Raising Steam, Page 22

  Feeney was polite and had been smart enough to pick up some of the goblin lingo, which really helped. It was a sunny day and it was an easy trip to the Overhangs and, yes, on the hill above the cavern there was a clacks station, goblined by goblins. After delivering his papers and force orders, Feeney sat down for a quiet word with his fellow officer and broached, in a careful way, the subject of the goblins banging things around in a context of disturbing the peace. Since there were very few humans living anywhere near the goblins’ settlement, Chief Constable Feeney put the complaints down to the humans’ residual dislike of goblins doing anything whatsoever anywhere, but he did advise that maybe moving whatever it was they were doing further into their caves might be a very good idea.

  The crackling voice of Boney said, ‘No worries, boss, hang. We are copacetic on this one. No problems here.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to know, but why all the banging and clanging, Boney?’

  ‘Chief, you know plenty goblins go to Ankh-Morpork and work for Sir Harry King, the shit magnet, on the railway. Know how it is, yess? Comes back every month with wages. Never had wages before! Sometime they comes with diagrams … And ideas and scheming attics.’

  Boney watched his superior officer with a certain level of concern, and heard Feeney say, ‘They are stealing … ideas?’

  There was silence and Feeney knew he had made a faux pas, but Boney laughed and said, ‘Nosir, improving! We like Sir Harry, veeery good employer, but we plan to build own goblin railway. Quick to get around and easy-no-problem – has found best way to build railway is not build. Digging! Dig underground. Underground goblin-size railway, yess? Will bring all goblins together from every caverns. So many caverns in bowels of world. It’s no fuss. Goblins needed all over. How would nice Miss Adora Belle Dearheart do, if no goblins on clacks? We can be trusted – well, as muches as we trust you stinking humans. Wonderful railways underground, narrow gauge, of course. You see? We even have lingo! No rain and no snow, no bothering donkeys, no frightening old ladies underground. Hang! At last goblins’ own world in tunnels under big-man human world. We goblins up in the light now. No turning back.’

  Feeney thought about this on the ride home as his horse trotted gently towards the sunset. He wasn’t a philosopher and couldn’t even spell the word, but the voice of the goblin officer rang in his head. He thought, what would happen if goblins learned everything about humans and did everything the human way because they thought it was better than the goblin way? How long would it be before they were no longer goblins and left behind everything that was goblin, even their pots? The pots were lovely, he’d bought several for his mum. Goblins took pots seriously now, they sparkled, even at night, but what happens next? Will goblins really stop taking an interest in their pots and will humans learn the serious, valuable and difficult and almost magical skill of pot-making? Or will goblins become, well, just another kind of human? And which would be better?

  And then he thought, maybe a policeman should stop thinking about all this because, after all, there was no crime, nothing was wrong … and yet in a subtle way, there was. Something was being stolen from the world without anybody noticing or caring. And then he gave up, because he was nearly home and his mum had promised him Man Dog Suck Po with mashed carrots, and it wasn’t even a Sunday.

  Building the longest railway the world had yet seen was a matter of daily grind, and nightly grind too, and each week took Moist further away from the city. Visits home to enjoy the fruits of his labourfn54 became even rarer.

  Scattered along the thousand-mile route new railway yards were springing up, each one a constant hive of activity with wagons coming and going all hours of the day and night. And while the company made sure the workforce was well provisioned, since, as Harry King had told the Ankh-Morpork Times, railway workers seriously needed a good meal and a good sleep in a comfortable bed after a day of heavy labour, in the end whether or not the bed was warm or comfortable didn’t in fact really matter because a lad would sleep the moment he fell into it, just as soon as the former occupant, waving his billy can, had hurried off for his shift.

  It was all about speed and occasionally pure machismo, or whatever it was called in the languages of trolls, goblins and golems and, of course, the real hard-core steel men from the mountains who fought amongst themselves over nothing.

