Текст книги "A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah!"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

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“Submerged all the way? I hope I won’t have to hold my breath?”

“That would be impossible… Oh, pulling my leg, Captain Washington? Oh dear yes! No, indeed, quite comfortable. The water may be chill but you will be wearing a wet suit with an oxygen mask. Quite comfortable indeed.”

Comfortable was not exactly the correct word, Gus thought as helping hands slipped him into the space-going bath. He dropped below the surface and fastened the snaps to his belt as he had been instructed while he breathed slowly and carefully through the mask. It was all quite interesting though there was a moment of disquiet when the distorted faces and hands above him vanished and the nose cone slid into place with a resounding clang. The water carried all the sounds and he could hear the clanking and grinding of metal al the bolts were secured. Then silence?!

This was the worst part, the waiting in the darkness and solitude. Alone, alone as he had never been before in his life, perched atop this column with its cargo of highly combustible fuel. Waiting. He could visualize the roof opening up above the rollers, the preflight check-off, the switches thrown. He had been told this would take a few minutes but had not realized that his time perception would be thrown off to such a degree. Had minutes passed—or hours? Had there been a failure, an accident? Could he escape from here or would he die in a boiling pot atop a fiery column? His imagination’s steamed along in high gear and had he been able to speak he would have shouted aloud so great was the tension at this moment.

And then a sound, a whine and al scream like the souls in the pit in eternal agony. He felt the hair on his I neck stir before he realized that it was just the high-speed pumps going! into operation, forcing the fuel into! the combustion chamber. The flight was beginning! And at the instant he realized that there was a distant rumble and roar that grew fantastically until it beat at his ears so he had to cover them with his hand while something unseen jumped on his chest and battered him down! Blast off!

For a long and unmeasurable time the pressure continued—then suddenly ceased as the engines shut down. The rocket was coasting. In those eternity-long minutes while the engines were working they had burned their way up through the storm and penetrated the atmosphere above and the stratosphere above that until now they were beyond the last traces of airy envelope of the Earth and arcing through the vacuum of space. The Atlantic was a hundred, two hundred miles below them and ahead was England. And the waiting computer at the airport in Croydon, that sleepy little suburb of London, an electric Brabbage engine that was not as reliable as the mechanical one and he hoped that, at least this once, the enthusiastic Captain Clarke would prove to be wrong about the reliability of that machine.

Yet as they coasted his heartbeat slowed and he felt a measure of peace and even good cheer. Fail or succeed, this was a voyage that would be remembered, almost a modern version of that romantic novel by the Frenchman about a voyage around the world in eighty days using all forms of transportation. Well here he was, utilizing some forms of transportation that the redoubtable M. Verne had never dreamed existed. This game was certainly worth the candle. It was in this reposed state of mind that he felt the engine re-ignite and so composed was he that he smiled at the thought. Dropping now, over Surrey and down, steering, pointing, falling and at the last moment the crack of the released parachute. There was a sudden jar that might well have been that parachute opening and soon after another and what he was sure was a cessation of motion. Had he arrived?

Evidence came swiftly. There was a clank and a bump, then another one and once again the grinding of metal. In a moment the nose cone above him vanished from sight and blurred faces appeared in its place against the brilliant blue of the sky. Of course! He had flown into daylight in the swiftness of his voyage. He rose up and pushed his face above the surface of the water and tore off the mask and smelled the sweetness of the warm air. A smiling face, bad teeth in that wide grin and a spanner in the matching hand, looked down, while next to this face a sterner one below a blue official cap and a square of cardboard next to that.

“Her Majesty’s Customs, sir. You have seen this card which lists contraband and dutiable items. Do you have anything to declare?”

“Nothing. I have no baggage.” Strong hands helped him out to the top of the wheeled platform that rested against the tall rocket. A view of white concrete, green trees beyond, a waiting group of men, distant cheers. He turned to the Customs officer.

“Might I ask you the time?”

