We’ve seen each other several times in the past.’

Szygon’s resistance slowly melted. The insolence of this person who insulted him with impunity, and for no apparent reason, disarmed him. He became interested in knowing more about this ‘stationmaster’.

‘It’s possible,’ he said, after clearing his throat. ‘Only it seems to me that until recently you wore some other uniform.’

At that moment a curious metamorphosis transformed the railwayman. The shirt with the glittering gold tinsel stars instantly disappeared, the red railway cap vanished, and now, instead of the kindly smiling stationmaster, the stooping, dishevelled, and sneering conductor, with his shabby jacket, and the ever-present bouquet of small lanterns attached to his person, sat opposite Szygon.

Szygon rubbed his eyes, involuntarily making a repelling gesture.

‘A transformation? Poof! Magic or what?!’

But already leaning towards him was the kindly ‘stationmaster’, equipped with all the insignias of his office, while the conductor had hidden himself inside the uniform of a superior.

‘Ah, yes,’ he replied casually, as if the process were nothing, ‘I’ve been promoted.’

‘I congratulate you,’ muttered Szygon, staring with amazement at the quick-change artist.

‘Yes, yes,’ the other chatted away, ‘there “above” they know how to value energy and efficiency. They recognize a good person: I’ve become a stationmaster. The railway, my dear sir, is a great thing. It is worthwhile to spend one’s life in its service. A civilizing element! A swift go-between of nations, an exchange of cultures! Speed, my dear sir, speed and motion!’

Szygon disdainfully pursed his lips.

‘Mr Stationmaster,’ he underlined scoffingly, ‘you’re surely joking. What kind of motion? Under today’s conditions, with improved technology, that excellent locomotive, the so-called “Pacific Express” in America, runs at 200 kilometres an hour; if we grant in due time a further increase to 250 kilometres, even 300 kilometres—what of it? We are looking at an end result; despite everything, we haven’t gone out even a millimetre beyond the Earth’s sphere.’

The stationmaster smiled, unconvinced. ‘What more do you want, sir? A wonderful velocity! 200 kilometres an hour! Long live the railway!’

‘Have you gone crazy?’ asked Szygon, already furious.

‘Not at all. I gave a cheer to the honour of our winged patron. How can you be against that?’

‘Even if you were able to attain a record 400 kilometres—what is that in the face of absolute motion?’

‘What?’ said the intruder, pricking up his ears. ‘I didn’t quite get that—absolute motion?’

‘What are all your rides, even with the greatest speed imaginable, even on the farthest extended lines, in comparison to absolute motion and the fact that, in the end, despite everything, you remain on the ground? Even if you could invent a devilish train that would circumvent the entire globe in one hour, eventually you’d return to the same point you started from: you are chained to the ground.’

‘Ha, ha!’ scoffed the railwayman. ‘You are certainly a poet, my dear sir. You can’t be serious?’

‘What kind of influence can even the most terrific, fabulous speed of an earthly train have on absolute motion and its effect?’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ bellowed the amused stationmaster.

‘None!’ shouted Szygon. ‘It won’t change its absolute path by even an inch; it won’t change its cosmic route even by a millimetre. We are riding on a globe turning in space.’

‘Like a fly on a rubber ball. Ha, ha, ha. What thoughts, what concepts! You are not only a first-class conversationalist, but a splendid humorist as well.’

‘Your pathetic train, your ant-like, frail train with its best, boldest “speed”, as you like to term it, relies—notice, I’m clearly underlining this—relies simultaneously on twenty relative motions, of which every one on its own is by far stronger and unquestionably more powerful than your miniature momentum.’

‘Hmm…interesting, most fascinating!’ derided the unyielding opponent. ‘Twenty relative motions—a substantial number.’

‘I’ve omitted the incidental ones which for certain no railwayman has even dreamed of, and will mention the principal, pivotal ones known to every schoolboy. A train rushing with the greatest fury from A to B has simultaneously to make a complete rotation with the Earth round its axis in a twenty-four hour period….’

‘Ha, ha, ha! That’s novel, absolutely novel.’

‘At the same time it whirls with the entire globe around the sun….’

‘Like a moth around a lamp.’

‘Spare me your jokes! They’re not interesting.