But that’s still three hours away.
And I’m sure that a very warm welcome will be awaiting us in every town between here and there.
This blasted telegraph has planted its stupid wired posts all over the place.”
The captain was right.
The Antelopeans never learned the name of the next small town they encountered, but they wished they had, so that they could curse it from time to time.
At the town line, the road was blocked with a heavy log.
The Antelope turned and, like a blind puppy, started poking around with its nose, looking for a detour.
But there wasn’t any.
“Let’s turn back!” said Ostap, becoming very serious.
And suddenly the impostors heard a very distant, mosquito-like buzz.
This must have been the cars of the real rally.
There was no way back, so the Antelopeans rushed forward again.
Kozlevich frowned and raced the Antelope toward the log.
The people standing around it rushed aside, fearing a wreck.
But Kozlevich decelerated abruptly and slowly climbed over the obstacle.
The passers-by grumbled and cursed the passengers as the Antelope drove through town, but Ostap kept quiet.
The Antelope was approaching the Griazhsk Road, and the rumble of the still invisible cars grew stronger and stronger.
The moment they turned off the damned highway, hiding the car behind a small hill in the falling darkness, they heard the bursts and the firing of the engines. The lead car appeared in the beams of light.
The con artists hid in the grass on the side of the road and, suddenly losing their usual arrogance, quietly watched the passing motorcade.
Banners of blinding light flapped over the road.
The cars creaked softly as they passed the crushed Antelopeans.
Dust flew from under the wheels.
Electric horns howled.
The wind blew in all directions.
It was over in a minute, and only the ruby taillights of the last car danced and jumped in the dark for a long time.
Real life flew by, trumpeting joyously and flashing its glossy fenders.
All that was left for the adventurers was a tail of exhaust fumes.
They sat in the grass for a long while, sneezing and dusting themselves off.
“Yes,” said Ostap, “now even I see that the car is not a luxury but a means of transportation.
Aren’t you jealous, Balaganov?
I am.”
CHAPTER 8 AN ARTISTIC CRISIS
Some time after 3 A.M., the hounded Antelope stopped at the edge of a bluff.
An unfamiliar city lay below, neatly sliced, like a cake on a platter.
Multicolored morning mists swirled above it.
The dismounted Antelopeans thought they heard a distant crackling and an ever so slight whistling.
This must have been the citizens snoring.
A jagged forest bordered the city.
The road looped down from the bluff.
“A valley from heaven,” said Ostap. “It’s nice to plunder cities like this early in the morning, before the sun starts blazing.
It’s less tiring.”
“It is early morning right now,” observed Panikovsky, looking fawningly into the captain’s eyes.
“Quiet, Goldilocks!” exploded Ostap. “You’re such a restless old man!
No sense of humor whatsoever.”
“What are we going to do with the Antelope?” asked Kozlevich.
“A good point,” replied Ostap, “we can’t drive this green washtub into the city under the circumstances.
They’d put us in jail.
We’re going to have to follow the lead of the most advanced nations.
In Rio de Janeiro, for example, stolen cars are repainted a different color.
This is done for purely humanitarian reasons, so that the previous owner doesn’t get upset when he sees a stranger driving his car.