catching up on your living-it-up. With that series of five-year and seven-year plans you people went through for so long, you accumulated a head of steam. Now you're blowing it." He didn't add, and in so doing are fouling the economies of the rest of the world.

Catherina said, "Until a year ago, I was part of it Nothing seemed to make much difference excepting to have a good time. Now, Mike, I'm afraid. Look at us. No ambition except to attend another party, to over-drink, over-play, to go to bed with whoever's available. Twenty years or so ago we had our mitrofanushka , our stilyagi . What is it in America?"

"Juvenile delinquents."

"Yes," she nodded. "Practically everybody was contemptuous of them. We expected our youth to study, to work hard, to help build out country to the point where it was as strong as any."

"And so you did," Mike said, keeping the sour quality from his voice.

"Yes, and now what? Pride in study or work is a thing of the past. Everybody has become stilyagi .

Even our adults are delinquent."

Mike said uncomfortably. "What are you building up to, Catherina?"

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She leaned across the table and touched his hand. "Mike, what you were telling us about the need to devote yourself to higher things than dulling your God-given senses with alcohol and over-indulgence.

Mike, our people have to be given this message."

Mike sat back in his chair and blinked at her. For the first time it occurred to him that far from pulling a gimmick out of the Bag of Dirty Tricks for the benefit of the West, he was sponsoring a program that ultimately was more needed by the Russkie side than by his own.

She twisted her mouth ruefully. "But then, I don't suppose you wanted to see me this evening to have laid in your lap the problems of the Soviet Complex. Let's talk about us, Mike."

He moistened suddenly dry lips. "Yes," he said. "Let's talk about us."

Chapter XIX

"Not quite yet," she said. "First we order dinner. I don't want a famished man on my hands." Her blue eyes went wicked. "You'll want your strength, later on. Every bit of it."

His belly did a flip-flop. He was under her spell again, already. He said, "You're the boss. You do the ordering. I'm not up on Russian food to any extent."

She took up the menu and looked at it. She said, "Zakouski?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Catherina laughed at him. "Zakouski are the Russian equivalent of hors d'oeuvres. Cavair, both black and red, is an example. They're salty and spicy and have the reputation of being aphrodisical. Hmmm."

She looked mischievous.

Mike said, "Well have Zakouski"

She looked back at the menu. "And, since this is a Georgian restaurant, we should have shashlik. That comes out lumps of spiced mutton skewered on a dagger.

And we can wind it all up with saluguni, a Georgian cheese which is best served hot."

"You're the boss," he repeated.

The Aragvi Restaurant, evidently in attempt to keep its decor of yesteryear, was only partially automated. One could dial drinks and wine and have them delivered through the table top, but the waiters were live. Catherina summoned one and gave the order and then laid the menu back on the table.

Mike wanted a drink somewhat desperately, and poured himself a meager half glass of the wine.

She said, "And did you take the Holy Orders you told me about in Torremolinos?"

"Well, yes."

There were the two faint lines about her clear eyes. She said, "But you still drink?"

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"In moderation," he told her. The Old Time Religion Church teaches moderation, not necessarily abstinence. It was Saint Paul who said, '… use a little wine for thy stomach's sake.'"

Catherine was mildly surprised. "He did? Well, then I'll join you."

He poured for her, filling her glass, and then his own. If he was going to be seeing this girl of his fondest dreams, he was going to have to make some amendments to some of the things he had told her. He wanted a woman, not a nun.

He said, "For instance, we teach moderation in eating. An obese person is ruining his God-given body.

But we do not teach starvation, or even fasting. One must eat well to remain healthy."

"Why, that certainly makes sense," she said, taking a sip from her glass.

The Zakouski came and for a few minutes they busied themselves with it.

Mike said, trying to get back into a lighter vein. "I can feel it working already."

She looked at him. "What working?"

"You said Zakouski had an aphrodisiac effect."

"Oh, you fool," she laughed. Then she said, "I see you are dressed in the Old-Fashioned Look style. It's beginning to sweep the Soviet Complex. Is that collar one of the latest in men's wear in America?"

