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

scar or two I’m fit as a fiddle. Now follow me.”

Supposedly reassured by these dubious references. Drigg followed the
ganger through a steel door set into the concrete bulkhead that was
instantly and noisily slammed shut behind them. They were in a small
room with benches down the middle and lockers on one wall. There was a
sudden hissing and the distant ham-mering of pumps and Drigg felt a
strange pressure on his ears. His look of sudden dismay was noticed by
Fighting Jack.

“Air, just compressed air, nothing more. And a miserable little twenty
pounds it is too I can tell you, as one who has worked under sixty and
more. You’ll never notice it once you’re inside. Here you go.” He pulled a
boiler suit from a locker and shook it out. “This is big enough to go over
your clothes. I’ll hold that wallet for you.”

“It is not removable.” Drigg shook out the length of chain for
inspection.

“No key?”

“I do not possess it.”

“Easily solved.”

The ganger produced an immense clasp knife with a swiftness and
economy of motion that showed he had had sudden use for it before, and
touched it so that a long gleam-ing blade shot out. He stepped forward
and Drigg backed away.

“Now there, sir, did you think I was going to amputate? Just going to
make a few sartorial alterations on this here garment.”

A single slash opened the sleeve from wrist to armpit and another
twitch of the blade vented the gar-ment’s side. Then the knife folded and
vanished into its usual resting place while Drigg drew on the mutilated
apparel, the portfolio easily passing through the rent cloth. When Drigg
had it on Fighting Jack cut up another boiler suit—he had a cavalier
regard for company property appar-ently—and bound it around the cut
sleeve to hold it shut. By the time this operation was completed the pumps
had stopped and another door at the far end of the airlock room opened
and the operator looked inside, touching his forehead when he saw Drigg’s
bowler.

A train of small hopper wagons was just emerging from a larger steel
door in the bulkhead and Fighting Jack pursed his lips to emit an
ear-hurting whistle. The driver of the squat electric locomotive turned at
the sound and cut his power.

“That’s One-eyed Conro,” Fight-ing Jack confided to Drigg. “Terrible