Crouper brushed off the snow with his mitten: Glass sparkled. He cleaned the snow off the object. It turned out to be a large, three-bucket, green glass bottle set in a basket holder.
‘So that’s it, yur ’onor. . . .’ Crouper cleared the snow from the enormous bottleneck, and sniffed it. ‘Vodka!’
He kicked the crust of ice on the bottle, knocked it off, and turned it over. Not a drop came out.
‘Drunk up the whole thing, he did,’ Crouper concluded reproachfully.
‘He drank it,’ the doctor agreed, ‘and gave up the ghost right on the road. There you have it, good old Russian stupidity.’
The Road! It's an amazing thing. It runs from Guangzhou across China, then winds its way across Kazakhstan, enters through the gates in our Southern Wall, and then traverses the breadth of Mother Russia to Brest. From there – straight to Paris. The Guangzhou-Paris Road. Since the manufacturing of all necessary goods flowed over to China bit by bit, they built this Road to connect China to Europe. It’s got ten lanes, and four tracks underneath for high speed trains. Heavy trailers crawl along the road with their goods 24/7, and the silvery trains whistle. It’s a real feast for the eyes.
... “Haaaaiiiilll!”
Lord, don’t let us die...