Mike Edwards touched his reversed collar selfconsciously. He hated the damn thing. He said, "Not exactly. You see, I'm a bishop of the Old Time Religion Church. All of our ministers dress like this."

"A bishop!" she exclaimed. "How wonderful. How hard you must have had to work to gain such a rank so quickly."

"Well, yes," he said, playing it modest. "You'd be surprised the number of people I had to work."

In actuality, damn it, he still had certain qualms about deceiving her. But, then, was he deceiving her? He had already won his battle with his conscience in so far as introducing this new religion to the Russkies, and Catherina herself had only a short time again told him how badly the Soviet Complex needed the teachings.

He was a touch surprised, by the time they had finished their meal, to find that they had finished the bottle of wine as well. There was a faint flush on her face, which only improved her perfect complexion.

Evidently, Catherina hadn't been doing much drinking in the recent past and was unused to it She said, "Should we go to my apartment? If I'm not mistaken, I have put away, somewhere or other, a half bottle of cognac. I haven't touched it for ages, but I don't believe brandy spoils in the bottle, does it?"

Her face went mischievous again. "It seems to me that on another occasion I invited you to my hotel suite for a final drink."

He summoned the waiter for his bill with considerably more elan than befitted a bishop.

Out on the street, they strolled down to the corner to a public phone screen where she summoned an aircushion cab, and stood there waiting for it.

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But before it arrived a voice roared. "Mike! Mike Edwards, what are you doing in Moscow?"

Mike winced, but turned to face he who bellowed. It was, of all people, Vovo Chernozov, who promptly embraced the American in a bear hug that all but broke ribs. All over again, Mike wondered how he'd ever gotten through that evening in Torremolinos with this monster.

But, "Vovo!" Mike and Catherina said simultaneously.

The overgrown Cossack pushed Mike back, the better to look at him, but still held onto his shoulders.

He took in the reversed collar in surprise. "Then you are :.. ?"

Catherina said, "Mike has become the Bishop Michael Edwards of the Old Time Religion Church, Vovo. You'll remember him telling us about it in Spain."

"A bishop!" Vovo exclaimed. He took up Mike's hand and kissed it, Russian fashion. "May I have your blessings, Your Reverence? I too am of the faith. I took my vows last week in Kharkov."

Holy smokes, Mike thought inwardly. What next? Vovo a member of the Old Time Religion Church. He had never given anyone his blessings before, and hadn't the vaguest idea how to go about it. But, what the hell, he was a bishop wasn't he?

"May God preserve you, my son," he said with priestly unction.

"Thank you. Your Reverence," Vovo gushed. "It was only last week. Reverend Matheson, who is a graduate of your seminary in America, came to the city to spread the gospel. I attended the first sermon and was immediately converted, with many others. He continues to spread the Holy word. Moderation in all things. He is a Saint!"

Mike Edwards began to blurt, Matheson a saint! But controlled himself. Instead, he said, "Vovo, my son, there are no saints in the Old Time Religion Church. Or, perhaps, I should say, each of us are saints in our own way if we rigidly adhere to the gospel."

The aircushion taxi that Catherina had summoned smoothed up the to the curb beside them and the

'door opened automatically.

She said to Vovo, hesitantly, "I didn't even know you were in town."

He beamed at her. "I would have looked you up, and Ana Chekova as well. She too has been received into the bosom of the Church. But I am here on Old Time Religion affairs, getting permission to renovate our church."

Catherina said, still hesitantly, "Mike… that is, the bishop, and I were about to go to my apartment to talk over old times… and religious matters, of course. Why don't you come along, Vovo? Undoubtedly, it would be very inspiring."

He looked devastated. "I cannot. I have to catch my plane back to Kharkov."

Mike said cautiously, "Renovate your church?"

Vovo was very happy about it. "Yes. Tomorrow I am to wrestle-Turkoman style, of course-at a great Page 77

sports exhibition. If I win the prize, it will go to the renovation of an old church from Czarist times, now in semi-ruin. All the members of the congregation have wagered their life savings on me. What they win will also go into the fund. Then the Old Time Religion will have a church-well, it was formerly a cathedral-of its own in Kharkov. Already we are pressed for space to accommodate those who come to hear the message of moderation."

