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A TRANSATLANTIC TUNNEL, HURRAH!
By
Harry Harrison
BOOK THE FIRST
THE LINK BETWEEN THE LANDS BEGUN
I. A HURRIED MESSAGE AND A DANGEROUS MOMENT
Leaving Paddington Station the Fly-ing Cornishman seemed little
differ-ent from any other train. Admittedly the appointments were cleaner
and newer and there was a certain opulence to the gold tassels that
fringed the seat cushions in the first-class carriage, but these were just a
matter of superficial decoration. The differ-ences that made this train
unique in England, which was the same as saying unique in the entire
world, were not yet apparent as the great golden engine nosed its way over
the maze of tracks and switches of the station yards, then out through the
tunnels and cuttings. Here the roadbed was ordinary and used by all
trains alike.
Only when the hulking locomotive and its trailing cylinder of closely
joined coaches had dived deep under the Thames and emerged in Surrey
did the real difference show. For now even the roadbed became un-usual,
a single track of continuously welded rails on specially cushioned sleepers
that was straighter and smoother than any track had ever been before,
sparkling in deep cut-tings that slashed a direct channel through the chalk
of the downs, shooting arrow-straight across the streams on stumpy iron
bridges, a no-nonsense rail line that changed direction only in the longest
and shallowest of curves. The reason for this became quickly apparent as
the acceleration of the train steadily in-creased until the nearby fields and
trees flashed by, visible as just the most instantaneous of green blurs; only
in the distance could details be picked out, but they, too, slipped
backwards and vanished almost as soon as they had appeared.
Albert Drigg had the entire com-partment to himself and he was very
 glad of that. Although he knew that this train had made the return trip
from Penzance every day for almost a year now and had suffered no
mis-hap, he was aware of this only in the-ory, so that now experiencing it
in practice was a totally different mat-ter. From London to Penzance was
a total of two hundred eighty-two miles and that entire incredible
dis-tance would be covered in exactly two hours and five minutes—an
aver-age speed including stops of well in excess of one hundred fifty miles
per hour. Was man meant to go that fast?
Albert Drigg had a strong visceral sensation that he was not. Not even
in this year of Our Lord 1973, mod-ern and up to date though the Em-pire
was. Sitting so bolt upright in his black suit and black waistcoat that they
showed no wrinkles, his stiff white collar shining, his gleam-ing leather
portfolio on his knees, he generated no sign of his internal emotions. On
the rack above, his tightly rolled umbrella and black bowler indicated he
was a City man and men of the City of London are just not given to
expressing their innermost feelings in public. Never-theless he could not
suppress a slight start when the compartment door whisked open on silent
runners and a cheerful cockney voice addressed him.
“Tea, sir, tea?”
One hundred and fifty miles an hour—or more!—and the cup remained
in place on the ledge be-neath the window while the tea poured into it in a
steady stream.
“That will be thrupence, sir.”
Drigg took a sixpence from his pocket and passed it over to murmured
thanks, then instantly re-gretted his largesse as the door closed again. He
must be unnerved if he tipped in so magnanimous a man-ner, but he was
solaced by the fact that he could put it on the expense account since he
was traveling on company business. And the tea was good, freshly brewed
and hot, and did very much to soothe his nerves. A whiskey would do a lot
more he realized and he almost touched the electric button for the waiter
when he remembered the Saloon Car, of-ten seen in the pages of
The
Taller
and
Pall Mall Gazette
, but visited only by the very few. He finished
the tea and rose, tucking the extra length of chain back into his sleeve. It
both-ered him that the portfolio was ir-removably shackled to the cuff
about his wrist and indicated that he was something less than a complete
gen-tleman, but by careful maneuvering he could keep the chain from the
public view. The Saloon Car, that was the very thing!
 The carpeting in the corridor was a deep gold in color making a subtle
contrast with the ruddy oiled gloss of the mahogany paneling. Drigg had
to pass through another coach to reach the Saloon Car, but there was no
need to struggle with recalcitrant doors as on an ordinary train for as he
approached some concealed de-vice detected his proximity and the doors
opened swiftly before him to the accompaniment of the hum of hidden
electric motors. Naturally he did not look through the com-partment
windows he passed, but out of the corners of his eyes he had quick
glimpses of finely dressed men and elegantly attired women, some
children sitting sedately, reading—then a sudden loud barking that
inadvertently drew his eye. Two coun-try gentlemen sat with their feet up,
emptying a bottle of port between them while a half dozen hounds of
various breeds and sizes milled about and sought after their atten-tion.
And then Drigg was at the Sa-loon Car.
No automatic devices here but the best of personal services. A grand
carved door with massive brass han-dles and a pillbox capped boy, his
double row of uniform buttons glint-ing and catching the eye, who
sa-luted and tugged at the handles.
“Welcome, sir,” he piped, “to the Grand Saloon Car of the London and
Land’s End Railway.”
