Paco put out his hand briskly for a shake. "Rodriquez," he said. "Call me Paco. I suppose we're all Moscow bound."
Loo Motlamelle seemed relieved at his acceptance, clasped Paco's hand, then Hank's.
Hank shook his head as the three of them began to unpack to the extent it was desirable for the short trip. "The classless society. I wonder what First Class cabins look like. Here we are, jammed three in a telephone booth sized room."
Paco chucked, "My friend, you don't know the half of it. There are five classes on this ship. Needless to say, this is Tourist B, the last."
"And we'll probably be fed borsht and black bread the whole trip," Hank growled.
Loo Motlamelle said mildly, "I hear the food is very good."
Paco stood up from his luggage, put his hands on his hips, "Gentlemen, do you realize there is no lock on the door of this cabin?"
"The crime rate is said to be negligible in the Soviet countries," Loo said.
Paco put up his hands in despair. "That isn't the point. Suppose one of us wishes to bring a lady friend into the cabin for ... a drink. How can he lock the door so as not to be interrupted?"
Hank was chuckling. "What did you take this trip for, Paco? An investigation into the mores of the Soviets—female flavor?"