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.