That’s the first thing the client said. He looked a bit like a worker, a bit like pictures I’d seen of my grand dad. One thing was for sure, he was scared. He said his name was Dolan. I spun my chair around and stood up and walked around the desk. I slid onto the edge of the desk, giving him a long appraising gaze.

“What’s it sound like ? ” I purred. “Is it a voice ? Or just a noise – like music ?”

“It’s like railway noise, the sound the tracks make, high pitched, with little words in there.”

“What kind of words? ” I leaned closer, like I could hear inside his head. I couldn’t but he didn’t know that. But if someone was sending messages , I needed to know what they said and who was receiving.

He said it sounded like railway trains. . .

My new assistant, Marty, had a car. Nice Lincoln Sedan with “suicide doors” , in a deep green, so we piled into it and headed to Union Station. I needed to hear the sound the rails sang. More importantly I needed to hear the words.

Dolan started to get antsy the closer we got to Union Station, Marty’s eyes met mine in the rear view mirror.

“Miss Malone, he’s starting to shake and his head is making a noise, and it’s really hot on one side.”

“Let me pull over, get him out of the car”, there was no sense in seeing him explode and losing all the knowledge that might be being sent. Maybe I’m a little heartless , but maybe the planet is worth it, at least that’s what I was told . Marty helped Dolan out and took him inside a diner so he had a little protection.

Once I was alone, I found a place to park and headed down to the tunnels and the platforms. As I drew closer I began to hear the hum, scratchy and high pitched and buried in the whine words – let us out .