“Nope.” Rex shook his head quickly. “Too far north — we’d sure run into blizzards this time of the year. Might get lost and forced down in the Arctic, and that ’ud be the end of the party.”
“Persia and Georgia are about equidistant — some sixteen hundred miles,” the Duke went on. “But I do not fancy either. Perhaps it would be best to make for the Ukraine.”
“But that is Soviet,” Marie Lou objected.
“True, my child, nevertheless it is a separate country to Russia proper. If we were forced to land we might receive diplomatic protection there, and the frontier is only thirteen hundred miles. It has the added attraction that if the petrol does not give out, and Rex can make a superhuman effort, we might do the few hundred extra miles into Poland or Rumania, which would mean final safety.”
“I never knew Russia was so big before,” groaned Simon.
“I don’t reckon the Ukrainians’ll exactly ring the joy-bells,” said Rex. “I’ve always thought they were pretty tied up with the rest of the Bolshevist bunch.”
“They preserve at least a measure of independence,” argued the Duke. “Not much, but possibly enough to serve our purpose.”
“O.K. by me,” Rex agreed. “What’s the course?”
“Dead south-west.” The Duke folded up his map. “It is dark already. Let us be going.”
“What’ll we do with this bird?” Rex jerked his head at Rakov.