...of disregard

“When do we arrive?” Garamuche asked.
“Not before tomorrow morning,” Raymond told her.
“We have time to muck around,” Brice said.
“If only some people would answer,” Jacques persisted.
“You’re saying that because of me, aren’t you?” Corine said.
“No, its him we have a grudge against!” Raymond blurted. Suddenly, they were silent. Raymond’s pointed finger designated Saturn Lamiel. He didn’t move, but the four others jumped.
“He’s right,” Brice joined in. “No subterfuges. He must talk.”
“Are you going to Khonostrov?” Jacques asked.
“Do you like the journey?” Garamuche inquired. She moved over and occupied the empty space that had been between her and Lamiel, leaving Brice all alone near the window. The movement uncovered the tops of her stockings, and the rose garters of her nickel-plated whatchamacallits also disclosed the skin of her thighs, tanned and smooth in keeping with their desires.
“Do you play cards?” Raymond asked.
“Have you heard about the Inquisition?” Corine queried.
Saturn Lamiel arranged his feet in the green and blue Scotch lap robe over his knees. His face was very young and his blond hair, carefully separated with a part down the middle, fell in even waves on his temple.
“Well, he’s provoking us!” Brice exclaimed. These words scarcely echoed, a natural phenomenon considering that the walls of the compartment, constructed as they were, acted as a soundproof material. Besides, one had to remember that a certain lenght of seventeen meters came into play.
The silence was embarassing.

[Journey to Khonostrov, Vian, B.]