Fiction River: Risk Takers, page 22
The steam pressure reading on the gauge started creeping up, above the blue zone at the bottom that was the standby pressure, slowly rising through the white zone that was the normal operating pressure, still a long way away from the yellow caution zone that covered most of the right side of the round gauge.
A narrow red band lay at the bottom of the gauge. The people who made the gauge had not bothered to mark that red zone with any word like danger. Red was enough warning, especially to trained firemen and engineers.
As Martin juggled the fuel feed, Karl watched the rising needle of the pressure gauge and cranked down the safety valve, using the telltale hiss of steam escaping through the valve—or its lack—to adjust it to match the pressure inside the boiler, which creaked and popped as it adjusted to the growing pressure within. The smell of burnt kerosene surrounded the cab.
As the conductor blew his whistle for the one-minute mark, Karl reached over his head and yanked down the whistle cord. He knew the Old 197 so well he didn’t have to look for it: his hand moved to where it was and it was there and the steam whistle shrieked within the enclosed station.
No doubt passengers were hurrying onto the cars behind them but neither Karl nor Martin paused to look, each jiggling controls on fuel and water feeds, on safety valve tightness, as the pressure needle swung closer and closer to the top of the normal operating zone.
Finally, the conductor blew the long whistle.
Karl leaned on the control that opened the releases on the engine cylinders and cracked the throttle, to drive fresh hot steam through the lines and into the cylinders, preheating everything before he tried to move the locomotive, with its dozens of tons of cars, passengers, and baggage trying to hold it back.
Letting the releases slam shut again, he eased the throttle forward slightly, slammed the traction lever to its forward position, and yanked the brake release back.
Then he placed his hands on the raw metal of the cab, itself all a unit with the chassis, and the four great driving wheels shrank.
As careful as Martin had been, Karl felt the four drivers as they shrank in diameter and thickened in width, carefully keeping them even, all the same size, so the locomotive did not tilt, side to side or front to back.
Smaller, wider wheels gave better traction.
Karl tapped the sand release with his foot, letting just a little trickle onto the steel rails as he let go of the cab and pushed the throttle further forward with one hand as he swept hot, sudden sweat off his own forehead.
The drivers caught, spun with a squeal of metal on metal, caught again, spun, as Karl balanced the throttle right at the very edge of power that he could apply without the wheels breaking free, up and back as the wheels broke free anyway and caught again.
But tons of steel, wood, leather, and flesh began to move.
The elemental’s roar, loudest through the smoke stack, reflected back louder still as they approached the wall of the station, almost drowning out the squeal of the wheels that Karl listened for as he balanced the power to the drivers.
At first, the train crawled.
Then it rolled as fast as a walking man, then a trotting man, when the Old 197 burst forth from the station and the air in the cab was suddenly clear and fresh and …
… and damp with a thick, impenetrable fog.
Karl’s heart soared.
The zeppelin was certainly still on the ground, waiting for the mist to burn away.
Not that the fog would not be its own problem for him, limiting how far ahead he could see and, thus, how fast he could push the locomotive down the Line.
For now, though, the rail ran straight for nearly six miles before the first curve and he could nurse the train to a decent running speed as quickly as he liked, before he had to worry about getting it around the first curve.
Hands on the cab again, Karl grew the drivers, thinning their thickness, as the train picked up speed. Small wheels made for better traction but larger wheels made for more efficient running.
Large drivers also allowed to go to a higher top speed.
The drivers turning four or five times a second, it took concentration to keep all of the wheels the same size, so that the engine did not shake itself apart. That was what made an engineer an engineer.
As the Old 197 sped faster than a running man, then faster than a running horse, he grew the drivers to their normal size, well under the bottom of the platform on which the boiler trembled under the roar of the elemental and the rumble of high-pressure steam in the pipes.
On a long, flat run like this first stretch, the oversized drivers would not affect his speed that much but would require more effort when he reached the first grade, just around that first corner.
Martin shoved a sandwich into Karl’s hand, partially wrapped in paper. He was already chewing on his own.
The saying went that there were fat firemen and good firemen, but no fat firemen who were any good. The same held true for engineers. At the rear of the cab, a metal box contained a pile of sandwiches and sliced pie pieces and fruit, even a few chunks of roast beef, plus a large chunk of ice.
To make up for the energy they would burn through the hours of the run, both Karl and Martin would be eating constantly.
And still lose several pounds each.
The sandwich gone in just a few large bites, Karl stuffed the paper into his pants pocket and took a bottle that Martin handed to him. He took a long pull.
Fruit punch.
The current directors of the Line were a bunch of blue-stockinged, long-nosed Methodists and they had forbidden beer to be taken on working locomotives.
Oh, the conductor and stewards could sip beer with their lunch in the baggage car, but the people doing real work, in the cab of the locomotive, had to settle for water. Or fruit punch.
He tapped Martin with the empty bottle and eased back the throttle, preparing for gliding through the first corner.
