They would have jumped, shouted, screamed all those who now point and speculate and argue about times and places of departure and arrival. For on 28 August 1926 locomotive 674 like that dream of falling arrested of the climax of a blockbuster keeps on arriving: the sounds of metal and stone and wood, ripping, fracturing, splitting, grinding; scissors cut paper, stone blunts scissors. Steam escapes violently. It comes to rest before the central hall, spilling its load of ripe, red lingonberries blood on the tracks. Travellers gasp at what they take to be body parts. The door nearest to where it happened now slams shut a thousand times a day and close by the travellers mouth new words: ciabatta, latte, cappuccino, baguette.