The sun beats down on the dust of La Belle, and the train’s whistle sounds like a metallic scream, a warning that time is running out. White steam rises into the blue sky, but Roy Goode isn’t looking at the engine; his blue eyes are fixed on the man in front of him, a well-dressed chap in expensive clothes that look out of place on the dusty plains of the West, clutching a leather briefcase and looking far too nervous for someone who was simply about to board the train.