A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah!

I. AN UNUSUAL JOURNEY

The silence in the little cabin was almost absolute and were it not for the constructions and devices of man it would have been, for here at thirty fathoms of depth in the Atlantic there was no sound. On the ocean’s surface above the waves might crash and roar and ships’ foghorns moan as the vessels groped their way through the almost constant fogs of the Grand Banks off Newfoundland, and nearer the surface pelagic life made its own moans as it was consumed, the shrimp clicked, the dolphin beeped, the fish burbled. Not so at the level where the tiny submarine sped, here was the eternal quiet of the deep. Stillness outside and almost as still within. There was only the distant hum of the electric motors that drove them through the water, the sibilant whisper of the air vents and, surprisingly the loudest, the tack-tack-tack of the jackdaw clock fixed to the bulkhead above the pilot. There had been no conversation for some minutes and in that vacuum the clock sounded the louder. The pilot saw his passenger’s glance move to it and he smiled.

“You’ll be noticing the clock then, Captain,” said he, not without a certain amount of pride.

“I do indeed,” said Washington, failing to add that it was impossible not to notice the obtruding thing. “I assume it is an original?”

“Not only an original but it is close on being the original, one of the very first ones made, that’s what it is. My grandfather it was who built the first jackdaw clock after seeing one of them things from the Black Forest when he was in a hock shop on O’Connell Street. Cuckoo clock it was, he said, and it fascinated him, what with him being a clockmaker himself and all of that. When he came home to Cashel he tried to build one but not being overfond of cuckoos himself—great ugly thing laying eggs in others nests and such incivility—he put in a jackdaw and a bit of ruined tower that being where jackdaws are found in any case and there it was. He made first one and then another and they caught on with the English tourists out to look at the Castle and the Rock and before you could say Brian O’Lynn an entire new industry was founded and to this day you’ll see a statue of him in the square there in Cashel.”

As though to add emphasis to this panegyric the clock struck the hour and the jackdaw emerged through the portal of the ruined abbey and hoarsely shouted CAWR, CAWR before retreating.

“Is it two already?” asked Washington, looking at his watch which was in rough agreement with the jackdaw who had retired to his dark cell for another hour, “Are we going as fast as we can?”

“Full revs, Captain, Nautilus is doing her best.” The pilot pushed the speed lever harder against its stop as though to prove his point. “In any case there’s the site now.”

O’Toole turned off the outside lights so they could see farther through the darkness of the sea. Above them there was a filtered greenness that Vanished as the depth increased so that below there was only unrelieved blackness. Yet when the glow of the beams had died away something could be seen down there in abyss, light where only night had ruled since the world was born. One light was visible, then another and another until a cluster of submerged stars greeted them as they dropped lower, welcoming them to a hive of industry alien to the ancient peace of the ocean floor.

First of all the eye was captured by a hulking, squat, ugly, alien, angular, boomed, buttressed and barbizaned machine that clutched the ocean floor. It had the girder and rivet look of a sturdy bridge for well over ninety-five percent of its construction was open to the ocean, at a pressure equilibrium with the sea around it. The frame was open and the reaching arms were open, while the tractor treads were jointed plates that ran on sturdy cast-iron wheels. It took a keen eye to note the swollen bulges behind the treads that contained the electric motors to power them, though the rotund shape of the nuclear reactor, swung like a melon behind the great ma-chine, was certainly easy enough to see. Other motors in pods turned the gear wheels and cables while the most important pod of all made a rounded excrescence on the front of the entire structure. This was the control room and living quarters of the crew, pressurized, comfortable and habitable, and so self-contained that the men could live here for months on end without returning to the world above the waves that was their natural habitat. Yet so large was the great supporting device that even these stately quarters were no larger in proportion than an egg would be balanced on the handle-bars of a bicycle, which, in some ways, the structures did resemble.

This hulking machine, entitled the Challenger Mark IV Dredger by its manufacturers, was nonetheless called Creepy by all who came into contact with it, undoubtedly because of its maximum speed of about one mile an hour. Creepy was neither creeping nor operating at the present time which was all for the best since otherwise vision would have been completely impossible, for while at work it threw up an obscuring cloud in the water denser than the finest inky defense of the largest squid alive. Its booms would then swing out and the rotating cutters, each as large as an omnibus, would crash into the ocean floor, while about them compressed streams of water tore at the silt and sand deposits of this bed. Under the attack of the water and the cutting blades the eternal floor of the ocean would be stirred and lifted—into the mouths of suction dredgers that sucked at this slurry, raised and carried it far to the side where it was spewed forth in a growing mound.

All of this agitation raised a cloud of fine particles in the water that completely obscured vision and was penetrable only by the additional application of scientific knowledge. Sound waves will travel through water, opaque or no, and the returned echoes of the sonar scanner built up a picture on the screen of events ahead in the newly dug trench. But Creepy’s work was done for the moment, its motors silent, its digging apparatus raised when it had backed away from the new trench.

Other machines now took their place upon the ocean floor. There was an ugly device with a funnel-like proboscus that spat gravel into the ditch, but this had finished as well and also backed away and the silt raised by its disturbance quickly settled. Now the final work had begun, the reason for all this subaqueous excavation. Floating downwards towards the newly-dug trench and the bed of gravel on which it was to rest was the ponderous and massive form of a preformed tunnel section. Tons of concrete and steel reinforcing rods had gone into the construction of this hundred foot section, while coat after coat of resistant epoxies covered it on the outside. Preformed and prestressed it awaited only a safe arrival to continue the ever-lengthening tunnel.

Thick cables rose from the embedded rings to the even larger flotation tank that rode above it, for it had no buoyancy of its own. The tubes that would be the operating part of the tunnel were open to the sea at both ends. Massive and unyielding it hung there, now drifting forward slowly under the buzzing pressure of four small submarines, sister vessels to the one that Washington was riding in. They exchanged signals, stopping and starting, then drifting sideways, until they were over the correct spot in the trench. Then water was admitted to the ballast tanks of the float so it dropped down slowly, setting the structure to rest on its prepared bed. With massive precision the self-aligning joint between the sections performed its function so that when the new’section came to rest it was joined to and continuous with the last.

The subs buzzed down and the manipulating apparatus on their bows clamped hydraulic jacks over the flanges and squeezed slowly to make the two as one. Only when the rubber seals had been collapsed as far as their stops did they halt and hold fast while the locking plates were fixed in place. On the bottom other crawling machines were already waiting to put the sealing forms around the junction so the special tremie, underwater setting concrete, could be poured around the ends to join them indivisibly.

All was in order, everything as it should be, the machines below going about their tasks as industriously as ants around a nest. Yet this very orderliness was what drew Gus’s thoughts to the object off to one side, the broken thing, the near catastrophe that for a brief while had threatened the entire project.

A tunnel section. Humped and crushed with one end buried deep in the silt of the ocean’s floor.

Had it been only twenty-four hours since the accident? One day. No more. Men now alive would never forget the moments when the supporting cable broke and the section had started its tumbling fall towards the tunnel and Creepy close below it. One submarine, one man, had been at the right spot at the right time and had done what needed to be done. One tiny machine, propeller spinning, had stayed in position, pushing with all its power so that the fall had shifted from a straight line and had moved ever so slightly to one side, enough to clear the tunnel and the machines below. But ma-chine and man had paid the price for so boldly pitting themselves against the mass of that construction, for when the tunnel section had struck and broken it had risen up like an avenging hammer and struck the mote that presumed to fight against it. One man had died, many had been saved. The name of Aloysius O’Brian would be inscribed on the slate of honor. The first death and as honorable a one as a man could want, if a man could be said to want death at all. Washington breathed heavily at the thought, because there would be other deaths, many deaths, before this tunnel’was completed. The pilot saw the direction of his passenger’s gaze and read his thoughts as easily as though they had been spoken aloud.

“And a good man, Aloysius was, even if he came from Waterford. The Irish make good submariners and no empty boast is that and if ever anyone should doubt that you just tell them about himself out there with a thousand ton tombstone and what he did. But don’t fret yourself, Captain. The other section is on the way, the replacement for that one, hours away but moving steadily, the thing will be done.”

