Mack Reynolds - Tomorrow Might Be Different

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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 inPravda 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
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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."
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
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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
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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
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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 ofmano 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.
The road to Malaga was packed with cars and buses coming up from Torremolinos, Marbella, Estepona
and probably, for such a fight as this, from as far as Gibraltar. Even if there had been more than a handful
of Spanishaficionados who could afford the admission price, it looked improbable that they could have
found seats in the bull plaza.
The Russkies, as always, were jubilant. Even on the way into town in the bus, the bubbling wine bottles
went from hand to hand, laughter and jibes filled the interior, not to speak of raucous songs.
Mike stood, up next to the suffering driver.-He had tried to wiggle into the seat next to Catherina
Saratov but had missed out to a hulking Russkie pushing seven feet in height who looked more like a
Turk than a Slav. A really brawny specimen, with shaved head, he must have gone almost 300 pounds.
He had a ring of lard around the back of his neck, but he was far from fat otherwise. Now he had a
magnum of champagne in one hand, a pair of castanets in the other. He was regaling all with a
Russianized version of gypsy flamenco which made Mike inwardly wince-he was a flamenco lover, but
was joyously received by the other's fellow countrymen, including Catherina.
One of the Russkies leaned far out a window and pointed excitedly. "Look, a car with wheels. Four
wheels. How quaint. Look everybody!" She whipped up her camera for a shot and so did a dozen of the
others.
Mike closed his eyes in pain.
Ana Chekova, the woman who had been with Catherina on the beach the day before, demanded of
Mike, "Why do they still use land cars here? In the Soviet Complex, everyone uses aircushion cars.
Automated air-cushion cars. Much more comfortable and much safer. It's ridiculous to use wheel cars.
And here in Spain the roads are not even automated. Very dangerous."
Mike cleared his throat. "Well, in some countries, such as Spain, they haven't yet got around to acquiring
aircushion cars the way you have in the Soviet Complex. Sometimes they can't afford to buy a new one.
As a matter of fact, some people prefer them-in a way."
"Ha!" Ana Chekova snorted.
Mike shrugged. It was a Russkie characteristic that they couldn't believe everybody wouldn't adopt each
and every Russian gadget, given the chance. He didn't know it but it was a characteristic his own people
were famous for a few decades earlier.
When he had first come to Spain, Mike Edwards had rather liked the bullfight. In theory, he was morally
opposed to it. In practice it gave him a vicarious thrill he'd never found in any other spectator sport-if you
could call it a sport, and purists didn't. Since the coming of the Russkie tourist wave, however, something
was lost. The pageant, the excitement of the knowledgeable aficionado, the electric feeling of the fiesta
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brava was gone. Now the stands were packed with first comers, more occupied with their bottles and
their 3-D cameras, uncaring about the niceties of the spectacle going on below them.
Mike had arranged it this time. His seat was next to Catherina's and right at the edge of the barrera. As a
matter of fact, he was rather keen to see the mono a mano competition between Segura and Arruza.
Also, he was trying to analyze this feeling he had developed for the Russkie girl. This was new-especially
in season. He grinned wryly to himself. Was it because she was such an exception? A girl who wasn't
wildly pursuing. There was a preponderance of female over male tourists of two to one in Torremolinos
and usually it was all a thirty year old tourist agent could do to fight them off. They all seemed to act like
bitches in heat. More than once he had returned to his room to find a nude woman in his bed, patiently
waiting. How they got in he never knew.
The bugle blew and the paseo began. The two matadors, followed by their quadrilles, paraded across
the ring toward the judge's box, to salute him in much the manner the gladiators of Rome had once called
to their emperor. We who are about to die, salute you!
Catherina Saratov said to him, "Actually a very uncultured sport, this bull baiting. Is it allowed in
England, as well?"
"Well, I don't believe so," Mike said. "Only in some of the Latin countries, I think. I'm an American, you
know, not British."
"An American." She stared at him, fascinated. She leaned forward and said, "Do you mind if I ask you a
question?"
"Of course not." Mike was disconcerted. Not only because of her sudden eagerness as she leaned
toward him, but due to the fact that this dress was almost as revealing as her beach costume.
Catherina said, with a certain horrified fascination, "Have you ever helped lynch a Black?"
He might have known that was coming. He got it with every contingent of Russkies that came through.
Mike said, "Well, no. Our authorities take a very dim view of such activities. I'm from the State of New
Mexico, myself. I doubt if anybody's been lynched there since the days of Billy the Kid."
