Paco, hands on hips, stared around. "A dance hall," he said. "Gentlemen, this room hasn't changed since some Grand Duke stayed in it before the revolution."
Loo, who had assumed his usual prone position on one of the beds, said, "From what I've heard about Moscow housing, you could get an average family in this amount of space."
Hank was stuffing clothes into a dresser drawer. "Now who's making with anti-Soviet comments?"
Paco laughed at him. "Have you ever seen some of the housing in the Harlem district in New York? You can rent a bed in a room that has possibly ten beds, for an eight-hour period. When your eight hours are up you roll out and somebody else rolls in. The beds are kept warm, three shifts every twenty-four hours."
Hank shook his head and muttered, "They call me Dobbin, I've been ridden so much."
Paco laughed and rubbed his hands together happily. "It's still early. We have nothing to do until lunch time. I suggest we sally forth and take a look at Russian womanhood. One never knows."
Loo said, "As an alternative, I suggest we rest until lunch."
Paco snorted. "A rightest-Trotskyite wrecker, and an imperialist war-monger to boot."
Loo said, dead panned, "Smile when you say that stranger."
Hank said, "Hey, wait a minute."