Scanned by Highroller.
Proofed more or less by Highroller.
Made prettier with MollyKate's/Cinnamon's style sheet.
Chapter I
Mike Edwards plowed his way through the dazzling white sand towards the Russkie party as quickly as he could.
"Just a moment, Miss," he called out in Russian. "Just a moment, please!" Hurrying was difficult, he was in ordinary dress and wore shoes, rather than beachwear.
One of the girls, the very attractive one, had come onto the beach in a robe, one of the flamboyant new textiles the Russians were producing that all but knocked your eyes out. It was his private opinion that the Russian taste was all in their mouth; but, then, that had applied since the days of the Czars.
It was when she had slipped out of her robe that Mike's eyes had popped. Her tiny trunks left nothing whatsoever to the imagination, but that wasn't it. She wore no top at all. It would have been hard for her to be any more naked.
Surfeited with womanhood as Mike was in the tourist season, he still had to admit that she made a striking appearance indeed, not too big, not too small, youthfully firm, a body just short of lush, and her nipples were coral pink… But this wasSpain!
He came closer and said, anxiously apologetic, "Look here, Miss——"
She was frowning questioningly at him, no more self-conscious than a two year old in its bath. "Saratov,"
she said. "Catherina Saratov."
She took him in. What she saw was a rather gangly man in his early thirties, pleasant of face, though it was now somewhat anxious; rumpled of hair, which was brown; dark blue of eyes, which were somewhat on the sincere and worried side; six feet tall, about one hundred and sixty-five.
Mike Edwards placed her vaguely. In his position, it was absolutely impossible to learn the names of all of his charges. They came for periods running from two weeks to a month, seldom longer, and in a season's time, he had literally thousands on his hands. However, they had sat at the same table at a Horizonal Holidays party the other night. He had thought, even then, that she was the epitome of Slavic beauty. The ultra-blondness, just short of platinum blonde (but natural), fair-skinned as only the very northern people are fair skinned, impossibly blue-eyed, excellent carriage, as though she had been ballet trained, and without the heft of the average Russkie. Contrary to much popular opinion, the Russian is a blonde rather than a brunette and when a Russian is beautiful there is nothing to surpass her in the Caucasian world.
Mike cleared his throat, again apologetically, and said, "Look, Miss Saratov, this isSpain. Catholic, you know, and very conservative. Except forPortugal, there's probably no more conservative country in Common Europe."
"Oh," she said, still somewhat puzzled. "You must mean my bathing suit."
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"Well, yes, in a way. It's very pretty, of course. Very chic, but…" He let his sentence dribble away, tried to keep from letting his eyes leave her face and descend to the delicious looking semi-globes; decided it was obvious that he was doing so and did a fair job of blushing. What was the old term? She was really stacked. Mike Edwards had always been a tit man.
Catherina Saratov said, "But everybody wears this type of suit on theCrimeabeaches now. It is so very comfortable when swimming and one can achieve a much better tan."
"I'm sure," Mike said, nodding in support of her statement. "But this is Torremolinos and the Spanish are most conservative. Their authorities insist. It is part of their religion. Modesty, you know, and all that."
"Oh well, of course," she said. "If it is their religion. One mustn't ignore religious customs in a foreign country. It would be uncultured."
She very prettily stooped and took up a table napkin from one of the picnic baskets and did some things with it deftly, wrapping it around her upper body. "Religious customs are fascinating."
Mike sighed, cleared his throat again and said, "Sorry to bother you, Miss Saratov. How are you and your party enjoying yourselves? Is there anything I can do? Are your suites comfortable? The food satisfactory?"
The other Russkies in the group had been busy with their own beach preparations. Now one of them, a beefy forty-year old with a red face and a bushy untrimmed mustache, who looked like he already had a half dozen drinks this morning, came up. He introduced himself as Nicholas Galushko and shook hands-they always shook hands. Mike Edwards estimated that he got his damn hand shaken a thousand times an average day. They shook hands every time they met you, even if this happened ten times in a single hour.
Nicholas Galushko said to Mike complainingly, "It's too hot. This Spanish sun is too hot. Why aren't the beaches here air-conditioned? In theBlack Searesorts all the beaches are air-conditioned. In your Horizontal Holidays advertisements in Pravda you didn't mention that the beaches weren't air-conditioned."
"Well," Mike said placating, "that's the way it goes. Some countries haven't gotten to the point of air-conditioning beaches as yet. That's the reason some people come toSpain, to see the things as they
"were in the old days. Very primitive, I imagine, by your standards."
One of the other Russkies, a stocky woman in her mid-thirties, as far opposite to Catherina Saratov in physical attractiveness as possible, came up and shook hands with Mike and introduced herself as Ana Chekova, She evidently didn't wear the type of bathing suit that Catherina did because she knew better.
She got in on the complaints. "All of our beaches are air-conditioned and up on theArctic Oceanthe beaches inSiberiaare warmed with ultra-violet rays."
Mike inwardly winced at some of the economic ramifications of that, but continued his genial smile as became the position he held. "I'd like to visit the Soviet Complex some day," he said.
"Why don't you, Comrade?" Catherina smiled at him. "You've heard about the new policy for foreign tourists, haven't you?"
He was a tourist agent and got most of the international publications on the subject, but this was Page 2
something new. He said, in spite of a premonition of disaster, "I don't think so. What new policy?"
"It's free."
"Free?" Mike said blankly.
She nodded. "You have to pay your own expenses up to the border, of course, but once in the Soviet Complex all costs are borne by the State. It's for good will. In the old days we had, what is your Americanism? A bad image. So to change that we invite the world to visit us. All for the good will."
For a moment, Mike let his mind reel with the implications and its effect on such companies as his employers, Horizonal Holidays, based inEngland. But then he decided he'd better leave it for a more tranquil moment-sometime, perhaps when he was safely in bed and it could drive him to insomnia, or better7to an overdose of sleeping pills.
Galushko had popped open a bottle of the Spanish champagne they'd brought in their portable refrigerator and was pouring a glass. He sipped it, making a face. "Not up to our Armenian champagne,"
he scowled. He looked accusingly at Mike. This Spanish champagne is second rate, not sweet enough."
Mike said, "Well, that's the way it goes. Different countries, different tastes. Most of the Western countries like their champagne very dry, brut . As a matter of fact, the Spanish champagne is sweeter than French."
"Dry champagne," Galushko scoffed. "No taste!"
Mike said hopefully, "Well, if you will all excuse me, I'll get about my rounds."
Galushko was having none of that. "Oh, have a glass of the wine," the Russkie said overbearingly.
Mike said, knowing that it was a losing battle, "Well, I don't like to start drinking until after lunch, at least. I have a hard day in front of me, you know."
"Oh, come on. Drink! Enjoy yourself. Life is short. And what is better than food and drink? Here try this. Caviar from the Caspian. Real caviar! Not the mush you foreigners eat. We're expanding a hundred fold the sturgeon beds-the new plan is to produce eighteen times as much fresh caviar."