Raising Steam

by Terry Pratchett

  The guests were ushered on to a long raised platform, standing above gleaming steel rails that ran off into the distance, the tracksides crowded with onlookers. In the other direction the rails led to a very large barn, where Dick’s apprentices, recently scrubbed, were lined up on either side of the closed doors, along with a brass band that could hardly be heard above the noise of the workmen.

  Moist von Lipwig was, of course, master of ceremonies, there to welcome them with Harry King and Effie by his side. Lord Vetinari too was there, as holder of Ankh-Morpork’s guardian share in the railway, accompanied by Drumknott, who wouldn’t have missed the occasion for a big clock. And Queen Keli of Sto Latfn33 was present to give the occasion the royal seal of approval, with the Mayor by her side looking stunned by the circus that appeared to have taken over his town.

  As always in these matters, everything had to wait until everything else was ready. That seemed to have been anticipated, judging by the door with a neat label WAITING ROOM, alongside the entrance to the platform.fn34

  And then the waiting was over. At Moist’s invitation Queen Keli stepped forward to drive in the golden spike, the last one on the line, signifying it was now open for business. The chuffing sound that was the signature tune of the railway got louder and more expansive, the crowd of bystanders thronging the sides of the track waved their colourful little flags and cheered with increased enthusiasm, and two apprentices opened the gates of the barn. To a metaphorical drumroll Moist announced: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Dick Simnel and Iron Girder!’

  Leading the dream of steam, Dick Simnel, in pride of place on the footplate, beamed an unmissable look of I told thee so.

  Behind the engine ten carriages bumped along and, glory be, some of them even had a roof! The iconographers’ flashes popped and, very gently, Iron Girder moved along the track and stopped beside the platform.

  Moist waited until the applause faded away and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you may safely climb aboard. There will be refreshments, but first may I invite you to inspect the carriages.’

  Now Moist needed to be everywhere at once. Anything to do with steam and locomotives was news and news could be good news or news could be bad news, or occasionally news could be malicious news. Dick just loved talking about Iron Girder and everything else to do with locomotion, but he was a straightforward man and the press of the Sto Plains could eat up for lunch a straightforward man if he wasn’t careful. Moist, on the other hand, in the vicinity of the press, was as straightforward as a sackful of kaleidoscopes. While the chattering was going on, he did his best to hover around Dick Simnel like a wet-nurse.

  The Ankh-Morpork Times wasn’t bad, and the Tanty Bugle was mostly interested in ’orrible murder and the more salacious aspects of the human condition, but Moist’s heart sank as he realized that Dick, temporarily off the reins, was now talking to Hardwick of the Pseudopolis Daily Press, who was adept at getting the wrong end of the stick very much on purpose and then hitting people over the head with it. And Pseudopolis disliked Ankh-Morpork with a sullen and jealous vengeance.

  As Moist executed the world’s fastest nonchalant walk, he heard Hardwick saying, ‘What do you say, Mister Simnel, to people who are upset because the noise and the smoke will cause their horses to bolt and their cows and sheep to miscarry?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know,’ said Simnel. ‘Never had a problem here on the Plains. When I were doing me tests the horses in the next field would try to outpace Iron Girder, racing her, as it were, and I reckoned they thought it was fun!’

  But Hardwick wasn’t to be thrown off. ‘You must admit, Mister Simnel, that the train is inherently dangerous? Some people have said that your face melts if you reach speeds greater than thirty miles an hour!’

  It seemed to Moist that everyone else who had been chattering away in the vicinity went silent to listen as one person, and he knew that if he intervened at this point things would get worse, and so all he could do was hold his breath, just like everybody else, to see what the solemn country boy would say.

  ‘Well now, Mister ’ardwick,’ said Simnel, sticking his thumbs into his belt as he always did when broaching long sentences. ‘I think many things are inherently dangerous: such as wizards, and trees. Dangerous things, trees, they could fall down and drop straight on your ’ead without you knowing it. And boats are dangerous an’ all, and other people might be dangerous and you, Mister ’ardwick, you’ve been talking to me for five minutes now, ’oping that a country lad like me might be tempted into saying summat I shouldn’t.

