In the depths of their vehicle, stationed between driver and passenger, there is a tiny dial, smaller than a fist. At first, he thinks of…he thinks of…there is a little circle, like it, and it’s always pointing, even when you move. It knows the straight line from you to, somewhere. But this dial, it has two arms. One is short, the other long. They do not move when they turn. Whenever he looks, they are in different positions, and they’ve moved by different amounts. What must they have done, these ancient people, to devise such a clever thing, to track something that moves so erratically, so mysteriously?

The only sound in their vehicle is the growling roar of their engine, singing its song of travel. Some time back, they talked, he and Vasilia, about what it might mean, this tune. It is no music that they’ve heard before. Is it music at all? Perhaps each vehicle sounds different, so you know who’s coming long before you see them? Maybe you had to coax these machines differently, when you wanted your visit to be a surprise. 

There is nothing to talk about, now. He rests his chin on the open windowsill, watching hill after hill roll by. There are always more hills. He has seen so many hills. It is peace, seeing another. They are all different. They flow, they sweep, some are yellow with blooming flowers, other are lush, soft green, and they pass him by without his taking a single step. He could leap, from hill to hill, hurrying along at a pace that would leave this relic in the dust. He can sit, he can watch, and wonders will race by him, forever. He will sit, and watch a while longer.

Vasilia rolls her neck, stretching as much as she can in the confines of the cockpit. So! It would seem she was not born to pilot after all. She could have fooled him; her feet dance on pedals he had to strain to reach. One hand perches atop the steering wheel, the other cradles a, a, a stick, between the seats. This foot then that, this way then that, and the road flies beneath them with hardly a bump to speak of. Bravely, she sticks her head out of the window, to thrill in the wind playing at her hair. All around them, their convoy roars, and she takes great delight in slipping between their fellows, flashing them a brilliant, cheerful, innocent grin as she overtakes the slower ones. She is, of course, the picture of good sportsmanship when another vehicle cuts them off, and he’ll not tell any tale to the contrary. The driving gives her much to do, and she will play a while longer.

There is nothing to talk about, now. She is busy driving. He is busy being driven. And all is right in the world. It is natural, then, that someone else should take the wheel, and he should be a humble passenger. Let Vasilia shine at the helm. Let thoughts of bigger ships, and bigger hats, let these things pass with the rolling hills. Besides. Vasilia looks resplendent in her seat of honor. He will sit, and watch her a while longer, and meet her eyes brightly when she watches him back.

Here, the road thins, and their party stretches out in a grand line, into the horizon ahead, from the horizon behind. Dolce nods his head. His fingers tap a rhythm on the windowsill, to match a song in his heart. And into their world of steel, he hums a scrap of some old song. A song that he has known since he has known anything at all. Into their world of steel, Vasilia sings the first words, of the first verse. He joins her, by the second line. The steering wheel makes good percussion. No one is here to wince when the notes leap too high, for the only listeners are too busy roaring the chorus for all they are worth. Their world of steel is for two, and two alone to share.