#the rocket

Thinking about this Soundgarden photoshoot that was used for the cover of The Rocket (1988).

While Roger Clemens was in the booth with Michael Kay and Paul O'Neil, he told several funny stories. One was about the Savannah Bananas asking him to pitch. For those who do not know who they are, they're a baseball team who make their own rules and do the wildest things on the field. They are like the Harlem Globetrotters of baseball. Anyhow... the Bananas asked Roger to pitch. He agreed, thinking that he was gone throw the first ball out to start the game. It turns out that they said no, you're going to pitch the entire game. Needless to say, Roger iced his shoulder for 3 days after that game. 😁🤣😍 I love the Rocket. He's such a charming and funny guy. I could listen to his stories all day long.

20. Railway 200

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The Rocket was Built to Win

The Rocket was built to win.

That was what his builders told him - the father and the son. They looked him right in the eye from the moment he was first steamed, and were clear with their expectations. "Win. Or we will build another engine," the younger one said, his voice sharp. "Do your best," the elder amended. "And if god's fortune smiles upon us, we will win. Or else you'll be scrapped."

The Rocket hadn't quite understood what those words meant - he'd existed for all of ten seconds, after all. All he understood was that he had a purpose. A very important purpose. He had to, otherwise his builders - the father and the son - would not have spoken in such powerful tones, with such powerful words. While The Rocket had yet to learn what those words meant, they imprinted into his being. Buried themselves deep in his funnel, wormed their way into his firebox and nestled between his frames.

The Rocket was built to win.

** ** **

The Rocket yawned, slowly waking up in the tiny, cramped shed that had been constructed specifically for the Rainhill Trials. Moonlight filtered in through the cracks in the woodwork, bathing the rails in an eerie glow. "Hackworth's engine has a blastpipe," muttered the son from somewhere behind him. "So does our engine," came the patient reply from the father. "His is better." "Well, you also made the cylinders - so if you've done it right, that threat is gone."

There was a lull in the conversation; The Rocket wondered what that meant. The father and the son often had lulls in their conversation, but they were rarely because they were content.

"What if we swapped the blastpipes?" "That would end poorly for us - Hackworth is a fan of strong blastpipes." "Well, we need to do something! The pair who made the Novelty keeps looking at us weird because our engine has a face. That isn't normal for a machine."

The Rocket really wished he didn't have the ability to hear his builders, for now he was well aware of their honest feelings. Still, he had a job to do.

The Rocket was built to win.

"Look, our weird machine with a face will win us the competition. He's my design," said the son. "Look now," huffed the father. "Locomotion is doing fine, the Stockton and Darlington don't seem to have any complaints." "It's outdated, father. Beamed engines are relics of the past. The Rocket will prove that multi-tube boilers and angled piston rods are the future." He turned to the engine, glaring at it as it tried its best not to shudder in fear. "So long as this bucket of bolts and wood doesn't fail us, we will win. It will be the primogenitor of all steam power. It will be famous."

The father considered.

"Then teach it to smile. Teach it some basic manners. People love hearing good manners and seeing bright smiles, don't they?" "Yes, that's why parliament prefers me." "Ha. Ha. I'll teach the engine then."

The father stepped around the front of The Rocket, pulling up a greasy old barrel to sit on. The son sniffed at his father, but followed him. "You have a point, The Rocket will only truly impress when it can fully silence the nay-sayers."

The two considered the engine, then smiled. Awkwardly, but smiled.

"Hullo there," said the father. "My name is George Stephenson, and I'm your builder. We worked very hard on you, so do your best and win for us." "H-h-hullo," stammered The Rocket, unsure what to think. "I am… The Rocket. It's… knives to meet chew." "Nice to meet you," huffed the son. "Please, enunciate your words. We will get a proper conversationalist out of you yet. Repeat after me: Nice. To. Meet. You." "O… oh. Alright… Nice… to… meet… you."

The son nodded. "Good. I am Robert Stephenson, and I am also your builder. You are proof that my company can build the finest engines, and I want that on full display - understood?"

The Rocket didn't know what to say.

The father— George chuckled. "Just say yes." The Rocket looked between his two builders, his creators, the two people whom he had interacted with in his entire life - two men who had placed their entire reputation, their livelihoods, their hopes and dreams, their money, their time and their effort into him. And The Rocket said:

"Yes."

