He sat by the railway track smoking his pipe, and reading his onion-skin edition of Keats' poems. It was a beautiful morning, and the sun glinted off the detonator clips, and the thin strand of wire snaking off into the clump of woods. He was anxious, for three reasons. The first was that he had forgotten to pack his edition of Keats' letters, and there was a nagging reference he wanted to check, but the chances of him finding an English library in Budapest, were slim. Second, Morzik was late, and though he was somewhat bumptious, Morzik was never late. Third, he knew that Annette Marceau was on the Express, and that he would have to finesse a warning somehow when the train reached Budapest. He heard a sound behind him, ducked down fast, and then saw that it was just a herd of wild ponies cantering across the puszhta. He relaxed again, and there came into his mind Annette's delicate subtitles, and the afternoon when they had brought new life to Pere Lachaise. He remembered another time, in the hut on the island near Stockholm, where she had turned to him and said: "Curioso, I think they are wrong. I don't think it would require that much uranium if the reaction were tweaked somehow. Niels talked about it once, but I don't think even he realizes. Look, turn over, cheri, I need some writing space. No, not that way, magnifique though you are. Let me draw it along your back." And that was when they got the idea.