lass again, still in a huff. "I didn't say I wasn't.
That's my business."

* * * * *

The turboelectric ship _Baltika_ turned out to be the pride of the
U.S.S.R. Baltic State Steamship Company. In fact, she turned out to be
the whole fleet. Like the rest of the world, the Soviet complex had
taken to the air so far as passenger travel was concerned and already
the _Baltika_ was a left-over from yesteryear. For some reason the
C.I.A. thought there might be less observation on the part of the KGB
if Hank approached Moscow indirectly, that is by sea and from
Leningrad. It was going to take an extra four or five days, but, if
he got through, the squandered time would have been worth it.

An English speaking steward took up Hank's bag at the gangplank and
hustled him through to his quarters. His cabin was forward and four
flights down into the bowels of the ship. There were four berths in
all, two of them already had bags on them. Hank put his hand in his
pocket for a shilling.

The steward grinned and said, "No tipping. This is a Soviet ship."

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 hal