He decided to go a bit further than usual in his capacity as Horizonal Holiday's tour manager in
Torremolinos. He said, "Do you mind if I ask you a question, in turn?"
"Why, of course not."
"Have you ever been purged?"'
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, I understand that Russians think Americans spend half their time lynching each other. On the other
hand, the idea in the United States is that the Russian national sport is purging."
"Purging?" Catherina said. "I don't believe I understand." Then, "Oh, purging. You mean back in the
1930s between Stalin and the Old Bolsheviks."
Mike said dryly, "I understand that wasn't exactly the last time you had a political purge."
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Catherina shrugged her shoulders, which only increased her decollete and brought a dryness of mouth to
Mike Edwards, and her attention went back to the ring where Manola Segura was waiting for his first
bull of the afternoon.
She said, "In the early days after the revolution when the Soviets were still very poor, everybody fought
to get to the top, as man has in all societies down through the ages. Only the higher bureaucrats and a
few others, such as the higher officers in the armies, some of the writers, artists and entertainers, were
able to live well. But as production developed the competition to rise above everyone else slackened off.
Finally, for decades now, there is an abundance of everything, so we no longer need fight among
ourselves."
Manola Segura's peones were running the bull, dragging their capes behind them, letting the animal chase
them to the burladero shelters. Their matador watched warily, noting how el toro hooked, learning his
characteristics. This was crucial, it was necessary that he learn everything possible about his opponent.
Mike Edwards had to tear his eyes away from the girl. It was a more sensible answer than he had
expected after she had pulled that old wheeze about lynching.
Manola Segura came out now and went through a series of half a dozen veronicas with the bull. Very
passable veronicas they were too; a Segura specialty. From the few Spaniards in the tendidos came a
scattering of oles. The Russkies weren't particularly impressed.
Catherina said, "Why do they cheer?"
Mike said, "Well, he did that very gracefully and allowed the bull's horns to come very close."
The bugle sounded and Manola Segura retreated as the picadores emerged for the second act of the
production, the Tercio de Varas.
"Those bulls are not so very large," Nick Galushko complained after taking a healthy swig from his
champagne bottle. He was seated directly behind Mike and Catherina.
Mike said agreeably, "Well, they aren't as big as they used to be in the old days, so I am told, but I still
wouldn't want to be down there."
Catherina said, "Very uncultured."
Somebody above them passed down a half empty but still chill bottle of champagne. Catherina took a
short swallow, passed the bottle to Mike and returned her attention to the fray below. Mike didn't
particularly want it but he took the opportunity to make a bond between them even though it was as small
as a shared drink. What in the world was getting into him with this Russkie wench? He felt like a lovelorn
highschool boy.
The Spanish were yelling, "Ole, ole!" Manola Segura had performed a particularly well done quite,
rescuing one of the picadores and his horse from the charging bull.
The bugle sounded again and the fight entered the Tercio de banderillas. In his youth Manola Segura had
often placed his own, but today he sent out his peones for the job.
He did his best work in the Tercio de Muerte. No one in Spain was better with the muleta and sword
than old
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Manola Segura and he knew it. He went through a veritable tour de force in his faena winding up with
two or three Manoletinas.
A few spectators who appreciated what was going on dissolved into loud oles and after a perfect kill,
going in over the horns, Manola was awarded two ears and a tail. He paraded the ring, holding them up
for the crowd's approval. The Spanish cheered and so did the few foreigners present who had a working
knowledge of the fiesta brava. Monola's peones followed after him, tossing back the hats, the women's
fans, the leather wine bottles, that were showered down in way of Spanish applause. The Russkies
cheered too, waved their bottles at Manola as he went by, and snapped desperately with their 3-D
cameras.
Catherina frowned at Mike who had been beating his hands together and making with the oles as
fervently as any. She said, "How can you applaud such primitive bull-baiting?"
Mike knocked it off and said mildly, "Well, it was possibly the best bull fight I've seen in three years.
Manola Segura is of the old school. You don't see them much any more. The newcomers don't take the
risks. Their pay is sky high and they want to live to spend it."
"Uncultured," Catherina said disapprovingly.
The bugle sounded and Carlos Arruza's first bull came exploding from the toril doors.
"A calf!" Nick Galushko muttered from behind them.
Mike said over his shoulder, "That's a three-year-oldbor taurus ibericus , Mr. Galushko. Specially
bred for fighting for a thousand years and more. The Spanish consider them the most dangerous animal in
the world."
