Around the World in 100 Days (29 page)

“Oh, we'll win—” Harry started to say, but at that moment Johnny came through the door of the mercantile.

“Aren't you done?” asked Johnny.

Harry gave Charles a warning glance, then forced a smile. “Almost. Did you get the tools you needed?” Johnny held up a box full of clanking metal items. “Good lad,” said Harry. “Better return to the
Flash
, now, before the policeman gets tired of guarding it.”

By the time they left Omsk, it was nearly dark. They hadn't had time to go hunting for acetylene lamps to replace the stolen ones. The best Harry could do was an ordinary kerosene lantern. He hung it on the end of a pole that projected several feet in front of the car. It didn't shed much light on the road, but it was better than nothing.

Though he was weary after their uncomfortable night in jail, there was little chance he would fall asleep at the wheel; the cold air that rushed through the gaps in the leather hood kept him wide awake. By dawn, when he handed the wheel over to Johnny, they were nearly two hundred miles closer to England. Charles had gotten his hands on a map at last and, according to his calculations, they had roughly six thousand miles to go.

After a few hours' sleep, Harry took over again. “No offense, Johnny,” he said, “but you drive too slowly.”

“If I go fast,” said Johnny, “it hurts when I hit the bumps.”

“It hurts you, or it hurts the
Flash
?”

“Both.”

“I won't hurt her,” said Harry. “I promise.”

But later that afternoon, as Harry was trying to drink from their canteen with one hand and steer with the other, he let the car drift too far to the right. The shoulder of the road had washed away, leaving an abyss into which the front wheel dropped with a painful thud and the sickening sound of cracking wood. “The devil take me,” said Harry.

When they attempted to lift the car out of the hole, they discovered that the souvenir hunters of Omsk had even taken their jack. With a stout tree trunk and a good deal of groaning, they levered up the
Flash
and slid the front end onto solid ground, then replaced the broken wheel with one of the cleated ones. It made for a bumpy ride, and the cleats chewed up the gravel, but it got them to Tiumen, where, for a change, they had a leisurely dinner while the wheel was repaired.

“I'm sorry, Johnny,” said Harry. “I should have been more careful.”

Johnny shrugged. “Lucky they lasted this long. Should've used steel ones.”

“That's one of the improvements we'll make,” said Harry, “before we set out on our next journey.”

Charles laughed. “Once you've traveled round the world, where is there left to go?”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Harry. “What about the North Pole?”

 

Though the Trans-Siberian Railway would not reach Vladivostok for many years yet, it had made it east as far as Tiumen. There was no longer any need, however, for the intrepid motorists to drive on the tracks. The post road had at last become a highway worthy of the name, broad and level and surfaced with crushed stone. Over the next two days they made better time than they had since beginning the journey.

On the evening of Doomsday Minus Fourteen, they entered Ekaterinburg. According to Charles's map, the Ural Mountains lay just beyond the city. “Perhaps we should wait for daylight to cross the mountains,” he suggested.

Harry reluctantly agreed. “It looks like rain, in any case. We should probably fix the holes in our hood.”

They rented space in a livery stable and set about repairing the hood, securing the patches with both glue and stitching, to be certain they held. For a change, Charles did his share without being asked. For even more of a change, he did not insist on finding a hotel; he supped on cheese sandwiches and beer and slept on a bed of straw alongside the others.

They set out the next morning before sunrise. The rain had turned to a light drizzle. Still, they were glad to have a sound roof over their heads. Though they were slowly gaining altitude, they saw no sign of any actual mountains. “Are you sure you read the map properly?” asked Harry.

“Quite sure,” replied Charles indignantly.

“There's a marker.” Johnny pointed to a marble pillar alongside the road.

Harry stopped and climbed out to see what was inscribed on the pillar. When he returned, he was laughing.

“What?” demanded Charles. “What does it say?”

“Well, on one side it says ‘Asia.' On the other side it says ‘Europe.'”

“That means we're at the summit of the Urals. How did that happen, without our even noticing?”

