g to understand at least one of the reasons why the Commies
could sell their products at such ridiculously low prices. Automation
beyond that of the West. In the Soviet complex the labor unions were
in no position to block the introduction of ultra-efficient methods,
and featherbedding was unheard of. If a Russian worker's job was
_automated_ out from under him, he shifted to a new plant, a new job,
and possibly even learned a new trade. The American worker's union, to
the contrary, did its best to save the job.

Hank Kuran remembered reading, a few months earlier, of a British
textile company which had attempted to introduce a whole line of new
automation equipment. The unions had struck, and the company had to
give up the project. What happened to the machinery? It was sold to
China!

Following the orders of his underground contact, he begged out of the
afternoon tour, as did half a dozen of the others. Sightseeing was as
hard on the feet in Moscow as anywhere else.

After lunch he looked up Sovietska Park on his tourist map of the
city. It was handy enough. A few blocks up Gorky Street.

It turned out to be typical. Well done so far as fountains, monuments
and gardens were concerned. Well equipped with park benches. In the
early afternoon it was by no means empty, but, on the other hand not
nearly so filled as he'd noticed the parks to be the evening before.

Hank stopped at one of the numerous cold drink stands where for a few
kopecks you could get raspberry syrup fizzed up with soda water. While
he sipped it, a teen-ager came up beside him and said in passable
English, "Excuse me, are you a tourist? Do you speak English?"

This had happened before. Another kid practicing his school language.

"That's right," Hank said.

The boy said, "You aren't a ham, are you?" He brought some cards from
an inner pocket. "I'm UA3-KAR."

For a moment Hank looked at him blankly, and then he recognized the
amateur radio call cards the other was displaying. "Oh, a _ham_. Well,
no, but I have a cousin who is."

Two more youngsters came up. "What's his call?"

Hank didn't remember that. They all adjourned to a park bench and
little though he knew about the subject, international amateur radio
was discussed in detail. In fifteen minutes he was hemmed in by a
dozen or so and had about decided he'd better make his excuses and
circulate around making himself available to the _stilyagi_ outfit. He
was searching for an excuse to