The Motion Demon Read Free Page B

however, before he moved on, the supervisor of the train whispering something intently to the stationmaster. Grot realized from their glances and gestures that he was the subject of the conversation, but pretended not to notice. He was amused, though, by the characteristic ‘he’s crazy’ circle drawn on the forehead by the finger of the red-capped official. 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