“Very gradually, apparently.” Harry felt around beneath the seat and came up with a bottle of champagne. “Aha. The thieves in Omsk didn't clean us out completely.” He untwisted the wire bail and popped the cork. “I bought this back in Vladivostok, lads, to be opened when we reached European soil.” Since they had no drinking glasses, they passed the bottle around.

“To victory!” Charles took a sizable swig, then gave a subdued burp. “Pardon me.”

“Oh, no,” said Harry. “You will not be pardoned until you produce a proper belch.” Snatching the bottle, he proceeded to demonstrate.

“I can top that.” Johnny took a great gulp of the bubbly and uttered a sound like a small explosion.

Charles claimed the bottle again. “All right, I'll show you lot.” He downed so much so fast that, when he burped, champagne spurted from his nose. Harry and Johnny howled with laughter; despite the burning in his nostrils, Charles couldn't help joining in.

The smile faded from Johnny's face and he said forlornly, “I wish Elizabeth was here.”

“So do I,” said Charles. “She deserves to be part of this celebration.” He raised the bottle. “To Elizabeth.” He took a drink and handed the champagne to Harry, who shook his head and passed the bottle to Johnny. “What's wrong?” asked Charles.

“It must be a poor vintage,” said Harry. “It's left a bad taste in my mouth.”

THIRTY-SEVEN
In which

After the incident in Omsk, even Charles had to agree that it was best to get through towns and cities as quickly as possible. They were lucky enough to hit Perm just before dawn on Doomsday Minus Twelve. Two days later, at around midnight, they rolled quietly through Kazan. At 2:00 A.M. on Doomsday Minus Eight, they navigated the empty streets of Nizhni-Novgorod unnoticed—or so they thought.

Unfortunately this put them on the outskirts of Moscow late in the afternoon of that same day. As they sat alongside the road discussing whether to lie low for a few hours or to risk running the gauntlet that lay ahead, Johnny said, “Somebody's coming.”

A horse-drawn hackney pulled up directly in front of them. A small, slender fellow in a bowler hat sprang from the cab and approached, smiling broadly. “Harry Fogg, I presume?”

“That's right.”

“Daniel Bennett, Moscow correspondent for the London
Daily Graphic
.” They shook hands. “Elizabeth has just been telling me all about you gentlemen and your marvelous motorcar.”

“Elizabeth is here?” asked Johnny eagerly.

“No, no, she left this morning, on the train. There was also a good deal she did
not
tell me. I was hoping you might consent to a brief interview.”

Harry shook his head. “We can't afford to stop for that long, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, no need to. I'll ride with you.” Bennett signaled to the cabman, who drove off. Without waiting for an invitation, the reporter swung nimbly into the rear seat of the car. “You'll want to avoid the main thoroughfares. They'll be packed with people wanting a look at you.”

“How on earth,” asked Charles, “did they know when to expect us?”

“The Moscow
News
has been posting bulletins regularly in its front window, tracking your progress. They receive telegrams, you see, from all the cities you've passed through. One came in from Nizhni-Novgorod early this morning. Everyone is eager to welcome you to Moscow. I'm told the mayor is even planning to throw a banquet in your honor.”

Harry groaned. “We don't have time for banquets, or for adoring crowds.”

“Not to worry,” said Bennett. “We'll take the back-streets. Turn here.” As he guided them through the fringes of the city, he kept up a barrage of questions—including the usual ones concerning Phileas Fogg, which Harry, as usual, declined to answer. After half an hour of this, Bennett said, “You'll be out of danger soon. Just one last question—and this is off the record: Can you tell me why Elizabeth left the expedition?”

Harry glanced warily over his shoulder at the reporter. “She didn't explain it to you?”

“Actually, she did. But I want to hear your side of the story.”

“There are no sides to the story. The
Graphic
gave her another assignment, that's all.”

Bennett gave a rather unpleasant laugh. “Is that what she told you?”

“Apparently she told you something quite different.”