** ** **

Stephen awoke to see lightning dance in the sky, great bolts of light streaming through the windows. Beside him, Glynn continued to sleep peacefully, unaware of the memories flashing through his friend's smokebox.

Stephen was so lucky to have Glynn, to have an engine who saw past the spotlight that blinded everyone to the engine trapped beneath it.

He just hoped that one day, he would be able to tell Glynn his story.

The Rocket was the only engine in the entire competition with a face.

Sans Pareil had no face - it had a boiler and a firebox and cylinders, but no face. Neither did Perseverance, nor Novelty - and definitely not Cycloped, which was a horse on a treadmill.

The Rocket felt more alone than he ever had before. In spite of the previous night, when his builders had finally begun teaching him the rules of the world properly, he was now faced with the fact it likely was not enough for the crowd. At least a couple thousand people were milling about, overflowing from a grandstand and pooling around the track.

They mingled, and looked, and gasped at his face.

"Look!" they murmured. "How unusual! How irregular! Is it safe?" The Rocket made a conscious effort to smile like his builders had suggested, trying his best to seem cool and suave and normal, when in all actuality, the evidence pointed directly to him being the least normal there.

He had a face, and the others did not.

The engines were carefully prepared, according to the rules that had been set out. Robert even paused, taking pity on The Rocket and reading them aloud.

"The weight of the Locomotive Engine, with its full complement of water in the boiler, shall be ascertained at the Weighing Machine, by eight o'clock in the morning, and the load assigned to it shall be three times the weight thereof. The water in the boiler shall be cold, and there shall be no fuel in the fireplace. As much fuel shall be weighed, and as much water shall be measured and delivered into the Tender Carriage, as the owner of the Engine may consider sufficient for the supply of the Engine for a journey of thirty-five miles. The fire in the boiler shall then be lighted, and the quantity of fuel consumed for getting up the steam shall be determined, and the time noted."

Robert paused, nodded, and smiled. "That is what we are doing now. You have been weighed, and now they are filling you with water and giving you your fuel. This, in your tender carriage, will be considered and taken as part of the load assigned to you.

"The Engine, with the carriages attached to it, shall be run by hand up to the Starting Post, and as soon as the steam is got up to fifty pounds per square inch, the engine shall set out upon its journey." "And then I puff?" "And then you win," replied Robert with a dark look. "You will cover a distance of one mile and three quarters each way, including one-eighth of a mile at each end for getting up the speed and for stopping the train; by this means the Engine, with its load, will travel one and a-half mile each way at full speed. You shall make ten trips, which will be equal to a journey of 35 miles; thirty miles whereof shall be performed at full speed, and the average rate of travelling shall not be less than ten miles per hour."

The Rocket rather wished he had a neck, like humans did, so he could nod to the instructions. Instead, all he could do was politely agree and hum to every point in the rules that Robert read.

"As soon as the Engine has performed this task - which will be equal to the travelling from Liverpool to Manchester - there shall be a fresh supply of fuel and water delivered to her; and, as soon as she can be got ready to set out again, she shall go up to the Starting Post, and make ten trips more, which will be equal to the journey from Manchester back again to Liverpool. The time of performing every trip shall be accurately noted, as well as the time occupied in getting ready to set out on the second journey. Do you understand, The Rocket?"

The Rocket smiled, trying to project more confidence than he felt. "I understand, sir."

For all that his builders had hyped up the trials and made them out to be terrifying, The Rocket was thoroughly underwhelmed. He was steamed up, moved to the starting line, and then brought up to speed. He made his way down the short stretch of line, stopped, then made his way back. Then forwards. Then back. Over and over again.

A brass band played as the newly built engines puffed back and forth, back and forth. They clanked and huffed, steam shooting from their funnels and the crowds cheering and jeering. The people had picked favourites out of the engines, making their choices well known as they saw the engines make their way past, rattling along at their top speed. Most were not calling out for The Rocket. 

Novelty shot past suddenly, roaring along at a speed unlike anything The Rocket had ever seen before. "What speed is that engine doing?!" spluttered Robert. "A good one, but we need to pace ourselves," George replied. The Rocket wished he could pick up speed, put more steam into his cylinders and rattle on after the Novelty, trying to catch up and prove his own excellence. Instead, George Stephenson kept his hand steady on the regulator, keeping The Rocket at a decent speed rather than showing off.

