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making a movie aboard the Super. That’s the kind of work I do for the good of the railroad. Mr. Wheeler’s in the other drawing room. You know him?”
    “Everybody who knows the Super knows him,” Pryor said. “I’ll bet he spends more time on this train than most of the crew.”
    “He’s really ill …”
    Then it happened. Charlie Sanders grabbed Pryor’s right arm and pointed him toward the front of the train. “My God, look who’s coming.”
    Pryor immediately recognized the man walking toward them. It was Clark Gable. Who wouldn’t know that look—thatpresence? He was in dark gray suit pants and an unbuttoned white dress shirt with a big collar but no tie. His black shoes shined like mirrors.
    “Good morning, Mr. Gable,” Pryor said when Gable got to them. “Welcome to Kansas City.”
    “Morning,” said Gable, smiling. He was puffing on a cigarette. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d stretch my legs a bit.”
    “That’s great, Mr. Gable,” said Sanders nervously. “I’m an assistant general passenger agent with the Santa Fe. Are you getting everything you need here on the Super Chief, sir? If there’s anything you need I will be available on the train. Just ask your porter or one of the conductors to find me.”
    Clark Gable’s smile broadened. “I’m getting more than everything I need. Thanks.”
    “I’m Jack Pryor, a special agent of the Santa Fe police, Mr. Gable.”
    “Nice to meet you both,” said Gable. “I guess I’d better start back toward my car. Wouldn’t want to be left in Kansas City.”
    He laughed. Sanders and Pryor laughed.
    Clark Gable raised his hand in the form of a salute as he walked away.
    Sanders and Pryor watched him from the rear in silence.
    “Wow,” said Sanders. “Thank you, Mr. Santa Fe Railway, for making that possible in my life.”
    Pryor said, “He seemed smaller than I expected. Shorter, thinner.”
    “Movies make everything and everybody look bigger than they really are, I guess,” Sanders said.
    They started moving toward the train.
    Sanders said, “They told me in Chicago that we’re making a quick, off-the-books stop in Strong for somebody else who’s important—important to our railroad, at least.”
    A conductor yelled “All aboard!” And then so did another farther up.
    Sanders jumped on the train after Pryor and within a minute the Super Chief was moving again.

 
    Darwin Rinehart, after so many trips, still saw his drawing room as being exquisite, ideally fit for kings, particularly when the connecting bedroom was added into the mix. Gene Mathews was in the bedroom, no doubt fast asleep.
    It was so much more than the space.
    Small lamps on the walls between the windows in Rinehart’s drawing room were lit just enough to show the soft pastel colors of light blue, green and sandy brown on the window shades, carpet, chairs, wood paneling and ceiling.
    The bed was made up and ready for him, its crisp white sheets and blue blanket turned down and gleaming.
    There was a smell of soap, varnish, chrome—cleanliness, spic, span, class.
    Rinehart leaned down, pulled a blind and looked out thelarge window into the darkness. It was after midnight; the Super Chief was zipping through another small town. He yanked the blind back down and quickly removed his clothes, hung them in a small closet, dressed in a pair of light blue silk pajamas and lay down.
    The Super Chief. He was on the Super Chief. He was lying down in a drawing room on the Super Chief, the greatest train in America, on its way to Los Angeles, California, and the Pacific Ocean. The Super Chief. Thirty-nine and one-quarter hours was all it took for its streak across the American heartland. Yes, a
silver
streak. A nine-car streak of silver luxury behind a magnificent diesel engine painted in the Santa Fe’s famous red and yellow “Warbonnet” colors.
    Rinehart heard and felt the clicking of the wheels on the track. And there was an occasional
Whaaa!
blast from the train’s