If Richard Blade's MG hadn't burned out a bearing in Windsor, he wouldn't have been in the train wreck. He might still have been involved in an accident on the way to London, of course. The sleet storm that made the rails so slick made the roads even worse. He might have gone off the road and broken his neck, or gone into the Thames and drowned. But those would have been more private accidents.

The commuter train rattled toward London at full speed. Blade stretched his long legs out as far as he could and opened his copy of the Times. In the opposite seat of the compartment sat a young mother and her little girl.

Perhaps it was time he admitted that the old MG had come to the end of its road. It would be hard parting with the car after all these years of driving it. Yet he had to face the fact that the MG was no longer reliable transportation. A sentimental relic, yes. A valuable antique, too. The car hadn't been brand-new even when he bought it, and that had been when he was fresh out of Oxford. Perhaps he could find some antique-car lover to give the MG a good-

The train jerked savagely, as if it had been caught in an explosion. Blade flew out of his seat, to crash into the opposite side of the compartment. Twisting his body in midair, he just missed landing on top of the mother and child. He didn't miss the lamp fixture. The glass globe shattered and for a moment Blade felt as though his head would shatter too. Pain exploded in his skull, with a roar that for a moment drowned out the screeching of tearing, twisting metal.

When Blade could see and hear clearly again, he realized that the car was now tipped sharply forward. Blade unfolded himself cautiously. His head still throbbed, but otherwise there didn't seem to be anything wrong with him.

That was good.