There was a shout; The Rocket wished he could see, but he was going in the wrong direction. George Stephenson turned around, and burst into guffaws of laughter. "They've only gone and broken the darned thing!" he howled. The Rocket wasn't sure what that meant. Was one of his competitors out?

One of them was out. Cycloped, the engine made out of a horse on a treadmill, had broken. The treadmill had been constructed too lightly; the horse's hooves were too powerful. When the horse had been coaxed into a canter, it had ripped a hole right into the flooring of the treadmill, snapping gears, ripping apart wood and bringing the entire engine to a standstill, the horse staring around itself in confusion while the driver hissed and spat in rage.

Robert stifled his laughter behind his hand, but George was not so polite. "Need a lift?" he called cheekily.

The other driver did not reply, but it was more than obvious to The Rocket that by the man's dark look, he was not happy.

Still, the first day ended up being a success, and The Rocket simmered down for the night feeling much better of himself. "We did well today, right sir?" he asked politely, the moment he saw George. "Aye, we did. You'll have the day off, then you'll back at it tomorrow and on the fifth day. Enjoy your rest - cause soon we'll be running you to the bone."

The Rocket was not quite sure what 'running you to the bone' meant, but it sounded rough.

Still, at least his builders were kind enough to sit him outside so he could watch the goings-on of the next day. With Cycloped out, Perseverance being repaired, and Sans Pareil being rested for its next showing on the fifth day, The Rocket only could watch as one quiet, solitary engine huffed and puffed backwards and forwards. Novelty was fast, lightweight and seemed to be a strong contender… only, The Rocket wondered if there was a problem.

"I don't like that engine," muttered George darkly. "It is too light - could you imagine it trying to pull freight?" "It does seem less than suitable," agreed Robert. "I am not fond of its speed - it could threaten our engine!" The Rocket did not say anything, his eyes focused in on the engine. It was just speeding up for another run, but it seemed off. The engine sounded almost hoarse, coughing as it stormed along. There was a hiss, then a bang!

Novelty groaned to a stop, steam enveloping it. George blinked. "What was that?" he demanded, standing from his chair. "It looked like there was an issue with their boiler." "Robert, that looked more like an engine exploding than a small issue with the boiler!" snapped George. He stepped forward. "We will need to go out and sooth the public to ensure they back steam." "You are too hasty, old man," snorted Robert. "Look - the steam's already clearing. It was probably that stupid mechanical draught blower they fitted. That is why the blastpipe is better. Isn't that right, The Rocket?" "I think you might be right sir - the men are trying to look under the engine."

And Robert Stephenson was right. The blower had failed with a bang, allowed steam to rapidly escape as the fire withered without the influx of oxygen.

"That'll be today's entertainment over," mused George with a chuckle. "Well, tomorrow we'll be back up and then we'll do a speed trial with you on the fifth day - you got that, The Rocket?" "Yes, sir - I got it!" beamed The Rocket, feeling more and more like he was part of this team, rather than merely their machine. Maybe it was not simply the father and the son, but the father, the son and their engine.

That felt much more exciting to the young engine, being part of the team.

The fifth day dawned, and The Rocket was weighed, prepared, and moved to the starting line. Novelty sat on the other line, prepared for its second attempt at pulling its train. The Rocket, having succeeded in this task and then watched as San Pareil had spat lumps of coke everywhere and failed, felt better about his chances. All he had to do was beat Novelty. George watched as Novelty set off, steaming back and forth, then grinned.

"I have a plan, if you're up for it," he said softly to The Rocket. "Oh?" "We'll detach your tender and show up Novelty to such an extent that no one will ever forget your name." The Rocket did not even need ten seconds to think about it, beaming. "Yes sir!"

The Stephensons worked fast, building The Rocket's fire up until it was glowing hot and steam shot from his safety valve. Then, they waited until right as Novelty slowed at the other end of the test track.

"Now!" cheered The Rocket. George opened the regulator, and The Rocket responded with a will, charging forwards. His wheels whirred, spinning faster and faster. Smoke and steam poured from his funnel. He thundered by the grandstands, his pistons a blur. "Good god!" gasped one man. "It's the Power of Steam!" exclaimed another. Applause filled the air, as The Rocket rushed by Novelty as skidded to a stop, flushed but triumphant.