“May it be the truth, O’Toole, the very truth.”

The next section had already appeared and was visible in the lights below and Gus knew that the final ones were waiting out there in the darkness, with the ultimate one coming as fast as the tugs could pull. Under his directions the sub moved along the length of the trench the short distance to the two completed sections of tunnel that projected from the caisson that would some day be the Grand Banks Station. The ocean here was no more than eleven fathoms deep which made the dumping of the rubble for the station that much easier. The artificial island, rose up to the surface before them, an island growing all the time as barge after barge of stone and sand was added to it. Gus looked at his watch and pointed ahead.

“Take us up,” he ordered.

A floating dock was secured here and they rose next to it and there was the thud of the magnetic grapple striking the hull as they were hauled into position. O’Toole worked the controls that opened the hatches above and the fresh, damp ocean air struck moistly against Gus’s face as he climbed to the deck. The sun had set unremarked while he had been below the ocean’s surface and the fog, temporarily held at bay by the warming rays, was returning in all haste as though to make up for time lost. Streamers of it rolled across the dock, bearing with them a sudden chill in the northern September evening. A ladder had been lowered to the submarine and Gus climbed towards the sailor waiting above who saluted him as he stepped from it.

“Captain’s compliments, sir, and he says the ship is waiting and we’ll cast off as soon as you’re aboard.”

Gus followed the man, yawning as he did for it had been a long day, beginning well before dawn, and it was the latest of an endless series of similar days stretching into the past longer than he could remember. When he looked in the mirror to shave he was sometimes startled at the stranger who looked back at him, a man with an unhealthy pallor from being too long away from the sun, dark-burnt circles under the eyes from being too often away from his bed, touches of gray around the temples from too much responsibility too long borne. But no regrets ever, for what he was doing was worth doing, the game worth the candle. His only regret even now was that although he had a full night ahead of him when he could sleep, this night would be spent aboard H.M.S. Boadicea known affectionately to her crew as Old Bonebreaker for the quality of her passage over troubled waters.

She was a hovercraft, the newest addition to the Royal American Coast Guard, capable of fifty knots over even the most towering seas, or sand, or swamp, or solid ground for that matter, the revenue agent’s delight, the smuggler’s dread, at top speed she rode like a springless lorry on a washboard road so was not the vessel of choice when one wanted a good night’s sleep But speed was the point of this trip, not sleep, and speed was what this unusual Vehicle could certainly guarantee.

Captain Stokes himself was waiting at the top of the gangplank and his welcoming smile was sincere as he shook Washington’s hand.

“A pleasure to have you aboard, Captain Washington,” spoken quietly. “Cast off those lines,” exploded out like the shell from a gun towards the ratings on deck. “Reports say a moderate swell so we should be able —to maintain fifty-five knots for most of the night. If the seas stay that smooth, our ETA at Bridgehampton will be dawn. Reporter chap coming along for the ride, no way to stop him, hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Captain. Publicity has been the making of this tunnel, so when the press wants to see me I am available.”

The reporter stood up when they entered the officers’ mess, a sturdy, sandy man in a checked suit wearing a bowler, the traditional hat of all newsmen. He was one of the new breed of electronic reporters, the recording equipment slung on his back like a pack, with the microphone peeping over one shoulder, the lens of the camera over the other. “Biamonte of the New York Times, Captain Washington. And I’m pool man, too, drawer of the lucky straw.

Since only one reporter could come on this voyage I’m AP, UP, Reuters, Daily News, the lot. I have a few questions—“

“Which I will be more than happy to answer in a few moments. But I have never been aboard a hovercraft before and I would like to watch her when she pulls out.”

Scarcely a second was being wasted on the departure. The two great propellers mounted on towers in the stern were already beginning to turn over as the lines that secured Boadicea to the dock were being cast off. The thrust propellers for the surface effect must have been turned on at the same time for the great craft shifted and stirred, then, strangest sensation of all, began to lift straight up into the air. Higher and higher, six, eight, ten feet it lifted until it was literally riding on a cushion of air and had no contact with the water at all. The thrust propellers were now just silvery disks, disks that could pivot back or forth on top of their mounts, and swing about they did until they faced crosswise rather than fore and aft and under their pressure the craft floated easily away from the dock. They turned again, thrusting now at full speed and bit by bit the modern Boadicea became a lady conqueror of the waves riding up and over them, faster and faster, rushing south into the night. But the hammering and shaking increased as she did, so that the plates rattled in the racks and the charts in their cupboards and Gus gratefully sought the softening comfort of the sofa.

Biamonte sat across from him and touched buttons on his hand controller. “Are we going to win, Captain Washington, that is the question that is on everyone’s lips today? Shall we win?”

“It has never been a question of winning or losing. Circumstances were almost completely governed by chance so that the American section of tunnel is reaching completion to the shelf station just about the same time as the English section to their station on the Great Sole Bank. There never was a race. The situations are different, even the distances involved are different.”

“They certainly are and that is what makes this race, that you won’t call a race, so exciting. The American tunnel is three times as long as the English…”

“Not quite three times.”

“But still a good deal longer, you’ll have to admit, and to build our tunnel in the same length of time as theirs is in itself a victory and a source of pride to all Americans. It will be an even greater victory if you can make a trip through the entire length of the American tunnel and then reach London in time to be aboard the first train to pass through the English tunnel. That train will be leaving Paddington Station in less than thirty hours. Do you still think you will be aboard it?”

“I have every expectation.” The hovercraft had reached its maximum speed now and was hammering along like a demented railway carriage, leaping from wave to wave. Biamonte swallowed and loosened his collar as a fine beading of perspiration appeared on his brow, for those of delicate tummies the-hovercraft is not a recommended form of transportation. But, sick or well, he was still a reporter and he pressed on.

“Does not the fact that one segment of the tunnel was destroyed interfere with your chances of winning?”

“I wish you would not refer to winning or losing since I feel it does not apply. In answer to your question, no, it has not altered the situation appreciably. Extra sections were constructed, reserve sections, in case faults developed in any of the others during construction. The final section is on its way now and will be placed during the night.”

“Would you care to comment upon the fact that Mr. J. E. Hoover, of the Long Island region branch of the Colonial Bureau of Investigation, thinks that sabotage may be involved with the broken cable and that he has a man in custody?”

“I have no comment since I know no more about it than you do.”

Gus kept all emotion from his voice, giving no hint that this was not the first case of attempted sabotage to the project. The reporter was now turning an interesting shade of green and noticed nothing. Yet he persevered with his questions despite a growing glassiness of the eye and a certain hoarseness of voice.

“Since the accident the bookmakers’ odds have fallen from five to three in your favor to even money. Does the immense amounts wagered upon your reaching London in time bother you at all?”

“Not in the slightest. Gambling is not one of my vices.”

“Would you tell me what your vices are?”

“Not answering that sort of question is one of them.”

They both smiled at this light exchange, though Biamonte’s smile had a certain fixed, or frozen, quality. He definitely was green now and had some small difficulty speaking as Boadicea charged the briny hills with undiminished energy.

“More seriously then… would you explain… the importance of these stations… in the ocean… for the tunnel.”

“Certainly. If you had before you a three-dimensional map of the world with all the waters of the oceans stripped away, you would see that the seas bordering the British Isles and North America are quite shallow, relatively speaking. Here we have the continental shelf, shoal water, stretching along our coast up to Canada and out past the island of Newfoundland to the. Grand Banks that border the abyssal plain. An underwater cliff begins here steep, sharp and deep, dropping more abruptly than any mountain range on earth. You saw the artificial island that is the beginning of the Grand Banks Station, it stands in sixty-six feet of water. Beyond this the bottom drops sharply down to over fifteen thousand feet, three miles in depth. The British Point 200 in the Great Sole Bank stands in forty-two feet of water, also at the edge of a three-mile drop. These two stations mark the limits of our shallow water operations, and beyond them we will have to use different types of tunnels and different types of trains. Therefore, train junctions must be built as well as…”

He did not finish because the reporter was no longer there. With a strangled gasp he had clutched at his mouth and rushed from the room. It was something of a wonder to Gus, who had a cast-iron constitution when it came to things of this sort, why people behaved like this, though he knew some did. But the interruption was timely since it gave him an opportunity to get some rest. He found the captain on the bridge and after a brief but interesting talk concerning the technologies of this newfangled craft the captain offered his own quarters for the use of his visitor. The bed was most comfortable and Gus fell at once into a deep though not undisturbed sleep. Complete relaxation was not possible and his eyes were already open when the messboy brought in a cup-like container with a spout in its top. “Coffee, sir, fresh from the thermos, sugar and cream like I hope you like. Just suck on the top there, splashproof valve, easy enough to work once you catch on.”