  Where the new line followed the course of the River Ankh as it narrowed towards its source high in the Ramtops, barges came up or down the river with wood for sleepers, iron ore, coal and other supplies. The smelters worked through the night casting rails and if you were lucky enough to be in the right place and sufficiently protected you could see them open their guts and spill the glowing liquid steel: dancing and living like a creature from the underworld. If you were not lucky and stood too close then quite probably you would end up in that underworld facing the deity of your choice.

  And all was fuelled by money, money, money, eager investors turning gold into steel and coal in the hope that it would turn back into even more gold.

  The company was building bunkers everywhere along the tracks and it truly came home to Moist that when it came to the railways the engines and carriages and so forth were just the show up front, the iron horse, which needed to be fuelled and watered. And all of this was done by people almost the same colour as the coal, momentarily spotted as you went past, and then forgotten. He knew, because he had attended all the meetings and listened, that running a railway was a lot of small puzzles which, if you opened them, presented you with another sequence, full of constraints, and lists of things that definitely had to be done before anything else could happen. In short, the railway was complexity on wheels. It was amazing that Mr Simnel’s sliding rule didn’t glow as red-hot as the furnaces he worked.

  And in Swine Town the workshops were turning out more and more engines: little tank engines that trundled up and down the ever-growing compound, shunting trains and carriages together; night trains, slow and heavy, that picked up wagon after wagon from the watercress farmers and others who needed to get their produce to the cities by dawn; the new Flyer Mark II, which had a roof to the footplate and wonderful new green livery; all now with names such as Spirit of Scrote and King of Pseudopolisfn55.

  The scream of steam was no longer an intrusion, just one of the noises of Ankh-Morpork, like the explosions in the Alchemists’ Guild, and, as one old man said to his wife, ‘You don’t need a clock to tell you the time when you know the sound of the seven o’clock to Quirm.’ It seemed only weeks since Iron Girder had first puffed gently around Harry King’s compound, but now, inside a year, branch lines were springing up all across the Sto Plains, connecting little towns and villages in every direction.

  And near these little towns and villages spanking new houses for the new railway staff were beginning to appear. Houses with baths! And hot running water! Admittedly the privies were outside, but nevertheless the plumbing was well maintained.fn56 You could say that for Harry: if something was to be done then it was to be done properly, and doubly so if Effie was around.fn58

  It was as if there had been a space waiting to be filled. It was steam-engine time, and the steam engine had arrived, like a raindrop, dripping precisely into its puddle, and Moist and Dick and Harry and Vetinari and the rest of them were simply splashes in the storm.

  Then one day at the Ankh-Morpork terminus, as Moist was setting out yet again to the Sto Plains, a lady got into his carriage, introduced herself as Mrs Georgina Bradshaw and sat down, gripping her expensive-looking bag with both hands. When Moist got up to offer her his forward-facing seat as railway etiquette apparently demanded, she said, ‘Oh, my dear sir, don’t worry about me, but thank you. I know a gentleman when I see one.’

  ‘Moist von Lipwig at your service, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh – are you the Mister Lipwig? Mister Lipwig the railwayman? I’ve heard all about you.’

  ‘Yes, I am, I suppose,’ said Moist, ‘when no other contender is available.’

&nbs
p; ‘Isn’t this fascinating?’ continued Mrs Bradshaw. ‘I’ve never been on a train before. I’ve taken the precaution of bringing some pills in case I feel nauseous. Has that ever happened to you?’

  ‘No, madam, I quite like the rhythm of the railway,’ said Moist. ‘But tell me, where did you get those precious pills?’

  ‘It was a gentleman called Professor Dibbler, a purveyor of nostrums against the railway illnesses. He was quite persuasive.’

  Moist couldn’t help his smile and said, ‘I imagine he was. Madam, Mister Dibbler is at best nothing more than a charming scamp, I’m afraid. And I’m quite certain his nostrums will be nothing more than expensive sugar and miscellaneous substances. I fear he’s in the vanguard of the pedlars of patent medications which tax my patience.’

  She laughed. ‘Well put, sir. I’ll consider that tuppence ha’penny down the drain.’

  ‘So may I ask what is your business on the railway?’

