and maybe even red tape as well. The passengers of the Antelope started puffing and preening. Balaganov covered his red hair with the cap that he always carried in his pocket. Panikovsky turned his cuffs inside out and made them show exactly three-quarters of an inch below the sleeves. Kozlevich was more concerned about the car than about himself. He washed it thoroughly before starting out, and the sun was glimmering on the Antelope’s dented sides. The captain squinted playfully and teased his companions.
“Village on the port side!” yelled Balaganov, making a visor with his hand. “Are we stopping?”
“We are followed by five top-notch vehicles,” said Ostap. “A rendezvous with them is not in our interest. We must skim off what we can, and fast. Therefore, we’ll stop in the town of Udoev. Incidentally, that’s where the drum of fuel should be waiting for us. Step on it, Adam.”
“Do we respond to the crowds?” asked Balaganov anxiously.
“You can respond with bows and smiles. Kindly keep your mouth shut; God knows what might come out of it.”
The village greeted the lead car warmly, but the usual hospitality had a rather peculiar flavor here. The citizens must have been informed that someone would be passing through, but they didn’t know who or why. So, just in case, they dug up all the slogans and mottoes from previous years. The street was lined with schoolchildren who were holding a hodgepodge of obsolete banners: “Greetings to the Time League and its founder, dear Comrade Kerzhentsev!” “The bourgeois threats will come to naught, we all reject the Curzon note!” “For our little ones’ welfare please organize a good daycare.” Besides that, there were many banners of various sizes, written primarily in Old Church Slavonic script, all saying the same thing: “Welcome!” All this flew swiftly by.
This time, the crew waved their hats with confidence. Panikovsky couldn’t resist and, despite his orders, jumped up and shouted a confused, politically inappropriate greeting. But nobody could make it out over the noise of the engine and the roar of the crowd.
“Hip, hip, hooray!” cried Ostap.
Kozlevich opened the choke, and the car emitted a trail of blue smoke – the dogs that were running after them started sneezing.
“How are we doing on gas?” asked Ostap. “Will we make it to Udoev? We only have twenty miles to go. Once we’re there, we’ll take everything.”
“Should be enough,” Kozlevich replied uncertainly.
“Keep in mind,” said Ostap, looking at his troops with a stern eye, “that I will not tolerate any looting. No violation of the law whatsoever. I am commanding the parade.”
Panikovsky and Balaganov looked embarrassed.
“The people of Udoev will give us everything we need anyway. You’ll see. Make room for bread and salt.”
The Antelope covered twenty miles in an hour and a half. During the last mile, Kozlevich fussed a lot, pressed on the accelerator, and shook his head in despair. But all his efforts, as well as Balaganov’s shouting and encouraging, were in vain. The spectacular finale planned by Adam Kazimirovich did not materialize, due to the lack of fuel. The car disgracefully stopped in the middle of the street, a hundred yards short of a reviewing stand that had been decorated with conifer garlands in honor of the intrepid motorists.
With loud cries, people rushed to the Lorraine-Dietrich, which had arrived from the dark ages. The thorns of glory promptly pierced the noble foreheads of the travelers. They were unceremoniously dragged out of the car and wildly thrown into the air, as if they drowned and had to be brought back to life at any cost.
Kozlevich stayed with the car while the rest of the crew were led to the stand – a short three-hour event had been planned. A young man who was dressed like a motorist made his way to Ostap and asked:
“How are the other cars?”
“Fell behind,” replied Ostap indifferently. “Flat tires, breakdowns, exuberant crowds. All this slows you down.”
“Are you in the captain’s car?” The automotive enthusiast wouldn’t let go. “Is Kleptunov with you?”
“I took him out of the rally,” said Ostap dismissively.
“And Professor Pesochnikov? Is he in the Packard?”
“Yes, in the Packard.”
“And how about the writer Vera Cruz?” the quasi-motorist continued to grill him. “I would love to take a peek at her. Her and Comrade Nezhinsky. Is he with you too?”
“You know,” said Ostap, “I am exhausted by the rally.”
“Are you in a Studebaker?”
“You can think of our car as a Studebaker,” answered Ostap angrily, “but up until now it’s been a Lorraine-Dietrich. Are you satisfied now?”
But the enthusiast was not satisfied.
“Wait a minute!” he exclaimed with youthful persistence. “There aren’t any Lorraine-Dietrichs in the rally! The paper said that there are two Packards, two Fiats, and a Studebaker.”
“Go to hell with your Studebaker!” exploded Ostap. “Who is this Studebaker? Is he a relative of yours? Is your Daddy a Studebaker? What do you want from me? I’m telling you in plain Russian that the Studebaker was replaced with a Lorraine-Dietrich at the last moment, and you keep bugging me! Studebaker my foot!”
The young man had long been eased away by officials yet Ostap kept waving his arms and muttering:
“Experts! Such experts should go to hell! Just give him his Studebaker, or else!”
The chairman of the welcoming committee embellished his opening speech with such a long chain of subordinate clauses that it took him a good half hour to finish them all.
Meanwhile, the captain of the rally was worried. He followed the suspicious activities of Balaganov and Panikovsky, who were a little too busy weaving through the crowd, from his perch on the stand. Bender kept making stern faces at them and finally his signals stopped the children of Lieutenant Schmidt in their tracks.
“I am happy, comrades,” declared Ostap in his response, “to break the age-old silence in the town of Udoev with the horn of an automobile. An automobile, comrades, is not a luxury but a means of transportation. The iron steed is coming to replace the peasant horse. Let’s mass-produce Soviet motorcars! May the rally fight roadlessness and irresponsibility! This concludes my remarks, comrades. After a snack, we will continue our long journey.”
While the crowd stood still around the podium and absorbed the captain’s words, Kozlevich wasted no time. He filled the tank with gas which, just as Ostap promised, was of the highest quality, and shamelessly took three large cans of extra fuel as a reserve. He replaced the tires and the tubes on all four wheels, even picked up a pump and a jack. This completely decimated both the long-term and the current inventories of the Udoev branch of the Road Club.
The trip to Chernomorsk was now well-supplied with materials. The only thing missing was money, but that didn’t really bother the captain. The travelers had a very nice dinner in Udoev.
“Don’t worry about pocket money,” said Ostap. “It’s lying on the road. We’ll pick it up as needed.”
Between ancient Udoev, founded in A.D. 794, and Chernomorsk, founded