It was, and the coffee was good. After a wash and a quick shave Gus felt immensely better as he climbed back to the bridge. Astern the sea was washed with golden light as dawn approached, while ahead dark night still reigned though the stars were going and the low outline of Long Island could be clearly seen. The lighthouse on Montauk Point flashed welcome and within a few minutes its form could be clearly seen against the lightening sky. The captain, who had not quit his bridge the entire night, bid Washington a good morning then passed him a piece of paper.

“This was received by radio a few minutes ago.” Gus opened it and read.

“I am afraid the radio operator was quite mystified,” said Captain Stokes. “But he had the message repeated and says this is correct.”

“It certainly is, and the news could not be better. All of the sections of the tunnel are in place and are being sealed together for a water-tight bond. As you undoubtedly know, other sections of the tunnel were extended back from the Grand Banks Station to meet the ones coming the other way. Surveying is not easy on the ocean floor, plus the fact that we wanted some leeway when the two tunnels met. While we can manufacture sections of tunnel underwater, we cannot shorten sections already fabricated. Our error of closure was eight feet, almost exactly what we estimated it would be. Right now mud is being poured between the ends and this will be stabilized with the Gowan units, they will freeze it solid with liquid nitrogen so we can bore through. Everything is going as planned.”

Gus had not realized that the others on the bridge, the steersman, sailors and officers, all of them, had been listening as he spoke, but he was made aware of this as a cheer broke out from them.

“Silence!” the captain roared. “You act like a herd of raw boots, not seamen.” Yet he was smiling as he said it for he shared their enthusiasm. “You are destroying the morale of my ship, Captain Washington, but just this once I do not mind. Though we are Royal Coast Guard, and as loyal to the Queen as any others, we are still Americans. What you have done, are doing, with your tunnel, has done more to unify us and remind us of our American heritage than anything I can remember. This is a great day and we are behind you one hundred percent.”

Gus seized his hand, firmly. “I shall never forget those words, Captain, for they mean more to me than any prizes or awards. What I do I do for this country, to unite it. I ask no more.”

Then they were entering the outer harbor at Bridgehampton, slowing so the spray no longer rose in great sheets around them. This sleepy little town near the tip of Long Island had changed radically in the years since the tunnel had begun, for here was the American terminus of the great project. A few white frame houses of the original inhabitants remained along the shore, but most had been swallowed in the docks, ramps, boat-works, assembly plants, storehouses, marshaling yards, offices, barracks, buildings, boom and bustle that had overwhelmed the town. Boadicea pointed towards the beach and slid over the surf and up onto the sand where it finally settled to rest. As soon as the storm of blowing particles had ceased a police car raced across the hard-packed surface and slid to a stop. The driver opened the door and saluted as Washington came down the ramp.

“I was told to meet you, sir. The special train is waiting.”

As indeed it was, as well as a cheering crowd of early risers, or rather nonrisers and nonsleepers most of whom must have spent the coolish night here hr vigil, warming themselves around now cold bonfires, rousing up to listen to every word of Washington’s progress as it was passed down from the tunnel headquarters. They were on his side and he was their hero sp the general joy and noise rose to a fever pitch when he appeared, while the mob seethed and churned like a soup pot on the boil as everyone wanted to get closer at the same time.

A platform had been erected, draped with flags and bunting, where a red-faced band sat and trumpeted loud but unheard music that was drowned completely by the thunderous ovation. Everyone there wanted to greet Washington, shake his hand, touch his clothing, have some contact with this man upon this day. The police could not have prevented them, but a gang of navvies could and did, they surrounded him with the solidness of their bodies and boots and tramped a path towards the waiting train. On the way they passed the stand which Washington mounted, to shake hands quickly with the silkhatted dignitaries there and to wave to the crowd. They cheered even more loudly then fell almost silent so his words reached all.

“Thank you. This is America’s day. I’m going now.”

Concise but correct and then he was on his way again to the train where a strong bronze hand reached down to half lift him into the single coach behind the electric engine. No sooner had his feet touched the step than the train began to move, picking up speed quickly, rattling through the points and rushing at the black opening framed by the proud words, Transatlantic Tunnel.

Gus had no sooner seated himself than that same elevating bronze hand became a bearing hand and produced a bottle of beer which it presented, open and frothing, to him. Since beef and beer are the life-blood of the navvies he had long since accustomed himself to this diet, at any hour of the day and night, so that he now seized the bottle as though he normally broke his fast with this malt beverage, as indeed he had many times, and raised it to his lips. The owner of this same bronze hand had another bottle ready which he also lifted and half drained at a swallow, then sighed with pleasure.

Sapper Cornplanter, of the Oneida tribe of the Iroquois nation, head ganger of the tunnel, loyal friend. He was close to seven feet of copper-skinned bone and sinew and muscle, black haired, black of eye, slow to anger but when angry a juggernaut of justice with fists the size of Virginia hams and hard as granite A gold circlet with an elk’s tooth pendant from it hung from his right ear and he twisted it between his fingers now as he thought, as was his habit when deep concentration was needed. The twisted elk’s tooth by some internal magic twisted up. his thoughts into a workable bundle and when they were nicely tightened and manageable he produced the result.

“You’re cutting this whole operation mighty fine, Captain.”

“A conclusion I had reached independently, Sapper. Do you have any reason to think that I won’t make it?”

“Nothing—except the fact that you have no leeway, no fat in the schedule at all in case of the unforeseen and I might remind you that the unforeseen is something tunnelers always have to take into consideration. The tunnel sections are all in place and the tremie seals between the joints poured, everything is going as well as might be expected. The last five tunnel sections are still filled with water since we need some hours for the joints to seal. On your orders. Want me to phone ahead and have them drained?”

“Absolutely not since we need as much time as possible for the setting. Just make sure the equipment is ready so we can get right at it. Now what about my connection at the station?”

“The RAF helicopter is already there, fuelled and standing by. As well as the Wellington in Gander. They will get you through just as long as the Great Spirit showers his blessings, but there is a chance that He will shower more than blessings. There is a weather low out in the Atlantic, force nine winds and snow, moving in the direction of Newfoundland, and it looks like heap big trouble.”

“May I get there first!”

“I’ll drink to that.” And he was as good as his word, producing two more bottles of Sitting Bull beer from the case beneath his seat.

With ever increasing speed the train drove deeper into that black tunnel under the Atlantic, retracing the course beneath the sea that the hovercraft had so recently taken above it. But here, far away from the weather and the irregularities of wind and wave, over a roadbed made smooth by the technical expertise of man, far greater speeds could be reached than could ever be possible on the ocean above. Within minutes the train was hurtling through the darkness at twice the speed ever attained on the outward trip so that after a few more beers, a few more hours, a hearty meal of beef and potatoes from an extemporized kitchen—a blow torch and an iron pot—they began to slow for the final stop.

Final it was, for the driver, knowing the urgency, had in his enthusiasm, stopped with his front wheels scant inches from the end of the track. In seconds Washington and Sapper had jumped down and clam-bored into the electric van for the short journey to the workface. Lights whisked by overhead in a blur while up ahead the sealed end of the tunnel rushed towards them.

“Better put these boots on,” Sapper said, handing over a hip-high pair. “It is going to get wetter before it gets drier.”

Washington pulled the boots on they were stopping, and when he jumped down from the van Sapp was already at the unusual device that stood to one side of the tunnel. While he adjusted the various levers and dials upon it the van hummed, into reverse and rushed away. Gus joined the small group of navvies there who greeted him warmly and whom he answered in turn, calling each of them by name. Sapper shouted to them for aid and they rolled the machine closer to the tunnel wall and arranged the thick electric cables back out of the way.

