As the plane rose higher and the never-freezing waters of Great Salt Lake lay beneath, the streamliner pulled out of Reno. After two thousand miles it was still on time to the second. In the sleeping-cars the corridors were dim. Most of the passengers were asleep; those who had awakened because of the stop at Reno were settling down again. The bar was closed; shining chromium and crimson leather, the lounge-car was empty except for a dozing trainman.

The wheel-clicks came faster as the train picked up speed. Like the bay of some huge unearthly hound, the horn sounded through the night. A swaying and creaking of the cars let even a man lying in his berth know that the train was pulling up-grade.

On the crests ahead, thick clouds hung low, but overhead broken clouds slid across the sky. The moon shone between, gleaming upon scanty desert snow. The clumps of sage-brush were snow-encrusted; in the moonlight they glittered like wedding-cake ornaments.

Ahead of the streamliner, red lights winked into the green. Fifty miles farther on, a rotary snow-plow pulled out of Norden yards to get the track clear; a flanger crew was making ready to follow. Track-walkers dragged themselves out of sleep, and set out to patrol their sections. The crack train of the run must go through on time.

•

The wheels ground on a curve; the streamliner, a few miles out of Reno, was entering Truckee Canyon. In San Francisco the Chief was drawing the last of his isobars.

Against the blank darkness of the windows the rain was a continuous crash, varying only as some gust raised it to a crescendo and then let it fall off a little. The Chief was working with a half-smile on his lips. With that beat of rain against the windows it seemed silly to think that the storm was over. Yet he had already in his mind worded his forecast: “Heavy showers, then clearing.” By the time the average citizen sat down to breakfast and, picking up his paper, looked for the weather-report, the rain would already have ceased; very likely the sun would be shining.

Yet the Chief was not dabbling in astrology or staring at a crystal; the forecast lay all upon the map, clear for anyone to read. Off-shore about a hundred miles, sharply defined by ship-reports, he had drawn a blue line marking a cold front. Eastward of that boundary line as it advanced toward the coast was falling pressure, warm moist air, and a southwest gale; behind it was rising pressure and cooler air borne in on the northwest wind. That front with a sharp wind-shift line of more than ninety degrees, would cause plenty of disturbance as it passed over California, but it would be the storm’s last kick.