The only sound was from the north-east and I watched the lights moving in line and slowing as they saw the flares, the first vehicle halting below the embankment and dropping its crew off. These were not railway emergency units: their lights were shining on the next truck ahead as they stopped in convoy and I could see the Red Star insignia on their sides. The closest place to find help must have been the army camp and that’s where the signalman had phoned.

Soldiers were climbing the embankment near the flares, the blood-red light spreading over their uniforms and glinting on their rifles as they stood together, uncertain what to do. I could hear an officer shouting.

The flares had seven minutes to burn and I turned and walked to the other end of the bridge, watching the snows to the south-west and seeing nothing. The deadline had shifted to a new phase: it would now depend on how long the officers in that unit took to decide there was no plane down and go back to the signal-box and report the line clear. The journey would take them two minutes and the night was freezing; they wouldn’t stay here very long.

I heard shouting again and saw that a party of men had been formed up and was off on a jog-trot down the track: it had obviously been decided that the service road didn’t offer a good enough view and that a search by foot parties was indicated. A second one was starting off, with an NCO running beside it. The leading transport got into motion, turning and going slowly back along the foot of the embankment.

Whistle.

Or my imagination. I turned and looked to the south-west again, cupping my hands behind my ears and hearing nothing. The snows were infinite beneath an infinite sky, and the track’s perspective was lost to sight within a hundred yards of the bridge where I was standing. Somewhere to my right an owl called again and I cursed it because I wanted to bring the vastness of that silence out there to my ears and pick it over, searching for the one sound that sooner or later must break it. All I could hear was the tramp of the soldiers’ boots along the track behind me and the rumbling of the transport on the move, and I had to shut them out of my consciousness, keeping my ears and my whole body oriented towards the southwest. And then it came again, a far note vibrant on the winter air, from this distance as faint as the, piping of a flute among the snows. It sounded a third time and died abruptly as the tram entered the tunnel four miles away.

Behind me the whole convoy of trucks had begun moving off, their lights swinging across the slope of the embankment in a sparkling wash as they accelerated nose to tail, their rear lamps farming a ruby chain that lost size and definition as they rolled towards the signal-box. Nearer and half-concealed by the structure of the bridge the flares were burning low. The deadline was close but there was nothing I could do so I turned again to face the south-west and for the first time saw a gleam of light below the horizon and heard the constant tremble of sound that was coming into the land.

The signal was behind me, a hundred yards down the track, and I didn’t need to watch it because I’d hear the levers if they moved, and the weight of the arm coming down. The rumbling of the army transports had died away, with the tramp of the soldiers’ boots along the track. Time was taking over and the last few minutes were running out: the flares were burning low and when they finally guttered there would be only the signal left to stop the tram. But if the military reported the line clear then the signal would change and the train would go through and I’d stand here watching it as it carried Gorodok to the trap.

Over the minutes the earth began shaking under my feet and I saw the great length of the train cutting into the snowscape, its lights brightening until I could make out the separate carriages. When I turned round I saw that two of the flares had burned out and a third was guttering, but the signal was still at red and for a moment I watched it, and then looked back at the train as it began slowing.

It was already nearing the bridge and I heard the steam shutting down and the brake-shoes clamping against the wheels as a short blast came from the whistle. Ten seconds later the locomotive passed me and I turned my back on the wave of air and smoke as it swept the surface snow from the bridge and whirled it away in clouds. I couldn’t see the signal any more but the brakes were still on and the carriages passing so slowly now that I could see people’s faces in the dim yellowish light. The guard’s van was across the bridge and I stayed in cover, seeing one of the army trucks coming back along the service road, its headlamps dipping and lifting over the bumps. The signal was still at red and a minute later the train rolled to a stop, with faces coming to the windows to peer at the flares.

A guard swung down from the rear van, bringing a lantern, and from farther along the train a man called to him. In the headlights of an army truck I could see one of the locomotive crew coming down from the foot plate He went forward along the track, looking around him and then turning back as an officer shouted to him. I couldn’t hear what was said.

I began looking for Gorodok.

Two more transports were moving back in this direction, their headlights making a glare below the embankment, and I moved deeper into the cover of the bridge. Two people were dropping from the train about half-way along, to stand looking around them. There were only three flares still burning now, and the signal was still at red. More passengers were getting down to see what was happening: from Tashkent to Yelingrad is a thousand miles and there are only two stops, at Frunze and Alma Ata; passengers are glad enough to get out and stretch their legs, even at the risk of freezing. A score of people were wandering along the edge of the track, clumping their feet in the snow and pointing to the military convoy below them.

I moved to the other side of the bridge: Gorodok would have a better chance to break for cover there, unless he decided to mingle with the passengers and soldiers before melting into the half-dark. I could see a dozen people on this side, two of them walking at a distance from the train before a guard called them back.

There was nothing I could do for the courier: I couldn’t recognize him and I couldn’t break cover to go and meet him. The rdv was for the south end of the Litsky Bridge and this was where he had to come. A group of passengers had started walking alongside the train, three or four of them stooping to make snowballs and throwing them at the others: they looked like a party of young people, and a guard was going along to bring them back. Two soldiers were on this side now, with an officer, and the guard went up and spoke to him, gesturing at the passengers who were wandering about.

I watched for Gorodok, for one man on the move by himself.

There was no one.

It was the guard at the rear who saw the signal change to green, and he at once blew his whistle, climbing to the step of the van and swinging his lantern. Shouting started along the train and another whistle blew. Some of the groups broke up and began hurrying in a single line alongside the carriages and it was then that I saw a man move away from the people on the service-road side of the train and duck below it, coming out on the other side and beginning to hurry. Someone shouted — one of the soldiers, I thought at first — but he didn’t stop or turn round. A transport still had its lights on and there was a glare below the train, with silhouettes and shadows intermingling, so that I couldn’t see clearly what was going on.

Farther to the right of the bridge was a mass of low scrub, humped under the snow, and the man seemed to be heading for it now as he passed a group of passengers and veered to his left, breaking into a trot. There was another shout but I couldn’t tell where it came from: the guards were trying to get everyone back on board and their whistles were still blowing. The last flare had gone out and the signal was still at green.