Hank turned. She was somewhere in her late twenties, he estimated. And if her clothes, voice and appearance were any criterion he'd put her in the middle-middle class with a bachelor's degree in something or other, unmarried and with the aggressiveness he didn't like in American girls after living the better part of eight years in Latin countries. On top of that she was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, in a quick, red headed, almost puckish sort of way. Hank tried to keep from displaying his admiration too openly. "American?" he said. "That's right." She took in his five-foot ten, his not quite ruffled hair, his worried eyes behind their rimless lenses, darkish tinted for the Peruvian sun. She evidently gave him up as not worth the effort and turned to the fright behind the counter. "I came to pick up my tickets." "Oh, yes, Miss...." "Moore." The fright fiddled with the papers on an untidy heap before her. "Oh, yes. Miss Charity Moore." "Charity?" Hank said. She turned to him. "Do you mind? I have two sisters named Honor and Hope. My people were the Seventh Day Adventists. It wasn't my fault." Her voice was pleasant--but nature had granted that; it wasn't particularly friendly--through her own inclinations. Hank cleared his throat and went back to his forms. The visa questionnaire was in both Russian and English. The first line wanted, _Surname, first name and patronymic_. To get the conversation going again, Hank said, "What does patronymic mean?" Charity Moore looked up from her own business and said, less antagonism in her voice, "That's the name you inherited from your father." "Of course, thanks." He went back to his forms. Under _what type of work do you do_, Hank wrote, _Capitalist in a small sort of way. Auto Agency owner._ He took the forms back to the counter with his passport. Charity Moore was putting her tickets, suitcase labels and a sheaf of tour instructions into her pocketbook. Hank said, "Look, we're going to be on a tour together, what do you say to a drink?" She considered that, prettily, "Well ... well, of course. Why not?" Hank said to the fright, "There wouldn't be a nice bar around would there?" "Down the street three blocks and to your left is Dirty Dick's." She added scornfully, "All the tourists go there." "Then we shouldn't make an exception," Hank said. "Miss Moore, my arm." * * * * * On the way over she said, "Are you excited about going to the Soviet Union?" "I wouldn't say excited. Curious, though." "You don't sound very sympathetic to them." "To Russia?" Hank said. "Why should I be? Personally, I believe in democracy." "So do I," she said, her voice clipped. "I think we ought to try it some day." "Come again?" "So far as I can see, we pay lip service to democracy, that's about all."