Tomorrow Might Be Different by Mack Reynolds

Author:Mack Reynolds
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Capitalism, English fiction, Religion And Politics, Soviet Union
ISBN: 9780722173176
Publisher: London Sphere 1976
Published: 1975-12-15T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter XII

Mike saw her off in the morning, on the tourist plane, kissing her thoroughly before she boarded. The other Russkies cheered sympathetically, but there were tears in Catherina's eyes, and his own face held desperation. Mike Edwards realized he had never been in love before; and now it was already over.

He said his goodbyes to Nick, Ana, and various of the others he had learned to know fairly well during their two weeks in Torremolinos.

Vovo Chemozov, cold sober, for once, was the last. He shook hands. "Mike," he said, very sincerely, "if you ever come to the Soviet Complex you must look me up. We will have a fine time together and I will take you to a match so that you can see me wrestle Turkoman style. My exhibition last night was not so good, as you will remember."

Mike laughed as best he could. "It's a date," he said.

He looked up at the plane. Catherina was waving through a window. He waved back, but then had to retreat as the plane readied for taxiing off.

He met the incoming plane of the new batch of tourists and went through his routine of giving them a short rundown on their two weeks vacation. It was a standard affair and amounted to a little speech that he delivered in the waiting room. They were the usual, typical, Russkies, some of them already drunk from the booze they'd had on the airplane. Then, in the buses hired for the occasion, he had them driven into Torremolinos and distributed to the various hotels where they had their reservations.

After he had them all settled in, he went to the Hotel Espadon, where Frank Jones was staying, and looked the American up. It was almost noon by now and Jones was to be found in the bar, nursing his first bottle of beer of the day.

Mike said, "Let's go on up to your room. We have some preliminary plans to make, and this is a bit too public."

"That we have, laddy-buck, that we have," Jones said, finishing his beer. "Let's go."

They took the elevator to the NATO man's floor and entered his room. Mike immediately crossed over to the TV phone and dialed his London offices. Frank Jones, looking at him quizzically, sat in one of the more comfortable chairs, if any Spanish chairs are comfortable.

When his immediate boss's face faded in, Mike came immediately to the point. He said, "Mr. Fremont, I have to resign, as of right now. You'll have to send another man down soonest to take over Torremolinos."

"What!" the other sputtered. "You can't do that. You're signed up for at least the balance of the season. Nobody else knows Torremolinos."

T can't help it. I've been drafted," Mike told him. "Get a man in here immediately who speaks Spanish and Russian. I'll wait around until he arrives and tell him some of the local ropes. So long."

The other began a wail of protest, but Mike simply flicked the phone off. He turned back to Frank Jones.

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