Bob Darling spent the day and the evening on the fastest train in Europe. At first the train lugged slowly through yellow towns, then it began to pull together its force and go. The landscape slid past. In one stroke the train braced and broke through the air into a river of dinning sound. It climaxed at 380 kmh. Darling heard this news from a German across the aisle, but he'd already sensed the speed in a deeper bone. His body was attuned to the subtle flux of high speed, he jazz pulse, the fizz.

He closed his eyes, registered the scrape of the antimacasssar against his brittle hairss, and dozed. Dying tired him, so did the drugs he took to keep him from urinating on the seat. But he never let himself go that far, to close his eyes, unless the buzz of speed was in him, the drone of engines, the zhzhzh of jets.