"Well done!" cheered George. "Well done! You've gone and shown them, you've gone and shown them! You'll be remembered forevermore!"

Little did The Rocket know how true that statement was to be.

** ** **

Oftentimes, children visited the museum. They came in class groups, or with their families, or with the other children from the orphanage the Earl funded. They loved to look around, to see the dinosaur park and the armour from medieval knights. They loved the rich tapestries, the weaponry that was hung in glass display cases.

They loved Stephen the most. They loved to point and talk to each other loudly about The Rocket and how he had won the Rainhill Trials, how he had changed steam forever. They said the name on his boiler, rather than the name he introduced himself with, speaking over him when he tried to interject to clarify.

He was not a being, but a symbol. a relic. In many ways, he imagined that the museum curators, teachers and parents alike all wished Stephen was as blank as the other engines at the Rainhill Trials, that he had never gained sentience and eyes and a mouth and a mind of his own.

The children were never told about the other event that made him famous - that they had to learn later on in life, when the sparkle of joy had left their eyes. Stephen hated seeing the looks from the adults, the glances at his wheels. He knew what they were looking for, the flecks of red that he knew had stained in.

Glynn never looked at Stephen's wheels. He preferred to smile at Stephen - to see him for who he is, rather than the mythos that was. Glynn knew there was more to the engine than the limelight, than the great floodlights that were always focused on one of - if not the - world's most famous locomotive.

"Why should I care about some stuffy trial from nearly two hundred years ago?" chuckled Glynn once, when Stephen dared ask why the coffee pot had never taken an interest in his history. "You're here, I'm here - and I much rather spend time talking with my friend than listening to some stuffy history lesson."

Stephen didn't entirely agree with that way of thinking - but it was nice to know his friend did not care about the past, did not ask about the flecks of red or the way Stephen personally avoided speaking of an era long past.

Speaking with Glynn felt like speaking with someone special.

** ** **

There was a new engine in the shed, joining The Rocket and six others on their new home railway. "Oh, my. What old fashioned creatures," sniffed the engine, being moved onto the right track. "It is such a pity you all will be soon forgotten." "Who are you?" demanded Dart, one of the new engines. "I am Northumbrian, and I am the most modern engine in Britain - see how much better I look than you all?" "You look the same!" sniffed Comet. "We all do! We're all built like 'grandpops' over here." The engines all looked over at The Rocket, who was trying his best to ignore them. "He's famous, don't you know? He won a special trial to pick the engines to run on this railway." "Please," sneered Northumbrian. "I would have won even more easily - that engine is only a comet, flashing by in a bright burst of light before fizzling out completely." "And what is that meant to say about me?!" demanded Comet.

The Rocket tuned the lot of them out. He thought it frankly a bit ridiculous that the engines he had at first considered younger siblings had all turned so quickly into grumpy, snivelling brats who only fought amongst themselves.

"Do I look like a grandfather to you?" hissed The Rocket finally, startling the others. "I am not even a year older than you all, and yet you seem to be under the mistaken impression that that makes me senile." There was a pause.

"Well, you certainly are no longer modern," muttered Northumbrian. "What do you say to that?" The Rocket considered. "I am the first. I am the eldest. I will be here forevermore. No matter what happens in the future, I worked hard to make sure we all could be here, and I will continue working hard on our new railway, no matter what."

Northumbrian scoffed loudly, but the other engines all stared at The Rocket with something akin to fascination. Idly, The Rocket supposed he was fascinating, even if it made him more than a little wary to be the centre of so much attention.

** ** **

George and Robert Stephenson returned to see the engines the night before the grand opening of their railway, both smiling broadly. "All eight of you will be on show tomorrow," said Robert. "We are very proud of how well you have all worked, and now it will be time to show off to the world the ability of Stephenson's railway locomotives."

The son turned, and pulled out a list. "Here is the list which we have decided upon for who is to be given what job," he announced, holding it up to a lantern. "Northumbrian, you shall have the honour of hauling the Duke of Wellington's train." "Yes! Told you all, inferior whelps!" "How dare you—"

The Rocket heard nothing more after that. His builder had decided against using him for the special honour of pulling the Duke of Wellington, the Prime Minister of the nation. The announcement continued; The Rocket was to pull the third train of guests. Not the first, but the third.

The Rocket was built to win, but not to do anything afterwards.

