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In fact, it was mid-morning before most of the journalists put in an appearance. But well ahead of the pack was Otto Chriek of the Ankh-Morpork Times, who was always first on the scene.fn50
As for the rest of the press gang, they arrived at cross purposes, all of them expecting the others to tell them what was going on.
Mr Forefather was making hay by making bacon butties while his wife was frying eggs and the obligatory slice.
Moist put the word out that, while of course the railway was in no way involved, the owners were coming to see the accident site for themselves and would be happy to answer questions. By the time Harry King, Simnel and Thunderbolt arrived, Moist could see Forefather carefully raising the prices on his beers as, gradually, the pub filled from across the Sto Plains.
Moist had already gleaned from Mrs Forefather that the brothers’ old mum was being comforted by friends back in her own home, a short walk from the pub, and he was careful to see that no mention of this or the current whereabouts of the unfortunate Wesley brothers was made to the gang of journalists. And he surprised himself by realizing that this was a sensible and humanitarian thing to do, some of the press gang being the sort who would most definitely say things like, ‘Well now, Mrs Wesley, how did you feel when you found out that both of your sons had been melted?’
As the press seized on the new arrivals, Moist, like a chess grandmaster, tried to keep his king, that would be Sir Harry King, away from the worst questions and instead played his shining knight, Mr Dick Simnel. He was learning a lot from Mr Simnel. They faced him with questions like, ‘What do you say to people who think that live steam will kill everybody in the end?’
To which Dick’s answer was, ‘I don’t know, sir, I’ve never met anyone who thought that. Steam is very dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing and I feel sorry for them poor boys.’
Hardwick of the Pseudopolis Daily Press said, ‘I hear your own engine killed someone the night before last. What do you have to say about that, Mister Simnel?’
Before Dick could speak Thunderbolt came down like a judge and said, ‘The person in question was clearly trying to sabotage the locomotive and while we naturally regret the fatality he was in a place where he shouldn’t have been, doing something that he shouldn’t have done. It is evident that he entered the engine shed through a skylight, which seems to show lawful business was not on his mind. His death, alas, was self-inflicted.’
‘And what about Mister Simnel senior?’ said Hardwick. ‘Was his death self-inflicted?’
Simnel took the floor once again. ‘It just goes to show you have to treat steam with respect, and yes, I learned t’hard way when me dad died and that’s why I measure and test and measure again. It’s all about t’little numbers. It’s all about taking care. It’s all about getting the knowledge. Steam has its rules. After all, we call it live steam for a reason. It’s dangerous in t’wrong hands, but my hands, sir, have spent a long time building boilers and static engines, just to see ’ow far I could go. That generally meant me hiding behind a stone wall while bits of engine whistled over me ’ead. You learn by your mistakes, if you’re lucky, and I tried to make mistakes just to see ’ow that could be done, and al
though this is not the time to say it, you ’ave to be clever and you ’ave to be smart and you ’ave to be ’umble in the face of such power. You have to think of every little detail. You have to make notes and educate yourself and then, only then, steam becomes your friend. Like Iron Girder, you’ve all seen her. Yes, miss?’
Moist recognized Sacharissa Cripslock. She said, ‘You speak so caringly of your locomotive, Mister Simnel, and so I have to ask, do you have a sweetheart?’
There was a certain amount of tittering from the hacks, but Simnel barely blinked. ‘Why, thank you for asking and yes, there is indeed a young lady who is looking at me kindly.’
Simnel turned towards another waving notebook and said, ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Grievous, sir, Grievous Johnson from the Big Cabbage Gazette. Is it your intention to share your knowledge with others trying to build their own engines? That might save a lot of lives.’
Simnel glanced at Moist and Moist looked at Harry King, who dropped an eyebrow, which Moist knew he could take as a yes.
Simnel knew it too and had spotted the signal. He said, ‘Oh, yes, sir, we will do. At least the basics, safety and so forth. But it’ll cost. Research and development has to cost. But I’ll tek apprentices, show them t’ropes, and generally make them safer workers. In fact we’re planning regular classes, a Railway Academy, you might call it.’ His smile dropped as he continued, ‘O’course I’m reet sorry about those lads, sir, but learning is hard and failure is sharp. I’d hate that kind of thing to happen again, but it’s got to be done proper like. No scrimping. No cutting corners.’
Mr Simnel had won again. The press couldn’t deal with a straightforward man. The certainty in his face simply disarmed them and possibly, thought Moist, made them wish they were better people. There wasn’t an inch of politics in him and that stunned them.
Simnel was still beaming at them. ‘Aye, if any of you’d like to come back to t’works at Ankh-Morpork at any time I’ll gladly show you around. I’ll show you everything.’
Far away from Moist and certainly from common sense, the grags took counsel, if it could be called that. Things in the outside world were changing so fast.
‘We are losing, you do know that?’ said a voice in the darkness.
‘It can’t be helped. It’s the zeitgeist, it’s in the air,’ said another voice, sounding somewhat more cracked.
‘And what do we care about the air, or any kind of geist? We are the justified, the stalwarts, the kings and servants of the darkness. Our people will come back.’
‘No, they’re leaving! Burning clacks towers was stupid! I say stupid! Everybody wants their news and it makes us look like criminals, which we are. And that’s not justified.’
A dwarf who had been silent during the conclave in the cavern was remembering the old Djelibeybi legend about the way to get an ass down from the minaret, and of course the answer was you first have to teach it not to be an ass. But in what world could that ever happen when you’re dealing with grags? It was, she thought, time to see for herself just how life was in the lands of the Troll King. She had been very careful, oh dear, so very careful and so she had survived, she hoped, to be the jackass that got out of the minaret, but alas, the idiots were still encouraging impressionable young dwarfs to attack the clacks towers. Whoever had had that idea had doomed them without dialogue.
Rhys Rhysson was right, she thought. We’ve lost all balance. We have to get out of here, out of everything that is here, out into the light. Surely, she thought, they wouldn’t suspect her. She had been forensic in her search for unbelievers.
Nevertheless, when at last she ran the knives got her before she stumbled. And then there were eight left in the cavern and those watching in the darkness watched more closely to see who would be next. The time would be coming when the purity of darkness could not be mocked!
The terrible fact was that when dwarfs schism, they schism … every deviation from the norm was treated as an attack on all that was truly dwarfish.
Others had already fled and died, and who could say they knew how many more were left, not only in this cavern but in other caverns all the way to Uberwald. And the trouble with madness was that the mad didn’t know they were mad. The grags came down heavily on those who did not conform and seemed not to realize that this was like stamping potatoes into the mud to stop them growing.
