The Forbidden Territory by Dennis Wheatley Page B

snow,” he waved his hand about him. “They will be covered in an hour.” And, with the coming of day, the snow had begun to fall again, softly, silently, in great, white, drifting petals that settled as they fell, increasing the heavy band of white on every roof and ledge.
    “Well, I never thought I should be glad to see snow,” said Simon, with his little nervous laugh. “What do we do now?”
    De Richleau adjusted his rucksack on his shoulders; he frowned.
    “We have a difficult task before us—while attracting as little attention as possible, we must find out how the trains run on the branch line to the Tavda River, and then secure seats.
    “How far is it—I mean to Tobolsk?” Simon inquired.
    “Two hundred miles to the dead end of the railway, and a further hundred across country—but we have at least one piece of good fortune.”
    “What’s that?”
    “That we should have arrived here early in the morning; if there is a train today we cannot have missed it!”
    “Today?” echoed Simon, aghast. “Aren’t there trains every day?”
    De Richleau laughed. “My dear fellow, it is not Brighton that we are going to. In such a place as this, trains run only twice weekly, or at best every other day!”
    Simon grunted. “Thank God we didn’t arrive in the middle of the night, then.”
    “Yes, we should have been frozen before the morning.”
    While they were talking they had left the goods-yard and turned down a road leading away from the station. There were no houses, only timber-yards and back lots.
    After they had walked about half a mile De Richleau spoke again. “I think we might now turn back. Our train should have halted here for about twenty minutes, and it must be forty at least since our good friend the steward set us down.”
    “Poor chap, I hope he doesn’t get it in the neck over this job.”
    “Let us hope not. If he has any sense he will say that we left the train without his knowledge. They are certain to question him at Irkutsk, but if he says that he did not see us after dinner last night, they cannot put the blame on him.”
    Simon began sawing his arms across his narrow chest. “My God, it’s cold,” he said suddenly. “I could do with some breakfast!”
    De Richleau laughed. “About that we shall see. We are coming to a cluster of houses, and that building on the left looks like the station. I should think there is certain to be some sort of inn near it.”
    He was right; they found a small third-rate hostelry, of which the only occupant was a solemn peasant seated near the great china stove, sipping his tea and staring into vacancy.
    The Duke clapped his hands loudly, and the landlord appeared, a clean, honest-looking fellow in a starched white blouse. After some questioning he disappeared, presently to return with two plates of eggs; true, they were fried in lard, but the two travellers were so hungry and cold that almost any food would have been welcome, even the black rye bread and bitter tea which accompanied the eggs.
    When they had finished De Richleau drew the landlord into conversation. They were Germans, the Duke said; fur buyers, seeking new sources of supply. How were the markets in Sverdlovsk for such commodities?
    “Bad,” said the landlord. “Bad; the trappers will not go out any more. Why should they?” he shrugged; “the Government will not pay them for their skins, and there are no longer the rich who will buy. They go out for a few weeks every season that they may catch enough to keep their families from starving by exchanging the skins for corn and oil. For the rest—they sleep!”
    The Duke nodded. “You speak truly. Why should a man work more than he need if there is no prospect of his becoming rich? What of the north? Think you our chances would be better there?”
    “I do not think so. Not if what one hears is true. Things may be better in the towns that lie to the east, perhaps, but I do not know.”
    “To the eastward?” said the Duke softly.