“Just gone a quarter to nine, sir.” Was there time? How far to the station in London? Ten, twelve miles at least. Pushing away the helping hands he scrambled to the ladder and half slid to the ground, stumbling at the bottom and turning to see a familiar bulky form before him.

“Fighting Jack!”

“Himself. Now hurry and you like’t‘make it yet. There are clothes in here.” He thrust a paper parcel into Gus’s hands while hurrying him forward at the same time towards an unusual vehicle that was backing towards them.

“That there driver is Lightning Luigi Lambretta who is a good driver, even though a Wog. Now get in and away with you.”

“A pleasure to meet you, signore,” the driver said as Gus dropped into the empty cockpit and felt the seat slam into his back the instant he was down. “This car the winner of the Mille Miglia, so not to worry. Due cento, two hundred of your horsepowers, like the wind we shall go. Steam-powered turbine, fuelled with gasoline and using Freon as the vaporizing fluid. The polizia out and roads cleared all the way to Putney Bridge and beyond. A nice day for the drive.”

They roared, they raced, they dived down the road with a squeal of complaining rubber as they sideslipped and skidded broadside into the London Road at over a hundred miles an hour. Quick glimpses of bobbies holding back the crowds, flags waved, a holiday air to everything. Squirming in the tiny seat Gi managed to slip out of the wet and the slipstream grabbed it and whisked it from sight. He was more careful as he opened the parcel drew out small-clothes, shirt, tie lounge suit and sturdy boots below all this. It was an exhausting effort to get them on, but don them he did and even knotted his tie fairly adequately.

“The time?” he shouted.

“One minute past the nine.”

“Then I have failed…”

“Not yet, signore.” Roaring at one hundred thirty-five miles an hour onto Putney Bridge. “Things are arranged, I have talked by the phone, all of England is on your side, the Queen herself. She was delayed leaving Buckingham Palace, marvelous woman, and now she proceeds most sedately by the horse and carriage to the station. All is not lost yet.”

Would he succeed? Would failure follow this heroic effort? It was now in the hands of the gods and it was to be hoped that they were smiling. Brake, accelerate, squeal of rubber, broadside through the narrow streets, a twist of the wheel to save the life of a stray dog, around another corner and there was the station. Down the ramp towards the platform, the State Coach to one side, empty.

The train, pulling out.

“Never fear, dottore. Lightning Luigi will not fail you!”

Laughing wildly and twisting his fierce mustachios with one hand the intrepid driver hurtled his blood-red machine at the platform while the officials and bystanders scattered, raced up to the train, alongside of it, easing over until his offside wheel was only inches from the platform edge, matching his speed to that of the train and holding it steady and even close to the open door.

“If you would please to disembark, signore, the end of the platform fast approaches.”

In the instant Gus was standing on the seat, standing on the rounded top of the racing car and bracing himself with a hand on the driver’s head, reaching out for the extended hand from the train, grabbing it, leaping, looking back horrified as the driver stood on his brakes and slid and twisted and slammed into the pillars at the station’s end. But he was waving and shouting happily from the smoking wreck.

“This way, sir,” said the porter. “Your seat has been reserved.”

II. POINT 200

Green England hurtled by outside, fields and streams like speeding patchwork quilts, blue rivers that swept under their wheels, black bridges and gray stone villages nestled around church spires, also in motion, also whisking by to quickly vanish along with the waving crowds in the fields and the rearing horses and barking dogs. It seemed that the entire countryside was unrolling for the benefit of the lucky travelers in this mighty train this fortunate day, for so smooth was the ride that the passengers aboard the Flying Cornishman felt that they were indeed standing still and the whole of England was spinning by beneath them for their edification alone.

They were indeed a blessed few who had secured passage in this inaugural run of the tunnel train, nonstop London to Point 200, the artificial island far out in the Atlantic Ocean, west of Ireland, and over a hundred miles from the nearest shore. The Queen was aboard, and Prince Philip, while the Prince of Wales also had returned by special train from Moscow where he was on a state visit to make the trip. There was a sprinkling of the nobility and the Proper Names, but not as many as might be expected at the Derby or a fashionable opening, for this was science’s day, the triumph of technology, so that the members of the Royal Academy outnumbered those of the House of Lords. The company directors were there as well as the largest financial backers, and a well-known actress whose liaison with one of these backers explained her presence.

