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Koch downshifted the transmission to slow for a traffic light that was turning red—the wound in his left leg hurting when he depressed the clutch—and then looked over.

A grinning Bayer held up a small form.

On it, next to a tiny shield design that encouraged the buying of war bonds and stamps, it had UNITED STATES OF AMERICA OFFICE OF PRICE ADMINISTRATION GASOLINE RATION CARD at the top, a seven-digit serial number, and, twice the point size of the number, a big letter T. Under that was the handwritten information of the holder—Stanley Smith, who, the form stated, had agreed to “observe the rules and regulations governing rationing as issued by the Office of Price Administration”—his address, and the truck’s make and model and license plate number.

Koch grinned at the rules and regulations part—What a joke—then his eye went to the T.

“That’s good for five gallons,” he said. “All we need.”

He looked at Bayer.

“But when we stop,” he added, “check for that rubber hose. We may need it later.”

Koch, after they had finally found a gas station open and pumped fuel in what had been a dry tank, took the U.S. 1 bridge across the St. Johns River into downtown Jacksonville. He drove up Main Street, looking intently in each direction as he went through the intersections at Monroe, Duval, then Church Streets.

“Something wrong?” Bayer asked.

There now was a short coil of half-inch-diameter water hose at his feet, on top of the scattered receipts from the glove box.

Koch didn’t answer right away.

A minute later, when they came to State Street, he said, “Damn, went too far. I knew this didn’t look right,” and turned left, drove six blocks to Broad Street, made another left, and then a right onto Water Street.

There, Bayer pointed out the train tracks.

Koch smiled and nodded, then pointed to a lamppost on the corner with a street sign that had the representation of a train track on it—Looks like a stepladder, Koch thought—an arrow, and JACKSONVILLE TERMINAL.

Down the street, a row of two dozen palm trees, each easily thirty feet tall, separated Water Street from the parking lot of the terminal building.

The building itself was quite grand.

“Impressive,” Bayer said, marveling at its massive stone façade.

The wide entrance featured a row of fourteen Doric columns towering four stories high. The main building itself rose even higher, topped by a peaked roof.

“Typical American overkill,” Koch said, unimpressed. “They say the design is a smaller version of New York’s Penn Station, which, of course, was designed to copy the Roman baths.” He looked at it a moment before pulling into a parking spot. “Disgusting, if you ask me.”

As he pressed down on the clutch with his left leg, the wound in his leg triggered a spasm of pain and he involuntarily jerked the leg. That caused him to dump the clutch—killing the engine and banging Grossman’s head on the back window.

Koch turned at the thump, saw the big oberschutz vigorously rubbing his skull like a little boy with a booboo, and called back, “Sorry!”

Grossman glared back through the window.

Bayer and Koch got out of the truck.

“We’ll be back shortly,” Koch told the pair in the back of the truck.

“Be quick,” Grossman called out as they started to walk across the parking lot toward the giant columns. “I have to piss.”

Inside, Bayer thought that the terminal was even more elaborate and massive—if that was possible.

The main waiting room, light and bright, held grand arched windows that towered upward six stories to an ornate vaulted ceiling. The floor itself—the first thing he had noticed—was marble polished to an incredible gleam, which seemed to hold its shine well despite the heavy foot traffic.

And there was a mass moving through. The place was packed with hundreds of civilians and soldiers, some traveling, others there to see off or greet those traveling. They milled about the room or waited on the long wooden benches, talking, reading, couples holding hands. Many lingered in the huge restaurant and in the snack bars and newsstands. A few were even getting trims at the barber-shop.

Bayer looked around the great room and saw signage indicating MAIN CONCOURSE and, just before the ornamental iron gates that led to the trains themselves, TICKETING.

He lost sight of Koch in the crowd, then saw him walking toward the semicircle of ticketing windows in the marble wall at the right side of the main room.