Then there was a rural mailbox shaped like a locomotive and a sign hanging between railroad ties announcing "The Roundhouse." There was nothing round about the residence that perched on a hill at the end of the drive. It was a long, low contemporary building with wide overhangs and large chimneys - almost brutal in its boldness - and the rough cedar exterior was stained a gloomy brownish-green.
Qwilleran parked at the foot of a terraced walkway and climbed wide steps formed from railroad ties, then rang the doorbell and waited in the usual state of suspense: Would this interview make a great story? Or would it be a waste of his time? The man who came to the door, wearing crumpled shorts and a tank top, was obviously one of the "hairy Welshmen" for whom Sawdust City was famous. Although seriously balding toward the brow, his head was rimmed with hair that was black and bushy, and although his jutting jaw was clean-shaven, his arms and legs were thickly furred. So also was his back, Qwilleran discovered upon following him into the foyer.
His initial greeting had been curt. "You from the paper?"
"Jim Qwilleran. Dwight Somers tells me you have a railroad empire on the premises."
"Downstairs. Want a shot or a beer?"
"Not right now, thanks. Let's have a look at the trains first. I'm completely ignorant about model railroading, so this visit will be an education." Following the collector toward a broad staircase to the lower level, Qwilleran quickly appraised the main floor: architecturally impressive, poorly furnished. On the way downstairs he tossed off a few warm-up questions: How long have you been collecting? How did you get started? Do you still have your first train?
The answers were as vapid as the
queries: "Long time... Dunno... Yep."
The staircase opened into a large light room with glass walls overlooking a paved patio and grassy hillside. The opposite wall formed a background. for a table-height diorama of landscape and cityscape. There were buildings, roadways, rivers, hills, and a complexity of train tracks running through towns, up grades, across bridges, and around curves. A passenger train waited at a depot; a freight train had been shunted to a siding; the nose of a locomotive could be seen in the mouth of a tunnel.
"How many trains do you' have?" Qwilleran asked, producing a pocket tape recorder.
"Six trains. Thousand feet of track." The hobbyist started toying with a bank of controls at the front edge of the layout, and the scene was instantly illuminated: the headlight of the locomotive in the tunnel, the interior of the passenger coaches, and all street lights and railway signals. Then the trains began to move, slowly at first, and gradually picking up speed. One train stopped to let another pass. A locomotive chugged around a curve, with white smoke pouring from its smokestack. It blew its whistle as it approached a grade crossing and stopped at the station with a hiss of steam.
Qwilleran was impressed but said coolly, "Quite realistic!"
An engine pulled cars up a grade to cross a bridge while another passed underneath. Trains backed up as cars were coupled. A train of boxcars, tank cars, and gondolas stopped to give right-of-way to a diesel speeding through with passenger coaches and an observation car.
"Watch 'em take those curves," Trevelyan said proudly. He operated the remote controls with practiced skill, switching tracks, unloading coal from hopper cars, and dumping logs from a flatcar. In a freight yard with seven parallel tracks he had a switch engine shifting boxcars. "You hafta be quick to figure how fast they go, what route to take and which turnouts to switch... wanna try it?"
"And derail the whole railroad? No thanks," Qwilleran said. "Did you play with trains when you were a kid?"
"Me? Nah, my folks were too poor. But I had the real thing in the backyard. Our house, it was next to the track, and I knew every train schedule and all the crews. The engineers, they always clanged their bell and waved at me. Man! Did I feel like a big shot! Saturdays I'd go down to the yard and watch 'em switchin'." I wanted to stowaway in a boxcar, but I knew my pop would lick the devil outa me."
"I suppose you wanted to grow up to be
an engineer," Qwilleran said.
"Funny thing, I wanted to be a crossin' guard and sit in a little shack high up, lookin' down the tracks and workin' the gate. That's a kid for you!"
Above the confusion of mechanical noises in front of him, Qwilleran heard an elevator door open at the far end of the room and turned to see a frail woman in an electric wheelchair coming
hesitantly in their direction. Although she was in Trevelyan's line of vision, he ignored her. He was saying, "There was four of us kids. Pop worked in the plastic plant till the chemicals killed 'im. I took Vocational in school. English and that kinda stuff, you could shove it! I could build things and tinker with motors, so who needed English? Summers I got jobs with builders. Finally got to be a contractor myself, licensed and all that."
The woman in the wheelchair was fixing her gaze eagerly on Qwilleran, and he mumbled a polite good-afternoon.
In a faltering voice she said, "You're Mr. Q.I see your picture in the paper all the time."
It was the kind of ambiguous comment that beggared reply, but he bowed courteously.
Trevelyan went on talking. "Like I said, I went as far as I could go with model trains. I'm into somethin' bigger now. Did Dwight tell you we're gonna - "
The woman interrupted shrilly. "My pop was an engineer!"
The man scowled and waved her away with an impatient hand. Obediently she wheeled back to the elevator, leaving Qwilleran to wonder who she might be. Her age was difficult to guess, her face and figure being ravaged by some kind of disease. The trains were still running and performing their automatic ballet, but Qwilleran had all the information he could use and had even learned some railroad terms:
Roundhouse: a round building where locomotives were serviced in the Steam Era
Hog: locomotive
Hoghead:engineer
Wildcat: a runaway locomotive
Consist: a train of cars (accent on first syllable)
Gandy dancer: member of a section gang repairing rails
Whittling: taking a curve at high speed and braking the wheels
Rule G: the SC&L rule against drinking
Trevelyan said, "We don't worry about Rule G around this man's railroad yard.
How's about wettin' your whistle?" He opened the door to a well-stocked bar. "Whatever you want, we got it."
"What are you drinking?" Qwilleran asked.
"Whiskey and soda."
"I'll take the same without the whiskey."
His host gave him an incredulous glance, then shook his head as he poured plain soda. They carried their glasses outdoors and sat on the patio while the railroad buff talked about the Lumbertown Party Train and the $500 tickets.
"How many can you seat in the dining car?" Qwilleran asked.
"Thirty-six at a shot. We figure to have a double shift, two o'clock and six o'clock. We figure we can sell out."
"How long will the ride last?"
"We figure we can kill three hours on the rails, round trip, with a layover at Flapjack."
"How did you go about buying your rolling stock?"
"Went to train museums, read PV magazines, answered ads."
"PV meaning... ?"
"Private varnish - all about private railroads. But I found my hog in a scrapyard in Sawdust City. She was a mess! I almost cried. As soon as those SC&L sharpies saw I was hooked, they upped the price outasight. I didn't care. I hadda have that baby! Spent another bundle to fix 'er up. Diesels - you can have 'em. Steam is where it's at - for me anyway."