In any case, the Sloven’s prognosis had to come true—he was bound to it, he, Boron, the old conductor.

This didn’t concern the passengers, nor the train, nor his entire little self, but the infallibility of the barefooted oddity. Boron depended immensely on maintaining the Sloven’s dignity against sceptical conductors, on preserving the Sloven’s prestige in the eyes of unbelievers. The acquaintances to whom he had several times related the mysterious visits took the affair from a humouristic point of view, explaining the entire story as a hallucination, or, what was worse, the ramblings of someone who had drunk too much. This last conjecture hurt him especially, as he never imbibed in alcohol. Several railwaymen considered Boron a superstitious eccentric and not quite right in the head. Also called into play to a certain extent was his honour and healthy human reason. He would have preferred wringing his own neck than living through the Sloven’s failure….

In ten minutes it would be ten o’clock. He finished his pipe and went up some stairs to the top of the car, to a windowed cupola. From here, from the height of a crow’s nest, the surrounding area lay during the day like the palm of one’s hand. Now the world was plunged in dense darkness. Stains of light fell from the car windows, whose yellow eyes skimmed the embankment slopes. In front of him, at a distance of five cars, the engine sowed blood-red cascades of sparks, the chimney breathed out white-rose smoke. The black, twenty-jointed serpent glittered along its scaly sides, belched fire through its mouth, lit up the road with encompassing eyes. In the distance, the glow of a station was already visible.

As if sensing the nearness of the yearned-for stop, the train summoned all its strength and doubled its speed. Already the distance signal flashed phantom-like, set for clear passage, already semaphores were extending friendly arms in welcome. The rails started to duplicate, crossing in a hundred lines, angles, iron interweavings. As if in greeting, switch-signal lanterns to the right and left descended from the night shadows, station water-cranes, wells, heavy levers extended their necks.

Suddenly, several feet before the riotous locomotive, a red signal appeared. The engine threw out an abrupt whistle from its bronze throat, the brakes screeched, and the train, checked by the frenzied exertion of counter-steam, stopped right before the second switch signal.

Boron ran down and joined the flock of railwaymen who had got off to check the cause of the interruption in movement. The signal operator who had given the danger signal explained the situation. The first track, on which they were to ride, was temporarily occupied by a freight train. The switch had to be shifted and the train set onto the second track. Usually this manoeuvre is carried out at the signal-tower with the help of a lever. Meanwhile, however, the underground connection between it and the tracks had experienced some trouble, so the operator had to carry out the shifting outside with the aid of a key to get to the control switch.

The calmed crewmen returned to their cars to await the all-clear signal. Something riveted Boron in place.