He pushed a still foaming glass of wine into Mike's right hand, pressed a large chunk of dark bread deeply covered with gray beluga caviar into his left.
Here we go again, Mike sighed inwardly. Surely this season would end with liver trouble, not to speak of ulcers.
However, Catherina Saratov smiled at him and that was something. She had the land of smile that looked as though she meant it. Anybody can smile-kind of. He could feel hers go deep down within, something he hadn't thought possible in mid tourist season.
He let Galushko refill his glass and watched as the girl dashed for the water. Her buttocks were as interesting as had been her bosom. He wouldn't mind getting into that. He wondered if he would have a chance. She didn't particularly seem to have a man in tow.
Chapter II
Page 3
When Mike Edwards was able to escape, he made his way over to the escalator that took you up from the Mediterranean beach to themiramarnear the old Moorish tower which originally gave the formerly small fishing village its name. It was, for all practical purposes, all that remained of the once art colony, save a couple of blocks about the town plaza. Today, Torremolinos was one of the largest resorts on the Costa del Sol of Spain, which stretched from Malaga to Gibraltar, and accommodated hundreds of thousands of visitors each year-especially Russkies.
He went on up Calle San Miguel, teeming with its tourist shoppers, and made his way to the Espadon Hotel. That afternoon he was going to have to line up some of his hundreds of clients for a side trip to Granada and the sightseeing tour of the Alhambra. He didn't look forward to it. The first few dozen times weren't so bad, but when you've gone through the Alhambra on several hundred occasions you got to hating the Moors as much as Ferdinand and Isobel must have.
He was still slightly light-headed from the unaccustomed drinking of cold champagne under the broiling Spanish sun with no more on his stomach than the Continental breakfast of coffee, hard roll, butter and marmalade. He had got away after three glasses, about par for the course when a Russkie caught you.
He wondered how in the devil they could keep up the pace.
He stopped off at the main bar for a Fernet Branca in hopes of settling his stomach, got up on a stool and gave Manuel his order.
On the stool next to him sat another of his clients, this one an American, if Mike remembered correctly.
He prayed inwardly and hopelessly that the other would leave him alone. He might as well have prayed for rain on the moon.
The other said, "How's it going, Mr. Edwards? I don't exactly envy you your job."
Mike said, "Just fine. Lovely weather, isn't it?"
The other said, "You've probably forgotten my name. I'm Frank Jones, from SanSan, California."
"Of course not," Mike lied. "You came on the plane from London, on Friday." Actually, he did remember Mr. Jones, although not by name. The man stood out due to his lack of typicalness. The other tourists came in sportswear, most of them bearing cameras, skin diving apparatus, tennis rackets, golf clubs and such. Mr. Jones had landed in a business suit, in which he was presently sweltering and was looking glum even as vacationists went. He had a sad face, somewhat reminiscent of Lincoln before he grew the beard, must have gone about forty years of age, but was seemingly in good physical trim. He was nursing a bottle of beer.
Mike said, "SanSan? That doesn't tell you much. The city stretches from San Francisco to San Diego now, doesn't it."
"I come from the area once known as Santa Barbara," Jones said.
Automatically, Mike let his eyes go around the bar, checking to see if any of his people were in some kind of a bind. Two or three of the Russkies were taking shots in the patio-lounge with their 3-D
cameras. Regardless of country, the tourist is a snapshot taker, but no nation on earth had ever equaled the Russkies.
Just to be saying something, Mike said, "I wonder why none of the Western countries have ever gone Page 4
into producing 3-D cameras. It's a natural development in photography."
Frank Jones snorted his dour indignation. "How? With the Russkies flooding the market with their product at five dollars per camera, retail, how would a Western company ever get going? That Mikoyan Camera works up in Leningrad has a capacity as high as all other camera factories in the world combined. All automated, of course. I understand that less than a hundred men are employed in the place. Basically, it turns out cameras for the Soviet Complex, but when the Kremlin decides it needs some foreign exchange, they dump a couple of hundred million cameras on the world market at cutthroat prices."
"I guess you're right," Mike said. "Where will it end? They're selling aircushion cars all over Europe for about two hundred dollars. I understand that Volkswagen-Fiat is thinking of folding up. Can't stand the competition. Of course," he added loyally, "I don't think they're up to the standards of the Ford-Chevrolet Company, cars, but
"But two hundred bucks is a far cry from four thousand," Jones finished. "It gets to the point where if you need some minor repairs, you don't bother. You throw the car away and buy another one."
"It piles up," Mike agreed.
"In actuality, it's the same deal as with the cameras," Jones pursued. "Back in the 1960s the Russkies didn't turn out more than a few thousand automobiles a year. They were interested in building more steel mills, more basic industry. But when they got to the point where they were producing all the steel they could possibly use, in the 1970s, they built an automated automobile plant, there in Sverdlovak, that dwarfed anything the rest of the world had ever seen."
Mike shifted uncomfortably on his stool, but he couldn't leave in the middle of the other's conversation.
He didn't particularly go in for such subjects these days. People came down here to relax, not to dwell on the ulcer breeding economics of the world.
Jones was saying, "Not an obsolete piece of machinery in the plant. No worry about competition, either.
A captive market of a couple of billion people, if you count the Chinese. No need to change designs every year to attract buyers. At least a twenty-five million car a year capacity, in that one plant alone. No wonder they can afford to sell them for two hundred dollars."
Catherina Saratov came strolling into the patio-lounge done up in the latest from Budapest, the Soviet Complex style center, a shimmering disposable material now being turned out by the billions of yards.
Mike watched her cross the room. She moved as a professional dancer moves, graceful, confident. It hit him all over again. Holy smokes but the girl was attractive. He felt a stirring within him.
He turned to his companion, and interrupted. "You'll have to pardon me," he said. "One of my clients that I have to check with, just entered."
"Sure," Jones said, although he seemed to dislike the idea of Mike leaving.
Mike got off the stool and headed for the girl, racking his mind for something to say to her. Some excuse for his accosting her.
Chapter III
The next day, Mike Edwards was scheduled to take a party to Malaga, eight miles north of Page 5
Torremolinos, for a bullfight. It was in the way of being something special. The aging Manola Segura had come out of retirement for the third time and was having a series of mano a mano corridas with Carlos Arruza 3rd.
Mike's party consisted of seventy Horizonal Holidays tourists, sixty-five of them Russkies. He got his cut through the ticket purchases, buying in a block. Horizonal Holidays didn't mind such little rackets; they enabled the company to pay their agents minimum salaries. Mike had the nightclub tours, the tour to Granada, the tour to Gibraltar, the tour to Tangier, beach parties, and so forth. He made enough through the season, by this means, to last him throughout the year.