The Rocket was built to win a competition, and then leave the rest of the work - the actual work, the hard work, the real work - to others. Others who had been built based on his design, but who were seen as better, grander, more efficient.

The Rocket felt like cussing out his builders; he couldn't stop himself from such a ferocity that welled up from deep in his firebox and raged out of control within him. He was not to be driven by George, nor by Robert.

He was to be driven by a stranger, by Joseph Locke. Not by a member of the family; The Rocket was clearly no longer part of the family at all.

The Rocket went unhappily to sleep, not really wanting to be present at the opening ceremony the next morning at all.

** ** **

Stephen wished he'd never woken that morning at all.

The gathering of the dignitaries at the station did little to sway The Rocket's low mood. The morning was fine, streamers decked every awning and the platforms were swarmed with people - but The Rocket barely took the moment to care.

The crowds only grew, larger and larger - larger than that which had been at Rainhill, larger than any crowd the engines had ever seen before. "What, was every darned hotel and lodging-house in the city booked out for this?" demanded Arrow, hissing steam as a woman tried to pat his wheels. "It would appear so," mused Comet, grinning politely at the lady and allowing her to touch his wheels instead. "We are very popular indeed." "That's all the better for us," mused Phoenix from the front. "Good publicity."

The Rocket said nothing, simply watching the world around him. Many of the throng of guests recognised him, pointing in excitement and asking about tickets to ride behind 'the winner of the Rainhill Trials'. His carriages filled rapidly, and by the time the Duke arrived, he was already well and ready to go.

Distantly, one group of men had each paid two shillings for access to the best vantage point, the top of a chimney near the tunnel leading to Crown Street railway station; they had been hoisted up by rope and board to watch proceedings, and now stared and pointed.

A band began to play, the music drifting through the air. "Ah, a wonderful ditty," grinned The Rocket's driver - Joseph Locke. "See, the Conquering Hero Comes in his honour - what do you think of it?" "Hmmm…" murmured The Rocket, not really wanting to speak.

The Duke's party entered their carriage; a gun was then fired to mark the opening of the railway. The Duke's carriages had their brakes released and were allowed to roll down the incline under the force of gravity to be coupled to the waiting Northumbrian. The smug engine had his brightest smile on full display, proud and strong. "Isn't he puffed up?" sniffed Phoenix. "Surely someone slipped him the bad load of coke?" "We wouldn't do that on the opening day," gasped Dart. "It would be wrong!"

The Rocket sighed, and prepared for a long, slow day of puffing all the way to Manchester and back.

Had he been paying more attention, The Rocket would have tracked the movement of one William Huskisson, who had boarded the Duke's train, and was now on the other line.

** ** **

Stephen should have demanded he be fit with brakes. He should have been more careful, should have known that no one had ever seen this technology before, that they didn't know.

** ** **

Although in an isolated rural area, Parkside station had been designed as a junction station and water stop for proposed connections with the Wigan Branch Railway and the Bolton and Leigh Railway, and had multiple lines of rails in place. While he had travelled ahead of the others for most of the journey, Northumbrian was forced to slow through the more populated areas owing to the cheering crowds, and by the time it reached Parkside the first two trains on the northern track, hauled by Phoenix and North Star, had already passed through Parkside and had pulled up ahead of the station waiting for the Duke's train to depart. "I can't believe it!" seethed Northumbrian to himself. "Overtaken by relics!" "They're hardly relics," retorted George Stephenson, secretly wishing he'd swapped out Northumbrian for The Rocket. Sure, Robert had said using their most modern engine would greatly impress the Duke of Wellington - and it had - but George missed the quiet politeness and kindness of the older engine.

By now, the passengers in the Duke's train had been travelling for almost an hour, and the water stop at Parkside was the only scheduled stop on the journey. Although it was beginning to drizzle, people began to disembark from the Duke's train to stretch their legs. "I wouldn't disembark!" called railway employees, striding up and down the train. "I'd stay aboard! It's safer for your health!" "Pah!" snapped one - the Marquess of Stafford, if George recognised the voice correctly. "I am perfectly safe wherever I stride - it is my prerogative!"

More men followed, until about fifty milled about on the lineside, consisting of many of the most influential figures of the day, including the previously mentioned Marquess of Stafford, Charles Arbuthnot, Prince Esterházy, the Earl of Wilton, L&M founder Joseph Sandars and William Huskisson himself.

