The Pressure of Numbers

The whistle blew at precisely seven-fifteen in the morning.

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-OOOOOO!

Nobody screamed. Nobody ran. Nobody abandoned their breakfast in a panic to rush toward the drawing-room windows. The cab horses waiting outside Helmarte Central Station barely reacted beyond a few irritated flicks of their ears against the cold breeze.

A black steam locomotive rolled smoothly beneath the enormous vaulted steel-and-glass train shed, trailing six dark-lacquered passenger coaches and a heavy baggage car behind its tender.

Steam drifted lazily around its six coupled driving wheels.

CHUFF... CHUFF... CHUFF...

The driver eased the train alongside Platform Three. Compressed-air brake shoes hissed against steel wheel tires, iron couplings settled, compartment doors swung open, and several hundred passengers stepped down onto the stone platform.

It was just another routine morning in the capital.