The fields continued to slowly rotate on both sides of the car.
A large brown owl was sitting by the side of the road, its head bent to one side, its unseeing yellow eyes bulging foolishly.
Disturbed by the Antelope’s creaking, the bird spread its wings, soared above the car and quickly flew away to take care of its boring owlish business.
Other than that, nothing interesting was happening on the road.
“Look!” cried Balaganov suddenly.
“A car!”
Just in case, Ostap ordered them to take down the banner that called on the citizens to fight against irresponsibility.
While Panikovsky was carrying out this task, the Antelope approached the other car.
A gray hard-top Cadillac was parked on the shoulder, listing slightly.
The landscape of central Russia was reflected in its thick shiny windows, looking neater and more scenic than it actually was.
The driver was on his knees, taking the tire off a front wheel.
Three figures in sand-colored travel coats hovered behind him, waiting.
“Your ship’s in distress?” asked Ostap, tipping his cap politely.
The driver raised his tense face, said nothing, and went back to work.
The Antelopeans climbed out of their green jalopy.
Kozlevich walked around the magnificent vehicle several times, sighing with envy. He squatted down next to the driver and struck up a technical conversation.
Panikovsky and Balaganov stared at the passengers with childlike curiosity.
Two of the passengers had a rather standoffish, foreign look to them. The third one was a fellow Russian, judging by the overpowering smell of galoshes coming from his State Rubber Trust raincoat.
“Your ship’s in distress?” repeated Ostap, politely touching the rubber-clad shoulder of his fellow countryman, while at the same time eyeing the foreigners pensively.
The Russian started complaining about the blown tire, but his grumbling went in one of Ostap’s ears and out the other.
Two plump foreign chicklets were strolling around the car—on a highway some eighty miles from the nearest town of any significance, right in the middle of European Russia.
That got the grand strategist excited.
“Tell me,” he interrupted, “these two wouldn’t be from Rio de Janeiro, by any chance?”
“No,” said the Russian. “They’re from Chicago.
And I am their interpreter, from Intourist.”
“What on earth are they doing here in this ancient wilderness in the middle of nowhere?
So far from Moscow, from the Red Poppy ballet, from the antique stores and Repin’s famous painting Ivan the Terrible Kills his Son?
I don’t get it!
Why did you drag them out here?”
“They can go to hell!” said the interpreter bitterly.
“We’ve been racing from village to village like mad for three days now.
I can’t take it any more.
I’ve dealt with foreigners quite a bit, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” He waved in the direction of his ruddy-faced companions. “Normal tourists run around Moscow, buying handmade wooden bowls in gift shops.
But these two broke away and went driving around the back-roads.”
“That’s commendable,” said Ostap. “America’s billionaires are learning about life in the new Soviet countryside.”
The two citizens of Chicago looked on sedately as their car was being repaired.
They wore silvery hats, frozen starched collars, and red matte shoes.
The interpreter looked at Ostap indignantly and blurted out,
“Yeah, right!
Like they need your new countryside!
They need the country moonshine, not the countryside!”
Hearing the word “moonshine,” which the interpreter had stressed, the two gentlemen looked around nervously and edged closer.
“See!” said the interpreter.
“Just hearing the word gets them all excited.”
“Interesting.
There’s a mystery here,” said Ostap.
“I don’t understand why one would want moonshine when our native land offers such a large selection of superb hard liquors.”
“This is much simpler than you think,” said the interpreter. “They’re just searching for a decent moonshine recipe.”
“Of course!” exclaimed Ostap.
“Prohibition!