By Harry Harrison
A steel street less than the ocean isn't any longer a dream. Captain Augustine Washington and his group of navvies are already using the tunnel less than the Atlantic in an heroic feat of development. For Gus, a descendant of the notorious George Washington, completed as a traitor after the conflict of Lexington, this can be the chance to redeem the family members identify. yet his attractive fiancee has been compelled to finish their engagement, and there's a ruthless and sinister plot to damage the tunnel - and Gus himself...
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Extra resources for A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah!
Just two men dressed completely in black with black gloves and black goggled masks over their faces that bulged out below. Two men, two rough strangers, hurrying him where? To a waiting lift that streamed bright light when the door opened so that he closed his eyes at once. But he had recognized it, the lift from the hold up to the engine rooms that he had been in with the first engineer. What did this mean? He was jammed in, prevented from falling by the two assailants who pushed in with him so they rose silently in close, hoarse-breathing contact—while not a word was spoken.
But it was I, not you, Captain. " "You cannot blame yourself," said the bishop, at the same time fumbling for his watch and Gus's wrist in sudden memory of his medical capacity. "It is not a matter of blame but rather one of realization. " "Yes, yes, of course," said Wing Commander Mason, a little gruffly, tugging at his beard at the same time. "But I am afraid we must carry this investigation somewhat further. " "I am as mystified as you. " "Did you note any distinguishing characteristics of either of them?
Stratton's lean figure rose from its chair like a vulture ascending, a jointed collection of black suiting and white skin with dark-set eyes and pointed accusing finger, an upsetting apparition at any time and even more so now as he rattled with anger. "No good, no good at all, we can't have our firm represented by a man with the name of Washington, no not at all. " The speaker of these quiet but acidulous words lolled at ease in his chair, a short and fat roly-poly sort of man with a great white beard that flowed over his chest, a great black cigar that stuck up out of his mouth like a flagstaff—and a cold, penetrating eye that belied any impression of laxity or softness that the exterior might suggest.