Now that he saw it in its full splen-dor Drigg realized that the
news-paper photographs did not do the es-tablishment justice. There was
no feeling at all of being in a railway carriage, for the atmosphere was
rather that of an exceedingly ex-clusive club. One side contained
im-mense crystal windows, from floor to ceiling, framed by ruddy velvet
cur-tains, while arrayed before them were the tables where the clientele
could sit at their leisure and watch the rural countryside speeding by. The
long bar was opposite, massed with ranked bottles that reflected in the
fine cut glass mirror behind it.
There were windows to right and left of the bar, delicately constructed
stained glass windows through which the sun poured to throw shifting
col-ored patterns upon the carpet. No saints here, unless they be the saints
of railroading like Stephenson or Brunel, sturdy far-seeing men with
compasses and charts in hand. They were flanked by the engines of
his-tory with Captain Dick’s Puffer and the tiny Rocket on the left, then
progressing through history and time to the far right where the mighty
atomic powered Dreadnought ap-peared, the juggernaut of the rails that
 pulled this very train.
Drigg sat by the window, his port-folio concealed beneath the table and
ordered his whiskey, sipping at it slowly while he enjoyed the gay
music-hall tune that a smiling musi-cian was playing on the organ at the
far end of the car.
This was indeed luxury and he relished every moment of it, already
seeing the dropping jaws and mute stares of respect when he told the lads
about it back at the King’s Head in Hampstead. Before he had as much as
finished his first drink the train was easing to a stop in Salis-bury, where
he looked on ap-provingly as a policeman appeared to chase from the
platform a goggl-ing lot of boys in school jackets who stood peering into
the car. His duty done the officer raised his hand in salute to the
occupants then rolled majestically and flatfootedly on about his official
affairs.
Once more
The Flying Cor-nishman
hurled itself down the track and
with his second whiskey Drigg ordered a plate of sandwiches, still eating
them at the only other stop, in Exeter, while they were scarcely done
before the train slowed for Penzance and he had to hurry back for his hat
and umbrella.
The guards were lined up beside the locomotive when he passed, burly,
no-nonsense looking soldiers of the Argyll and Sutherland High-landers,
elegant in their dark kilts and white gaiters, impressive in the steadiness
of their Lee-Enfield rifles with fixed bayonets. Behind them was the
massive golden bulk of the Dreadnought, the most singular and by far the
most powerful engine in the world. Despite the urgency of his mission
Drigg slowed, as did all the other passengers, unable calmly to pass the
gleaming length of her.
Black driving wheels as tall as his head, drive rods thicker than his legs
that emerged from swollen cylinders leaking white plumes of steam from
their exhausts. She was a little travel-stained about her lower works but all
her outer skin shone with the seam-less, imprisoned-sunlight glow of gold,
fourteen-karat gold plating, a king’s ransom on a machine this size.
But it wasn’t the gold the soldiers were here to guard, though that was
almost reason enough, but the pro-pulsive mechanism hidden within that
smooth, unbroken, smoke--stackless shell. An atomic reactor, the
government said, and little else, and kept its counsel. And guarded its
 engine. Any of the states of Ger-many would give a year’s income for this
secret while spies had already been captured who, it was rumored, were in
the employ of the King of France. The soldiers sternly eyed the passersby
and Drigg hurried on.
The works offices were upstairs in the station building and a lift carried
him swiftly to the fourth floor. He was reaching for the door to the
ex-ecutive suite when it opened and a man emerged, a navvy from the look
of him, for who else but a railway navvy would wear such knee-high
hobnailed boots along with green corduroy trousers? His shirt was heavy
canvas and over it he wore a grim but still rainbow waistcoat, while
around his pillar-like neck was wrapped an even gaudier handker-chief.
He held the door but barred Drigg’s way, looking at him closely with his
pale blue eyes which were startlingly clear in the tanned nut-brown of his
face.
“You’re Mr. Drigg, aren’t you, sir?” he asked before the other could
protest. “I saw you here when they cut’t‘tape and at other official
func-tions of t’line.”
“If you please.”
The thick-chewed arm still pre-vented his entrance and there seemed
little he could do to move it.
“You wouldn’t know me, but I’m Fighting Jack, Captain Washington’s
head ganger, and if it’s the captain you want’t‘see he’s not here.”
“I do want to see him and it is a matter of some urgency.”
“That’ll be tonight then, after shift. Captain’s up’t‘the face. No vis-itors.
If you’ve messages in that bag, I’ll bring ’em up for you.”
“Impossible, I must deliver this in person.” Drigg took a key from his
waistcoat pocket and turned it in the lock of the portfolio then reached
in-side. There was a single linen en-velope there and he withdrew it just
enough for the other to see the golden crest on the flap. Fighting Jack
dropped his arm.
“The marquis?”
“None other.” Drigg could not keep a certain smug satisfaction from his
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