There was champagne, bottles of it, cases of it, oh dear—a refrigerated room full of it, courtesy of The Transatlantic Tunnel Company who had bought almost the entire stock of an excellent 1965 from a lesser known but superior chateau. This golden liquid flowed like a river of beneficence through the corridors and compartments where glasses were lifted and toasts drunk to the glory of this hour, the superiority of British engineering, the strength of the pound, the stability of the Empire, the peace of the world, the greatness of this day.

Aboard as well, in sorely diminished ranks, was the press, thinned down by the exigencies of seating space, swollen again by the need for complete world coverage for this historical event. One cameraman was filming everything for the entire world to see at the same time on their television sets, though of course B.B.C. viewers would see it first, while the world papers would have to be satisfied with what the gentleman from Reuters told them, other than the French that is, who would read what was written by a small dark gentleman, pushed to the rear by his bulkier Anglo-Saxon colleagues, who was aboard though by bribery for which at least one head would roll in Transatlantic House. Of course the gentleman from The Times was there, since the kind attentions of the Thunderer of Printing House Square were much sought after, and a few other leading journals including, with much reluctance and persistent insistence since this was going to be a transatlantic tunnel, the square-shouldered bulk of the New York Times‘ man.

They all wanted to talk to Washington at once, because he was the most singular piece of news aboard for the readers around the world who had been following every thrilling and heart-stopping detail of his journey. Now, on the last leg, with the finish line but a few hours away they wanted him to describe all of the earlier stages down to the smallest detail. Between sips of champagne he answered them, relivüng the heartstopping moment aboard the helithopter and the rocket, the mad ride to London, the last moment arrival. He was in formed in turn that the driver, Lam bretta, had received only minor bruises and regretted nothing, was in fact, enthused that one of the more popular dailies had already purchased his personal story for a price reputed to be in five figures.

Every foot of the journey to Penzance, Gus was interviewed, and he was rescued only by the fact that the journalists had to file their stories Since they would have tied up completely the only telephone and telegraph link from the train they had been forbidden access to them, with the exception of the gentleman from The Times who had been permitted to file one brief report, so arrangements had been made to put off bag in Penzance. The great canvass sack, boldly labeled PRESS, was quickly filled with the reports and stories and the can of film put in on top. Other arrangements of an ingenious nature had been made as well so that the various reporters now dispersed to complete the work. Fast cars were waiting by certain fields displaying flags of particular colors, ready to pick up dropped containers, one motorcyclist on a racing machine paralleled the train briefly on a stretch of road and was seen to end up in a pond still clutching a hoop and attached package he had seized, while more than one net-armed and speedy boat waited in waters the train would cross.

Free of his interviewers for the moment, Gus found his compartment and his allotted seat, which he now saw for the first time, and accepted the congratulations and another glass of champagne from the other passengers there. At this point he escaped their attention for the train was slowing as they passed through Penzance where the waiting thousands cheered uproariously and waved their Union Jacks with such animation that they fluttered like gaudy birds. The Press bag was thrown to the platform and the attendant telegraph men, the train picked up speed again, through the city and towards the dark mouth of the tunnel, passing the sidings where the other trains waited, packed with humanity, to follow after the inaugural run. Faster and faster it went to dive with a roar into the black opening, accompanied by excited female shrieks at the sudden night.

Gus, who had been in a tunnel before, closed his eyes when they entered and when the others had exhausted the pleasures of gazing out at nothing and turned back he was well and soundly asleep. They appreciated his fatigue after the voyage he had just accomplished and lowered their voices accordingly so that he slept the sleep of the just, and they only roused him when the announcement was made that they were just ten minutes from arrival at Point 200.