  ‘None, really. I thought, well, you only live once, and when I was a little girl my mother said I was always following carts to see where they were going and now that my husband Archibald has passed on I thought that this should be the time to go and see the world … you know, faraway places with strange-sounding names … like Twoshirts and Effing Forest and Scrote. One imagines all manner of exotic occurrences must take place somewhere with a name like Twoshirts. So many places I’ve never been to … I have a whole world to experience before it’s too late, and I’m keeping a journal of it all as I go, so I’ll be able to enjoy the world all over again when I get back.’

  Something struck in Moist’s head, causing him to say, ‘May I ask, Mrs Bradshaw, if your handwriting is good?’

  She looked down her nose at him and said, ‘Indeed yes, Mister Lipwig. I used to write a beautiful cursive script for my dear late husband. He was a lawyer and they expect excellence in the writing and use of the language. Mister Slant was always very … particular about that, and no one appreciates the judicious use of Latatian better than dear Archibald did.

  ‘And, may I add, I was schooled at the Quirm College for Young Ladies, where they are very solid on the teaching of foreign tongues, even though Morporkian rather seems to have become the lingua quirma of late.’ Mrs Bradshaw sniffed. ‘And in working for my husband I learned a lot about people and the human condition.’

  ‘Mrs Bradshaw, if you were to go everywhere where the trains go and write about all those places, perhaps you could send me a copy of your notes? They could be useful to other intrepid passengers … People would know what to expect from the Effing Forest or Twoshirts before they’d even paid a penny for their ticket. Already so many people from Ankh are travelling to Quirm just for the sunshine. It’s become our heaviest service! And some of them go just for the day! I’m sure they’d think about going on other trips too if they saw all the little details of every place you visit, and perhaps you could include notes on accommodation as well as other places of interest en route?’ he added, on fire with his own imagination. ‘All the things that you would like to see and would be interested in. Wherever your travels take you, you can address your manuscript to Moist von Lipwig and give it to the nearest station master, and they’ll see to it that it gets passed on to me.’

  Moist thought about the amount of gold accruing in the coffers of Harry King’s accounts and added, ‘And I’m sure we could arrange some remuneration …’

  As Mrs Bradshaw settled into the journey and looked out of the window Moist took out his notebook and scribbled a memo to Harry King: ‘Please allow Mrs Georgina Bradshaw to travel anywhere she wants, even those little branch lines we haven’t fully opened yet. She went to one of the best girls’ schools I know of and understands language, and she is writing notes on all our destinations which may come in very useful. My instincts say that she will do us proud. I have an inkling that she will be either meticulous or humorous or, hopefully, both. And a widow who wears the kind of gold and diamond ring that she is wearing to travel through Ankh-Morpork and is still wearing it when she leaves is not going to be a fool. She speaks as well as Lady Sybil; that’s Quirm College for you. Up School! Isn’t this what we’re after? We want people to widen their horizons on the train, of course, but why not day trips? You know what, there are people in Ankh-Morpork who haven’t even got as far as Sto Lat yet. Travel broadens the mind, and also railway revenue.’

  A sample of the great work arrived on scented paper one week later.

  High Mouldering, on the Sto Plains, boasts wonderful salt-water baths from a pleasantly warm spring, and the owner and his wife give hygienic massages to those who would like to enjoy the benefit. Ladies and gentlemen separately, of course; there is nothing here that could be considered insalubrious or that would shock the most delicate of sensibilities.

  Near by, the Hotel Continental offers accommodation for trolls, humans, dwarfs and goblins; fifty rooms are available at present. People wishing to tour the area may be interested in the Sacred Glade of Shock Knee, which deserves to be noticed for its amazing echoes. A short distance away is a shrine to Anoia, patron goddess for people who have difficulty with things stuck in their drawers.

  A welcome break for the tired at weekends, with excellent meals. Highly recommended.

  Moist made a note to see Mr Thomas Goatberger when he could next get back to Ankh-Morpork. If he was any judge, the publisher would be ready to bite his hand off to get a share of the railway magic.

