Fritz Lang was silent. He looked at the black, greasy smoke rising over the highway. And in his mind, another smoke arose once more. White, even, methodical. The two smokes, black and white, mingled, and the line between them grew razor-thin. The ash needed a hearth. It needed a place where Fritz could become what he was destined to become. He was silent for a long time. A minute. Two. Then he adjusted the collar of his tunic