Mike felt like turning his eyes up, but he had to play his part. He said severely, "My son, Vovo, gambling is not the practice of the simple, meek, life."

"Gambling!" Vovo said indignantly. "Wagering on my victory is not gambling, Your Reverence. It is a sure thing."

Bishop Edwards shook his head. "It is not my practice to interfere with the activities of a local congregation. Reverend Matheson is on the scene. If he had condoned this, then you have my blessings. I am sure the Lord will see that you are victorious."

"Amen," Catherina said, somewhat sarcastically. "Remember what he did to that poor bull in Malaga?"

Mike could have added, "And what he did to me in La Manana?" but refrained.

Vovo said, "I must go. Another time, Your Reverence. Another time, Catherina." He looked at her.

"You are a member of the Faith?"

Catherina looked at Mike. She said, I haven't as yet taken my vows. The bishop is kind enough to be instructing me."

Vovo shot a look at his watch. "I must be off." He looked Mike squarely in the eyes. "Moderation in all things 1" he intoned.

Mike answered in the set formula. "May all enjoy the simple blessed pleasures of the home and family and not wander away from it in vain seeking of far pleasures, my son."

My son, yet, he thought inwardly. It would have taken an elephant to have fathered Vovo Chernozov.

He felt inward sympathy however, for the victim who was going to fight the Cossack, Turkoman style, in Kharkov on the morrow.

The other was off, hurriedly.

Catherina and Mike climbed into the cab and she dialed directions.

On the way to her apartment, she said quietly, "Vovo was quite inspiring, Mike. What are the requirements for joining the Old Time Religion Church?"

Oh, oh. Here we go. He didn't like this at all. This was Catherina.

Mike said, "That you be a member of the human race, Catherina Saratov, and that you abide by the gospel. Nothing more than that."

"And suppose that in my time I have slept with a good many men, drank a good deal, was seldom…

moderate. Even experimented with some of the less difficult narcotics?"

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"Catherina," he said, "the Old Time Religion Church is not interested in your past. It is interested in your present and in your future. All of us, before finding the Old Time Religion, have sinned… have been less than adequate."

Holy smokes, he thought, how hypocritical can you get? But then it came back to him all over again. She herself had said it. What the Soviet Complex needed was exactly what he was delivering. But then, all over again, his conscience hit him. The Machiavellian creed: the end justifies the means. But does it? His ends were those of the West. Were they those of Catherina, Vovo and Ana Chekova, and all the rest?

And then he had still second thoughts. Perhaps they were.

Catherina's apartment building was automated as everything seemed to be automated in Moscow. There was no doorman, no reception desk, no elevator operator, and when they approached the door of her apartment the identity screen picked her up and the door swung open.

The apartment itself was lived in . It had the feeling of a home, rather than just a sterile flat. It was well done, nothing of the garish moderninity of some of the apartments, flats and houses with which Mike was all too familiar in the States. It was Catherina .

She tossed her shoulder bag to a table and said, "As you Americans say-at least, so I've heard, you say-make yourself at home. I'll try and find my bottle of cognac. I haven't the vaguest idea of where it is."

While she was gone, he wandered over to her bookcase and inspected the writings she evidently valued.

They were almost all good books. More than half were non-fiction. Those that were fiction were good writers, and Russian novelists didn't predominate. She had catholic tastes. The French, British and Americans were well represented. His respect for Catherina Saratov grew. She was not just an ultra-shaped broad on a Spanish beach, topless.

By the time she had returned, bottle of brandy in hand, and two glasses, he had decided, all over again, that this was the woman he loved.

She set him back, after pouring the two glasses and sitting herself across from him, by leaning forward, her slight frown above her eyes, and saying, "Mike, do you believe in this religion of yours?"

Oh, oh. This was the woman he loved-hadn't he just told himself?

He set down the glass he had taken up and thought about it. He said finally, "Catherina, perhaps the more one knows about one's religion, the less one believes. And I suspect that this applied down through the ages."