"Ha! You should see our range cattle in the Kazakh People's Republic. Then you would see bulls."
"Well," Mike said agreeably, "I'm sure you have some king-size bulls in Siberia all right."
The peones were running Arruza's animal for him, making the burladero shelters in the nick of time.
Mike shot to his feet suddenly. "Holy smokes," he snapped. "What's he doing?"
The oversized Russkie who had sat next to Catherina on the bus, was climbing over the barrera, down
into the ring, a bottle of champagne in one hand, a wide, idiotic grin on his face, his shaved head bearing
a sheen of sweat in the Spanish sun.
One of the Spaniards seated to Mike's right gasped, "Anespontdneo ."
The Russian Cossack reeled across the ring in the direction of the bull who seemed somewhat taken
aback by this new invasion.
Mike shot an agonized look in the direction of the barrera where the matadors and their assistants were
sheltered. No aid seemed to be forthcoming from that direction. "Can't somebody do something!" he
yelled. It was all he needed, to have one of his charges gored to death while on vacation in Torremolinos.
Nick Galushko was laughing hugely. "Sit down, sit down. Have another drink. Vovo's all right. He's a
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Cossack."
"I don't care if he's Rasputin," Mike snapped. "He's drunk and that's a fighting bull. It hasn't even been
whittled down by the picadores yet."
The rest of the Russkies, all over the arena, were cheering and laughing, urging their half-drunken
compatriot onward.
Catherina said unworriedly, "Don't mind about Vovo Chernozov. He's a cattleman from Kazakh. He
knows all about cattle. Besides, he is a great wrestler-Turkoman style. Look at the size of him."
Galushko tried to press a bottle of vodka into Mike's hand. "Nothing can hurt Vovo. He's a monster."
The bull was charging. Mike Edwards tried to close his eyes. He had to open them again, in fascination.
The gigantic Cossack stood, his feet poised, for a moment. Just before impact he spun away, lithe in
spite of his size. The bull wheeled, somewhat in the same manner as when the banderilleros were placing
their darts. It turned too sharply, pulled itself into an awkward position.
The Cossack stepped closer, the heavy champagne bottle held by the neck. He brought it down in a
crushing blow behind the bull's ear. The animal, dazed, stumbled forward two or three steps and then
sank to its knees, where it continued to shake its head.
The Russians throughout the plaza roared with laughter.
Vovo grinned widely, put one foot on the bull's back and waved in drunken triumph to his supporters.
He left the bull and began touring the ring as Manola Segura had done with his two ears and tail. As he
went, the Russkies cheered thunderously, interspacing their vision of oles with raucous laughter.
Vovo passed the barerra where Manola Segura and Carlos Arruza stood dressed in their highly
decorativetrajes de luces , for a score of generations the multicolored traditional dress of the matador.
He put his thumb to his nose and made an internationally recognized gesture. The crowd roared again.
Except for the Spanish, who remained quiet. Unsmiling.
Chapter IV
Mike would have liked to have eaten alone that evening but it wasn't in the cards. He had to make his
rounds of the hotels, listen to the complaints, try to soothe relationships between tourists and hotel
managers. One of the big beefs about the Russkies was the fact that they seldom stayed put in the rooms
assigned them. If the French had formerly had a reputation for promiscuity, it was nothing compared to
this. During a one month vacation period, a Russkie wench might occupy as many as a dozen different
rooms, if not more, spreading her favors about with true communistic sharing of the bounty.
Tonight it was the Santa Clara. He was lucky enough to draw a table with only one other person, a
Russian from Kiev and an unusually mild one at that. Mike remembered him vaguely, automatically asked
him how things were going and to his surprise, got no complaints. Mike was mollified. He seldom thought
in terms of his tourists being happy about their stay in Torremolinos; he simply assumed, in view of the
number of beefs that he received, that everybody hated the place almost as much as he did, now at the
height of the season.
However, it couldn't last. During the fish course,calamares en su tinta , a Spanish specialty of squid
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ScannedbyHighroller.ProofedmoreorlessbyHighroller.MadeprettierwithMollyKate's/Cinnamon'sstylesheet.ChapterIMikeEdwardsplowedhiswaythroughthedazzlingwhitesandtowardstheRusskiepartyasquicklyashecould."Justamoment,Miss,"hecalledoutinRussian."Justamoment,please!"Hurryingwasdifficult,hewasinordinarydress...

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