“And here in Arbatov, you’ve got nothing to lose but your spare chains.
You won’t be starving on the road, I will take care of that.
Gas is yours, ideas ours.”
Kozlevich stopped the car and, still resisting, said glumly:
“I don’t have much gas.”
“Enough for thirty miles?”
“Enough for fifty.”
“In that case, there’s nothing to worry about.
I have already informed you that I have no shortage of ideas and plans.
Exactly forty miles from here, a large barrel of aviation fuel will be waiting for you right on the road.
Do you fancy aviation fuel?”
“I do,” answered Kozlevich, blushing.
Life suddenly seemed easy and fun.
He was prepared to go to Chernomorsk immediately.
“And this fuel,” continued Ostap, “will cost you absolutely nothing.
Moreover, they’ll be begging you to take it.”
“What fuel?” whispered Balaganov. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Ostap disdainfully studied the orange freckles spread across his half-brother’s face and answered in an equally low voice:
“People who don’t read newspapers have no right to live.
I’m sparing you only because I still hope to re-educate you.”
He did not explain the connection between reading newspapers and the large barrel of fuel allegedly sitting on the road.
“I now declare the grand Arbatov-Chernomorsk high-speed rally open,” said Ostap solemnly. “I appoint myself the captain of the rally.
The driver of the vehicle will be . . . what’s your last name?
Adam Kozlevich.
Citizen Balaganov is confirmed as the rally mechanic, with additional duties as Girl Friday.
One more thing, Kozlevich: you have to paint over this LET’S RIDE! sign right away.
We don’t need to attract any attention.”
Two hours later the car, with a freshly painted dark green spot on the side, slowly climbed out of the garage and drove through the streets of Arbatov for the last time.
Adam’s eyes sparkled hopefully.
Next to him sat Balaganov, who was diligently carrying out his role as the rally’s mechanic by thoroughly polishing the car’s brass with a piece of cloth.
The captain of the rally sat behind them, leaning into the ruddy-colored seat and eyeing his staff with satisfaction.
“Adam!” he shouted over the engine’s rumble, “what’s your buggy’s name?”
“Lorraine-Dietrich,” answered Kozlevich.
“What kind of a name is that?
A car, like a naval ship, ought to have a proper name.
Your Lorraine-Dietrich is remarkably fast and incredibly graceful.
I therefore propose to name it the Gnu Antelope.
Any objections?
Unanimous.”
The green Antelope, all of its parts creaking, sped down the outer lane of the Boulevard of Prodigies and flew out onto the market square.
An odd scene greeted the crew of the Antelope on the square.
A man with a white goose under his arm was running from the square, in the direction of the highway.
He held a hard straw hat on his head with his left hand, and he was being chased by a large howling crowd.
The man glanced back frequently, and there was an expression of terror on his decent-looking actor’s face.
“That’s Panikovsky!” cried Balaganov.
“The second phase of stealing a goose,” remarked Ostap coldly. “The third phase comes after the culprit is apprehended.
It is accompanied by painful blows.”
Panikovsky apparently knew that the third phase was coming. He was running as fast as he could.
He was so frightened that he kept holding on to the goose, which irritated his pursuers to no end.
“Article 116,” recited Kozlevich from memory. “Covert or overt theft of large domestic animals from persons engaged in agriculture or animal husbandry.”