She took a fairly major swallow of her own drink. Then you don't believe in what you teach?"

"No, it's not that." He worried it. "I do believe in the basic tenants of the Old Time Religion. That is, I believe in moderation, in being humble, in the more simple life. I believe in the virtues, if that is the term, of family life, of loving one's close relatives-unless they are not' loveable, of course-and one's neighbors."

"So do I," she said softly.

Mike took a deep breath. "However, I have my doubts about there being supreme powers that are guiding our destinies."

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"So do I," she said, taking another sip of her brandy. "And that's one of the reasons I've wondered about you, Mike. I love you, but I wonder about you. You are a very intelligent man. Forgive me, but I've had you checked out. You are a well known political economist with an Academician's degree, which is no easier to take in America than it is in the Soviet Complex. It sounds like a silly thing to say, but, Mike, I suspect you're one of the smartest men in the United States."

He looked at her in agony.

She took another of her mild sips of brandy and said, "Mike, are you here to hurt my people?"

He took a slug of the brandy himself.

She said urgently, "Would you hurt Vovo and Ana?"

He closed his eyes wearily. She was the woman he loved. He was able to say, finally, "No, Catherina, of course I wouldn't hurt Vovo nor Ana… nor you."

"Then what are you doing? You are not religious. You are an outstanding socioeconomist. What are you doing in the Soviet Complex?"

In all the world there were exactly four persons who knew what he was doing in the Soviet Complex; he, himself, Frank Jones, the President of the United States and Lawrence Bigelow' Director of the Bureau of International Investigations.

He said, "I am here to teach moderation, the simple life, meekness, and especially the desirability of remaining at home to enjoy one's family, relations and friends."

She looked at him keenly and it came to Mike Edwards that the woman he loved was far from a fool.

"Rather than traveling abroad and, ah, living it up, eh?" she said. "Yes."

"Why does the American government- I assume this is backed by the American government, since it is obviously an expensive matter. Why does your government object to Russians traveling abroad?"

"It's not just the Americans. It's the whole West. Soviet Complex tourism is destroying its economy. You see, to support your tourism you dump your automation produced manufactured products on the world market, stifling the trade of America and all the rest. We can't compete when you sell typewriters for ten dollars, when one of those new Mikoyan cameras goes for peanuts, when sports equipment such as that new TV fishing rod that Nick Galushko had in Torremolinos is practically given away."

"I see," she said, sipping at her cognac thoughtfully. "So there you have it," Mike told her. "If we could just cut the tide of Soviet Complex dumping for a year or so, we might get underway again. Cutting down tourism is the answer-we hope."

She looked at him. "Perhaps if the economies of the West are so weak that they fall into-depression under such pressure, they deserve to fall, to be replaced by something better. Have you considered that?"

He said wearily, "No, I have not seriously considered that, Catherina. For better or for worse, I am working for the status quo in my country."

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She sighed and said, "Very well, you have honestly confided in me. I won't betray you." She put her glass down and said, "But this is not the reason we came here, is it… darling?"

What was it about the girl that made his throat tighten every time he thought of her as a woman.

She came to her feet, and he to his and she preceded him to the bedroom, not exactly demurely.

She said, over her shoulder, her own voice husky, "This is disgraceful. It's not even dark as yet."

He couldn't think of any answer to that. As a matter of fact, there wasn't any answer.

In the bedroom she turned to him and put her arms around his neck.

"Kiss me, the way you kissed me in Torremolinos, that night before I left," she murmured.

He kissed her the way he had kissed her the night before she left. And then some.

All of a sudden they realized that their clothes were terribly in the way, and began to fumble out of them.

Fumble was the only word; they were so hurried that fingers and thumbs seemed terribly clumsy.

The room was quite light, so that he could enjoy the beauty of her lush, not too lush, figure. She closed her eyes, lying on her back, her legs slightly spread, as he first fondled then kissed her magnificent breasts. The nipples rose in response to his caress.

He ran a hand down over her body, over her belly.

