Growing Nuisance

By one o'clock that afternoon, Sixty-Four had crossed fifty kilometers of urban stone.

Stop. Start. First gear. Second. Brake. Disengage the clutch. Idle. Wait for a milk dray. Accelerate.

It was far harder on the driver than the open western road. Out in the country, once top gear was engaged, Wallace could lean back and watch the mileposts pass. Here, his left foot worked the clutch band fifty times in three blocks, his right palm wrestled the hand throttle, and his eyes never left the narrow gaps between carriage hubs.

His left knee throbbed with a dull, familiar ache.

At half-past one, he pulled into the North Station courtyard for a scheduled ten-minute turnaround. He hopped down, stretched his back until his spine clicked, and unlatched the cowl to check the revised sediment trap.

A railway baggage porter leaned against a luggage truck, watching him. "She broken down, driver?"