One wall of his train was made up of clear plastic sliding doors. Inside, there were deep pile carpets, reclining chairs, low blue overheads and movable reading lights. As the doors slid softly shut, Peter Stone remembered as usual the letter he'd forgotten to mail for his wife; but this time he could see a stamp machine and mail box at the end of the car. When he got up he saw that there were also milk, coffee, soda, fruit, cigarette, aspirin and newspaper vending machines, and three telephone booths.
The train glided to a hushed halt three minutes after a speaker at his elbow had murmured the name of his station. Before his wife's goggling eyes, Peter Stone bounded down the steps and ran to their car. She remembered that evening the rest of her life.
Powers-of-pearl let the silver evaporate, and with it the memory of it. "The best game yet," she smiled, leaning in happy exhaustion against Firepride's shoulder.
"You were magnificent," laughed Firepride. "One step ahead of an entire city!" Powers-of-pearl blushed radiantly.
No trace of their game remained. But for some obscure reason, Peter Stone decided that one day he would run for Mayor.