She said, "I can't… I can't wait. Take me darling." She fumbled for his erection, took it eagerly into her hand.

He had wanted a pillow, under her, the way they had done it the first time, but that would have taken too long. Split seconds were too long. She parted her legs further, bent her knees to receive him, and guided his man-organ to the threshold of her body.

She sighed deeply when he entered and again when she held the full length of his shaft. She wrapped her heels behind him so that they fit in the cavity behind his knees and moved in perfect unison.

So aroused was Catherina that she came to orgasm almost immediately. He tried to hold his back, so that she could come again, and was successful to the point that she'd had two climaxes before his own could be restrained any further. They finished together in a blaze of fulfillment.

For long moments they lay there, still together, and for a time he thought that possibly he could continue without rest.

But then he rolled away and over onto his back.

She said, "And so, Bishop Edwards, this is what you call moderation."

Mike laughed, though he was still breathing deeply from the orgasm. He said, "Of course. The Old Time Religion is not opposed to sex, in moderation. It is the most beautiful thing in life. What it doesn't approve of is promiscuity. There should be love before sex. So let that be a lesson to you, young woman. If you have another boy friend, you're going to have to ditch him."

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"I have no other man at this time, Mike," she said softly. "You are my only man." She added wickedly,

"How many times can you do it in one day and still call it sex in moderation?"

"Hmmm," he said! "Well see."

She reached over to grasp him intimately, to arouse him to further passion.

"That we will," she said.

Chapter XX

From the first, it went with shocking success. For every flow of tide there is ebb and the hedonistic tidal wave that had engulfed the Russkies was at its crest when Mike Edwards' missionaries struck.

Overnight, the reversal to conservatism in dress, in cars, in entertainment, took place.

In lectures, in revivals, in church meetings, on TV, the message was spread. Bolshi-Films did a score of quickie movies. A hundred theatrical groups produced plays. Clubs were formed, organizations sprung up. All to promote the new belief. Moderation was the new Russkie fad. Nowhere can a fad spread so rapidly as through a people with time on their hands-and in all history there had never been a people with so much time on hand as the automation-freed Russians.

It was some six months later, two o'clock in the morning, and Mike Edwards was comfortably asleep in his suite at the New Metropole when the banging came at the door. Frank Jones was away on an evangelistic tour of the Crimea.

Mike rolled over, tried to ignore it, clung desperately to his dream of married life with Catherina. Finally he swung his feet over the bed's side, growling, 'There's a bell, damn it. Don't break the door down."

There were two of them and they pushed by him and into the living room of the suite. They were six-footers, two hundred pounders, empty of expression, inconspicuous of clothing. Yes, and the flat of feet.

Actually, since the Aeroflot rocketplane had landed him at Vnukovo airport, Mike had expected them, sooner or later.

However, he began, "What is the meaning of-"

One of them said, "Get dressed."

Mike said, "I want to call the American Embassy."

They grunted amusement in unison at that, as though they had been rehearsed. They followed him into the bedroom and watched dispassionately as he dressed.

Mike said, "I demand to be allowed to phone the American Embassy."

"No phone calls," one said.

There was nobody in the halls of the New Metropole at this time of night. They descended by the Page 82

elevator, hustled through the lobby and into a large black limousine, for once one with a chauffeur.

One of his bulky escorts sat to the right of Mike Edwards, the other to the left. They said nothing, in full character.

At this point, Mike told himself sourly, I should have a little glass capsule of cyanide hidden in my mouth.

Wasn't that the way they did it in the old days? Mike had few illusions about the ability of the Russkies to break him down under pressure.

And just when the effects of the campaign had been showing results.

They by-passed Red Square and skirted the Alexandrovsk Sad park along the west side of the Kremlin.

They entered at the Borovitskij Gate, went up the cobblestoned incline there without loss of pace and drew up before the Bolshoi Kremlevski Dvorets, the Great Kremlin Palace.

Two sentries snapped to attention as they entered. Evidently, Mike's guards needed no passes. A sixteen-step ornate staircase led them up from the ground floor to a gigantic vestibule the vault of which was supported by four monolithic granite columns. They turned left and entered an anteroom. There were more guards here who also sprang to the salute.

