The Curious Journey of Mr. Eric Delko or Red Star Galactica

THE FIRST BLESSING of the post station was an authentic toilet, located off the hallway. Amazingly there was even a supply of toilet paper; torn sheets of the Siberian Herald were spitted on a rusty hook. Erick used two of these for their destined purpose and folded another one into his pocket for later reference.

And that was all he took----because stuff just didn't seem to get nicked along the Road if you were a bonafide traveler. Footpads, tramps, and escaped convicts murdered and robbed each other blindly without so much as a second thought. They would kill the old peasant woman just to rip her skirt up for puttees to keep their legs warm. But genuine travelers seemed to be protected by some ingrained instinct, though this could barely be ascribed to a sense of decency. Conceivably it all harked back to those dark days when Mother Russia belonged to the Mongols. Could it be that the yellow Asiatic overlords had decreed vicious tortures for anyone who interfered with a taxation route, and a folk memory lingered for generations? If so, that would surely be a good topic for the next article he'd write for Izmailova?

After emptying his bladder and bowels, Eric hied himself round to the stables, where three horses snuffled in their stalls. But there was no sign of any good carriage or buggy to hire for the next stage, merely one misbegotten wreck of a cart.

A body lay snoring obscenely in the straw. The ostler's head was a beetroot, cropped to the scalp due to erysipelas. In vain Eric nudged the man with the toe of his left boot. Having failed to kick life into the fellow, he returned to the post station to kick up a fuss instead.604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGYpppnW3bv
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Proclus he found in the inn just across the main street from the post station. The old codger was trying to wheedle a drink out of the grossly overweight innkeeper. The innkeeper, disdaining him, was shouting at his servant bitch to dig herself out from behind the kitchen stove.

Cockroaches scurried everywhere on the dining room walls. Though in other respects this place was a paragon of cleanliness, compared with the "legendary" Russian inns. It didn't stink of sweat, fart, vomit, and rancid cooking oil. Conceivably, too, the disgusting cockroach horde was a hygienic improvement, for the staple of their diet was other bugs.

What's more, the innkeeper didn't belch into Eric's face, he just yawned loudly.

"There's nothing to eat here," the man protested. "We've been cleaned out. Cease this idiotic pestering of me, please."

However, Eric had learned the style. After a few days traveling in these parts, all a man's brain seemed capable of was rancor and malice. Promptly he lounged in a chair, hoisted his feet up on the table, pulled out a Spanish cigar, and lit it up.

"I will not shift from here until you've served me something---so you might as well get your skates on!"

"The last lot cleaned us out, the greedy pigs. Well, they did, no lie."

Eric stared meaningly at the innkeeper's swollen belly. Obviously, the man was a rude bore, who kept all the best food for himself.

"But if you insist---I could manage a cup of tea," conceded the bore.

"I'm not drinking brick dust, do you hear? You can stuff it. How about some hot soup? With some fresh bread. What have you got, eh? Just leave the corned beef out of it!"

"The best I can do is milk soup with an egg whipped in it."

"You can stuff that, too! Have you no fresh meat, man? Fish, fowl, I don't care. It took me all eternity to get here, and don't think for a minute that I'm going to ask you for a bed with its usual flora and fauna. I'm riding on. But not until I've swallowed something better than milk soup!"

A cunning sneer appeared on the innkeeper's face.

"Would your highness care for duck soup?"

Eric allowed himself, once more to be gulled.604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO5pdNKQX7w
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He sustained himself on nips of vodka until the soup arrived, approximately an hour later. The serving girl actually spread a tablecloth and brought the soup boul without sticking her thumb in it. She also brought bread: a crisp, golden, fluffy dream come to life!604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbcuqSIutn0

Alas, the soup was a gruel of mud with raw onions floating in it. He spooned around: only the chopped-up gizzard and unwashed rectum of the duct seemed to be included in the recipe.604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQvHV80y2bj

True to form, as soon as he had taken his first foul sip, a driver arrived from the village with news that his honor's carriage was awaiting him, this very moment. Searching up some bread to sustain him through the coming fray, Eric hurried outside---and was confronted by a farm cart with a bed of filty hay, harnessed to two nags.604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWNmB0mNrRK

He raged. "I'm not riding in that bloody thing! I need a proper carriage with a seat! A buggy will do fine."604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡju3UVhF6yE

"There is nothing else, sir."604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq4Ap9xrJni

"Liar! You're wasting your own time, to say nothing of mine. Go and fetch a proper vehicle this minute. I know there's one---that layabout in the stable told me so."604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWR7F4SdtVg

This couldn't go on! It was plain as the nose on his face that he would be forced to buy his own rattletrap in Tomsk, at ruinous cost to his finances....604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVuYcCzzOgt

In the end, he agreed to a price that was sheer piracy; and off went the villager, whistling as he led the nags away, no doubt to the knacker, while Eric tramped indoors again to his so-called soup. And of course, all the duck grease had congealed by now, a layer of fatty ice laying upon an undrinkable cold pond.604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRnCaTh6w6o

Staring into this wretched mirror, his thoughts, drifting, Eric found himself remembering...604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAvbQy1Iy2E

The novel...the novel that he was supposed to be writing. The Big One. Tales from the Lives of My Dearest Friends....A young man condemned to Siberia for armed rebellion; a policeman who despised his uniform; numerous atheists....a cast of dozens. Would he ever finish it, even as an anthology of unrelated stories? The embryo book seems as far away as the Moon right now. From this wretched inn he saw it through the wrong end of a mental telescope; the last few weeks had shrunk the tour de force into obscurity.604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYogpDxOpCN

Thrusting the bowl of soup aside, he stuffed his mouth with bread and filled his pockets, removing his notebook from one of them. While he waited for the villager to come back he scribbled the truth about Siberian post stations---so that he could mail the piece from New Times from Tomsk and pay off a bit more of his advance from Mr. Prokhor Grigoriy Izmailov.604Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5vEJScYXRA
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