21 The Great Western (1/2)
The fifth day of January and the fourth day of the New Era began cloudy. For a while, it looked as if there might be rain, or snow. But by noon the sky had cleared: pale light painted the broad ribbon of FDR Drive.
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 passengers 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 passengers 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 ship 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 ship. 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 gods above were nodding with approval.
The ship's hull gleamed; the brass fittings glittered; the glass portholes sparkled. Everything would be yet thickly coated with dirt and soot: but at that moment, the ship 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 passengers 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 ship a proper sendoff. Unofficially, he wanted a last word with the ship's captain. He got up from his rickshaw seat and briskly walked down the pier to the ship's gangway, his bodyguard following.
The ship 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 ship'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 ship.”
”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 ship.”
”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.”