An air of electric excitement overwhelmed the travelers and even the most cynical and worldly-wise were . possessed by it, peering out at the darkness, getting up and sitting down again, and generally displaying an eagerness they would normally have scorned. Slower and slower the great train went until a grayness could be seen ahead and then, startling and sudden, a burst of brilliant sunlight as they emerged from the tunnel into the open air. Through the empty train yard and over the points they rumbled to the station where the waiting band struck up the lively tune of “A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah!,” the song specially commissioned for this occasion from Sir Bruce Montgomery and now having its debut performance.

Wide and clean and spacious this station was, and seemingly empty of life until the passengers poured from the train, oohing and ahhing at the appointments. For the top of the station, high above, was constructed entirely of large panes of glass through which blue sky and soaring gulls could be seen. This was supported by cast-iron columns enameled white and decorated at the junctions and on the capitals by iron fish and squid and whales cunningly cast into the fabric of the supports themselves. These configurations were finished in blue, and this color scheme of white and blue was carried on throughout the great station giving it an airy and light feeling out of all proportion to its size.

The passengers held back respectfully as the red carpet was brought up and unrolled and the Queen and her party descended. There was the quick flashing of lights from the photographers and then they had gone and the others followed.

No one, no matter how stern of demeanor or inflexible of expression, but failed to hesitate for a moment and to draw in a gasp of breath upon emerging from the station between the alabaster columns that supported the portico. For here was a vista that was breath-catching and inspiring, a wholly new thing come into the world. Broad white steps descended to a promenade that glistened and shone with the multihued splendor of the inlaid mosaics, arches and waves and wriggling bands of color not unlike those of the promenade at Copacabana Bay which undoubtedly had no small influence upon their design.

Just beyond this was a field, a rolling meadow of the trimmest and greenest grass that sloped down gently to the deep blue of the ocean beyond that was now breaking with small waves upon the shore. No flotsam or refuse marred the purity of this ocean so far from any shore, no land was visible at any distance in any direction where only the white wings of the yachts scudding across the surface broke the perfect emptiness. Once the visitor descended these steps there were greater wonders to come, for this promenade followed the shore of this new island and with every step forward there was something incredible to see.

First a great hotel stretching long wings into a flower-filled garden below and rising in matched, blue-domed towers high into the air. On the terrace here the orchestra played a dance tune to tempt passersby to the linened tables where black garbed waiters stood ready to pour tea. There was a holiday air about this spot and along the promenade, a holiday holding its breath in the wings and waiting to arrive, for all of this was ready and had never been used before, brought in by sea and constructed here in all optimism that, custom would follow when the tunnel was opened. Restaurants and, dance halls, and tucked away behind! the elegant establishments, little lanes that led to fun fairs and roundabouts and ferris wheels, coconut shies and public houses, something for everyone. Further along were the beaches of white sand thai glistened welcome and soon the first bathers could be seen, stepping hesitantly into the water then shouting in amazement for here, in the middle of the Gulf Stream, the water was warm and salubrious as it never was at Brighton or Blackpool.

Behind the beaches rose the turrets and towers of Butlin’s 200 Holiday Camp waiting impatiently for all who had booked in, the loud-speakers already calling the first ar-rivals to the heady pleasures of group amusements. And more and more, until the eyes of the strollers were filled with the color and panoply. Farther on, around the island, there was the yacht basin, already jolly with the jostling boats that had sailed here for this grand opening day, and still farther along a tree-crowned hill where the promenade ended in an outdoor bowl where a Greek drama, ideal for this pastoral setting, was about to begin. All was pleasure to the eye and so it had been designed, for the hill shielded from view the other half of the is-land where the industrial park, rail-way sidings, and commercial docks were located. Great things were planned for Point 200 and the trans-atlantic tunnel and the investors had flocked to its proffered charms. It was indeed a wonderful day.