  When Moist did next return to the city, the matter of the railway to Uberwald had to take priority. Pacing up and down in the big room where Harry and Dick Simnel presided over their charts and reports and blueprints, Harry was still clearly worried.

  ‘Now then, Moist, between ourselves and these four walls I’ve got the heebie-jeebies. We’ve taken gangs off the other lines, we’re putting in more and more work on the long haul to Uberwald. This is a hell of an undertaking. I’m more at home knee-deep in shit, which is what we’re going to be in here in this office if this doesn’t work, believe you me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Moist, ‘but what you have to remember is that getting to Uberwald will mean getting to a whole load of other places on the way, and all of them’ll want the railway and that will help cover costs right there. It’s the tunnels and bridges that are a problem, but the best of it is that they’re old technologies. There are plenty of masons who can build good bridges for us, and as for tunnels, the trolls are just begging to do them if they can dig out a home near by.’

  Harry’s only response was a grunt.

  ‘And the nice thing about the trolls,’ Moist added, ‘is that they bring the whole family with them, even their kids. It’s their way. If you don’t know your rocks, you’re no good as a troll. They just love changing the landscape. One of them asked me the other day if he could be a surveyor and I was just opening my mouth to say no when I thought, why not? He seemed like a bright lad, slow, yes, but quite bright. So I’ve told the boys to give him a bit of tuition, on the job, as it were.’

  ‘Are you going to give him one of Simnel’s special sliding slabs?’ said Harry, smiling.

  Moist laughed and said, ‘Why not, Harry? I might just do that! No reason why a surveyor shouldn’t be strong enough to lift up a mountain to see what’s underneath!’

  He took advantage of the lightened atmosphere to steer Sir Harry towards happier subjects, asking to be brought up to date on all the latest developments.

  Every morning now the desk of Harry King was inundated by letters from people wanting no trains, some trains, or seriously wishing to have trains available right now. And then there were all the other helpful comments and suggestions: a Mr Snori Snorisson had written to say so many other people had arranged to meet under the station clock that his friend had taken four hours to find him … Shouldn’t the railway provide stepladders for the use of shorter citizens …? Help was requested for passengers with heavy luggage, and for the elderly or undead … With all the dangerous machinery involved, shouldn’t there
be guards – not the City Watch, of course, but somebody with some sense – to act as guardian of the train and its passengers? And that meant uniforms, hats, flags, whistles and other exciting accoutrements.

  And this excitement was presumably why the editor of the Ankh-Morpork Times had decided to employ a railway correspondent, Mr Raymond Shuttle, who was an unashamed and self-confessed train spotter. The glint in his eyes was unmistakable.

  Alongside the main business of the railway, Harry confessed himself delighted to see the enthusiasts spending their dollars on railway souvenirs such as the little clockwork models that were even now being created under licence by those deviously cunning artificers who were making a small fortune from railway memorabilia.fn59 And the cannier artificers, always on the lookout for moneymaking opportunities, were constantly making additions to these playthings for children: a little shed and four tiny figures to wait for the train. A signal box with a waving goblin. And yes, a miniature turning table just like the one in the compound, and so it went on. A lad with a doting parent could get his own tiny Iron Girder and oval track with straights and curves; and even miniature railway workers including a miniature Harry King.fn60

  And once again, Moist marvelled at the power of the dream.

  And then it was out into the grease-filled world of the compound to see the latest engines the lads were testing, and find out what the ingenious Mr Simnel had been up to since Moist had seen him last.

  One thing he was sure of: even though Dick Simnel was forever coming up with blueprints for the next locomotive, every day would have seen him still hard at work on Iron Girder, which was probably why on every visit she continued to look a little different: a different boiler here, different wheels there, different paintwork and quite probably a host of integral things that Moist couldn’t see. She was Dick’s pride and joy, his first locomotive love, thought Moist, taking care not to say it aloud, the first test bed for every new innovation. No locomotive shone as brightly as Iron Girder. No locomotive got the next big improvement before Iron Girder. She was, indeed, the iron stalking horse for the railway and Simnel her willing slave.