The Motion Demon by Stefan Grabinski, Miroslaw Lipinski Read Free Book Online

dryly.
    ‘Have you been travelling far?’
    ‘At the moment I’m not in a social mood. I generally like to travel in silence. That’s why I usually choose a solitary compartment and pay a hefty gratuity for the pleasure.’
    Undeterred by the blunt retort, the railwayman smiled delightfully and continued with great composure:
    ‘It doesn’t matter. You’ll slowly acquire the verve for speaking. It’s just a question of practice and habit. Solitude is, as is known, a bad companion. Man is a social animal— zoon politikon —isn’t that true?’
    ‘If you want to consider yourself an animal, I personally have nothing against it. I am just a man.’
    ‘Excellent!’ the official pronounced. ‘See how your tongue has loosened. It’s not as bad as it seems. On the contrary, you possess a great talent for conversation, particularly in the direction of parrying questions. We’ll slowly improve. Yes, yes,’ he added patronizingly, ‘somehow we’ll make a go of it; somehow.’
    Szygon squinted his eyes suspiciously and studied the intruder.
    After a moment of silence, the persistent railwayman continued: ‘Unless I’m mistaken we are old acquaintances. We’ve seen each other several times in the past.’
    Szygon’s resistance slowly melted. The insolence of this person who insulted him with impunity, and for no apparent reason, disarmed him. He became interested in knowing more about this ‘stationmaster’.
    ‘It’s possible,’ he said, after clearing his throat. ‘Only it seems to me that until recently you wore some other uniform.’
    At that moment a curious metamorphosis transformed the railwayman. The shirt with the glittering gold tinsel stars instantly disappeared, the red railway cap vanished, and now, instead of the kindly smiling stationmaster, the stooping, dishevelled, and sneering conductor, with his shabby jacket, and the ever-present bouquet of small lanterns attached to his person, sat opposite Szygon.
    Szygon rubbed his eyes, involuntarily making a repelling gesture.
    ‘A transformation? Poof! Magic or what?!’
    But already leaning towards him was the kindly ‘stationmaster’, equipped with all the insignias of his office, while the conductor had hidden himself inside the uniform of a superior.
    ‘Ah, yes,’ he replied casually, as if the process were nothing, ‘I’ve been promoted.’
    ‘I congratulate you,’ muttered Szygon, staring with amazement at the quick-change artist.
    ‘Yes, yes,’ the other chatted away, ‘there “above” they know how to value energy and efficiency. They recognize a good person: I’ve become a stationmaster. The railway, my dear sir, is a great thing. It is worthwhile to spend one’s life in its service. A civilizing element! A swift go-between of nations, an exchange of cultures! Speed, my dear sir, speed and motion!’
    Szygon disdainfully pursed his lips.
    ‘Mr Stationmaster,’ he underlined scoffingly, ‘you’re surely joking. What kind of motion? Under today’s conditions, with improved technology, that excellent locomotive, the so-called “ Pacific Express ” in America, runs at 200 kilometres an hour; if we grant in due time a further increase to 250 kilometres, even 300 kilometres—what of it? We are looking at an end result; despite everything, we haven’t gone out even a millimetre beyond the Earth’s sphere.’
    The stationmaster smiled, unconvinced. ‘What more do you want, sir? A wonderful velocity! 200 kilometres an hour! Long live the railway!’
    ‘Have you gone crazy?’ asked Szygon, already furious.
    ‘Not at all. I gave a cheer to the honour of our winged patron. How can you be against that?’
    ‘Even if you were able to attain a record 400 kilometres—what is that in the face of absolute motion?’
    ‘What?’ said the intruder, pricking up his ears. ‘I didn’t quite get that—absolute motion?’
    ‘What are all your rides, even with the greatest speed imaginable, even on the farthest extended lines, in