Washington enjoyed the stroll and the sight of the colorful activity just as well as did the shopkeeper from Hove or the lord from his castle, walking and mingling with them along the way. Tired finally he repaired to the great hotel, The Transatlantic Towers, where a room had been reserved for him. His bag, sent on ahead weeks ago, had been opened and unpacked, while the table was banked with flowers and congratulatory telegrams. He read a few then put them aside, feeling let down after the fury of the preceding hours, sipped from the champagne provided by the management and went to his bath. Soon after, feeling refreshed and in better sorts, he donned a lightweight silk tropical suit, more fitting for this clime than his tweeds, and was just fixing his cravat when the telephone chimed. He took it from the drawer, put the microphone on the table before him and the receiver to his ear and threw the small switch which activated it. The familiar voice of Drigg, Lord Cornwall’s‘s secretary, spoke, congratulating him on his voyage and extending the marquis’s invitation that he join them on the terrace at his convenience.

“I will be there shortly,” Gus said, disconnecting the instrument, putting a flower in his buttonhole, and drinking one last glass of champagne in preparation for the encounter.

It was a small and elite group that was gathered there on the secluded balcony overlooking the sea, taking the late afternoon sun and basking in the balmiest of breezes. A sideboard spread with regimented bottles enabled them to help themselves to whatever drink they chose without a waiter to interrupt their privacy. If a pang of hunger should stir them, a great crystal bowl of Beluga caviar rested in cracked ice for their edification. Above the sideboard there hung in stately display a detailed map of the North Atlantic with the route of their tunneling ventures scribed upon it. From time to time one or the other of the men would look at it and usually smile at that heartening sight.

Sir Isambard Brassey-Brunel sat with coat open and his waistcoat half unbuttoned, an unusual relaxing of sartorial standards for him, and sniffed from time to time at the sweetness of the sea breeze and taking small sips from his glass of Perrier water. Across from him Lord Cornwallis relaxed with a slightly more fortifying drink of Hennessy Seven Star of an unbelievable vintage, varying his attention between this and a Jamaican cigar of impressive length and girth and superior whiteness of ash.

Sir Winthrop Rockefeller considered the hour too early for such spirituous beverages so sipped instead from a glass of claret with the bottle placed handily beside it. All three men were composed and given almost entirely to small talk, basking in the relief of a job well done before turning their energies to the next task ahead. For all of the news was good, they had nothing to fault, it was indeed a splendid day.

When Augustine Washington was shown in they rose by common consent and the handclasps that were exchanged were those of mutual acclaim. They did congratulate the young engineer on the success of his voyage that so dramatized the opening of this new age Of tunnel travel, and he in turn thanked the financiers for making everything possible, and the older engineer for the design and labor that had enabled the tunnel to be done at all. Sir Isambard nodded at this tribute, aware of. what was his rightful due and, after they had seated themselves and Gus had accepted a glass of wine from Sir Winthorp’s bottle, composed himself to speak about a matter he had long considered.

“Washington, we have been estranged long enough. Our personal differences have not prevented us from doing our best for the company, but I do feel that the past is now so much water over the dam and it is time to let bygones be bygones. Rockefeller here is chairman of the American Board again and I want to state before these gentlemen that you have done an excellent job with the American tunnel.” He sipped from his glass for a few moments while the two other gentlemen cried hear, hear! with great enthusiasm, then resumed. “When I am wrong I freely admit it, and now I admit that the technique of preforming and sinking tunnel sections is not as dangerous as normally assumed and is indeed faster as you have proven. It has been utilized in completion of the tunnel we passed through today as proof of this assumption. It is my hope that we shall be able to work together more closely in the future and, in addition, you will find yourself welcome in my house once more.”

This latter bit of information took Gus by surprise for he started from his chair, then sank back again, and a slight pallor touched his skin, proof that this casual piece of social intelligence caused more stir in his constitution than the most severe of the hazards through which he had so recently passed. However he took some of the wine and when he spoke next he appeared as composed as ever.

