the tiny window table, sat on the edge of the lower and
began to pull off his shoes. He didn't look up when the door opened
until a voice said, icebergs dominating the tone, "Just what are you
doing in here?"

Hank blinked up at her. "Hello, Char. What?"

Char Moore snapped, "I said, what are you doing in my compartment?"

"Yours? Sorry, the conductor just assigned me here. Evidently there's
been some mistake."

"I suggest you rectify it, Mr. Stevenson."

Out in the corridor a voice, heavy with Britishisms, complained
plaintively, "Did you ever hear the loik? They put men and women into
the same compartment. Oim expected to sleep with a loidy in the bunk
under me."

Hank cleared his throat, didn't allow himself the luxury of a smile.
He said, "I'll see what I can do, Char. Seems to me I did read
somewhere that the Russkies see nothing wrong in putting strangers in
the same sleeping compartment."

Char Moore stood there, saying nothing but breathing deeply enough to
express American womanhood insulted.

"All right, all right," he said, retying his shoes and retrieving his
glasses. "I didn't engineer this." He went looking for the conductor.

He was back, yawning by this time, fifteen minutes later. Char Moore
was sitting on the side of the bottom bunk, sipping a glass of tea
that she'd bought for a few kopecks from the portress. She looked up
coolly as he entered, but her voice was more pleasant. "Get everything
fixed?"

Hank said, "What bunk do you want, upper or lower?"

"That's not funny."

"It's not supposed to be." Hank pulled his bag from under the bunk and
from it drew pajamas and his dressing gown. "Check with the rest of
the tour if you want. The conductor couldn't care less. We were
evidently assigned compartments by Intourist and where we were
assigned we'll sleep. Either that or you can stand in the corridor all
night. I'll be damned if I will."

"You don't have to swear," Char bit out testily. "What are we going to
do about it?"

"I just told you what I was going to do." Taking up his things he
opened the door. "I'll change in the men's dressing room."

"I'll lock the door," Char Moore snapped.

Hank grinned at her. "I'll bet that if you do the conductor either has
a passkey or will break it down for me."

When he returned in slippers, nightrobe and pajamas, Char was in the
upper berth, staring angrily at the compartment ceiling. There were no
hooks or other facilities for hanging or s