Half a dozen porters began manhandling their bags from the top of the bus. They were ushered into the lobby and assigned rooms. Russian hotel lobbies were a thing apart. No souvenir stands, no bellhops, no signs saying _To the Bar_, _To the Barber Shop_ or to anything else. A hotel was a hotel, period. Hank trailed Loo and Paco and three porters to the second floor and to the room they were assigned in common. Like the Astoria's rooms, in Leningrad, it was king-sized. In fact, it could easily have been divided into three chambers. There were four full sized beds, six arm chairs, two sofas, two vanity tables, a monstrous desk--and one wash bowl which gurgled when you ran water. Paco, hands on hips, stared around. "A dance hall," he said. "Gentlemen, this room hasn't changed since some Grand Duke stayed in it before the revolution." Loo, who had assumed his usual prone position on one of the beds, said, "From what I've heard about Moscow housing, you could get an average family in this amount of space." Hank was stuffing clothes into a dresser drawer. "Now who's making with anti-Soviet comments?" Paco laughed at him. "Have you ever seen some of the housing in the Harlem district in New York? You can rent a bed in a room that has possibly ten beds, for an eight-hour period. When your eight hours are up you roll out and somebody else rolls in. The beds are kept warm, three shifts every twenty-four hours." Hank shook his head and muttered, "They call me Dobbin, I've been ridden so much." Paco laughed and rubbed his hands together happily. "It's still early. We have nothing to do until lunch time. I suggest we sally forth and take a look at Russian womanhood. One never knows." Loo said, "As an alternative, I suggest we rest until lunch." Paco snorted. "A rightest-Trotskyite wrecker, and an imperialist war-monger to boot." Loo said, dead panned, "Smile when you say that stranger." Hank said, "Hey, wait a minute." He went down the room to the far window and bug-eyed. One block away, at the end of Gorky Street, was Red Square. St. Basil's Cathedral at the far end, and unbelievable candy-cane construction of fanciful spirals, and every-colored turrets; the red marble mausoleum, Mecca of world Communism, housing the prophet Lenin and his two disciples; the long drab length of the GUM department store opposite. But it wasn't these. There on the square, nestled in the corner between St. Basil's and the mausoleum, squatted what Henry Kuran had never really expected to see, in spite of his assignment, in spite of news broadcasts, in spite of everything to the contrary. Boomerang shaped, resting on short stilts, six of them in all, a baby blue in color--an impossibly beautiful baby blue. The spaceship. Paco stood at one shoulder, Loo at the other. For once there was no humor in Paco's words. "There it is," he said. "Our visitors from the stars." "Possibly our teachers from the stars," Hank said huskily.