Mike didn't even hear him. He headed for the table the newcomers had selected.
Nick Galushko was already calling for champagne-four bottles of champagne. Mike inwardly groaned.
It was going to be another one of those nights. If he was going to stick around with the group, in order to get next to Catherina, it meant he'd have to go along with them, drink for drink, or damn near it.
Chapter VI
In the early morning, nursing a mild hangover, Mike Edwards took his customary one hour, three-mile walk along one of the two Torremolinos beaches. It was the one time of the day he could be quite sure that there would be no demands upon him. None of the Russkie tourists ever arose at dawn. They couldn't, since they invariably caroused until long after midnight and half of them had to be helped to their rooms by hotel servants.
Torremolinos had two beaches, both of fine sand and both sloping gently down into the Mediterranean.
The main town beach, known as the Bajondillo, stretched from a rock headland for about two miles in the direction of Malaga. On the other side of the headland, the second beach reached out from in front of the fishing village of Carihuela another mile or so and beyond the last of the tourist hotels, the El Remo.
Mike usually alternated his walks, going toward Malaga one day, past Carihuela the next.
He loved the serenity of the Mediterranean with its gentle tides, its very slight surf. And he loved to Page 16
watch the fishermen, some of them corning in from fishing all night by arc lamp, some launching their typically Southern Spain-Northern Africa boats, the design of which probably went back to Phoenecian times, for day fishing. Mike Edwards was well known to the fisher folk. When it was out of season and he had time on his hands, he'd often go into their village for a few glasses of wine, or an anis, at the local cantina. It was a part of Spain fast dying in the tourist centers where the bars tended to look the same as
'tourist bars the world over in their garish decor, their abrasive music, their goddamned loudness; Now as he progressed he called his Buenos Biases to this acquaintance or that, sometimes waved, sometimes called some jibe at a fisherman who hadn't had much luck the night before. They'd call back, jibe for jibe, sometimes pointing out that at least they made their livings like men -not by herding around mad tourists.
He thought over what Frank Jones had said the night before, and could come up with nothing. In some respects it was even worse than the NATO man had painted it. This flood of Russkies was giving other nations inferiority complexes, lousing up their morale. A few decades before the shoe had been on the other foot. During the Asian War, for instance, Americans spent money in such a way as to rob natives of their feeling of adequacy. An American would get a haircut and misunderstand the barber to say 500
dirhims, rather than 50 dirhims, pay up and then tip them another 50. The barber was robbed of his pride in his trade.
Now the Russians would do much the same thing in the States. They'd buy something, and then say,
"How much is that in real money-rubles?" They'd see the Empire State Building and the tour guide would tell them that for a long time, for decades, it was the biggest building in the world. They'd laugh and laugh at that. "That old fashioned monstrosity? Why we have bigger hi-rise buildings than that in small cities such as Kharkov, in the Ukraine; not to speak of Moscow and Leningrad."
Yes, the United States was losing its morale. If something wasn't done soon, it might develop into a permanent disaster.
He made his mile and a half and then turned around and headed back for the path near the rocky headland, which led up to the town proper. He'd return in plenty of time for the breakfast rush of complaints.
A certain amount of submarine life could be observed at the headland, especially with the use of snorkel and mask equipment, but it was now too early for the tourist skin divers. There were half a dozen youngsters, though, scraping the delicious local black mussels from the jagged rocks.
Somewhat to his surprise, at this time of day, he saw what he first assumed to be a fisherman, rod in hand, out on one of the rocks. As he got closer, he realized that it was the Russkie friend of Catherina.
What was his name again? Yes. Nicholas Galushko. They called him Nick.
As Mike came up he called to the Russian, "Good morning. They do a little fishing in this area but more ambitious anglers usually prefer to make arrangements with a local boat-owning fisherman to take them out."
Nick Galushko said condescendingly, "Good morning. I'm doing all right."
Mike frowned and said, "Oh, I thought you were fishing."
"I am," the other told him, looking down at what Mike had first thought was an enormous reel.
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He stared at him. "But you don't have any line on your -… rod."
"I don't need any." The Russian pointed to a crevice in the rock upon which he was standing. There were a dozen sizeable fish in it, considerably bigger than the ones even the professional fishermen usually caught in this vicinity. It was not actually good fishing waters and the fishermen almost invariably went much further out and to the south.
Mike looked from the other to the fish and back again.
"Ah ha," the Russian said jubilantly. "A squid. If I catch a squid, will they cook it for me at the hotel?"
"Of course," Mike said blankly. Could the man already be drunk, this time of day? "But, you've broken your line, or something. And how do you know there's a squid out there? They never surface. They stay near the bottom."
There were various studs and buttons on the rod. Nick Galushko flicked a small switch at its tip-if that's what it was-and began to show great signs of agitation.
"Big one," Nick said. "This is the latest fishing equipment from the Black Sea fishing centers. Very latest.
Not on the market for sport as yet. I'm testing it in these waters. Very clear water. Better than the Crimea."
He flicked another stud and, shortly, Mike Edwards could make out a large squid coming toward them through the ultra-clear sea. It seemed as though it was being dragged, though dragged by what, Mike certainly couldn't make out. It was at least three times the size of any squid the American had ever seen taken in this vicinity.
When it was close enough, the Russkie reached down, scooped it up by a tentacle and tossed it in with the fish.
He held what looked like a plug in his right hand. It was covered with rather large fishhooks, and looked like a small fish.
"What in the devil is that?" Mike said.
The other laughed boisterously. "I told you. The latest in fishing equipment. Here, I'll show you how it works." He demonstrated what the tourist guide had thought a reel, after tossing the artificial fish back into the sea.
In it was set what would seem to be a small television screen.
"Look in there!" the Russkie commanded.
Mike looked. He seemed to be under the surface of the water. And, actually, he soon realized that he recognized the scene, since he often went skin diving in this vicinity. Yes, the picture being shown was of the area bout thirty feet from the shoreline, and it was getting out further by the minute.
He looked at Nick Galushko, who was beaming with heavy amusement at him. "Where in the name of heaven is that movie coming from?"
"From the eyes in the plug, of course."
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"Eyes in the plug!"
"Yes, of course."
"Listen, don't give me that of course routine. There's nothing of course about it. You mean to tell me that there's a miniature TV camera in that gadget out there and it's beaming back to the gobblydygook thing you're holding?"
"Of course. Ah, now look. A fish. Ah, too small."
Mike stared again. In the screen they were coming up on what looked to him a fairly good sized red snapper. When they were near enough, the fish seemed to look at them, as though nervously.