On December 1, after the train crossed the border, the field embankments outside the window were ruler-straight, and the cowshed walls were whitewashed.
At intervals along the railway stood sentries with rifles slung over their backs and white crosses on their caps.
Beyond Altdorf, the route climbed onto the Gotthard Line.
Richard had heard about this stretch long ago. To raise the train to an altitude of over a thousand meters, the engineers had bored a series of spiral tunnels through the mountains.
The train went in, circled all the way around, and emerged on the same mountainside, only dozens of meters higher.
Farther up, they reached the snow line.
Frost began forming on the windowpanes, and the heating pipes in the carriage were hot enough to burn his hands.
Once they passed through Saint Gotthard's main tunnel, they emerged beneath a different sky.
To the south lay sunshine and stone; to the north, grey-white skies and clouds.
They reached Lucerne that evening. The aliens' police office stood beside the railway station.
Mortimer wrote "university professor" under "occupation" and "monks" under "persons you intend to meet." The officer looked up at him.
"Which monks?"
"I haven't decided yet," Mortimer said lazily.
"I'll see when I get there. They're all much the same anyway."
The officer shook his head and stamped the form.
When Richard filled out his own form, he paused over "purpose of entry" before finally writing, "accompanying a traveler; visiting friends and relatives."
Their hotel was beside the river, its windows overlooking the Reuss River. Water flowed out of Lake Lucerne, so green it shaded into blue.
Mortimer left early the next morning, heading to the pier to catch a steamer across the lake.
The old professor stood before the gangplank with his briefcase, then turned back to