  ‘So I’ll tell you this: Iron Girder is my machine, I made her, every single bit of her. I tested her and every time I find a way to make her better and safer, I do it. But, oh aye, you, Mister ’ardwick, you might be dangerous! Power is dangerous, all power, yours included, Mister ’ardwick, and the difference is that the power of Iron Girder is controllable whereas you can write whatever you damn well like. Do you think I don’t read? I’ve read the rubbish you spout in your paper and, Mister ’ardwick, a lot of what you write is flamin’ gristle, Mister ’ardwick, total stinking made-up gristle, meant to frighten people who don’t know owt about steam and power and the cosines and the quaderatics and tangents and even the sliding rule … but I hope you enjoy your journey anyway, Mister ’ardwick. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get in t’cab. Oh, and I’ve had Iron Girder up to more than thirty mile an hour and all I got were sunburn. Good day to you, Mister ’ardwick. Enjoy your ride.’

  And then, reddening as he registered the hush all around him, Simnel said, ‘Apologies to all the ladies here for my straight language. I do beg your pardon.’

  ‘No apologies necessary, Mister Simnel,’ called out Sacharissa Cripslock, reporter for the Times. ‘I believe I speak for all the ladies present when I say that we appreciate your candour.’ And since Sacharissa was not only respectable in the same way that other people are religious, but was also invariably armed with highly sharpened pencils, the rest of the crowd suddenly found that they too had the greatest admiration for Mr Simnel and his plain talking.

  On board, there were many marvels to show off, including the lavish lavatories, apparently another brainchild of Effie, which came as a surprise even to Moist. He wondered what the press would make of Effie’s gift to railway travel. Sometimes the art editor of the Ankh-Morpork Times could be quite creative.fn35

  ‘This is as good as those they have in the poshest hotels,’ Moist said privately to Sir Harry, who emerged from the cubicle flushed with pride.

  Harry beamed. ‘You should look in the ladies, Mister Lipwig! Scent, cushions and real cut flowers. It’s like a boudoir in there!’

  ‘I suppose the, er, waste can be dropped straight down on to the tracks, eh, Harry?’

  Harry looked shocked. ‘Oh, some people would do that, but not Harry King! Where there’s muck there’s money, lad, but don’t tell the Duchess. There’s a big cistern under one of the carriages. Waste not, want not …’

  Questions were coming thick and fast from all sides. For those people who hadn’t already taken a ride behind Iron Girder in Harry King’s compound, the matter of railway etiquette loomed: could you stick your head out of the window? Could you bring your pet swamp dragon if it sat on your knee? Could you go and talk to the driver? On this occasion, Moist was pleased to say yes; the editor of the Ankh-Morpork Times being selected for this accolade. The smile Mr de Worde gave as he stepped from the platform on to the footplate cemented this moment on to the front page, assuming this journey was a success – although you had to be aware that it would also make the front page if the engine blew up. Journalism was, well, after all, journalism.

  The train pulled away with a whistle and a cloud of smoke and everything was moving along nicely, especially when the trolley with the refreshments rattled through the carriages. Harry and All Jolson were in complete agreement about what made a good meal – namely, calories – and had not stinted. There was enough butter on the slumpie to regrease Iron Girde
r from top to bottom. The scenery flew past, to the guests’ well-oiled admiration and gasps of awe, until the train approached the first bridge.

  Moist held his breath as the train slowed down almost to a halt. There was a troll and he waved a big red flag and cheerfully announcedfn36 that he and his gang had worked on this bridge and were so pleased to see it being used and thank you for coming ladies and gentlemen. There was laughter, assisted most certainly with alcohol, but nevertheless there was laughter and it was genuine. Moist let the breath go. He supposed few of the passengers could remember the days when to see a troll was to be frightened (or, if you were a dwarf, want to kick his ankles in). Now here they were, building the railway, quite at home.