“Well, she seemed rather reluctant to speak about it. I expect she was a bit embarrassed about the whole thing.”

Harry tried desperately to think of some way to stop Bennett from revealing the truth, without giving anything away to Johnny and Charles. The best he could do was to yank on the hand brake; the car skidded to a halt, sending everyone lurching forward.

“What's wrong?” Johnny demanded, rubbing his head, which had bounced off the windscreen.

“A dog,” said Harry. “Didn't you see it?” He turned to the reporter, who was retrieving his lost bowler hat. “Sorry. While we're stopped, Mr. Bennett, you may as well get out.”

“Yes, all right,” said Bennett grumpily. He climbed from the
Flash
, but remained perched on the running board. “Oh, about Elizabeth ...” Harry pulled out the throttle and the car surged ahead, dumping the reporter unceremoniously into the street.

 

That evening Harry and Charles took dinner at a small inn, leaving Johnny to guard the motorcar. The food, like the roads, had improved considerably since they entered Europe. Over a cup of genuine tea, Charles said, “What do you suppose Elizabeth told that reporter?”

“Heaven only knows,” said Harry. “She is accustomed to say whatever suits her purpose at the moment.”

“But why wouldn't she just tell him the truth—that she had another assignment?”

Harry didn't reply.

“Oh,” said Charles. “Because it wasn't the truth. That's it, isn't it?”

Harry still said nothing.

“Why did she really leave, Harry?”

“I can't answer that. I'm afraid you'll have to ask her.”

“Very well, I shall. Assuming we ever hear from her again.”

Harry gave a wry smile. “Oh, I have no doubt that we will hear from her. She is determined to be a famous reporter and, as you know, she has a way of getting what she wants.”

 

The main highway out of Moscow led northwest, to the capital city of St. Petersburg. But according to Charles and his map, they could save three hundred miles by heading directly west, through Minsk and Warsaw. The route to Minsk was far less traveled, which meant there were fewer horses and bicyclists to startle. It also meant that the road was not maintained very well.

Harry and Johnny took turns driving through the night, but with only the kerosene lantern to illuminate the rutted road, they barely crept along. Late in the afternoon of Doomsday Minus Seven, they stopped for a couple of hours' rest and a cold meal, then set out on another all-night motoring marathon. They didn't arrive in Minsk until the wee hours of Doomsday Minus Six, far too early to purchase a new lamp for the
Flash
. A few hours' sleep and they were off to Warsaw.

The newspapers had apparently lost track of them, for there were no crowds waiting to welcome them in the former Polish capital, which was now in Russian territory. By parking the car out of sight in an alley, they managed to have a decent meal, buy acetylene lamps and kerosene, and be on their way before anyone knew they were there.

Johnny could drive no more than a few hours before his head began to throb so badly that he couldn't see. Most of the burden fell on Harry. He often went eight or ten hours without a break, slept for three or four, then took the wheel again. The strain was beginning to show. He looked wan and haggard and, since he rarely took the time to shave or to eat properly, somewhat thin and scruffy as well.

On Doomsday Minus Four, as they sat at the border between Russia and Germany, waiting for their passports to be visaed, Charles said, “See here, Harry. You look as though you're ready to drop. Surely we can afford a few hours' rest.”

“I can rest when we reach London,” said Harry.

“Then suppose I drive for a bit.” Harry didn't reply. “I'm not a simpleton, you know,” said Charles. “And it's not exactly complicated, is it?” Still no reply. “I've been watching you two operate the car for three months now. I think I've grasped the basic principles involved.”

Johnny, who was slumped in his seat with his cap tipped over his eyes to block the light, murmured, “Let him try, Harry.”

“What if he runs her off the road?”

“You did,” said Johnny.

Harry grinned wearily. “Good point.” He sighed and climbed into the rear seat. “All right, old fellow. Give it a go, then. Just be careful, will you?”

For several moments, Charles didn't move. He hadn't actually expected Harry to agree. Now that he'd been given permission to drive, he suddenly felt very unsure of his ability to do so.