The rain overtook Hawk fast and cold, meeting the growing evening head-on. His wings, already heavy with exhaustion, grew heavier with water; he had to work to stay aloft. The ocean yawned emptily below, and the radio's static mirrored the rush of the rain falling.

The stoat was bored. Sure, the view was beautiful--mountains of black smudgy clouds in the dusky sky, rain whipping down on the iron sea, thunder rolling at times in the very far distance. But it had been hours, and the view did get old.

Then the radio began to cough out words every so often amongst the constant static. At first the voices were smudged and indiscernible, but after a while they began to clear, shaping themselves into rough and throaty words.

"--nnn forty-fifthhhh--" the radio hummed, and the stoat glanced up through the rain. "--t delaysssss--"

Ahead of them the dark ocean smudged right into the dark land, and on the shore a city lay. Miles of lights glimmered out of the rain; the stoat could make out a high boardwalk above the shore, and on it hotels and theaters and a shimmering fair. A pier stretched out towards them, lit orange like a landing strip.

"--Good evening Geneva!" The radio crooned. "The time is six-fifty PM aaaaannd--" it hiccuped, "--if you're out on the roads don't worry, the curfew has been moved to--"