It is difficult to stop a train once in motion, because the train doesn't [i]want[/i] to stop. It wants to move, wants to run, wants its full head of steam to burn off in glorious motion. There's a reason that the natural state of two engines meeting is either a wreck or a race, with no in between.

So watching a small train navigate through a tent city is not dissimilar, to the casual observer, to seeing an iceburg slowly glide into a crowded marina. There's the shock: "That's a train." The dawning realization: "there's a train, and it's [i]coming this way.[/i] The horror: "It's coming, and it's already too late to get out of the way." The scramble: "Forget the tent, grab the kids and [i]move.[/i]" And most of all, the confusion as, to continue the metaphor, the iceberg miraculously dodges all the rowboats around it and carefully taps against the dock, and a hatch flips open.

Coleman makes sure that the freshly polished badge of a Vermissian knight is the first thing out, gleaming in the glow of the mirrored pond, followed by the rest of him. He ignores the gawping, the spoken and unspoken questions, and deliberately lays out a small blanket and some trail rations. "A good place to stop," he announces to the air. "We thank you for sharing your space. Very kind of you. Now if only we could do something to show our appreciation, and possibly do some business."