“I accept this news and this invitation with the most profound thanks, sir, because, as you must know, I still consider you the leading engineer and builder of our age and it is my pleasure to work under you. It will also be my pleasure to call at your home. And your daughter is at home, I presume…”

“Iris is well, and she accompanied me on this trip, and I presume will make you welcome as well, but I do not discuss this sort of thing with her. Now to other and new business. Though today is a success, tomorrow will surely come with its problems and we must prepare for it. The two units of the tunnel now completed are important and will, if the figures I have seen are correct prognostications, earn money in their own right. Point 200 will soon grow to a major and most modern port where goods bound for England can be offloaded and sent ahead by train, quickly and surely, thus avoiding the Channel traffic and the outmoded facilities of the Port of London. I believe we have witnessed its other success today as a spa and resort. On the far side of the Atlantic the Grand Banks Station will perform like functions, in addition to which the fishing fleets will unload their catches there for rapid transport of fresh fish to the colonies. All well and good but we must press on and justify the name of this company. We must cross the Atlantic. The preliminary surveys and reports are done, now is the time to finalize and put them into action.”

There were warm shouts of agreement at this, for they were all as eager as he to see this mighty project through to completion. Financing, of course, would be the next consideration and the two chairmen of the transatlantic Boards of Directors rose and spoke in turn about the state of their treasuries. In fine they were healthy as bull pups. The recent improvement in the States of their national economies, that might very well be traced to the tunnel operations, had left considerable profits in a number of hands and eager money was waiting to be invested. That the nods of agreement were not quadrilateral was not noticed in the warmth of their enthusiasm, there seemed nothing standing in their way.

But Gus grimly fingered the stem of his glass, looking up betimes at the map on the wall, then down at the surface of his wine as though some important revelation was drowned in its depths. He seemed at internal battle within himself, as indeed he was, for a door had opened again this day that had been closed for many a year and for this he would be eternally grateful. But what he had to say might very well close that door again—yet he could not leave this place without speaking, for it was scientific fact that he must mention.

And so the war of heart and head was fought within and, silent as this battle was, it was more terrible and devastating than any conflict of shell or bomb. In the end he came to a conclusion for he drew himself up, drained the prognosticatory glass of wine, and waited for an opportunity to speak. This came soon enough as the financial details were resolved and the engineering programs came to the fore. He gained the floor and crossed to the map where he traced the proposed course of the tunnel with a steady finger.

“Gentlemen, you all realize that the longest and most arduous portion of our labor now lies before us. Sir Isambard has proposed a radical form of transportation in these sections of our tunnel and research has proven that his genius was correct. The evacuated linear electric line will add a new dimension to transportation in the future.”

“Forgive my interruption,” said Cornwallis, “but I’m not quite sure that I understand the operation of this thing and I would be deeply grateful if you could explain it in some manner that would enable me to grasp it. Though I can wend my way through the intricacies of international finance I must admit that my head grows thick at the mention of electrons and allied objects.”

“Nonsense, Charles, I’ve told you a dozen times how the blasted thing works,” Sir Isambard broke in, quite warmly. “Let’s get on with the affairs at hand.”

“Please, an explanation first, if you don’t mind,” said Sir Winthrop, with some gratitude. “I am happy to see I am not alone in my ignorance, which was causing me some concern. If you would, Washington.”

Sir Isambard subsided, grumbling at this outrageous waste of time, draining a reckless draft of his spring water, so annoyed was he. Gus took this as assent and explained.

“The theories behind the proposals are quite complex, but there is no need to go into that since the results can be simply understood. Think of the tunnel, if you will, as an immense length of pipe, solid and integral. There is air in this pipe at the same pressure as most air upon the surface of this world, that is in the neighborhood of some fifteen pounds to the square inch. This air serves only one function, that of permitting the passengers in the trains to breathe, an important fact to the passengers but of no importance to the engineering of the tunnel. These few pounds of pressure add nothing to the structural strength of the tunnel walls to keep out the immense pressures of the ocean above, and from the engineering point of view the air is, in fact, a handicap because it limits and retards the speed of the trains. Remove the air, an easy thing to do, and the trains would go faster while using less power.”

“But the people, sir, our passengers, they must breathe!”