Giving Up the Ghost by Max McCoy Page B

there.”
    â€œAnother trick of the mind?” I asked.
    â€œDid you see it?” Strong asked. “Up close?”
    â€œI had my eyes closed,” I said. “But that was only because I was afraid it would ram us. I saw it approaching, however, and then watched as it rumbled off to the east.”
    â€œDid you see it distinctly?”
    â€œNothing about it was distinct, except the threat it posed.”
    â€œAnd do you have any expertise in railway matters?”
    â€œNone,” I said.
    It was true. Not knowing the names or purposes, I struggle to describe even the simplest of railway things. And the extent of my ignorance didn’t end there, but in some cases it was willful ignorance. Guns are an enigma to me, and that’s the way I like to keep it, because you can’t write a poem or sing a song or paint a picture with a gun. I am as dumb as a sack of hair when it comes to banking and commerce, and the stock market to me seems as rigged in favor of the house as the faro and dice games in any frontier saloon. Confidence schemes I understand, because it had been my profession for so long, and I had lived with greed and obsession and guilt. But the everyday world of double-entry bookkeeping, of regular hours and customary wages, of hearth and home and pudding after dinner, was as alien to me as the sands of the Levant.
    â€œI wouldn’t expect a woman to know about such things,” Strong said.
    â€œNor pudding,” I said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s not important,” I said.
    â€œNeed I say more?” Strong asked, and gave Lawson and Salisbury a fraternal look.
    Delaney came with the tea then, two steaming cups on a lacquered tray. He placed them on the desk before us. I turned the handle of mine around and brought it beneath my nose, breathing in the rejuvenating aroma. The events of the night had left me somewhat more fatigued than I had realized.
    â€œThank you, Delmar,” I said.
    â€œMr. Delaney, if you please,” Strong corrected. “There is no reason to be overly familiar.”
    â€œOf course. What was I thinking?”
    I sipped my tea. It was hot and strong and some expensive brand that I was never likely to have again. The general manager did not touch his cup.
    â€œHow long do you think the phenomenon will tie up the lines, sir?” Salisbury asked.
    â€œA few hours,” Strong said. “Back in fifty-nine, as I recall, the longest stretch in which it was impossible to operate was only eight hours. The railway will be back up and running by dawn. Until that time, we will remain on this siding, and monitor the circuit until normalcy returns.”
    â€œWhat if it doesn’t?” I asked. “What if this is, from now and forever, the new normality?”
    â€œA preposterous thought,” Strong said, then laughed with derision. Then he turned sober. “It would be the end of the civilized world that men have built. No telegrams, no railway schedules, no immediate news from any farther than your backyard. The stock markets would be paralyzed. The security of the country would be jeopardized. Why, we would be thrown back to the unimaginably primitive days before 1844, when Professor Morse announced his wondrous device with that memorable message—”
    â€œ What hath God wrought ,” I said.
    â€œPrecisely,” Strong said. “We would be limited once again to communication at the speed of the fastest ship or horse, instead of at the speed of the lightning bolt.”
    â€œThings might be better in some ways,” I said.
    Strong shook his head.
    â€œProgress always moves forward, young lady,” he said. “You can no more stop the forward movement of man’s ingenuity than you could stop the sun in its course. Both are ordained.”
    â€œAs you like,” I said. “Now that I have had my lecture, would you be kind enough to explain why you wanted to speak with