Hank had her placed now. A college radical. One of the tens of thousands who discover, usually somewhere along in the sophomore year, that all is not perfect in the land of their birth and begin looking around for answers. Ten to one she wasn't a Commie and would probably never become one--but meanwhile she got a certain amount of kicks trying to upset ideological applecarts. For the sake of staying in character, Hank said mildly, "Look here, are you a Communist?" She banged her glass down on the bar with enough force that the bartender looked over worriedly. "Did it ever occur to you that even though the Soviet Union might be wrong--if it is wrong--that doesn't mean that the United States is right? You remind me of that ... that _politician_, whatever his name was, when I was a girl. Anybody who disagreed with him was automatically a Communist." "McCarthy," Hank said. "I'm sorry, so you're not a Communist." She took up her glass 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.