Free A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! by Harry Harrison Page B

see on the streets of Campbelltown, or in Machrihanish. People who gave Highlanders a bad name for fighting and carousing ought to see the Col-anies first. He sniffed loudly, an act easily done since his sniffer was a monolithic prow seemingly designed for that or some more important function. It was the dominating ele-ment of Macintosh’s features, nay of his entire body for he was slight and narrow and dressed all in gray as he thought this only properly fitting, and his hair was gray while even his skin, when not exposed to the ele-ments for too long a time, also par-took of that neutral color. So it was his nose that dominated and due to its prominence, and to his eager at-tention to details and to book-keeping, his nickname of “Nosey” might seem to be deserved, though it was never spoken before his face, or rather before his nose.
    Now he hurried by on Forty-sec-ond Street, crossing Third Avenue and sniffing one parting sniff in the direction of the melee. He pressed on through the throng, dodging skillfully even as he drew out his pocket watch and consulted it. On time, of course, on time. He was never late.
    Even for so distasteful a meeting as this one. What must be done must be done. He sniffed again as he pushed open the door of the Commodore Hotel, quickly before the functionary stationed there could reach it, driving him back with an-other sniff in case he should be seek-ing a gratuity for a service not per-formed. It was exactly two o’clock when he entered and he took some grudging pleasure from the fact that Washington was already there. They shook hands, for they had met often before, and Macintosh saw for the first time the bandages on the side of‘
    the other’s face that had been turned away from him until then. Gus was aware of the object of the other’s attention and spoke before the question could be asked.
    “A recent development, Ian. I’ll tell you in the cab.”
    “No cab. Sir Winthrop is sending his own car, as well he might, though it’s no pleasure riding in a thing that color.”
    “A car need not necessarily be black,” Gus said, amused, as they went up the steps to the elevated Park Avenue entrance where the elongated yellow form of the Cord Landau was waiting. Its chrome exhausts gleamed, the wire wheels shone, the chauffeur held the door for them.
    Once inside, with the con-necting window closed, Gus explained what had happened on the airship. “And that’s the all of it,” he concluded. “The cook knows noth-ing more and the police do not know the identity of his accomplice, or who might have employed him.”
    Macintosh snorted loudly, a strik-ing sound in so small an enclosure, then patted his nose as though com-mending it for a good performance.
    “They know who did it and we know who did it, though proving it is an-other matter.”
    “But I’m sure I don’t know.” Gus was startled by the revelation. “You’re an engineer, Augustine, and more of an engineer than I’ll ever be, but you’ve had your head buried in the tunnel and you’ve no‘ been watching the business end, or the Stock Exchange, or the Bourse.”
    “I don’t follow.”
    “Then try this if you will. If some-one tries hurting you it is time to see whom you might have been hurting, too. People who might have a lot of money but might see their shares slipping a wee bit. People who look to the future and see them slipping a good deal more and intend to do something about it now. People with contacts on an international level who can reach the right people in the Sarete who are always willing to jump at a chance to make mischief for Britain. And who might they be?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “You’re being naive, you are!” Macintosh laid his finger along his nose, which hid this digit and a good part of his hand as well, in a conspiratorial gesture. “Now I ask you, if we be under the water, who be over it?”
    “Airships, but the tunnel offers them no competition. And ships upon the ocean,