Byelov held out a hamlike hand in greeting. So far, neither he nor the "American" had spoken to each other since Dugan had entered the room. "Sit down there," said Byelov, indicating a comfortable chair near the receiving unit.
Byelov reached across the table, picked up a characteristic Russian vodka bottle and a thin-walled Chinese drinking glass.
All this time the "American" stood quiet, with an air of inexplicable menace expressed by the blank forced non-national nature of his posture. Dugan leered cheerfully at him and at Byelov, drank down the glassful of vodka; he could feel the horsepower racing down his esophagus and landing with high compression in his stomach.
Again the "American" and the Red Army sergeant exchanged glances.
The captain spoke, in clear but colorless English: "Do you speak English, man?"
Dugan-Andreanov chattered, "Sure. Sure. Sure. Speak English. Sannagitch. Hi-sport. Same to you. Goombye." He changed back to Chinese. "That is excellent English, isn't it, Comrade American?"
"What else do you know?" asked the American, in colorless Chinese.
"You mean the speaking of English?"
"That, indeed."
"That is all I know, but I can talk some Japanese, too. Learned them both in Mukden. Would you like to hear some Japanese? Moshi-moshi? Benjo-wa doku desuka? Good Japanese, too. But my Chinese is best."