Shortly thereafter, he was speeding along at full steam, unaware that the telegraph in Brzan was warning the station authorities at Podwyz.

And he was not far from that city. The late-afternoon sky was already lined by the golden crosses of churches, coils of smoke were passing over a sea of roofs, factory spires were cracking sharply. Already one could see in the distance the track system intersecting, a forest of switches darkening the area, the distance marker.

Grot grasped the crank vigorously, set the lever, turned the brake; the engine let out a plaintive complaint, part moan, part whistle; it spit out through its ribs a mighty waterfall of steam and settled down in place: the train stood a good one and a half kilometres before the station.

Grot withdrew his hand from the taps and studied the effect. He did not have to wait long. The already-biased stationmaster sent out a junior-ranking comrade in the role of a parliamentarian.

The young man had a stern, almost compressed expression. He straightened himself up, stiffly pulled on his service jacket, and ceremoniously ascended to the engine platform.

‘Drive up to the station!’

Grot silently grasped the crank, set the pistons in motion: the train moved.

The assistant, proud of his triumphant accomplishment, crossed his arms Napoleonically and, turning scornfully away from the engine driver, lit a cigarette.

But his success was illusory. For the train, ignoring the platform, roared on, and instead of stopping at the station, it travelled a considerable distance beyond it, only to halt there for a rest, puffing out all its steam.

At first the official was unaware of what had occurred; only when he noticed the station building behind his left side did he advance threateningly towards the engine driver.

‘Have you gone crazy? Stopping a train in an open field! Either you’re mad or you’ve been drinking too much today! Go back instantly!’

Grot did not budge, he did not move from his place. The official shoved him roughly away from the furnace, and taking his post, he let go of the counter steam; after a moment the train drew back puffingly to the platform.

Grot did not interfere. Some particular apathy overpowered his movements, fettered his hands. He looked blankly at the faces of the rail service, functionaries and clerks who had flocked around his engine; he passively allowed himself to be pulled down from the platform—like an automaton he followed a summoning official.

After a couple of minutes he found himself in the station office, in front of a large, green wool-covered table where apparatuses were incessantly snapping in nervous jolts, long ribbons were spinning out from blocks, little bells were fluttering.

The stationmaster would interrogate him. The clerk sitting by his side dipped his pen in ink and waited anxiously for the questions that would fall from his supervisor’s lips.

Somehow they fell.

‘Name?’

‘Christopher Grot.’

‘Age?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘At what time did you depart Wrotycz?’

‘This morning at 4:54.’

‘Did you inspect the engine before taking over the train?’

‘I inspected it.’

‘Do you remember its serial and number?’

Across Grot’s face flashed a strange smile:

‘I remember. Serial: zero; number: infinity.’

The stationmaster glanced knowingly at his transcribing colleague.

‘Please write down the numbers you’ve just given me on this piece of paper.’

The stationmaster slipped him a sheet of paper and a pencil.

Grot shrugged his shoulders.

‘Certainly.’

And he drew two separate signs:


 

0 ∞

 

The stationmaster glanced at the numbers, shook his head, and continued with the questioning:

‘The number of the trailer?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘That’s bad, very bad—an engine driver should know such things,’ he opined sententiously.

‘What is your stoker’s name?’ he asked after a brief pause.

‘Blazej Midget.’

‘The forename is correct, but the surname is wrong.’

‘I’ve told the truth.’

‘You’re mistaken; his name is Blazej Sad.’

Grot waved his hand indifferently.

‘That could be. To me, his name is Midget.’

Once again the stationmaster exchanged a meaningful glance with his companion.

‘The conductor’s name?’

‘Stanislaw Ant.’

The examiner held back with difficulty an outburst of laughter.

‘Ant, you say? Ant? Ah, that’s good one! That’s fabulous— Ant?!’

‘Yes. Stanislaw Ant.’

‘No, Mr Grot. The name of the conductor of your train is Stanislaw Zywiecki. Again you are mistaken.’

The recording clerk leaned his pomaded head towards his chief and whispered in his ear.

‘Stationmaster, this person is either drunk or a bit touched.’

‘It seems the latter,’ answered the official, clearing his throat; after which, he turned back to the culprit with a new question.

‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘Did you have anything to drink before your departure?’

‘I detest alcohol.’

‘How many hours have you been at work?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘You don’t feel tired?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Why did you not stop your train four consecutive times at the designated place before a station?’

Grot was silent. He could not, he did not want to reveal this for anything in the world.

‘I’m waiting for an answer.’

The engine driver hung his head in gloom.

The stationmaster raised himself solemnly from the desk and pronounced judgment.

‘Now you’ll go and get some sleep. A colleague will replace you. I’m suspending you for the time being; it’s possible that you’ll be asked back sometime in the future. Meanwhile, I would advise you to seek a doctor’s care as soon as possible. You’re seriously ill.’

Grot turned white, he staggered. The affair took on a tragic character. From the stationmaster’s facial expression, the tone and content of his words, he realized that he was considered a madman. He understood that he had lost his position, that he had stopped being an engine driver.

‘Stationmaster, I am completely healthy,’ he moaned out, wringing his hands. ‘I can drive on.’

‘That’s out of the question, Mr Grot. I cannot entrust the fate of several hundred people to you. Do you know that you almost were the cause of a collision today? You rode up too far, reaching a point where a crossing would have occurred with the Czerniaw passenger train. If your assistant hadn’t moved back your train, a collision would surely have resulted. The already signalled-forward train arrived two minutes late. You are not fit for duty, Mr Grot.