The short journey passed without incident, and without conversation. He watched the canalside streets with their tall, narrow houses blur past, punctuated by the occasional modern structure in glass and steel. The lowest storey of many of the older houses was partially submerged, boarded-up windows and doors disappearing into the glassy black water.
The transit zipped along through the fog, weaving between streetlights that came and went in pulses of soft orange and white light cast across the blue floor of the transit interior. It was superficially similar to the transits in London, but with a wealth of minor variations which Eric found himself cataloguing involuntarily. Blue livery instead of grey and white, the seats some seventeen millimetres wider and twenty-five millimetres further above the floor. The overall design was somewhat squarer: rectangular windows rather than London’s trapezoid glass, and a 60-degree incline of the nose on the front carriage, compared with London’s sleeker 45-degree model. From the design, and the quantity of scratches and discolouration, he guessed that the transit here pre-dated London’s by around ten years.
The transit was around half-full - twenty-seven of the fifty seats in their compartment occupied - with an even sprinkling of people going home from work, shoppers, and tourists. Seven lip-studs, thirty-one shopping bags, thirteen black scarves, four Indonesians, a Canadian, a Scot. He closed his eyes to halt the inventory.
After a while, their stop was announced, and he stood up and allowed Robin to take his arm. She hopped down to the platform gracefully. Almost impossible to tell.