“Ready whenever you say, Captain.”

“Fire it.”

When the head ganger pulled down the master switch a thin beam of burning ruby light lashed from the laser and struck high up on the rusted steel panel that sealed the tunnel’s end. That this was no ordinary manner of light was manifest when the metal-began to glow and melt and run.

“Stand to one side,” Washington ordered. “The tunnel ahead is sealed off from the ocean but it is still full of water under tremendous pressure. When the laser holes through we are going to have…”

The reality of the experience drowned out the descriptive words as the intense beam of coherent light penetrated the thick steel of the shield and on the instant a jet of water no thicker than a man’s finger shot out, hissing like a hundred demons, as solid as a bar of steel, under such great pressure that it burst straight back down the tunnel a hundred feet before it turned to spray and fell.

In the meantime Sapper had not been idle and his beam was now cutting out a circle of metal high‘ up on the top of the shield, a circle that was never completed because the pressure on the other side was so great that the disk of solid steel was bent forward and out to release a column of water that roared deafeningly in their ears as it hurtled by. Now the tunnel was chilled and dampened by the spray of the frigid water and a vaporous haze obscured their vision. But the burning beam of light cut on, making an oblong opening in the center of the shield that extended downward as the water level lowered.

When the halfway mark was reached Washington got on the phone and radio link to the men at the Grand Banks Station end of the tunnel. Though they were no more than a tenth of a mile ahead there was no way to speak directly to them, his voice went by telephone back to Bridgehampton, from there by radio link across the ocean.

“Open her up,” Washington ordered. “The water is low enough now and everything is holding.”

“Too much for the pumps to handle,” Sapper said as he looked down gloomily at the dark water rising around their ankles, for the water here had to be pumped back eighty miles to the nearest artificial island with a ventilation tower.

“We won’t drown,” was the only answer he received and he twisted his elk’s tooth in the earring as he thought about it. But at the same time he worked the laser until he had driven the opening down to the level of the rising water around them, where the beam spluttered and hissed. Only then did he enlarge the opening‘ so a man could fit through.

“It won’t get any lower for a while,” said Gus, looking at the chill water that reached almost to his waist. “Let us go.”

In a single file they clambered through, with Washington leading, and forced their way against the swirling water beyond. An instant later they were soaked to the skin and in two instants chilled to the bone, yet there was not one mutter of complaint. They shone their bright electric torches about as they walked and the only conversation was technical comment about the state of the tunnel. The joints were sealed and not leaking, the work was almost done, the first section of the tunnel almost completed. All that lay in their way was eight feet of frozen mud that formed the great plug that sealed the end of this tunnel and joined it to the sections beyond.

All of the navvies carried shovels and now there was a use for them, for when the mud had been pumped in from the outside it had flowed part way back down the tube and was not congealed. They tackled this with a will, arms moving like pistons, working in absolute silence, and before this resolute attack the wet earth was eaten away, tossed to one side, penetrated. Their shovels could not dent the frosty frozen surface of the sealing plug but, even as they reached it, a continuous grinding could be heard—and then a burst of sound and a spatter of fragments as a shiny drill tip came thrusting out of the hard surface.

“Holed through!” Sapper called out and added an exuberant war cry that the others echoed. When the drill was withdrawn Gus clambered up to the hole and shouted through it, could see the light at the far end, and when he pressed his ear to the opening he could hear the answering voices.

“Holed through,” he echoed and there was a light in his eyes that had not been there before. Now the navvies stood about, leaning on their shovels and chattering like washerwomen as the machines and men on the other side enlarged the opening from a few inches to a foot to two feet.

“Good enough,” Sapper shouted through the tunnel in the frozen mud. “Let’s have a line through here.”

A moment later the rope end was pushed through and seized and tied into a sturdy loop. Washington dropped it over his shoulders and settled it well under his arms, then bent to put his head into the opening. The faces at the other end saw this and cheered again and even while cheering pulled steadily and firmly on the rope so he slid forward bumping and catching and sliding until he emerged at the other end, out of breath and red-faced—but there. More hands seized him and practically lifted him onto the waiting car that instantly jumped forward. He wrestled free of the rope as they stopped then sprang for the elevator. It rose as he put foot to it, rattling up the shaft to emerge in the watery afternoon sunshine of the Grand Banks. Still more than a little out of breath he ran across to the level spot before the offices, brushing the dirt from him as he went, to the strange craft that was awaiting his arrival.

It is one thing to gather intelligence from the printed word and the reproduced photograph, to be deluded into the knowledge that one is acquainted with an object one has never seen in three-dimensional reality, yet it is another thing altogether to see the object itself in all the rotundity of its existence and realize at once that there is a universe of difference between the two. Gus had read enough to labor under the delusion that he knew what there was to know about a helicopter so that the reality that he was wrong J caused him to start and almost! stumble.

He slowed his run to a fast walk then and approached the great machine with more than a little awe manifest in his expression.

In the first place the machine was far bigger than he imagined, as large as a two-decker London omnibus standing on end. Egg shaped, oh definitely, as ovular as any natural product of the hen, perched on its big end with the smaller high in the air above, squatting on three long curved legs that sprang out of the body and that could be returned in flight to cunningly artificed niches carved from the sides. The upper third of the egg was transparent and from the very apex of this crystal canopy there jutted up a steel shaft that supported two immense four-bladed propellers separated, one above the other, by a bulge in the shaft. Gus had barely a moment to absorb these details before a door sprang open in the dome and a rope ladder unrolled and rattled down at his feet, a head appeared in the opening and a cheery voice called out.

“If you’ll join me, sir, we’ll be leaving.”

There was a lilt to the words that spoke of Merioneth or Caernarvon, and when Gus had clambered up to the entrance he was not surprised to see the dark hair and slight form of an R.A.F. officer who introduced himself as Lieutenant Jones.

“You sit there, sir, those straps for strapping in, sir.”

While he spoke, and even before Gus had dropped into the second chair in the tiny chamber, Jones’s fingers were flitting over the controls putting into operation this great flying engine. There was a hissing rumble from somewhere beneath their feet, a sound that grew rapidly to a cavernous roar and, as it did so, the long-bladed rotors above their heads stirred to life and began to rotate in opposite directions. Soon they were just great shimmering disks and as they bit into the air the helicopter stirred and shook itself like a waking beast—then leaped straight up into the air. A touch on a button retracted their landing legs while the tiny artificial island dropped away beneath them and vanished, until nothing except ocean could be seen in all directions.

“Being an engineer yourself, Captain Washington, you can appreciate a machine such as this one. A turbine, she has, that puts out two thousand horsepower to turn the contra-rotating rotors for a maximum forward speed of two hundred seventeen miles in the hour. Navigation is by radio beam and right now we are locked onto the Gander signal and all I need do is keep that needle on that point and we’ll be going there directly.”

“Your fuel?”

“Butane gas, in the liquid form, very calorific.”

“Indeed it is.”

Within a matter of minutes the coast of Newfoundland Island was in sight and the city of St. John’s moved smoothly by beneath them. Their route took them along the coast and over the countless bays that fringed the shore. Jones looked out at the landscape then back to his controls and his hand reached out to touch a switch.

“Number One tank almost empty so I’ll switch to Number Two.”

He threw the switch and the turbine rumbled and promptly died.

“Now that is not the normal thing I’m sure,” said he with a slight frown. “But not to worry. I‘ can switch to tank Number Three.”

Which he did and still the engine remained silent and they began to fall.

“Well, well, tank Four.” Which proved to be as ineffective in propelling the ship as had its earlier mates. “But we cannot crash, bach, there is that. We windmill down to a soft landing.”

“Wet landing,” Gus said pointing out at the ocean.

“A well made point. But there, should be enough fuel left in tank One to enable us to reach the shore.”

The flying officer seemed cheered by these final words because they were the first true prediction he had made in some time, for when he switched back to the first tank the turbine rumbled to life instantly and the helicopter surged with power. As he curved their course towards the shore he tapped, each in its turn, the dials set above the switch, then shook his head.

