The evening at Mountain Station, lit by pink and green fireworks, was so wonderful that the old-timers, had there been any, would definitely have observed that they couldn’t remember another evening like this.
Luckily, Mountain Station had no old-timers.
As recently as 1928, not only were there no old-timers, but there were no houses, no station buildings, no railroad tracks, and no wooden triumphal arch with banners and flags flapping over it, near which the special train had stopped.
While a rally was going on under the kerosene pressure lamps, and the entire population gathered around the podium, the photojournalist Menshov was circling the arch with two cameras, a tripod, and a magnesium flash lamp.
The photographer thought the arch was perfect and would make a great shot.
But the train, which stood some twenty paces away from the arch, would come out too small.
If, however, he were to take the shot from the train’s side, then the arch would be too small.
In cases like this, Mohammed would normally go to the mountain, fully aware that the mountain wouldn’t come to him.
But Menshov did what seemed easiest to him.
He asked the engineer to pull the train under the arch, in the same matter-of-fact manner a streetcar passenger might use to ask someone to move over a bit.
In addition, he requested that some thick white smoke should billow from the locomotive’s stack.
He also demanded that the engineer look fearlessly into the distance, shielding his eyes with his hand.
The crew was unsure of what to make of these demands, but they assumed that they were perfectly normal and granted his wishes.
The train screeched up to the arch, the requested smoke billowed from the stack, and the engineer stuck his head out the window and made a wild grimace.
Then Menshov set off a flash of magnesium so powerful that the ground trembled and dogs for miles and miles around started barking.
Finished with the shot, the photographer curtly thanked the train crew and promptly retired to his compartment.
Late that night, the special train was already traveling along the Eastern Line.
As the passengers were getting into bed, the photojournalist Menshov stepped out into the corridor and said plaintively to no one in particular:
“What do you know!
Turns out I was shooting this goddamn arch on an empty cassette!
Nothing came out.”
“Not to worry,” replied Lavoisian sympathetically, “it’s easy to fix.
Ask the engineer, and he’ll reverse the train in no time.
In just three hours, we’ll be back at Mountain Station and you can get another shot.
As for the joining, it can be postponed for a day.”
“There’s no way in hell I can shoot now!” said the photojournalist dejectedly. “I used up all my magnesium, or else we’d certainly have to go back.”
The journey on the Eastern Line brought the grand strategist a lot of joy.
With every hour, he came closer to the Northern site, where Koreiko was stationed.
Besides, Ostap liked the special passengers.
They were young, cheerful people, without the crazy bureaucratic streak so typical of his friends from the Hercules.
For his happiness to be complete, he only needed money.
He had finished off the donated provisions, and the dining car, unfortunately, required cash.
At first, Ostap claimed he wasn’t hungry when his new friends tried to drag him to dinner, but he soon realized that he couldn’t go on like this for long.
For a while, he’d been watching Ukhudshansky, who would spend the whole day by the window in the corridor, looking at telegraph poles and watching the birds fly off the wires.
All along, a mildly ironic smile played on his face.
He would tip his head back and whisper to the birds:
“Fluttering?
Well, well . . .”
Curious Ostap even went as far as to familiarize himself with Ukhudshansky’s article,
“Retail Boards Need Improvement.”
After that, Bender looked the strange journalist over from head to toe once again, smiled ominously, and locked himself in the compartment, feeling the familiar excitement of the hunt.
He came back out a full three hours later, holding a large sheet of paper that was ruled like a chart.
“Writing?” asked Ukhudshansky, mostly out of habit.
“Just for you,” replied the grand strategist.
“I notice that you’re constantly afflicted by the torments of creativity.
Writing is difficult, of course.
As an old editorialist and a fellow scribe, I can attest to that.
But I came up with something that will relieve you of the need to wait until you’re drenched by a sweltering wave of inspiration.
Here.
Kindly take a look.”