Harry Harrison - A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah!

They all wanted to talk to Washington at once, because he was the most singular piece of news aboard for the readers around the world who had been following every thrilling and heart-stopping detail of his journey. Now, on the last leg, with the finish line but a few hours away they wanted him to describe all of the earlier stages down to the smallest detail. Between sips of champagne he answered them, relivüng the heartstopping moment aboard the helithopter and the rocket, the mad ride to London, the last moment arrival. He was in formed in turn that the driver, Lam bretta, had received only minor bruises and regretted nothing, was in fact, enthused that one of the more popular dailies had already purchased his personal story for a price reputed to be in five figures.

Every foot of the journey to Penzance, Gus was interviewed, and he was rescued only by the fact that the journalists had to file their stories Since they would have tied up completely the only telephone and telegraph link from the train they had been forbidden access to them, with the exception of the gentleman from The Times who had been permitted to file one brief report, so arrangements had been made to put off bag in Penzance. The great canvass sack, boldly labeled PRESS, was quickly filled with the reports and stories and the can of film put in on top. Other arrangements of an ingenious nature had been made as well so that the various reporters now dispersed to complete the work. Fast cars were waiting by certain fields displaying flags of particular colors, ready to pick up dropped containers, one motorcyclist on a racing machine paralleled the train briefly on a stretch of road and was seen to end up in a pond still clutching a hoop and attached package he had seized, while more than one net-armed and speedy boat waited in waters the train would cross.

Free of his interviewers for the moment, Gus found his compartment and his allotted seat, which he now saw for the first time, and accepted the congratulations and another glass of champagne from the other passengers there. At this point he escaped their attention for the train was slowing as they passed through Penzance where the waiting thousands cheered uproariously and waved their Union Jacks with such animation that they fluttered like gaudy birds. The Press bag was thrown to the platform and the attendant telegraph men, the train picked up speed again, through the city and towards the dark mouth of the tunnel, passing the sidings where the other trains waited, packed with humanity, to follow after the inaugural run. Faster and faster it went to dive with a roar into the black opening, accompanied by excited female shrieks at the sudden night.

Gus, who had been in a tunnel before, closed his eyes when they entered and when the others had exhausted the pleasures of gazing out at nothing and turned back he was well and soundly asleep. They appreciated his fatigue after the voyage he had just accomplished and lowered their voices accordingly so that he slept the sleep of the just, and they only roused him when the announcement was made that they were just ten minutes from arrival at Point 200.

An air of electric excitement overwhelmed the travelers and even the most cynical and worldly-wise were . possessed by it, peering out at the darkness, getting up and sitting down again, and generally displaying an eagerness they would normally have scorned. Slower and slower the great train went until a grayness could be seen ahead and then, startling and sudden, a burst of brilliant sunlight as they emerged from the tunnel into the open air. Through the empty train yard and over the points they rumbled to the station where the waiting band struck up the lively tune of “ A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah !,” the song specially commissioned for this occasion from Sir Bruce Montgomery and now having its debut performance.

Wide and clean and spacious this station was, and seemingly empty of life until the passengers poured from the train, oohing and ahhing at the appointments. For the top of the station, high above, was constructed entirely of large panes of glass through which blue sky and soaring gulls could be seen. This was supported by cast-iron columns enameled white and decorated at the junctions and on the capitals by iron fish and squid and whales cunningly cast into the fabric of the supports themselves. These configurations were finished in blue, and this color scheme of white and blue was carried on throughout the great station giving it an airy and light feeling out of all proportion to its size.

The passengers held back respectfully as the red carpet was brought up and unrolled and the Queen and her party descended. There was the quick flashing of lights from the photographers and then they had gone and the others followed.

No one, no matter how stern of demeanor or inflexible of expression, but failed to hesitate for a moment and to draw in a gasp of breath upon emerging from the station between the alabaster columns that supported the portico. For here was a vista that was breath-catching and inspiring, a wholly new thing come into the world. Broad white steps descended to a promenade that glistened and shone with the multihued splendor of the inlaid mosaics, arches and waves and wriggling bands of color not unlike those of the promenade at Copacabana Bay which undoubtedly had no small influence upon their design.

Just beyond this was a field, a rolling meadow of the trimmest and greenest grass that sloped down gently to the deep blue of the ocean beyond that was now breaking with small waves upon the shore. No flotsam or refuse marred the purity of this ocean so far from any shore, no land was visible at any distance in any direction where only the white wings of the yachts scudding across the surface broke the perfect emptiness. Once the visitor descended these steps there were greater wonders to come, for this promenade followed the shore of this new island and with every step forward there was something incredible to see.

First a great hotel stretching long wings into a flower-filled garden below and rising in matched, blue-domed towers high into the air. On the terrace here the orchestra played a dance tune to tempt passersby to the linened tables where black garbed waiters stood ready to pour tea. There was a holiday air about this spot and along the promenade, a holiday holding its breath in the wings and waiting to arrive, for all of this was ready and had never been used before, brought in by sea and constructed here in all optimism that, custom would follow when the tunnel was opened. Restaurants and, dance halls, and tucked away behind! the elegant establishments, little lanes that led to fun fairs and roundabouts and ferris wheels, coconut shies and public houses, something for everyone. Further along were the beaches of white sand thai glistened welcome and soon the first bathers could be seen, stepping hesitantly into the water then shouting in amazement for here, in the middle of the Gulf Stream, the water was warm and salubrious as it never was at Brighton or Blackpool.

Behind the beaches rose the turrets and towers of Butlin’s 200 Holiday Camp waiting impatiently for all who had booked in, the loud-speakers already calling the first ar-rivals to the heady pleasures of group amusements. And more and more, until the eyes of the strollers were filled with the color and panoply. Farther on, around the island, there was the yacht basin, already jolly with the jostling boats that had sailed here for this grand opening day, and still farther along a tree-crowned hill where the promenade ended in an outdoor bowl where a Greek drama, ideal for this pastoral setting, was about to begin. All was pleasure to the eye and so it had been designed, for the hill shielded from view the other half of the is-land where the industrial park, rail-way sidings, and commercial docks were located. Great things were planned for Point 200 and the trans-atlantic tunnel and the investors had flocked to its proffered charms. It was indeed a wonderful day.