"Harry Harrison - A Transatlantic Tunnel Hurrah" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

“Welcome, sir,” he piped, “to the Grand Saloon Car of the London and
Land’s End Railway.”

Now that he saw it in its full splen-dor Drigg realized that the
news-paper photographs did not do the es-tablishment justice. There was
no feeling at all of being in a railway carriage, for the atmosphere was
rather that of an exceedingly ex-clusive club. One side contained
im-mense crystal windows, from floor to ceiling, framed by ruddy velvet
cur-tains, while arrayed before them were the tables where the clientele
could sit at their leisure and watch the rural countryside speeding by. The
long bar was opposite, massed with ranked bottles that reflected in the
fine cut glass mirror behind it.

There were windows to right and left of the bar, delicately constructed
stained glass windows through which the sun poured to throw shifting
col-ored patterns upon the carpet. No saints here, unless they be the saints
of railroading like Stephenson or Brunel, sturdy far-seeing men with
compasses and charts in hand. They were flanked by the engines of
his-tory with Captain Dick’s Puffer and the tiny Rocket on the left, then
progressing through history and time to the far right where the mighty
atomic powered Dreadnought ap-peared, the juggernaut of the rails that
pulled this very train.

Drigg sat by the window, his port-folio concealed beneath the table and
ordered his whiskey, sipping at it slowly while he enjoyed the gay
music-hall tune that a smiling musi-cian was playing on the organ at the
far end of the car.

This was indeed luxury and he relished every moment of it, already
seeing the dropping jaws and mute stares of respect when he told the lads
about it back at the King’s Head in Hampstead. Before he had as much as
finished his first drink the train was easing to a stop in Salis-bury, where
he looked on ap-provingly as a policeman appeared to chase from the
platform a goggl-ing lot of boys in school jackets who stood peering into
the car. His duty done the officer raised his hand in salute to the
occupants then rolled majestically and flatfootedly on about his official
affairs.

Once more The Flying Cor-nishman hurled itself down the track and
with his second whiskey Drigg ordered a plate of sandwiches, still eating
them at the only other stop, in Exeter, while they were scarcely done
before the train slowed for Penzance and he had to hurry back for his hat
and umbrella.

The guards were lined up beside the locomotive when he passed, burly,
no-nonsense looking soldiers of the Argyll and Sutherland High-landers,
elegant in their dark kilts and white gaiters, impressive in the steadiness
of their Lee-Enfield rifles with fixed bayonets. Behind them was the
massive golden bulk of the Dreadnought, the most singular and by far the