Anything could happen before they entered that dry-land maelstrom of sliding rocks, falling rocks and, well, rocks full of bandits of all disciplines. To coin a term that might fit the circumstances: it was like running a gauntlet with no shoes – a gauntlet full of rocks. And even pebbles had bad attitudes at that altitude. Moist winced at the thought of the place.

The train hurtled on through the vast landscape. A huge amount of space, oh yes, but not many towns, just the occasional settlement. There was so much space everywhere and Iron Girder ate it up like a tiger, attacking the horizon as if it were an affront, stopping only if it was known that water and coal were available. You could never have too much of either.

By the middle of the day, the mountain ranges of Uberwald were getting closer and the air was getting colder and Iron Girder’s pace had settled to a steady climb through the foothills towards their destination.

Lonely goatherds could be seen on the trackside, and amongst the people staring at this new mechanism there was a definite outbreak of dirndls. In every township they passed people were ready for them with flags and, above all, with bands that wheezed and oompah’d as the crowds cheered Iron Girder on her way. And, yes, as the train came past slowly and carefully you had to watch out for the little boys running after her, following the dream. It was a sight to yodel for.

And now Moist noticed that Simnel was looking increasingly worried and took the opportunity of one of the engineer’s rare breaks from the footplate to speak to him privately.

‘Dick, Iron Girder is the best locomotive you’ve ever built, right?’

Simnel wiped his hands on a rag that had already seen too many greasy hands and said, ‘She surely is, Mister Lipwig, we all know that, but it’s not Iron Girder I’m fretting about. It’s that bridge over t’gorge. We’ve done everything we can, but we need more time. There’s no way the bridge will hold with all the weight of the train an’ all.’

‘Well now,’ said Moist, ‘you have the loggysticks and the knowledge of the weights and the stresses and all the other sliding rule business and that’s telling you one thing, but I’m telling you now that if the bridge is still not secure when we get there I propose that Iron Girder will fly across the gorge with you and me on the footplate. You might call it a sleight of hand, even a trick, but we will fly.’

The engineer looked like a man who has been challenged to guess under which thimble the pea is, and knows deep in his boots that it will never, ever be the one he selects.

‘Mister Lipwig, are you talking about magic here? I’m an engineer, I am. We don’t ’old wi’ magic.’

And suddenly Moist’s voice was as smooth as treacle. ‘Actually, Mister Simnel, I think you’re wrong in that. You believe in the sunshine, although you don’t know how it does it. And since we’re on or near the subject, have you ever wondered what the Turtle stands on?’