“They all read full, I cannot understand it.”

“Might I suggest you radio the base at Gander about our situation.”

“A fine idea, sir, would I could. No radio. Experimental ship you know. But there, beyond that field, a farmhouse sure, perhaps a telephone, contact reestablished.”

As though to defy his words the turbine coughed and stopped again and their forward flight changed to an easy descent. Jones hurriedly lowered the landing legs and they had no sooner locked into position than the craft touched the ground in the center of a plowed field. Instants later the pilot had thrown open a door in the floor and had dived down into the maze of machinery below.

“That is very interesting,” he said, spanner in hand and banging on the cylindrical tanks below him. “They are empty, all of them.”

“Interesting indeed, and I shall report their condition if I can find a telephone at that farmhouse.”

The hatch release was easy to locate and Gus pushed it open and threw the rope ladder out and was on it and down it even before the lower end had touched the ground. At a quick trot he crossed the field, angling towards the patch of woods behind which the farmhouse was located, running as quickly as he could across the stubble, running his thoughts no less quickly over the hours remaining before the train left London, the darkening sky above a dire portent of their vanishing number. Nine a.m. the train departed, nine in the morning and here he was on the other side of the Atlantic the evening before, running, which was not the most efficient form of ocean crossing imaginable. For the very first time he felt that he might not make it in time, that all the effort had been in vain—but still he kept on running. Giving up were two words he simply did not know.

A farm track, a wooden fence and finally, reluctantly, the trees thinned out to permit a wood framed farmhouse to come into view. The door was closed, no one in sight, the shutters drawn. Deserted? It could not be. With raised fist he hammered loudly on the door, again and again, and almost abandoned hope before there was the rattle of a moving bolt and it opened a crack to reveal a suspicious eye set in an even more suspicious face and, if a beard can be said to be suspicious, wrapped around about by a full and suspicious graying beard.

“Aye?” a suspicious voice muttered, nothing more.

“My name is Washington, sir, and I am in some distress. My flying vehicle has been forced down in your field and I would like very much to make a call with your telephone, for which you will be reimbursed.”

“No telephone.” The door closed far quicker than it had opened and Washington instantly pounded upon it until it reluctantly opened for a second time.

“Perhaps you could tell me where the nearest neighbor with a phone—”

“No neighbors.”

“Or the nearest town where a phone—”

“No towns.”

“Then perhaps you could allow me into your house so we could discuss where I could find a telephone,” Washington roared in a voice accustomed to giving orders over the loudest of background clamor. Where good manners had not prevailed this issuing of a command had, for the door opened wider, though still reluctantly, and he stamped after the owner into the house. They entered a modest kitchen, lit by glowing yellow lights, and Washington strode back and forth the length of it, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, while he attempted to discover from the reluctant rustic what his next step would be. A good five minutes of questioning managed to worm out the tightly held information that nothing could possibly be done in any reasonable. length of time. The nearest town, far distant, the neighbors, nonexistent, transportation in fine, only equine.

“Nothing can be done then. I have lost.”

With these sad words Gus smacked his fist into his palm with great force, then held his wristwatch towards the lamp so he could tell the time. Six in the evening. He should have been at the air base by now, boarding the Super Wellington for the jet flight to England, instead he was in this primitive kitchen. Six, now, eleven at night in London and the train departed at nine in the morning. The light hissed and flickered slightly and the hands on the watch irrevocably told the lateness of the hour. The light flickered again and Gus slowly raised his vision to the shade, the transparent globe, the glowing hot mantle within.

“What… kind… of… light… is… this—?” he asked with grim hesitation.

“Gas,” was the reluctant answer.

What kind of gas?“

“In a tank. The truck comes to fill it.”

The light of hope was rekindled in Gus’s eyes as he spun about to face the man again. “Propane? Could it be propane? Have you heard that word, sir?”

Squirming to hold in the fact, the fanner finally had to release it. “Something like that.”

“It is that, because that is the only sort of liquid gas that can be used in the north because butane will not vaporize at lower temperatures. There is hope yet. I wish to purchase that tank of gas and rent your farm wagon and horse to transport it for me. What do you say to that, sir?”

“No.”

“I will pay you one hundred dollars for it.”

“Maybe.”

“I will pay you two hundred dollars.”

“Let me see it.”

Gus had his wallet out on the instant and the bank notes smacking on the table. The head and the beard shook in a very definite and negative no.

“Colonial money. I don’t take it. Canadian greenbacks or sterling, either.”

“I have neither.”

“I ain’t selling.”

Gus would not give in, not surrender to this backwoods agrarian, the man who had triumphed over the ocean would not admit defeat at the hands of a pastoral peasant.

“We will swap then.”

“Whatcher got?”

“This.” He had his watch off in an instant and dangling tantalizingly before the other’s eyes. “A two-hundred and thirty-seven dollar waterproof watch with four hands and seven buttons.”

“Got a watch.”

“Not a shockproof, self-winding, day-of-the-week-and-month-revealing watch that tells the time when this button is pressed,” a tiny bell struck six times, “and contains an infinitesimal radio permanently tuned to the government weather station that gives a report when this one is pressed.”

“…Small craft warnings out, snow and winds of gale velocity…”

A report he would just as well not have heard. Standing there, the watch of many qualities extended in silence until, with the utmost reluctance, a work-gnarled hand came up and, with the greatest trepidation, touched it. “It’s a deal.”

Then physical work, a harsh anodyne to the frustration of impotent waiting, struggling with the ponderous tank by the light of a paraffin lantern, loading it into the farm cart, harnessing the reluctant beast, driving it down the track, pushing mightily to get it over the ruts in the field towards the lighted helicopter where Jones’s head popped out of the open hatch when he was hailed.

“Found the trouble, sir, and strange it is since I filled the tanks myself. They are empty and the indicators somehow broken so they read only full. It could only be—”

“Sabotage. But I have the answer here. Propane, and may there be enough of it to reach the base at Gander.”

It was the work of seconds to remove the access ports and reveal the hulking forms of the helicopter’s fuel tanks. Jones spat on his palms and reached for his toolbox.

“We’ll have to have these out since there is no way to transfer the fuel. If you will tackle the fittings above, Captain, I’ll tackle the clamps and we’ll have them pulled before you can say Rhosllanerchrugog.”

They worked with a will, metal struck metal and there was no further sound other than an occasional muffled curse when a wrench slipped and drew blood from barked knuckles. The tanks were freed and toppled out to the ground, after which with an even greater effort, they managed to raise the replacement tank into their vacated position.

“A lorry will return your tank and remove these,” Jones said and received a reluctant nod in return.

Straps had to be arranged to secure the new tank in position, and there was some difficulty in attaching the fitting to its valve, but within the hour the job was done and the last connection tightened, the plates lifted back into place. The wind had accelerated while they worked and now the first flakes of snow sped by in the lantern’s light. Gus saw them but said nothing, the pilot was working as fast as he could, but he did glance at his wrist before he remembered his watch was no longer there. Surely there was still time. The new jet Wellingtons were rumoured to do over six hundred miles an hour. There must still be time. Then the job was done, the last fastener fastened, the last test completed.

They climbed the ladder and rolled it up and at the touch of the switch the great engine stirred and roared to life once more. Jones turned on the landing lights and in that fierce glare they saw the snow, thicker now, the frightened horse kicking up its heels against the wagon then stampeding out of sight with the shouting farmer in hot pursuit while the rotors spun, faster and faster until they were up, up and away into the blinding storm.

“Instruments all the way,” said Jones with calm assurance. “There’s nothing over five hundred feet high between us and the field so I’ll hold her at a thousand, no need to waste fuel going higher. Follow the beam and keep an eye on the altimeter and that’s all there is to it.”

That was not all there was to it for the weather worsened with every mile they flew until the great mass of the helicopter was tossed and spun about like a child’s kite. Only the ready skill and lightning reflexes of the pilot held them on course while, despite his outward calm, the dampening of his shirt collar indicated the severity of the task. Gus said nothing, but held tight to the seat and looked out at the swirling snow as it blew through the golden cone of their lights and tried not to think about the minutes quickly slipping by. There was still time, there had to be time.

