Read Online The Motion Demon by Stefan Grabinski, Miroslaw Lipinski - Free Book Online
Authors: Stefan Grabinski, Miroslaw Lipinski
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reach our goal. We’re coming to the end.’
Something in the intonation of the answer struck the questioner. His eyes paused for a long moment on the conductor. Boron smiled mysteriously and passed on. The head disappeared back inside.
Another man exited from a second-class compartment and, unlocking the corridor window, looked through it at the space beyond. His confused movements betrayed a certain unease. He raised the window and withdrew to the opposite side, to the end of the lobby. Here he dragged on a cigarette several times and, throwing glances at the butt, went out to the platform. Boron saw his silhouette leaning against the safety bar in the direction of travel.
‘He’s examining the area,’ he muttered, smiling maliciously. ‘Nothing will help. Accidents will happen.’
Meanwhile the nervous passenger returned to the car. Spotting the conductor, he asked with forced calm: ‘Has our train already crossed with the express from Gron?’
‘Not yet. We’re expecting it at any moment. It’s possible that we’ll cross it at our final stop: it might be delayed. The express you’re referring to is coming from an adjacent line.’
At the moment, a loud rumble resounded from the right side. Beyond the window, a giant contour whisked by, belching flying sparks; after it, a chain of black boxes lit up with cutout quadrangles flashed by. Boron pointed in the direction of the already disappearing train.
‘That’s it.’
The uneasy gentleman, heaving out a sigh of relief, took out a cigarette and offered it to the conductor.
‘Let’s have a smoke. Genuine Phillip Morris.’
Boron put his hand to the visor of his cap.
‘Thank you very much. I only smoke a pipe.’
‘Too bad, because they’re good.’
The traveller lit up a cigarette by himself and returned to his compartment.
‘Heh, heh, heh! He sensed something! Only he calmed down too quickly. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.’
But the successful crossing disturbed him a bit. The opportunity for an accident went down one degree.
It was already 9:45—in fifteen minutes they were scheduled to stop at Gron, the end of their ride. Along the way there was no bridge that could cave in; the only train coming from the opposite direction that they could have crashed into had been successfully passed. One should then expect a derailment or an accident at the station itself.
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
Something in the intonation of the answer struck the questioner. His eyes paused for a long moment on the conductor. Boron smiled mysteriously and passed on. The head disappeared back inside.
Another man exited from a second-class compartment and, unlocking the corridor window, looked through it at the space beyond. His confused movements betrayed a certain unease. He raised the window and withdrew to the opposite side, to the end of the lobby. Here he dragged on a cigarette several times and, throwing glances at the butt, went out to the platform. Boron saw his silhouette leaning against the safety bar in the direction of travel.
‘He’s examining the area,’ he muttered, smiling maliciously. ‘Nothing will help. Accidents will happen.’
Meanwhile the nervous passenger returned to the car. Spotting the conductor, he asked with forced calm: ‘Has our train already crossed with the express from Gron?’
‘Not yet. We’re expecting it at any moment. It’s possible that we’ll cross it at our final stop: it might be delayed. The express you’re referring to is coming from an adjacent line.’
At the moment, a loud rumble resounded from the right side. Beyond the window, a giant contour whisked by, belching flying sparks; after it, a chain of black boxes lit up with cutout quadrangles flashed by. Boron pointed in the direction of the already disappearing train.
‘That’s it.’
The uneasy gentleman, heaving out a sigh of relief, took out a cigarette and offered it to the conductor.
‘Let’s have a smoke. Genuine Phillip Morris.’
Boron put his hand to the visor of his cap.
‘Thank you very much. I only smoke a pipe.’
‘Too bad, because they’re good.’
The traveller lit up a cigarette by himself and returned to his compartment.
‘Heh, heh, heh! He sensed something! Only he calmed down too quickly. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.’
But the successful crossing disturbed him a bit. The opportunity for an accident went down one degree.
It was already 9:45—in fifteen minutes they were scheduled to stop at Gron, the end of their ride. Along the way there was no bridge that could cave in; the only train coming from the opposite direction that they could have crashed into had been successfully passed. One should then expect a derailment or an accident at the station itself.
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
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