A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! by Harry Harrison

but—” His voice stopped and his features wore a startled look.
    Macintosh smiled a wintry smile in return.
    “No names, no pack drill, and the culprits will be hard to find I warrant. But a command may be spo-ken, half in jest perhaps—and I ask you to remember Thomas Becket!—an order relayed, an order given, an ambitious man, money changes hands. I shall not spell it out but I can and do suggest that you beware in the future.”
    The car stopped then before one of the taller buildings in Wall Street and they emerged with Gus in a speculative state of mind. There was more to constructing a tunnel than digging a hole he realized, and apparently assassins could now be as-sumed to be an occupational hazard. Along with Boards of Directors. But he was prepared for the latter at least, had been preparing for this day for the past week, bolstering his facts, pinning down his figures. Taking a chance, a leap into the darkness that had been troubling him ever since he had first realized what must be done. His career rest-ed upon the outcome of today’s meeting and rightly enough it con-cerned him deeply. But, since the previous night when he had been face to face with a far more literal and final leap into the darkness, his will had been strengthened. What must be done must be done—and he would do it.
    Sir Winthrop he knew, and shook his hand, and was introduced to the other members of the Board whom he was acquainted with only by name and reputation. Self-made men all of them, solid and sure of themselves, twenty-one different in-dividuals who blended into one as he looked. One man, one body of men, whom he had to convince.
    As he seated himself at the place reserved for him at the long table he realized that the meeting had been in session for some time if the state of the ashtrays was any indication; since these men were experienced marksmen the spittoons showed no such evidence. This was clear proof that he had been deliberately invited to arrive after the proposals regard-ing his new status had been put be-fore the Board. There were no ech-oes of discussion in the heavy drapes that framed the windows or in the rich cigar fragrance of the air, but some hint of differences of opinion could be detected in the rigid scowls and set faces of a few of the Board members. Obviously the unanimity of opinion did not exist here as it did on the Board in London; but Gus had expected this. He knew the state of mind of his fellow colonials and had marshaled his facts to override any objections.
    “Gentlemen of the Board,” said Sir Winthrop, “we have been dis-cussing one matter for some time now, that is the possibility of my stepping down as chairman of this Board to be replaced by Captain Washington, who will also be in charge of the engineering of the tunnel here. This change has been forced upon us by the disastrous state of the finances of the entire op-eration, finances that must be mend-ed if we are to have any operation at all. It was decided to postpone a vote upon this matter until the captain could be spoken to and interrogated. He is here.
    Ah, I see Mr. Stratton wishes to begin.”
    Mr. Stratton’s lean figure rose from its chair like a vulture ascending, a jointed collection of black suit-ing and white skin with dark-set eyes and pointed accusing finger, an up-setting 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. As soon have Judas Isca-riot as Board chairman, or Pontius Pilate, or Guy Fawkes—”
    “Stratton, would you kindly con-fine yourself to the matter at hand and reserve the historical lecture for another time.”
    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,