Making this run hundreds of time, Karl knew the rails so well that he did not even have to check his speed gauge to know exactly the right speed to roll through the curve: he could feel it in the way Old 197 shook, in the way it leaned into the slightly banked curve, in the rhythm of the clacking wheels over the joins in the rails.
At just the right moment, barely halfway through the curve, Karl jammed the throttle full on and the locomotive surged forward, giving Karl a slight feeling of sick in the pit of his stomach, as if the Old 197 was about to tilt off the tracks, but the train held, as it always had, with Karl at the controls.
Tapping the fuel feed up just a touch, Martin reached for the boiler extension with one hand and eased the air scoops open a bit more, to make up for the slowing of air rushing by as the train slowed on the long upward grade. He sang to himself quietly, but loud enough for Karl to hear.
“We’ll be on time or leave the rails …”
“Shut up,” Karl growled. “We’re not going off the track.” He waved his hand across the lightly wooded hill they were just starting to climb. “All that fog, the zeppelins aren’t going anywhere. We’ve plenty of time.”
“As you say, KC,” Martin said quietly, letting go of the extension as he watched the pressure gauge and adjusted the fuel flow again.
Karl ground his teeth and grabbed the cab. As the train started to slow, he shrank the driver wheels again, which slowed the locomotive even more, but reduced the chance of the wheels breaking loose as he goosed the pressure up a bit more, until the pressure needle eased its way well into the yellow zone.
Driving the train this hard cost more fuel, though there was little chance of running out, since they had two stops to make before Manchester, giving them time to top up on both water and kerosene.
When the zeppelins flew, of course, they did not make these intermediate stops, so that was one more reason to keep the passenger trains running, though the Line directors seemed only interested in figuring out how to spend less money, not on how to make more.
As they reached the top of the grade and the tracks leveled out again, Karl grew the drivers back to their normal size and eased off the pressure, putting the needle back on the very edge between the white and the yellow.
Martin handed him an apple.
Before Karl took a bite, he said to Martin, “Besides, do you want to end up hauling turnips until you die?”
He bit down and tasted the sweet-sharp juice, rolling the lump around with this tongue before pushing it between his molars and grinding it to pulp.
“I’d rather haul turnips until I retire and die carrying my grandchildren around.” Martin took one more bite off his own apple and tossed the core out the side window. “I don’t intend to die anywhere but in my own bed.”
“What’s got you in such a black mood?”
“My wife thinks she’s starting the Change. She can’t sleep, so of course I’m not allowed to, either.”
An hour after leaving the Summervale Station, they made their first stop, a ten minute stop at Carlington. While passengers disembarked and other passengers clambered on, Karl fumed and chewed his moustache.
The stationmaster, an oldster who had been a fireman himself until the years caught up with him, waddled over to the cab and wheezed as he pulled himself up to the platform. Firemen and engineers were warned that they couldn’t keep eating the way they had, not once they had retired, but it was a habit that a few found hard to break. Amos was clearly quite happy trying to keep up with his old eating habits and it had all gone to his waist. And thighs and calves and just about everything he owned.
“Word from Manchester,” Amos said breathlessly. “Thick fog, no sign on breaking. Summervale still socked in, but the word is that it is starting to break up.”
“Have the zeppelins left yet?” Karl asked, trying not to let his anxiety show.
“Not yet.” Amos pulled a hip flask and offered it to Karl. “Brandy?”
Karl shook his head but when it was offered to Martin, the fireman took a swig.
“Ah, a little warmth for a cold, dank day,” he said, handing the flask back to Amos. “Thanks.”
He’d only taken one pull at the flask, Karl noted. Martin was one of the best, keeping his wits about him while, no doubt, he’d have liked to take a second. Or a third. It was, indeed, cold and wet and even their heavy coats did not keep it all out in the open locomotive cab.
At first, Karl thought he would have to help the heavy stationmaster down, but after turning around and feeling about with his foot, Amos finally found the tread and eased himself back down to the platform without falling on his backside.
Still, Karl felt better when they were back on the open line, the elemental roaring again and the engine shaking with the slight unevenness of the rail joints.
Through curves and slopes, both rising and falling grades, they drove the engine. Their second stop was just short of the halfway point to Manchester, and they arrived almost ten minutes ahead of schedule.
So Karl chewed the corner of his moustache for almost thirty minutes. God forbid they should ever arrive a minute late, according to the directors of the Line, but by no means would they ever condone leaving the station even one second early.
The weather news had not changed but there was no word from Summervale, neither on the state of the fog nor on whether the zeppelins were in the air or not.
Still, Karl felt fairly satisfied as he eased the Old 197 out of the station. At least they weren’t behind schedule. No herds of cattle or sheep to force them to a stop. No dray wagon with a wheel jammed in the rails because the driver missed the actual crossing point. He prided himself on being on schedule most of the time but there were days …
The tracks took a gentle curve to the right as they left Midgrange Station and Karl glanced back to make sure the last car had cleared the station before he ran the throttle forward. No point in playing Crack the Whip with the final car.