  Moist looked across the First Class carriage to where Lord Vetinari was seated. He had openly commended Effie on her part in the planning and design, and given his usual urbane, anodyne answers to journalists looking for a quote, but Moist couldn’t help but notice that the Patrician was smiling, like a granddad at a newborn grandchild. Moist caught his eye and thought he saw his lordship wink with the speed of a cyclone. Moist nodded and that was that, but he hoped that it might be at least one sin forgiven. Three deaths in one lifetime would definitely be over-egging it.

  But it was a nice day, the sun was shining, and as Iron Girder raced along the track a couple of horses in the field alongside tried to catch up with her. So much for Mr Hardwick, and poo to him again because Iron Girder chugged her way down through gentle slopes to the township of Upunder where they stopped to allow the passengers to enjoy the very best of brassica hospitality.

  After that it was a short run down to Ankh-Morpork itself, which was beckoning with long smoky fingers. They crossed the new iron bridge over the Ankh and wheezed on to Harry King’s compound, where a brass band was playing the national anthem, ‘We Can Rule You Wholesale’, to the cheers of the waiting crowd.

  At the banquet that evening the rail travellers were joined by other Ankh-Morporkian and Sto Plains dignitaries. And in the peroration of his address Sir Harry announced that the next city to receive the magnificent railway would be Quirm, it was hoped very shortly. In the thunder of applause, Harry toasted the Quirmian ambassador, Monsieur Cravat, and this was followed by more toasts, including one to Iron Girder herself. Lord Vetinari opined that it had been a very helpful day; and the unknown quantity of sphincters that had been tightened once again relaxed somewhat.

  When the party broke up, some of the guests were walking sideways or hardly at all. Dick, seeing a familiar face swim into his happy world of coloured lights, said, ‘Ee, that were champion, Mister Lipwig! All those tiny places in the distance all along t’track … I were thinking that the railway could be like a tree: you know, one big trunk and then all branches … You’d make ’em cheap and small but I reckon people’d like ’em … Make folks’ lives easier if they could get a train from anywhere—’

  Moist, resolutely ignoring the beckoning possibilities, cut him short. ‘Steady on, Dick. First we have to get to Quirm.’ And then drive that express train route to Uberwald, he added to himself … His lordship was so very keen on international relations.

  Later that night, Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs proceeded in a policeman-like fashion around the railway compound. After all, they bore the Majesty of the Force and therefore had a right to be absolutely anywhere they liked, looking at anything they wanted to.

  And as their boots swung in unison, Fred Colon said, ‘I hear they’re taking the railway all the way to Quirm. My old woman’s always going on at me about us taking a holiday down there. You’ll know about that, Nobby, now you’re practically married and got responsibilities. But you know me, I’m allergic to all that avec, and I hear you can’t get a good pint there for love nor money.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Nobby, ‘it ain’t all that bad. When I was working the rota last week on the goods yard there were a load of cheeses that got broken open by accident, as it were. Of course, they couldn’t be sent back and it’s amazing what Shine of the Rainbow can do with cheese. It’s good stuff, especially with snails.’ Nobby realized he was talking treason and so hurriedly added, ‘Their beer is still like piss, though.’

  Fred Colon nodded. All was what it should be. He glanced back at his friend and said, ‘If the railway works properly, things are going to be quite different. I hear telling the train’ll be going very fast and that means if a bloke does a robbery and then goes and catches the train, he could be away on his toes long before we could ever catch up with him. Maybe the railway will need policemen. You never know! It’s like old Stoneface said, wherever you get people, you’ll get crime and then you’ll get policemen.’

  Nobby Nobbs considered this information like a goat chewing the cud, and said, ‘Well, you go and tell old Vimesy that you want to be the first railway policeman, eh? I’d love to see his face!’

  Billy Slick surveyed the very large person at the front of the queue and sighed.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you can’t all be train drivers. We’ve got lots of train drivers right now and it takes time to work your way up to being a driver. Ain’t there anything else you can do?’

  ‘Well,’ said the crestfallen lad in front of him, ‘my mum says I’ll make a very good cook one day.’

  Billy smiled and said, ‘Might have something for you then, we need cooks.’ He pointed out another recruiting table a bit further along and said, ‘Get yourself over to Mabel. She’s looking for catering staff and that sorta thing.’

