Read Online A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! by Harry Harrison - Free Book Online
Authors: Harry Harrison
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while he writhed, keeping the ether rag to his face, waiting for him to subside.
It was torture. He fought on as long as he could before letting his struggles cease, went past the time where he wanted to breathe to the point where he needed to breathe to the excruciating, horrifying moment where he thought if he did not breathe he would die. With an al-most self-destroying effort he passed this point as well and was sinking into a darker blackness when he felt the cloth being removed from his face at last.
First he breathed out the residual fouled air in his lungs, clearing his nostrils, and then, ever so slowly, despite the crying needs of his demanding body, he let a quiet trickle of air back into his lungs. Even as he did this he felt strong hands seize and lift him and carry him to the door which was opened a crack, then thrown wide so they could carry him through. There were dim night lights in the corridor and he slitted his eyes so they would appear closed and let his body remain completely limp despite the battering of the doorjamb as they rushed him through.
There was no one else in sight, no one to cry out to if that might have done any good. 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, hur-rying 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. In a matter of less than a minute these two savage men had seized and bound him, theoretically rendered him unconscious and were now tak-ing him some place with surely no good purpose.
The answer was quick in coming. The port engine room; they were re-tracing his visit of that morning. Into the air lock, close the one door while the other opened—to the accom-panying snakelike hissing of an ex-haust valve.
There was still nothing that Wash-ington could do. If he struggled he would be rendered unconscious, for good this time. Though his nerves cried out for action, something to break this silence and captivity, he did nothing. His head was light by the time the inner door opened because he had breathed as deeply as he could, hyperventilating his blood, getting as much oxygen into his bloodstream as he could. Because beyond the door was the unpres-surized part of the flying ship where the air was just as thin as the 12,000 foot high atmosphere outside. Where a man simply breathed himself into gray unconsciousness and death. Was that what they had in mind? Would they leave him here to die? But why, who were they, what did they want?
They wanted to kill him. He knew that as soon as they dropped him to the cold metal of the deck and wres-tled with the handles of the doorway beside him, the same one that Alec Durell had gone through in South-ampton. But there he had a fall of twenty-five feet to an unwanted bath. Here there were 12,000 feet of fall to brutal death.
With a heave the door was thrown open and the three-hundred mile an hour slipstream tore through the opening, drowning out even the roar of the four great engines. It was then that Washington did what he knew he had to do.
He straightened his bent legs so they caught the nearest man behind the knees. For a brief instant the dark stranger hung there, arms flail-ing wildly before vanishing through the opening into the frigid night outside.
Gus did not wait until the other had gone but was wriggling across the floor to the alarm of a fire box, struggling to his feet and butting at it with his head until he felt the glass break and slice into his skin. Turning to face the remaining man, swaying as he did so.
There is no warning to anoxia,
It was torture. He fought on as long as he could before letting his struggles cease, went past the time where he wanted to breathe to the point where he needed to breathe to the excruciating, horrifying moment where he thought if he did not breathe he would die. With an al-most self-destroying effort he passed this point as well and was sinking into a darker blackness when he felt the cloth being removed from his face at last.
First he breathed out the residual fouled air in his lungs, clearing his nostrils, and then, ever so slowly, despite the crying needs of his demanding body, he let a quiet trickle of air back into his lungs. Even as he did this he felt strong hands seize and lift him and carry him to the door which was opened a crack, then thrown wide so they could carry him through. There were dim night lights in the corridor and he slitted his eyes so they would appear closed and let his body remain completely limp despite the battering of the doorjamb as they rushed him through.
There was no one else in sight, no one to cry out to if that might have done any good. 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, hur-rying 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. In a matter of less than a minute these two savage men had seized and bound him, theoretically rendered him unconscious and were now tak-ing him some place with surely no good purpose.
The answer was quick in coming. The port engine room; they were re-tracing his visit of that morning. Into the air lock, close the one door while the other opened—to the accom-panying snakelike hissing of an ex-haust valve.
There was still nothing that Wash-ington could do. If he struggled he would be rendered unconscious, for good this time. Though his nerves cried out for action, something to break this silence and captivity, he did nothing. His head was light by the time the inner door opened because he had breathed as deeply as he could, hyperventilating his blood, getting as much oxygen into his bloodstream as he could. Because beyond the door was the unpres-surized part of the flying ship where the air was just as thin as the 12,000 foot high atmosphere outside. Where a man simply breathed himself into gray unconsciousness and death. Was that what they had in mind? Would they leave him here to die? But why, who were they, what did they want?
They wanted to kill him. He knew that as soon as they dropped him to the cold metal of the deck and wres-tled with the handles of the doorway beside him, the same one that Alec Durell had gone through in South-ampton. But there he had a fall of twenty-five feet to an unwanted bath. Here there were 12,000 feet of fall to brutal death.
With a heave the door was thrown open and the three-hundred mile an hour slipstream tore through the opening, drowning out even the roar of the four great engines. It was then that Washington did what he knew he had to do.
He straightened his bent legs so they caught the nearest man behind the knees. For a brief instant the dark stranger hung there, arms flail-ing wildly before vanishing through the opening into the frigid night outside.
Gus did not wait until the other had gone but was wriggling across the floor to the alarm of a fire box, struggling to his feet and butting at it with his head until he felt the glass break and slice into his skin. Turning to face the remaining man, swaying as he did so.
There is no warning to anoxia,
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