“Now look at that, just look at that!” Jones called out cheerily as he spared an instant to point to their radio beacon where the needle was spinning in mad circles. “Broken!”

“Not half likely—it just means that we are over the beacon, over the field. Hold tight for we are going down.”

And down they did go, plummeting towards the unseen ground below while the altimeter unwound and the snow rushed by.

“Do you see anything, Captain Washington?”

“Snow, just snow and blackness.

Wait… a moment… there! Off to port, lights of some kind, and more below us.“

“Gander. And there come the lads to hold her down and just in time. Sit tight for this is not ideal weather to maneuver.”

But he did it. A fall, some quick work with the controls and throttle to check them, slow, drop again, until with a jar and a thud they were grounded and the engine died as the throttle was closed.

“I’ll never forget what you have done, Jones,” said Gus as he warmly shook the other’s hand.

“Just part of the ordinary R.A.F. service, Captain. A pleasure to have you with me. You’ll win this yet.”

But would he? After a quick rush through the blizzard to the haven of the heated building and hurried introductions by the officers there, Gus became aware of a general unease coupled with the specific disability of anyone to meet his eye.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked the Wing Commander in charge of the base.

“I am afraid there is, sir. I would be hesitant about taking off an aircraft in a storm like this, but it could be done, and the runways could be cleared of snow now, no trouble there. But I am afraid that the wind, gusting over a hundred miles an hour at times, has lifted and dropped, the Wellington and damaged her, landing gear. Repairs are being made but I do not think they will be done before midnight at the earliest.

We could still reach London in time, but if the storm continues unabated, and Met office says it will, all the runways will be sealed by then. It is the horns of the dilemma, sir, for which I beg your profound pardon.“

Gus said something in return, he was not sure what, then accepted with thanks a steaming mug of tea. He looked into it and saw failure and drank deep of the bitterness of despair. The fliers sensed his mood and busied themselves at other tasks to leave him in solitude. It was so damnably frustrating! So close, so much effort, so much rising over circumstance and fighting adversity, to be stopped at the last moment like this. The forces of nature had balked him where sabotage had not. These bitter thoughts possessed him so that he was scarcely aware of the room around him and the officer who stood in front of him remained there for some minutes before his physical presence made itself known. Washington raised a face stamped with defeat until he became aware of the other man and smoothed his features so his feelings did not show.

“I am Clarke, sir, Captain Clarke. Forgive me for intruding with what may be, could be considered as, a suggestion.”

He was a thin man, slightly balding, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and seemed most sincere. His voice still held the softness and rolled R’s of his Devonshire youth though there was nothing of the rustic about him now.

“Please speak, Captain Clarke, for any suggestion is more than welcome.

“If I might show you, it would perhaps be simpler. If you would follow me.”

They went through a series of connecting passageways to another building, for snow and blizzards were not unknown here at the best of times and this device enabled free passage whatever the weather. They were now in a laboratory of some sort with wires and electric apparatus on benches, all dominated by a mass of dark-cased machinery that covered one wall. Through glass windows set in the mahogany front of the impressive machine, brass gears could be seen, as well as rods that turned and spun. Clarke patted the smooth wood with undisguised affection.

“A Brabbage engine, one of the largest and most complex ever made.”

“Beautiful indeed!” Gus answered in sincere appreciation, forgetting for the moment his great unhappiness.“I have never seen one this size before. I suppose you have a large memory store?”

“More than adequate for our needs as you can see.” He opened a door with a flourish to disclose serried banks of slowly turning silver disks, all of them perforated with large numbers of small holes. Metal fingers riding on rods brushed the surfaces of the disks, bobbing and clicking when they encountered the openings. There was a continual soft metallic chatter going on, along with some hissing and an occasional clatter. From this welter of sound Clarke must have detected an inconsistency because he cocked his head to one side, listening, then threw open the next panel and seized an oil can from the bench behind them. “A fine device, although it does need upkeep.” He dropped oil on the bearings of a cam follower where it rode up and down on the smoothly formed and complex shape of a brass analog cam. “They are making wholly electric Brabbage engines now, calling them computers as if that made a difference, they are much smaller but still filled with bugs. Give me good solid metal anytime, although we do have trouble with backlash in the gear trains.”

“It is all very interesting…”

“Please excuse me, Washington, no excuse really, bit carried away, dreadfully sorry.” He dropped the oil can, flustered, picked it up again, restored it to the bench, closed the panels and pointed to a door across the room. “If you please, now you’ve seen the Brabbage, right through here. This may interest you more.”

It did indeed, for beyond the door was a great hangar, in the center of which stood the tall, spearlike form of a rocket. Fifty feet or more it reached up, six feet thick at the base, finned and sleek and stern, all of a color, blue-black and striking.

“Black Knight, our best and most powerful rocket. Completely reliable with a most efficient liquid fuel engine that burns kerosene mixed with peroxide. Very delicate controls. Sends back a radio signal as it goes along that is monitored by the Brabbage engine we have just seen, so that course adjustments can be made in flight. Using this we have been most successful in an experimental program that may soon become a standard practice. Rocket mail, the Post Office is interested as you can well imagine, between here and Croydon. They have one of the electric computers there, pick up the signal as Black Knight comes over the Atlantic and guide her in, cut engines and all that, bring her down by parachute…” His voice ground to a halt as Washington turned slowly to stare at him, fix him with a terrible gaze. When he spoke again it was hurriedly, stumbling at times. “No, hear me out please, experimental program, nothing more. Worked every time so far, mail got through, but who knows. Tremendous acceleration. Kill a person dead perhaps. But other experiments, sent a chimp last time, Daisy, sweet thing, in the Regent’s Park Zoo right now, never seemed to phase her, ate a whole hand of bananas when they took her out.”

“If you are saying what I think you are saying, Clarke, why then IS am your man. If you would like «s volunteer to cross the ocean in your piece of fireworks, then I have volunteered. But only if it gets me then by nine ia the morning. Will it?” And indeed that Was what the Devonshire engineer had in mind and the more he explained the more convinced Gus was that victory might still be snatched from the already closing jaws of defeat. The other engineers and the base commander were called in and they conferred, London was contacted on the radio telephone and more conferring was done until, in the end, there were none to say nay and the yea-speakers were overwhelming in numbers and there was no choice but to do this new and wonderful thing.

It was a labor to finish in the few hours that remained, but labor they did. Outside the arctic storm howled and beat in impotent rage against the buildings while inside they worked on the device that would vanquish the storm, vanquish time and space and distance to send a man from the new world to the old in a matter of some few minutes. The rocket was fuelled and readied and all of its complex circuitry tested while, high above, the mechanics labored to install the rubberised lining and to pump in all the gallons of water that would be needed.

“That is the secret,” Clarke explained, eyes glistening with enthusiasm behind the smudged lenses of his glasses. “Amniotic fluid, a secret known to nature and there for the taking had we but the sense to know where to look. But we have at last looked and seen and utilized this secret. As you know 1-G is the force of gravity, gravity as we know it on the surface of the Earth. Acceleration and gravity seem to be identical, or at least that’s what that German chap Einstein who used to be at Oxford says, identical. We accelerate and feel 2-G’s and are uncomfortable, 3-G’s and we suffer, 5-G’s, 6-G’s strange things happen, death and heart failure and blackouts, very nasty. But, suspended in a liquid medium, we have had test subjects, simians for the most part, subjected to 50-G’s and they survived in fine fettle. So that is what we are doing how. A space-going womb, ha-ha, you might call it.”

“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!”

“And breathe they will-for the trains will be sealed and pressurized just like high-altitude aircraft. With the air removed we can now consider higher speeds than were ever possible before. Why there is no reason why our trains cannot go eight, nine hundred—even a thousand miles an hour.”

“Wheels and bearings will not sustain such speeds.”

“Perfectly correct, Sir Winthrop, which leads us to the next stage. A train with no wheels. This train will literally float in the air as powerful magnets in the train are repelled by equally powerful magnets in the track. We have all seen how one magnet will support another in midair upon its repelling field, and thusly will our train ride in its evacuated tunnel. But what will move our train? And here is the genius of Sir Isambard’s answer.

