They hesitated.
Ana Chekova said sheepishly, "You know, I think I've had enough for tonight. What you've been saying about moderation and all. There's a great deal in that. I've been doing too much drinking. It spoils everything else. I don't even enjoy swimming in the morning. I start off every day with a crashing hangover, and I don't get over it until I've had several more drinks. It's foolishness."
"You're right," one of the other said emphatically.
"Yes," Catherina said, looking from one to the other. "Why don't we get back in the bus and return to Torremolinos?"
They all grunted acceptance of that.
Mike could only stare at them blankly. As a matter of fact he had been anticipating sampling the muscatel himself.
Chapter VIII
Page 24
Mike Edwards was stretched out on his bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He had been thinking out the new developments for some time. He had a great deal to think about and the pressures of everyday work "weren't conducive to thinking. There were one hell of a lot of ramifications to this.
There was a knock at the door of his small apartment. He kept the place at his own expense, in spite of the fact that he could have had free lodging at any of the hotels that received the flux of his Horizonal Holidays tourists. However, this was a retreat. If he had stayed at a hotel, he knew damn well that the Russkies would be pounding on the door every time he tried to stretch out. The location of this apartment was a secret. But once in awhile somebody would find out about it.
He growled something about tourists and went to answer the summons.
It was Frank Jones, the NATO man.
Mike said, "How in the hell did you know where to find me?"
"I'm a professional," the other said mildly. "Frank Jones sees all, knows all."
Mike said, "It's just as well you turned up. I was thinking about you."
Jones said sourly, "We didn't exactly finish our conversation the other evening, and I haven't been able to find you alone since then."
Mike led the way back to his tiny living-dining-room and motioned to a chair near the table. He went to his sideboard and checked his stock. As usual it was low. Mike Edwards did precious little drinking in his own home. For one thing it was free elsewhere, besides, on an average day he had to put away so much, rather than insult his clients by refusing their hospitality, that he was , usually semi-smashed by the time he got back to his place.
There was a half bottle of Fundador cognac. He picked it up along with two small brandy glasses and returned with it to the table. He sat himself down, pulled the cork, poured two drinks and left the bottle open before them.
He said, "This dumping that the Russkies are doing. Do you think that it's a deliberate calculated campaign to undermine the West?"
"No." Jones shook his head. "We've explored that angle, and, no." He took up his glass and sipped the brandy. "You don't have any beer, I suppose?"
"No. Spanish beer is awful and its difficult to get any • imports. That's the second best cognac in Spain.
Carlos First is the best. Why don't you think it's deliberate? I'm not saying I don't agree with you, but I'd like to know your line of thought."
Jones shrugged, his face in its usual dour expression.
"They're no longer actively trying to propagandize their system. That's an early phase of revolution, when enthusiasms are young and high. Now that they've got luxury on a mass scale, they've become hedonistic.
If other countries want to adopt the Russkie socioeconomic system, fine, but let them work it out themselves. They couldn't care less."
Mike thought it over, sipping his brandy. He said, finally, "Well, that covers one important phase of it."
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Jones' eyes narrowed. "You think you've got something?"
"Maybe," Mike said. "What do you have in the way of resources to back a program on a large scale?"
"Almost anything, man. Practically unlimited. What's your plan?"
Mike made circles with his cognac glass on the table surface. "We're going to have to give most of the job to Madison Avenue," he mused. "Remember a generation or so ago when the Russkies were first beginning to forge ahead and we were alarmed that their best, brains were going into science and production and ours were going into advertising and sales?"
"What in the hell's that got to do with Russkies tourism?" Jones said. He had finished his brandy and now poured another.
Mike said, "We're going to give those bright young men of ours the job of coming up with ideas that will put over the softest sell of all time."
Jones stared at him, as though Mike had suddenly gone around the bend. "Selling what!" he demanded.
"Religion."
Jones couldn't have stared harder if Mike had suddenly sprouted a halo. "Religion!" he blurted. "To whom, and for Christ sakes, why?"
Mike said slowly, 'The cold war is a thing of the past, true enough, but the basic battle for men's minds goes on. Frankly, I'm not opposed to the Department of Dirty Tricks when it comes to conflict between ideologies. And both sides use them. Remember back in the Cold War days the story about that shipment of rice that was sent by America to one of the lesser Oriental countries to relieve a famine?
Each bag as it was unloaded was weighed by a native official while another native stenciled something on the bag. American Embassy officials were standing by but, because they had never bothered to learn the native language, they didn't realize that the native stenciling the bags was lettering them: This Rice is a Gift From the Soviet Union ."
Jones laughed sourly. "I'd forgotten about that one. If we were too foolish to learn the native language, we deserved to be gypped. But what's the 'dirty trick' you're obviously building up to?"
Mike said, "Well, dirty trick isn't the word exactly. But for half a century and more the Russkies haven't been exposed to religion, in spite of the fact that the Slavs are traditionally one of the most religious races on Earth. Remember, they called it Holy Russia in the Czar's day? Well, for the first few decades of the commies they fought religion tooth and nail, taught atheism in the schools, closed up the churches, gave the priests and other religious teachers a hard time. Very well. The old generation slowly died off and the new one was without religion, and the next generation following. The government doesn't care now. It's no longer an issue that threatens the State."
Jones was obviously disappointed. He knocked back the remainder of his cognac before saying, "I don't see any connection with our need to cut off the Russkie flow of tourists."
Mike ignored him. "We'll have to plan it carefully, very hush-hush. We'll send our boys into the country, spreading religion; the Russkies will be inordinately receptive."
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"Why will they?" Jones scowled. "And who the hell gives a damn?"
Mike waggled a finger at him. "People are prone to new religions at two periods. First, in the beginning of their society when luxuries are almost unknown, life hard and the simple virtues a necessity. Look at we Americans when we were settling the West, the hard way. Were, straight-laced, hard working, church-going, tight mouthed-let's face it, fanatics. You couldn't have found one atheist or agnostic in a hundred of them. The second period when a people are particularly prone to the lure of religion is during their decadence. Through pure boredom they seek out new experiences, new ways of achieving excitement. Rome is an example. In their first centuries they had a conservative religion and they were devout, but in their final centuries the old straight-laced religion disappeared and many exotic new ones swept in from Egypt and the Orient."
Jones still didn't get it. He poured himself another slug of the brandy, all but belligerently. He said, "But what's the point? What kind of new religion? What will these missionaries teach?"