One of Mike's escorts approached a heavy door and knocked discreetly. Someone came, opened it slightly, evidently said something to someone back in the room, and then opened it widely enough for Mike and his guards.

The chamber had obviously once been a Czarist reception room. Now it was a not overly large office.

Mike stood a dozen feet from the door and looked at the man behind the desk, who, in turn, looked at him.

There was no doubt about who it was. Andrei Zorin, the fourth generation dictator of the Soviet Complex. The heir of Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, and so on, down the decades. Number One, Chairman of the Presidium of the Central Committee.

Zorin was a man of fifty odd, heavy-set, frowzy, a weary disillusionment about his tired eyes. His character, so far as the outside world knew, was largely a mystery. A reversal from the exhibitionism of some of his predecessors, such as Nikita Khrushchev. In more than twenty years of authority he'd never granted an interview to western journalists, a fact that hadn't endeared him.

Number One leaned back in his chair. He said in Russian, "Frol, Kliment, you may leave." The two guards turned and left the room.

There was only one other left now with Mike and Zorin, a younger man, as thin and nervous as Zorin was heavy and stolid.

Zorin said, "This is Nuritdin Kirichenko, Minister of Internal Security."

In other words, Mike told himself, head of the secret police.

Zorin said, "Sit down, Mr. Edwards." Mike shrugged and took a heavy leather chair. He might as well enjoy what relaxation he could at this point. He had no illusions about the future.

Zorin said, "I understand that your Russian is fluent so if you have no objections well speak my language.

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My English is atrocious."

"No objections," Mike said. He had a mouse-being-played-with feeling, although Zorin was more like a moth-eaten bear than a cat.

Zorin picked up a paper from the desk before him, put on a pair of reading -glasses, and read. "Michael J. Edwards, Academician degree in political economy in your early twenties." He looked up at Mike, over the top of his steel-rimmed glasses. "Congratulations. Quite an accomplishment, so I understand."

"Thanks," Mike said.

Zorin went back to his report. "Spent some years teaching political economy as a professor in the University of New Mexico. Resigned and took position as tourist agent in Spain. Eventually began an association with a Mr. Frank Jones, notoriously ah, hatchetman, I believe the Western term is, for the anti-Soviet Complex organization the Bureau of International Investigation, for the time working under the anti-Soviet Complex organization NATO. Returned to America for a series of secretive meetings with top Western officials such as the President and Lawrence Bigelow. Emerged in approximately a year as a high official of the…" Zorin squinted at his paper again "… the Old Time Religion Church. A religious organization of which we can find no previous record. Six months ago, arrived in Moscow and with a large staff began a strenuous and highly expensive program to spread the new faith."

Zorin looked up at Mike, and leaned back in his swivel chair.

Mike Edwards said nothing. He had passed the point of despair where anything made any difference.

He only wished that they'd had as little as one more month to work. By then nothing would have stopped them.

Zorin said, "Frankly, from the first we couldn't understand what in the world you had in mind."

Mike said, "From the first!"

Kirichenko, who up until this time hadn't opened his mouth, doing nothing more than remaining on his chair and jittering nervously, said, "Did you think us fools? We of the Party have had the better part of a century's experience in international intrigue."

That was a good question, Mike decided.

Zorin quieted his colleague with a tired sweep of his hand. He said, "We were, frankly, intrigued. We must thank you for an interesting puzzle to solve."

Mike reached hopefully for a straw. There is no puzzle. My organization is simply evangelizing its faith."

"Of course," Zorin said, not even bothering to use a sarcastic note. He picked up another paper. "We saw light as Soviet exports fell off and, unsurprisingly, those of the United States and Common Market all began to grow."

Mike forgot about the straw. They had him all right. He supposed that Frank Jones and the others were even now being corralled. He wondered how stringent the measures taken against the Russkies who had joined up would be. People like Vovo and Ana. He felt a twinge of fear for Catherina. Catherina! They had planned to be married shortly. Even though in this day and age, few couples bothered to go through the formalities any more.

