SANTA FE CHIEF, April 16 — NOTHING MAKES YOU feel more remote from the toil, trouble and strife of the war world than a powerful train. It's a moving island from which all disturbing influences are censored. It floats through the landscape like a passing dream. Heat and cold alike are shut off. The passengers are as sheltered as a chick in an egg incubator. Nothing changes except the sliding scenery, the rise and wane of daylight and your watch. Even the wheels don't click anymore. They merely murmur, says Tom Treanor, who is on a press junket to Venezuela.

Myrna Loy should watch her appearance; the overweight is too obvious, Jimmie Fidler says.