"Delivered by the facility's robot carts. The plane that brought you was being made ready for the CEO's trip back to Tokyo."
"Where was it left?"
"I don't know. I only—"
"Okay, later. Right now maybe you'd better start by getting me out of here."
"That is why I brought this." He indicated the brown paper package he was carrying. It was the first time Vance had noticed it. "I have in here an air force uniform. It belongs to my son."
The parcel was carefully secured with white string—a methodical precision that came from years of engineering.
"You will pose as one of us," the old man continued. "You do not speak Russian?"
"Maybe enough to fool the Mino-gumi, but nobody else." He was watching as Androv began unwrapping the package.
"Then just let me do all talk," he shrugged. "If anybody wonders who you are, I will be giving you tour of the West Quadrant. You should pretend to be drunk; it would surprise no one. You will frown a lot and mumble incoherent questions to me. We will go directly to my office, where I will tell you our plan."
Now Andrei Androv was unfolding a new, form-fitting uniform intended for Yuri Andreevich. The shoulder boards had one wide gold chevron and two small rectangles, signifying the rank of major in the Soviet air force. Also included was a tall lamb's-wool cap, the kind officers wore. Vance took the hat and turned it in his hand. He'd never actually held one before. Nice.