The mist poured lazily into the Valley of Dreams but it was not the one that had brought the passengers to the valley. And the valley changed like a fading in and out of the silver screen. Seven passengers stood upon a station platform, ornate, beautiful, old, yet new, over shadowed by rolling gray skies. And now the Conductor, though unchanged in the face wore the uniform of the Orient Express.
He looked at the seven passengers, crowded together at the entrance to the Calais Coach. When the mist faded they could read the station name, Istanbul. “All aboard for Budapest. All aboard for Budapest.” Cried the conductor.