Around the World in 100 Days

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?”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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?”

“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.

“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.”

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.”

“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.”

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.

“I don’t believe you can reach the controls from here,” said Harry. “You’ll have to sit up front.”

“I know that,” replied Charles irritably. But Harry’s good-natured needling had stirred him into action. He put on his eyeglasses—which he had always been too vain to wear in front of Elizabeth—squeezed between the seats, and plunked down behind the wheel. I can do this, I can do this, he repeated silently. He had driven a four-horse team, he reminded himself. He had piloted one of his father’s locomotives. Surely he could handle a motorcar.

When the border guard returned with their passports, Charles let off the hand brake, engaged the gears, and gingerly pulled out the throttle. The Flash leaped forward, nearly mowing down the guard, who was raising the barrier. “Sorry!” Charles called over his shoulder.

“I’m watching, I’m watching.” Gripping the wheel with one sweaty hand, Charles pushed in the throttle slightly with the other. The Flash struck a small depression in the road, nearly wrenching the steering wheel from his hand. “The devil take it!” he said softly, between clenched teeth.

Harry had to clench his teeth, too, to keep from shouting, “That’s enough! Stop the car!” Though he did his best to appear calm, he was far from it, and though he didn’t really mean to watch Charles’s every move like a cat watching a robin, he couldn’t help himself. But after half an hour or so, when it seemed that Charles was getting the feel of the car and the road, Harry began to relax a little. Eventually, exhaustion overcame him and he drifted off.

Sometime later, he was jolted rudely awake. The car had stopped moving and was listing alarmingly to one side. Harry sat up, groaning and rubbing his eyes. “Oh, bollocks!” he said, under his breath. “I knew it! I should never have let him drive!”