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Zorin tossed the paper back to his desk. He looked at Mike again, appraisingly.

He said, "You did an excellent job, Mr. Edwards. It is my despair that we of the Soviet Complex have so few young men, any more, who care about doing an excellent job. They are more fond of having an excellent time.'

Mike shrugged. He wondered momentarily if it'd be worth the try to jump the desk and try to use a little karate on Number One. Would the pure pleasure of getting in just one or two blows be worth the extra working over they'd undoubtedly give him?

Zorin said interestedly, "Do you think it will work?"

Mike brought his attention back to reality. "Do I think what will work?"

Number One was impatient. "Your idea of teaching moderation with the long distance view of minimizing Soviet Complex tourism and eventually reviving Western trade as our own falls off?"

Mike snorted in self-deprecation. Why kid around any longer? They knew the whole story. "I originally hoped that it would. Now, obviously, you've caught me."

That's not what I asked you," Zorin said, only slightly impatient. "Do you think it will work?"

Mike stared at him.

Zorin spelled it out. Thus far, Mr. Edwards, we have taken no steps to prevent your organization from continuing its efforts." He looked over at his Minister of Internal Security. "In fact. Comrade Kirichenko, here, is in favor of my joining the Old Time Religion Church to set an example."

It took several moments for that to be assimilated. Mike said finally, "Look, have you got a drink around here?"

Zorin chuckled as he brought a bottle from the desk. "My dear Bishop Edwards, remember?

Moderation?" He brought out three large shot glasses, poured the yellowish liquid into them.

"Moskovskaya Starka vodka," he said. "The best, flavored with forest herbs."

Mike knocked the drink, stiff-wristed, back over his palate.

The two Russkies joined him, solemnly. Zorin poured three more. This should really be served ice cold,"

he said.

Mike said, "Look, could we start somewhere nearer to the beginning?"

Number One scowled at him. "Frankly, I'm not sure where the beginning is. Maybe with Lenin. Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov's main task was to bring the Bolsheviks to power. He succeeded. Stalin's main task was to pacify the country under Party rule and to lay the foundations for industrialization. He succeeded. The jobs of Khrushchev and Brezhnev were to overtake the West in production. They succeeded. My job has been to automate and computerize Soviet Complex production to the point of outstripping the West.

I have succeeded." Zorin looked at Mike, an expression on his heavy face. "But I am not sure that it all of my task. You are a scholar of political economy, Mr. Edwards. What would you say?"

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Mike was gaining courage by the minute. He said, "Well, according to your boy, Karl Marx, once the revolution was successful, the State was going to wither away. Instead, ever since Lenin's time, you've been strengthening it."

Zorin said, interestedly, "Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Edwards, that handing over power isn't the simplest thing in the world? We of the Central Committee admittedly govern the Soviet State today. To whom would we hand over our power?"

Mike was momentarily stopped. "Well," he said, "to the people. Let them democratically elect their own officials."

Number One was scowling again. "Revolutions don't come from the top down, Mr. Edwards. They come from the bottom up. And they have in the past through the efforts of a frustrated majority, often a starving one, been pushed by economic necessity to overthrow their ruling class. Where is the starving majority in the Soviet Complex today? A few decades ago the Yugoslavian Djilas railed against the New Class that was growing in the Soviet countries. But as time passed more and more of our people graduated into that class. Now they're all members."

Mike said frowning, "You mean you wish you could step down, and can't.

Kirichenko said nervously, "When men in power let go the reins, things have a way of getting out of hand. None of us looks forward to the possibility of some hotheads lining us up against the nearest wall or hanging us by the heels from a handy lamppost"

Zorin said unhappily, "Actually, there is no one to hand our power. No one is interested in taking it. No one could care less." He sighed deeply. "I come back to my earlier question, Mr. Edwards. Do you think it will work?"

"You mean the new religion?" Mike couldn't quite get the others' lack of antagonism. "Well, so far it has, and it's growing fast."

Zorin said, "Maybe it's the answer. I don't know."

