To travel by the railway was to see the world changing, as trees, houses, farms, meadows, streams, townships that Moist had never heard of before the railway and barely recalled now – like that one there, Much Come Lately according to the sign – whizzed past at railway speed. But who lived there and what did they do, Moist wondered?

The hamlets of the railway workers intrigued Moist. The wives, noticing that passengers got out of the train at the frequent stops for coal and water and showing a grasp of the mercantile world Lord Vetinari would have applauded, stood ready with clotted cream teas, home-made pies, hot and excellent coffee, and on one memorable occasion a small piglet.

But even this was eclipsed by the wheeze he’d encountered a month back, in the hinterland in deepest Twoshirts, considered by Ankh-Morpork the place that was nowhere. A simple slogan had been put up by two industrious ladies that said, ‘We knit nighties for railway sleepers!’. The ladies, knitting away while their husbands were walking the tracks, were building up a small fortune from all those passengers who, like Moist, had laughed and dug deep into their pockets. He loved the fact that if you got your customer laughing then you had their money in your pocket.

There was another sign coming up now and he squinted to see the name on the board and – whoosh – he saw they were at Monks Deveril, or had been, since alas the speed of the train had shunted it into the past and – whoosh – here came – whoosh – Upper Feltwhistle, apparently. But the ever-moving train had passed on and he hungered for sight of the Lower Feltwhistle sign but the train sped past, sending the unexplored townships into oblivion. Strange-sounding places with strange-sounding names living in the moment of the triumphant train.

With a clatter another train passed them on the up line, but where from? And going where? Moist gave up. Too much travelling on the railway could turn you into a philosopher, although, he conceded, not a very good one.

There was another coal and water stop at Seven Bangs. The name meant nothing to Moist and even Vimes shook his head. It was one of those places where people got off the train and disappeared into the hinterland and, presumably, only the tax inspectors and the Post Office knew who lived where. And by the look of Seven Bangs, the tax inspectors would probably take a day off sick rather than go there and possibly the postman, too, if he had bad news to convey, such as overdue tax demands. But nevertheless, the people of Seven Bangs had been joined by four linesmen, with their houses and their families, all cosily close to the line.

Moist chatted with the man who operated the water crane and asked, ‘Do you have any trouble sleeping up here with trains going past all the time?’

‘Well, bless you, sir, but no, sir, not at all. Oh, it took a little time for us to get acclimatized,’ and he giggled like a man using an unusual word for the first time and finding it funny. ‘My wife sleeps like a baby and the only time she woke up was last week when the Flyer couldn’t get through, and she swears that the silence in the wrong place unsettled her.’