To die under a harvester—that’s too boring.
No, my fellow knights, the paved road is not for us.
Now the gravel one.
Kozlevich, of course, would like it, too.
But trust your Ilya Muromets: it’s no good for us either.
Let them accuse us of backwardness, but we will not take that road.
My intuition tells me of encounters with tactless collective farmers and other model citizens.
Besides, they have no time for us.
Their collectivized land is now overrun by numerous literary and musical teams that collect material for their agri-poetry and vegetable-garden cantatas.
That, citizen knights, leaves us the dirt road!
Here it is—an ancient fairy-tale route that our Antelope will embark on.
There’s Russian soul!
There’s Russian spirit!
There, the smoldering firebird still flies, and people in our line of work can come across a golden feather here and there.
Kashchey the wealthy farmer still sits on his treasure chests. He thought he was immortal, but now he realizes, to his horror, that the end is near.
But we, my fellow knights, we shall still be able to get a little something from him, especially if we introduce ourselves as itinerant monks.
For vehicles, this enchanted road is awful.
But for us, it’s the only way.
Adam!
Let’s go!”
With a heavy heart, Kozlevich drove onto the dirt road, where the car promptly went figure-skating, listing sideways and jolting the passengers into the air.
The Antelopeans were clutching on to each other, cursing under their breath, and banging their knees against the hard metal cans.
“I’m hungry!” moaned Panikovsky. “I want a goose!
Why did we have to leave Chernomorsk?”
The car screeched, trying to pull itself out of a deep rut and then sunk back into it.
“Keep going, Adam!” shouted Bender. “Keep going no matter what!
If only the Antelope takes us all the way to the Eastern Line, we’ll bestow on it golden tires with swords and bows!”
Kozlevich wasn’t listening.
The wild jolting was tearing his hands off the steering wheel.
Panikovsky was still restless.
“Bender,” he wheezed suddenly, “you know how much I respect you, but you’re clueless!
You don’t know what a goose is!
Oh, how I love that bird!
It’s a heavenly, juicy bird. I swear.
Goose!
Bender!
Wing!
Neck!
Drumstick!
Bender, do you know how I catch a goose?
I kill it like a toreador, with a single blow.
When I go up against a goose, it’s an opera!
It’s Carmen!”
“I know,” said the captain, “we saw it in Arbatov.
Better not try it again.”
Panikovsky fell silent, but a minute later, when yet another jolt threw him against Bender, he started whispering feverishly again:
“Bender!
It walks on the road.
The goose!
That heavenly bird takes a walk, and I stand there and pretend it’s none of my business.