The Brave New World 21 The Great Western

A column of rickshaws was moving along the expressway, escorted by policemen on bicycles. The vehicles had been appropriated from the tour operators near Central Park. Their pa.s.sengers consisted of European heads of state, each accompanied by the messenger being sent to Europe. They were to sail on the Great Western, which had docked in New York's seaport the previous afternoon.

The rickshaw drivers were all policemen, and they all carried guns. The cops on the bicycles carried rifles. New York was a dangerous place. The people in the column traveling to the seaport could hear shots popping in the distance. Everyone looked grim, most of all the pa.s.sengers in the rickshaws. What was happening in New York was sure to be happening in cities across the Atlantic. The messengers about to travel there looked particularly gloomy.

But their hearts lifted when they saw the gleaming s.h.i.+p moored at Pier 16.

Its tall black funnel rose right in front of the mast between the two enormous paddlewheels mounted on both sides of the s.h.i.+p. All four masts carried sails, which were furled under their spars. A strand of smoke rose from the funnel, straight up and into the sky: it was a windless day. It seemed to be a good omen to people watching it. Like Stone Age shamans, they thought it meant the G.o.ds above were nodding with approval.

The s.h.i.+p's hull gleamed; the bra.s.s fittings glittered; the gla.s.s portholes sparkled. Everything would be yet thickly coated with dirt and soot: but at that moment, the s.h.i.+p seemed to glow just as strongly as the mysterious cubes that had arrived from the future. It embodied hope and progress just like the original Great Western did, nearly two centuries earlier.

The column halted at the beginning of the pier. Many rickshaw pa.s.sengers remained seated: they lowered their heads for final conferences with their messengers. Thick envelopes changed hands, and were stuffed into briefcases.

Carlton Brock did not need to dispatch a messenger. Officially, he had come - accompanied by the most intelligent of his three bodyguards - to give the departing s.h.i.+p a proper sendoff. Unofficially, he wanted a last word with the s.h.i.+p's captain. He got up from his rickshaw seat and briskly walked down the pier to the s.h.i.+p's gangway, his bodyguard following.

The s.h.i.+p was still in the process of being loaded with supplies: busy porters ran up and down the gangway. Brock waited, frowning, for a gap: none of those people recognized him! None stopped to invite him aboard! It was disgraceful.

"Mister President. Sir."

Carlton Brock turned and faced the s.h.i.+p's captain.

John Gregson was a retired U.S. Navy officer commanding the Great Western on its tourist cruises. He enjoyed his work, even though he frequently had to deal with seasick tourists. However, he didn't enjoy the prospect of a transatlantic voyage.

The responsibility was a heavy weight on his shoulders. It took him a real effort to stand straight, and look Carlton Brock in the eye. Brock said:

"Captain! I expected you'd be on board."

"I was supervising the loading, sir. We don't need any more of the items still being brought in. Much better and more efficient to prevent them from being loaded than having to unload them. Sir."

"You got everything you need?"

"Almost everything, sir."

"You got the maps? I heard there was a problem with the maps."

"We have the maps and the, er, navigational instruments, sir."

"Why the hesitation? Is there a problem?"

"They're a bit, er, antiquated. But there's no problem, sir."

"Good to hear. Now, captain, this is Jerry Hard. One of my secret service men."

"Pleased to meet you, mister Hard."

"Sure," said Jerry Hard. He transferred his chewing gum to his other cheek and gave Gregson a threatening look. Gregson smiled at him.

"Jerry will accompany you on this trip," said Brock. "You have any trouble with anyone - just let Jerry know. He'll sort it out in no time at all."

"Mister President, sir. With all due respect, I consider myself capable of handling any trouble aboard this s.h.i.+p."

"I know you're capable. I know you're more than capable. But I want you to let Jerry handle it for you. You're far too important to get mixed up with anything that doesn't involve handling this s.h.i.+p."

"May I say something, sir?"

"Of course you can. Out with it, man."

"In my considered opinion it would be much better if we sailed directly for Ireland."

"What, without stopping at Halifax?"

"That's right, sir."

"Can't be done. I promised the Canadian prime minister we would deliver her emissary to Halifax. It's also much closer to Ireland. It's safer to start from Halifax. Give you a chance to see how the s.h.i.+p handles the ocean."

"That's what I'm concerned with, sir. The sea's bound to be rougher up north. The distance to Ireland might be shorter, but all things considered it's more dangerous than a direct route from here. If need be, we could stop at the Azores. It's the paddlewheels I'm concerned with, sir. A rough sea could damage the paddles. And, well, up north we could encounter ice floes."

"Ice floes! What are you talking about? Last I heard, the polar cap had melted."

"Precisely, sir. There could a lot of ice floes floating around."

"Hmm," said Carlton Brock. Then he brightened.

"You can always stop the wheels, I mean put them out of gear. You've got sails, right?"

"Yes," Gregson said hollowly. Carlton Brock reached out and put his hand on Gregson's arm.

"Captain," he said sternly. "You'll manage just fine. You'll see. I have the utmost confidence in your ability to bring this journey to a successful conclusion. And Jerry will be there to help you whenever you need a.s.sistance."

"Yes, sir," Gregson said, and glanced at Jerry. He made a mental note to send Jerry down to the engine room to shovel coal into the furnace at the earliest opportunity. That would be the right way to use those bulging muscles.

"Wonderful," said Brock. "G.o.dspeed, Captain. I'll just have a quick word with Jerry.

He pulled his bodyguard aside and said softly:

"Now listen, Jerry. You're to make sure this frightened f.u.c.ker keeps going. Keep an eye on him so that he doesn't, I don't know, loosen a nut somewhere or something so that he has an excuse for turning back."

"Do you think he would sabotage his own s.h.i.+p, sir?"

"You never know," Carlton Brock said darkly. "You can take it from me, Jerry: you just never know."

"Of course, sir. As you say, sir."

"And I also want you to watch and listen to everything going on aboard that s.h.i.+p. I want to know who said what to who, and when. I want a complete, detailed report on what all those f.u.c.kers are up to when you get back. That's what you secret service guys are for, right?"

"Of course, sir," said Jerry Hard. He briefly thought of trying to explain the difference between a bodyguard and a secret agent to Carlton Brock. He decided it was useless. He said:

"You can count on me, sir."

They exchanged goodbyes and Brock strode off to speak to Juliette Lepine, the Canadian prime minister. He wanted to make sure she knew he making her a big favor by sending the Great Western to Halifax. He'd had to overrule the s.h.i.+p's captain to accommodate her! That's what he'd tell her.

He'd completely forgotten that the Halifax stop had been his own idea. He'd looked at the map, saw Halifax was closer to Europe than New York, and made up his mind there and then.

Jerry Hard watched his president approach the Canadian prime minister. Then he turned to look at Gregson. He said, affecting nonchalance:

"You think that tub of yours can make it across the pond?"

Gregson shrugged and said:

"We'll find out. Won't we?"

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