The drizzle had persisted over several days, and deep puddles had formed on either side of the railway embankment, penning in the men and keeping them on or near the railway tracks.

"Sandars!" called Huskisson, striding over and almost tripping over a sleeper. "You must be one of the happiest men in the world! Your rail-way is a grand success - look how the most important men of our time have all journeyed here specifically to sing your good graces!" Joseph Sandars, founder of the L&M, smiled bashfully. "Minister, your comments are too kind," he replied. Huskisson went to reply, when the Chief Whip - a man by the name of William Holmes - called out Huskisson's name.

"Ah, apologies. Duty calls," Huskisson apologised, and strode away.

The Chief Whip had one very important message for Huskisson.

The Duke of Wellington had been becoming unpopular as prime minister, particularly in the industrial north west of England, for continually blocking proposed reforms for some time, and the people were increasingly backing Huskisson. For his part, William Huskisson saw himself as well placed to unite the two wings of the Tory party should the Duke retire, or to lead the reforming faction of the party into a split from the Tories and a progressive alliance with the Whigs. He also saw himself as a natural ally for the Duke, despite their political differences, as a Tory who was popular in Liverpool and Manchester, both of which were traditionally hostile to the party.

Not many truly understood what was going through William Huskisson's head. Probably flashes of the future that the success of the Liverpool & Manchester Railway would bring him - cabinet positions, the entirety of Britain cheering his name, even the role of Prime Minister. But when the Chief Whip told him that the Duke of Wellington in a particularly good mood owing to the cheering crowds which had lined the route, and that it might be a good time for Huskisson and the Duke to meet and try to arrange a reconciliation - well, Huskisson could not disagree.

And so it was arranged for Huskisson to walk along the tracks, meet the Duke at his carriage, and reconcile. Huskisson made his way along, stopping for a moment when his shoe got caught in some ballast, and reached the Duke. William Huskisson extended a hand. The Duke paused, smiled, and shook it.

"An engine is approaching, take care gentlemen!"

The cry went up, and everyone began to move. Some men climbed onto the embankment, others made their way into their carriages - but there was a problem. The Duke's carriage had no fixed steps, instead having a movable set.

The Rocket had not been focusing on the rails in front of him, instead thinking of all the things he would say to his builders when the day's journey was finished, when he heard an exclamation. "For god's sakes! GET OFF THE RAIL LINE!" The Rocket looked up, and his eyes widened in horror. "Brakes, driver, brakes!" "We have none!" yelped Joseph Locke, and threw the reverser. That was when The Rocket remembered - he had been the experiment, neither the father nor the son had thought to fit brakes to him. The Rocket's wheels screeched, spinning backwards.

Only Holmes, Huskisson and Esterházy remained on the tracks. One was heaved into a carriage, while the other two panicked. The Rocket began to panic too. "Move sirs! Move!" he shouted. "Get off the rails!"

Holmes clung to the side of the Duke's carriage with gusto, pulling his body in to press against the wooden paneling. Huskisson, meanwhile, panicked more. He rushed off the line in one direction, then the other, then back again, and then ended up right back where he had been. "You had better step in!" called the Duke. "For God's Sake, Mr Huskisson, be firm!" shouted Holmes.

Huskisson finally made a decision, and grabbed onto the door to the Duke's carriage. For a moment, it was still. The Rocket shut his eyes, praying to the deity the humans called their god that he would not hit Huskisson.

That deity was not listening.

The Rocket would never pray again.

The door swung open, directly into the path of The Rocket. Huskisson was right in the way.

The Rocket hit Huskisson and the door with a bang! Huskisson was thrown forwards; the door slammed shut from the force.

There was a sickening crunch. The Rocket did not dare to open his eyes, beginning to shake violently. "I struck a man, I struck a man, I struck a man," he gasped, his words coming in short breaths. Everyone crowded around; a woman screamed and wailed in the background. All eyes were on The Rocket once more, though they were no longer belonging to people cheering for his success. No, they were the eyes of judgement, of fury, condemning him for manslaughter.

"It's all over for me. Bring me my wife and let me die."

The Rocket was built to win, and nothing else. No plan for what came after, for regular service. No preparations, nothing. Nothing to prepare the still young, despite what everyone said, engine for this. 

There was blood on The Rocket's wheels.

An old comic I made adapting the tale "The rocket" from Ray Bradbury :]