  The young man’s face lit up with excitement and he hurried off to a future which almost certainly included unsociable hours and hard labour in cramped conditions but, most importantly, unlimited free rides on the wonder of the age.

  ‘I’m a painter, mister,’ said the next man in Billy’s line.

  ‘Excellent! Sure you don’t fancy being a train driver?’

  ‘No, not really. I’ve always been a good painter and I expect the locomotives need painting.’

  ‘Great!’ said Billy. ‘You’re hired. Next!’

  When Billy looked up from his clipboard he found the craggy figure of a young troll looming over him.

  ‘Man said der’s a job wiv a shovel and tons of coal. Could do dat,’ the troll said, adding a hopeful ‘Please?’

  ‘A stoker?’ Billy guessed. ‘Blimey, you’re a bit big for the footplate, but we could use you around the place and no mistake. Put your mark here.’

  The table shook as the troll’s thumb hit the form and cracked his clipboard.

  ‘Good man – I mean, troll,’ Billy said.

  ‘Nuffin’ to worry about. Get dat all der time.’

  The troll rumbled away in the direction of the coal store and his place in front of Billy was taken by a smartly dressed young lady with an air of authority.

  ‘Sir, I think the railway is going to need a translator. I know every language and dialect on the Disc.’ Her voice was firm but there was a glint of excitement in her eyes as she looked at Iron Girder and the other engines in the compound and Billy knew she was hooked. He also knew that ‘translator’ was not on his list of vacancies and sent her off to Sir Harry’s office, while he returned to his search for shunters, tappers and other workers. And so the line moved on again. It seemed everybody wanted to be part of the railway.

  It felt to Moist, bumping in the saddle as the golem horse bore him back towards Ankh-Morpork, that he had been talking for years with greedy landowners who were asking for enormous rents even if it was achingly obvious that the railway would benefit the whole area, and this time, to reach Quirm, there was going to be more than eight times the length of route to cover. And when he wasn’t talking to landowners, he was talking again to the surveyors, who were not greedy but were definitely horribly precise. They rejected proposed routes as too steep, too waterlogged, crumbling, or occasionally flooded and, in one case, full of zombies. Acceptable routes might just as well have been drawn by a snake snaking around the landscape from suitable ground to suitable ground. And
everybody wanted the railway close, oh yes please, but not so close that they could hear it or smell it.

  And that was the Sto Plains in a nutshell, or, if you like, a cabbage bucket. Everybody everywhere wanted the benefits of steam but not the drawbacks. And no city on the Plains wanted the Big Wahoonie to get more than its fair share.

  It took the diplomatic genius of the Patrician to set the record straight, reminding them that although the railway was being built initially in Ankh-Morpork, if other cities and towns wanted to partake of its usefulness, well, yes, in a sense it would be theirs because what goes down on the up line must go up on the down line.

  Politics? Vetinari loved it. This was the ocean in which he swam. But assuredly you never crowed, just showed the world the tired visage of a conscientious civil servant, doing things cheaply and with the minimum of fuss. He had long ago perfected the art of giving way with a smile when engaged in complex negotiations, but Lord Vetinari’s smile was that of a man who knows that his opponents have yet to find, metaphorically speaking, and despite their cleverness, that their underpants are now down around their ankles and their backside on show for all to see.

  Ankh-Morpork to Sto Lat was becoming a regular journey, and it was working now. Moist had written the slogan, ‘You don’t have to live in Ankh-Morpork to work in Ankh-Morpork’ and properties in Sto Lat were becoming quite sought after. The idea of a little place in the country away from the big city, but with acceptable communications to Ankh-Morpork, suddenly looked very inviting.

  The hours of travel on the golem horse were proving altogether conducive to creative thought. His mind was filling up with the world of locomotive possibilities at the speed of a hamster really at odds with its treadmill. Another synapse in Moist’s head flashed; the trains were just the start! The railway now, he knew, was something in the ether, floating over the whole world. An idée fixe, if he would excuse his own Quirmian.