“The train will move by means of a linear traction engine. I shall not explain this complex invention, but suffice to say it is like an electric motor turned inside out with one part of the motor aboard the train and the other stretched on the roadbed the length of the tunnel with no physical connection needed, or wanted, between them. In addition, most of the train’s speed will be derived by its dropping off the edge of the continental shelf and falling the three miles down to the abyssal plain on the ocean’s bottom. And there you have it, gentlemen, a sealed train in an evacuated tube, floating in mid tunnel and touching nothing physical, even molecules of air, being started on its way by gravity and continuing by electricity. A form of transportation as modern as the entire concept of the tunnel itself.”

There were sighs of relief from the financiers and a few questions to clear up certain points so that when Gus continued he had the informed and knowledgeable attention of his small audience.

“As has been demonstrated we now have our means of transportation and the preforming technique to lay the tunnel. The final step, before detailed surveying and construction begins, is the selection of the route to be followed. Because of the complex nature of the ocean’s floor, great care must be taken at this point, for the bottom of the Atlantic is no sandy lagoon that may be slashed directly across. Hardly! What we have here is a varied landscape more complex and drastic than the one we know on the drier surfaces of our globe. There are, of course, the abyssal plains that form the bottom, lying at an average depth of sixteen thousand feet below the ocean’s surface, but other features must be taken into consideration.

“Down the center of the ocean runs the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a great mountain chain that is in reality a double row of mountains with the gorge of the Rift Valley between them. These mountain ranges and the Rift Valley are crossed at right angles by immense canyons called fracture zones that resemble wrinkles in the Earth’s hide. Other features also concern us, the Mid-Ocean Canyon, like an underwater riverbed on the ocean’s floor, seamounts and islands and trenches—that is, extraordinarily deep gulfs—such as this one, on the map here, that is over five miles in depth.

“And there are more factors to consider, underwater earthquakes and vulcanism which are concentrated in specific areas for the most part, the very high temperatures of the sea bottom near the Rift Valley as well as the fact that the sea bottom here is moving as the continents drift apart at the rate of about two inches a year. It appears, and the geologists confirm the suspicion, that hew matter rises from the Earth’s interior in the Rift Valley and spreads outwards at that steady rate. All problems, gentlemen, but none of them problems that cannot be surmounted.

“You will note the proposed route on this map which avoids these enumerated obstacles. If we begin here at Point 200 on the edge of the Continental Shelf, our tunnel proceeds roughly north northwest along the fracture zone we call 41-G that join the end of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge and the offset Reykjanes Ridge south of Iceland. By doing this we avoid the peril of crossing the Rift Valley which ceases to exist at this point. Now, further west, we emerge from the fracture zone and turn south, skirting the Mid-Ocean Canyon and swinging around the heights of the Milne Seamount until we reach the Sohm Abyssal Plain. At this point the tunnel will turn almost due north to rise up the Laurentian Cone to meet the tunnel already laid on the Continental Shelf at the Grand Banks Station. Now this route might be said to have a few faults.”

There was a rumble like a distant storm from Sir Isambard’s direction that Gus chose to ignore as he continued.

“Since the ocean bed is so warm in the fracture zone special tunnel sections will be laid on the bed itself, not in a trench, and constructed in such a manner that water will circulate through cavities in them to keep them cool. However the major criticism might be that, in order to avoid all the geological details, the tunnel will be twice as long as it would be if it went in a direct manner, therefore twice as costly.”

“Good God, man,” Sir Isambard exploded. “We have been over this before and you know we can’t go directly across the infernal ocean. So what are you suggesting?”

There was a hushed silence as Gus took a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it, gulls could be heard crying outside and the strains of the orchestra playing in the distance, but all was listening quiet on the balcony.

“That is just what I am suggesting,” said Gus, with a positive sure-ness. “And I intend to show you how. I propose that the tunnel go due south from Point 200, over the flat bed of the Biscay Abyssal Plain to a base in the archipelago of the Azores, where it will meet the other leg of the tunnel that has come almost due east from the Grand Banks along the Oceanographer Fracture Zone. This route is less than half the length of the one under consideration now and, in addition, will provide an unexpected benefit. Cargo can be unloaded in the Azores base to be loaded on ships for Africa and the Continent, thereby shortening the voyage greatly. Plus the fact that another leg of the tunnel can eventually be considered from the Azores to Spain that will make a train connection between the Continent and the Americas. If this is done the results will be simply amazing.

“It will then be possible for a passenger to board a train at the Pacific port of Provideniya at the end of the Trans-Siberian Railroad and thence to proceed by train across Siberia, Russia and Europe, under the Atlantic, across America and connect with the Trans-Canada Railroad to Alaska there, to finish his journey once more on the shores of the Pacific. After a journey around at least ninety-nine percent of the Earth’s circumference at this point.”

At this juncture there were shouted questions and eager enthusiasm for more information about this novel idea until Sir Isambard hammered with his fist for silence.

“A mad dream, nothing more. Or rather it would be possible were it not for the aforementioned Mid-Atlantic Ridge with the Rift Valley which, I believe, is at least one mile wide and a number of miles deep at this point. It cannot be crossed. The plan is discarded.”

“Not so. The valley can be crossed and I have the plan for that procedure in my hand. It will be crossed, gentlemen, by an underwater bridge.”

Into the following silence Sir Isambard’s snort of contempt burst like a trumpet peal. “Nonsense, sir! Poppycock and nonsense! A bridge cannot be built a mile long that will support the weight of the tunnel sections at this depth.”

“You are correct, sir, it cannot. That is why this bridge will have negative buoyancy, a thing our tunnel sections have in any case until we weight them down, so it will float over the canyon, secured in place by heavy cables.”

This time the silence was absolute as Gus snapped open his plan and put it before them, explaining how the bridge would be made and how, since it floated, it could absorb the two-inch-a-year movement of its opposite ends, and all the other details of his new proposal. For every question asked he had an answer and it soon became obvious that, unless unknown factors were thought up, this plan was far superior to the earlier one in every way.

Long before this became clear to the others it was realized by Sir Isambard who parted the table and stood, arms folded, staring out at the setting sun. When the others had exhausted their words and enthusiasm and stopped for breath he turned and fixed Gus with a gaze the coldness of which outdid the most frigid blast of arctic night.

“You have done this deliberately, Washington, produced your plan to supersede mine in an attempt to obtain some gain.”

“Never sir! You have my word…”

“There is no doubt this design, or a variation of it, will be adopted,” the redoubtable man continued, unheeding of the interruption. “The tunnel will be built to the Azores and you will get the credit I am sure. Since I put the good of the tunnel above my own ambition I will continue working as I have done in the past. But for you, sir, personally, sir, I have little regard. Please be informed that you will no longer be a welcome guest in my house.”

Gus was nodding even before the other had finished, for it had been? foreordained.

“I was sure of that from the beginning,” said he, a weight of unspoken feelings in these simple words. “I have nothing but good feelings for you, sir, nor do I intend to do you injury in any way. I wish that you would believe me when I say that I have put the good of the tunnel ahead of any personal advancement for myself. Therefore, in the light of your remarks, I have no choice other than to resign from my position in the Transatlantic Tunnel Company and leave their employ. If my presence is a disconcerting one and interferes with the completion of this great work, then I will remove that presence.”

His remarks, though spoken in a quiet voice, brought a stunned silence to the others in the room, though only for a few moments to Sir Isambard.

“Resignation accepted. You may leave.”

This further paralyzed the verbal apparatus of the two men of finance so that Gus had actually risen from his chair and was on his way to the door before Lord Cornwallis could speak.

“Washington, a moment if you please. We must not be unilateral,, matter of precedence, full consideration, blast me, I am not sure what! to make of all this.” With an effort he assembled his fractured thoughts and sought for some form of compromise even at this last moment, “We have heard your suggestion and must consider it, since, Sir Isambard, with all due respect, you cannot speak for all the members of both Boards or even for myself or Winthorp. What I would suggest, what I do suggest, sir, is that we here consider what must be done and will then inform you of any decisions reached. If you would tell us where you could be reached at the end of our conference, Captain Washington?“

“I will be in my room.”

