Ostap raised his head.
He saw the wild stars of the black Abyssinian sky and finally grasped the situation.
But Koreiko’s sheepish reminder of the banquet gave him new strength.
“There’s a plane sitting behind the hill,” said Bender, “the one that flew in for the ceremony.
It’s not leaving until sunrise.
We’ve got enough time.”
In order to make it, the millionaires moved at a fast dromedary’s gait.
Their feet slipped in the sand, the nomads’ fires were burning, and dragging the suitcase and the bag, while not exactly difficult, was extremely unpleasant.
As they climbed the hill from the direction of Roaring Springs, sunrise advanced from the other side with the buzz of propellers.
Bender and Koreiko started running down the hill, afraid that the plane would leave without them.
Tiny mechanics in leather coats were walking under the plane’s corrugated wings, which were high above them, like a roof.
The three propellers rotated slowly, ventilating the desert.
Curtains with plush pompoms dangled over the square windows of the passenger cabin.
The pilot leaned against the aluminum step, eating a pasty and washing it down with mineral water from a bottle.
“We’re passengers,” shouted Ostap, gasping for air. “Two first-class tickets!”
Nobody reacted.
The pilot tossed the bottle away and began to put on his wide-cuffed gloves.
“Are there any seats?” repeated Ostap, grabbing the pilot by the arm.
“We don’t take passengers,” said the pilot, putting his hand on the railing.
“It’s a special flight.”
“I’m buying the plane!” said the grand strategist hastily. “Wrap it up.”
“Out of the way!” shouted a mechanic, climbing in after the pilot.
The propellers disappeared in a whirl.
Shaking and swaying, the plane started turning against the wind.
Vortexes of air pushed the millionaires back toward the hill.
The captain’s cap flew off Ostap’s head and rolled toward India so fast that it could be expected to arrive in Calcutta in no more than three hours.
It would have rolled all the way to the main street of Calcutta, where its mysterious appearance would have attracted the attention of circles close to the Intelligence Service, but the plane took off and the storm died down.
The plane flashed its ribs in the air and disappeared into the sunlight.
Ostap ran to retrieve his cap, which was stuck in a saxaul bush, and then said:
“Transportation has gotten completely out of hand.
Our relationship with the railroad has soured.
The air routes are closed to us.
Walking?
It’s 250 miles.
Not particularly inspiring.
There’s only one option left—convert to Islam and travel on camels.”
Koreiko ignored the part about Islam, but the idea of camels appealed to him.
The enticing sights of the dining car and the plane had confirmed his desire to embark on an entertaining trip as a public health physician. Nothing ostentatious, of course, but not without a certain flair.
The clans that had come for the joining hadn’t taken off yet, so they were able to purchase camels not far from Roaring Springs.
The ships of the desert cost them 180 rubles apiece.
“It’s so cheap!” whispered Ostap.
“Let’s buy fifty camels.
Or a hundred!”
“That’s ostentatious,” said Alexander Ivanovich gloomily. “What are we going to do with them?
Two are enough.”
Shouting, the Kazakhs helped the travelers climb between the humps and attach the suitcase, the bag, and some food supplies—a wineskin of kumis and two sheep.
The camels first rose onto their hind legs, forcing the millionaires to bow deeply, then onto their front legs, and started walking along the Eastern Line.
The sheep, attached with thin cords, trotted behind them, dropping little balls from time to time and emitting heart-wrenching bleats.
“Hey, Sheikh Koreiko!” called out Ostap. “Alexander bin Ivanovich!
Isn’t life wonderful?”