The door closed behind them and the two men, one uniformed and bemedaled, the other nattily attired in his business suit, turned to each other.
"Nice to see you again, Vovo. How're Olga and the baby?"
The soldier grinned back in response. "Two babies now—you don't keep up on the real news, Jim. How's Martha?" They shook hands.
"Not so good," Jim said, scowling. "I'm worried. It's that new cancer. As soon as we conquer one type two more rear up. How are you people doing on cancer research?"
Vovo was stripping off his tunic. He hung it over the back of one of the chairs, began to unbutton his high, tight military collar. "I'm not really up on it, Jim, but I think that's one field where you can trust anything we know to be in the regular scientific journals our people exchange with yours. I'll make some inquiries when I get back home, though. You never know, this new strain—I guess you'd call it—might be one that we're up on and you aren't."
"Yeah," Jim said. "Thanks a lot." He crossed to the small portable bar. "How about a drink? Whisky, vodka, rum—there's ice."
Vovo slumped into one of the heavy chairs that were arranged around the table. He grimaced, "No vodka, I don't feel patriotic today. How about one of those long cold drinks, with the cola stuff?"
"Cuba libra," Jim said. "Coming up. Look, would you rather speak Russian?"
"No," Vovo said, "my English is getting rusty. I need the practice."