The hum is electric, disconcerting for an ear accustomed to the geared roar of diesel, stranger still for the anxious Reds waiting for the hiss and chug of their final train, the release of steam that means release. It never comes. The words of the announcer are unexpectedly distinct and in English too, not as elsewhere where she seems to call gasping, drowning from underwater, even though her nose is pegged. Kyosti Kallio heard only the band the National Anthem as he appeared. One step: the vague cries and gasps. Two steps: only his own heart pumping. Three steps: nothing. Marshall Mannerheim held him in his arms and wept. The startled musicians fell out of time, out of tune, out of line.