"Answer to what?" Mike said, all but snappishly. He'd come a long way in confidence since entering this office twenty minutes before.

Zorin was staring at him. "Maybe you of the West can help," he muttered.- "Perhaps its our only chance.

Perhaps we can enlarge upon your idea. Bring a new spark of life to…" He let his sentence fade off unhappily.

Kirichenko came to his feet, reached over and poured the three of them still another drink. The bottle was getting low. He said, "Let's get down to the essentials. If we're going to discuss this with a representative of the West, we might as well put our cards on the table." He added sourly, "They aren't very high cards."

This just didn't make sense. Mike Edwards had come to Moscow with the feeling that the West was up against the wall and his job was to make a feeble attempt to escape the situation the Soviet Complex had them in. But the way these two were talking, you'd think the positions were reversed.

Zorin said, "To sum it up, Mr. Edwards, you of the United States and the rest of the Western countries have been stymied in your economies."

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Mike rasped, "Because of forty million Russian tourists spilling over your borders each year, and with every chance of the number growing."

"Forty million," Kirichenko grunted bitterly. "Nothing!"

"Nothing?" Mike said indignantly.

The Soviet Complex's number one bureaucrat sighed. "Mr. Edwards," he said, "have you noticed the rather large number of Chinese about Moscow?"

"Why yes. You mean the students, the trade delegations, the cultural exchange artists?"

"Ha," Kirichenko said bitterly, reaching for his drink.

"I mean the tourists," Zorin said. "They're just beginning." He ran a hand over his face wearily. "There were fifty million of them this year. Chinese-finally successful in their Great Leaps Forward-keen to begin seeing the world. And where do they most" want to go? To Russia! The fatherland of communism. Every good communist in China wants to see Moscow, Leningrad, the Crimea and so forth. Their aircraft factories are working under forced draft to provide air liners for the traffic. It is estimated that the number will be one hundred million next year, two hundred the year following. Mr. Edwards, do you realize that the present population of China exceeds a billion?"

Mike was taken aback.

He said slowly, "You mean that you too would like to figure out some way of keeping the tourists out of your country. But…" he thought about it. "… you haven't the same problem we have. You don't need foreign trade. Why not just let them come?"

Zorin spelled it out for him, his face desperate. "Mr. Edwards, the Chinese have had one famed attribute down through history. Their ability to swallow up the invader. China would be overrun and conquered by an enemy. A few decades later the enemy would have interbred with the hundreds of millions of Chinese; a century later there would be no signs of the enemy left."

Mike said, "What's this got to do with tourism?"

"Isn't it obvious? Here, have another drink. Kirichenko get out another bottle. Mr. Edwards, as you've undoubtedly noticed, Russian morals have loosened considerably in the past generation. In the early days of Bolshevik power we were actually quite puritanical, absolutely Victorian in our sexual code. But, as you've undoubtedly seen, as our people become more hedonistic, the moral code slips."

Mike was gaping at him, comprehension beginning to dawn.

"Two hundred or three hundred million Chinese," Zorin shuddered, "crossing our borders on pleasure bent, each year. Estimate, Mr. Edwards. With our present loose sexual code, how long do you think it would be before there wasn't a full-blooded Russian left in the country?" His voice dropped to an anguished whisper. "How long before there weren't any Russians left at all? It was a sad day when we patched up the difficulties we had with China back during Brezhnev's times."

Kirichenko was pouring another round, his hand shaking.

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Mike said, "Holy smokes, and then when they'd all seen Russia thoroughly, they'd start in seeing the rest of the world."

"Exactly," Zorin said emphatically. He came to his feet, weaving only a trifle.

"Mr. Edwards," he said incisively, "to use an old Americanism, let's face it. The cold war is over between us. Not in an Armageddon, not in a Gottefdammerung of guided missiles and H-Bombs, but in the face of a problem common to both."

Mike and Kirichenko came to their own feet, their faces set firmly, their glasses upraised.

Mike bit out courageously, slurring only slightly, "The common enemy of all," he toasted. "Tourists! They must and shall be stopped!"

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