He had just turned back forward when he felt a breeze on his ear and he heard a mosquito-like buzzing over the rumble and roar of the locomotive. He swatted at what he thought was a fly and instead got an absolutely filthy look from a tiny female pixie that hovered before his eyes.
The little thing cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted—at least for her, it was a shout, though it was the thinnest squeal of a voice he had ever heard—“The zeppelin left Summervale.”
With another outraged glare at Karl, the pixie flew off.
“Was that a pixie?” Martin yelled over the locomotive. “I’ve never seen one before.”
Indeed. Someone had spent a lot of money to let Karl know. Pixie Mail was not cheap.
He wondered who would have sent it.
He wondered who would have sent it and could afford to send it.
And why.
But it meant that now it truly was a race. The pixie had not bothered to tell him when the zeppelin departed. Maybe it was in indignation or maybe it was not part of the message, but Karl knew very little more than he did before the pixie arrived.
Except that the zeppelin was flying.
He tapped Martin on the shoulder and used his thumb and fist in an upward motion.
Martin nodded and increased the fuel feed. And the air feed. And the water feed.
Karl tightened the safety valve just a tiny bit more.
In less than a minute, the pressure needle crept into the yellow zone and 197 flew down the Line.
Two hours and thirty six minutes to Manchester.
By the end of the first hour, Karl was not sure he would make it. Beads of sweat were a constant on his forehead, streaming down his face every time the locomotive jerked or he turned his head.
The strain had started to show on Martin’s face, too, though he obviously tried to hide it. He really was the best of the best. He kept fiddling with the flows, until the roar of the elemental swamped out all speech and until the dampness had worked its way through every seam of their jackets and coveralls.
Now, trying to get every last ounce of speed, Karl kept the drivers at their largest size on every straight stretch, the rimmed wheels almost scraping the bottom of the boiler platform. It meant much more effort when the grades came.
He even took to shortening the wheels on the inside as they took a curve to take it just a little bit faster.
This was not something engineers normally did, since you couldn’t ignore the cars behind. What point was there if the engine clung to the tracks around a curve if the cars behind swayed out?
Or flew off the track altogether?
Stretching his powers to the maximum, he adjusted the wheels of the cars as well, as he exceeded the rated speeds of the curves, leaning the cars into the turns and restoring them to their normal size as the tracks straightened out again.
At the two-hour mark, they ran out of food. Martin had kept forcing food on Karl, even when he didn’t want it, but Karl felt himself weakening and Martin had nothing to offer but the fruit punch, and soon there wasn’t even that.
Martin took to chipping off pieces of the ice block with a spanner and passing those to Karl, sucking on some himself.
And still they drove the Old 197.
They drove it until their arms felt like lead and their eyes burned with the strain but they drove it, with sweat salt forming crystals on their lips.
They drove it hard.
Karl slowed as they came into Buckley’s Wood. A tangle of trees and brush, this was not a place to rush through. If a cow had wandered in to nibble on the leaves or sheep to hide from the sheepdog, there was nowhere in the tight little corridor for them to run.
More than once, Karl had taken branches across the face inside the cab; he complained often to the maintenance crews about keeping the trees and vines trimmed there. Sometimes it worked.
So he slowed, just in case. The directors complained about having to buy a cow or sheep that they didn’t even get to eat. (Though Karl had taken a quarter home with him more than once, in exchange for a few bank notes quickly passed and some heave-ho to get the corpse on the tender and the train on its way before a report had to be made to Management.)
The trees leaned in close and mingled their branches over the tracks, so that the electric light on the front of the locomotive actually had some use, illuminating the gloom. It was the sort of wood that probably inspired more than one faery tale.
Of course some damned cow had to be on the track, just short of the end of Buckley’s Wood. As soon as Karl saw it, he slapped the throttle back, grabbing the whistle cord at the same time and sounding a long, wailing shriek as he put the brakes on.
Not too hard.
Even with the whistle, the people in the cars behind him needed a few seconds to get ready. Assuming they knew what it was about. But the conductor knew what that long wail meant and he would be the one to report to the directors if Karl hit the brakes too early or too hard.
On the other hand, a train does not stop like a child caught trying to sneak a cookie out of the kitchen and he started easing the brakes on, tightening them more and more until the drivers broke free and metal howled on metal.
He hoped that not too many people had fallen but he was pretty sure the cow would appreciate it, as he let the locomotive not quite come to a stop, well short of the cow.
Reaching for the whistle, Karl blew short-long, meaning the train was in motion, the same as when he pulled out of a station. That would warn the stewards and conductor to keep everyone on the train.
Letting off the brake and easing the throttle forward, he crept up on the cow, nudging it with the guard iron.
One disgruntled moo and the cow allowed itself to be pushed down the track, until it found a place where, having had enough of being shoved, it ambled off the track.
Karl whistled short-long again and pushed the throttle forward, perhaps a little bit further than he should, but if people were still standing in the aisles back there, they should have known better.