“Very good. We will contact you as soon as there are any results to our deliberations.”

Gus left then and the heavy door closed behind him with a powerful clack of the latch and a certain positive finality.

III. A BRIEF ENCOUNTER

On all sides cheer and goodwill abounded, tastefully clad couples and groups talked animatedly, friends called to one another with hearty voices, bellboys darted through the press in the lobby with messages and telegrams undoubtedly all of a happy, wholesome nature, and such a flood of good spirits encompassed them all that it must surely have lapped up and out of the windows and across the pavement bringing smiles as it went and causing even the gulls on the balustrades to cry with joy. Yet through this ocean of cheer one dark vessel plunged, a man with an aura of great unhappiness about him, cut off and alone, architect of all these glories, and now, in the hour of triumph, set apart from all those who enjoyed the fruits of his labors.

Washington was too depressed to be depressed, too numb for feelings, even miserable ones, lie wafted steadily and calmly with a grave, exterior which in no way indicated the depths of unplumbed unhappiness within him, for the tunnel had be, come his life and without it he felt an empty shell. He was tempted to be bitter towards himself, yet if he had it to do over again he knew he would do the same. The improved route must be used. If saving the tunnel meant a loss in his personal life, then it must be done. Occupied like this, in the darkest of dark studies, he plowed through the crowd to a berth before the lift doors and waited for them to open, and open they did, quickly enough, for this lift was powered by hydraulics with a piston sunk into a cylinder deep in the ground, and he stepped aside so the single occupant could emerge, face to face with him, a chance of fate, a roll of some celestial die that determined that the occupant should be none other than the lady so recently mentioned, Sir Isambard’s daughter Iris.

“Iris,” said he, and could say no more for to his eyes her face and elegantly garbed form were enclosed in a golden nimbus that made detailed vision difficult.

“You’re looking older, Gus,” said she with the eminently more practical vision of a woman. “Though I must say that touch of gray to your hair does add something.” But, practical as she was, it could not be denied that, sure as her voice had been when she started to speak, there was a certain indeterminate waver to it before she had done. At this all conversation ceased and they stood, simply looking at each other for long moments until the boy who operated the lift piped up.

“Lift going up, your honor, all floors if you please.”

With this they stepped aside so others could enter and in that bustle of humanity they were as alone as they might be in a rushing sea. She was as radiant as she ever had been, Gus realized, more beautiful if that were possible with the new grace of maturity. His eyes moved of their own accord down her left arm to her hand and fingers, but there any revelatory vision was blocked by the kid-skin gloves she wore. But she was well aware of his gaze and its import and she smiled in answer.

“No ring, Gus. I still live with my father, very quietly.”

“I have just left him and we have talked. We had most friendly words and then, I am afraid, most harsh ones.”

“My father in all truth.”

“The friendly ones encompassed an invitation to make myself a guest at his home again. The harsh ones…”

“You shall tell me of them later, for just the first will do for now.” With simple foresight she knew that this moment, brief as it might be, must be clutched at and abstracted from the flow of time. What came after would arrive speedily enough, but the passport to social intercourse granted by her father had to be seized and utilized. “Is there no place we can sit for a few moments?”

“I know the very spot,” answered Gus, knowing nothing of the sort, but also now aware that here was an opportunity that might be grasped and, therefore, clutching at it with both hands. He excused himself for the moment and addressed one of the functionaries of the establishment who was stationed nearby, and if a sum of money changed hands this was to hurry the arrangements, which it apparently did, for they were led without further ado to a secluded alcove at the rear of one of the dining rooms where an attendant waiter vanished as soon he had taken their order and filled it with unusual speed. No tea this time, as on their last meeting, for Iris had reached her majority in the meanwhile and was one of the new brand of liberated women who drank in public places. She had a Tio Pepe sherry while he perforce had a double brandy.

“To your good health, Iris.”

“And to yours, which needs it more since you seem to treat health and life with a very cavalier attitude.”

“This last trip? It was necessary and there was little risk.”

“Risk enough to one who sits in the quiet of a London room and waits for the reports.”

“You are still concerned about me?”

“I still love you.”

The words were spoken with such sincerity and truth that they bridged the gap of years as though these years had never existed, they had never been parted. His hand found hers, eagerly waiting, and pressed it beneath the table.

“And I have never stopped loving you, not one moment of the time. May the waiting be ended now. I still carry your ring, here, and have always hoped that I could return it to you some day.”

“And can you now?”

The loosening of his touch, the moving away of his hand from hers told her more surely than any words could what was to be.

“I can, only if you will break with your father.”

“The harsh words you spoke of. Yes, I suppose you must repeat them now, though I wish to heaven I did not have to hear them.” With this she drained her glass and her cheeks glowed with the drink and the power of her feelings. Gus admired her in silence before he spoke again, knowing there was none like her on the face of the globe, knowing he would never love another.

“I have proposed certain changes in the tunnel that will modify and even alter drastically parts, of your fathers plan. We are of different opinions regarding the changes. He feels, and perhaps it is true, that my modifications of his work are a personal attack and after offering me the courtesy of his home he has withdrawn it. That’s where matters now stand.” No power on Earth could have dragged from him the admission at this point that he had also resigned from the tunnel, since this would be crude playing upon her sympathies.

“They stand there indeed and stand very crookedly I must say. Ring for another drink, if you please, because it is not every girl who sees her dreams restored and dashed again all in the space of a few brief minutes.”

When she had her sherry and had touched it to her lips he spoke the question that meant the most to him.

“Must they be dashed? You are past twenty-one now and your own person. Would you marry me despite your father’s displeasure?”

“Dear Gus, I would if but I could. But I must stay by him.”

“But why? Can you give me any reason?”

“Yes, one, and I tell you only because you should know that I do this not from any lack of love for you, but because I have a certain duty. My mother is dead, as you know, my two brothers engineers like yourself and always far away. I am the only one he has. What I say now is in strictest confidence, known only to myself and his physician, some trusted servants. My father is not a well man. Oh, I know he bombasts and roars and carries on as he always did, but the years have exacted their toll. He has had a heart attack, a serious one, so serious he lay between life and death for days. Now I must look after him and smooth everything in his way that I can because the physician says the next one will be fatal, he is almost certain of that. If I left him, went against his will, I would be killing him as surely as if I pulled a trigger.”

After that there was nothing that could be added. They sat in silence for a few moments, then she rose and he stood as well. She kissed him on the cheek softly and he returned this distant embrace which is all they would allow themselves, knowing the wellsprings of emotions that they would tap with anything more. They said good-bye and she left and he watched her go until she vanished from sight behind the gilt pillars, then he resumed his seat and the swift destruction of his glass of brandy which burned so warmly, the only warmth in a world of cold, that he ordered another to follow it, then the bottle for the table so the waiter would not have to run back and forth so often.

Yet as much as he drank he was immune to drink. The level in the bottle lowered until it faced extinction and still its potent medicine never touched the chill core within him. His work had vanished, the one he loved had gone, there remained only an encompassing despair. He sat in this manner for a great length of time until he became aware of the waiter standing at his shoulder holding out a portable telephone instrument while a mechanic connected it to a concealed fitting in the wall.

“You are wanted on the line, Captain Washington,” said he.

Cornwallis came on, his voice loud and booming.

“Washington, is that you? What a relief, we have been trying to contact you now for hours.”

“Yes?”

“Well, tried to contact you as I said. Had quite a time here I can assure you, Sir Isambard is a difficult man as you well know. But he came around in the end. He puts the tunnel ahead of all other considerations as do we all. As I hope you do, too, Washington.”

“Sir!”

“Of course you agree. In which case we are asking you to withdraw your resignation and carry on with us. We need you, man! Sir Isambard will build the Point 200 to the Azores leg, the easier one, and will let you do the American section with your infernal tunnel-bridge across the Rift Valley. Will you do it? Will you stay with us?”

The silence lengthened and Cornwallis’s anxious breathing could be heard on the line. Despite the brandy he had drunk Gus was sober on the instant, and when he answered there was only firmness in his voice.