Read Ebook {PDF EPUB} A Transatlantic Tunnel Hurrah! by Harry Harrison DSPACE. Science, pictures, editing, wasting time with computers. Hurrah! A delightful reading experience at last! A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! by Harry Harrison. NEL 1976, 192 pages. Considered logically, this book has many flaws. Read closely, it shows a lot of proofreading errors, and at least one glaring copyediting error — the presence of ‘Brabbage‘ mechanical calculators, rather than ’Babbage’. Yet I think it’s a good book and happily recommend it. Harrison posits that, through a single small event coming out differently, Spain remains Muslim in the 20th century. As a result, North America was not colonised by the Spanish. The English therefore gained a stronger toehold, with the result that it remains part of the empire, and indeed is not yet even independent. Cover of 1976 NEL edition of the book. Harrison lays out the consequences of the events clearly enough. For some reason Germany remains a confederation of minor states. The French are the great enemy, and George Washington, whose heir is the story’s protagonist, is a reviled traitor. Harrison seems to suggest that, because the aeroplane was invented in America and the steam train in Britain, the aeroplane is a large slow device but the train is a nuclear powered miracle. This of course does not hold up to the most cursory inspection. Wasn’t the nuclear reactor just as much an American invention as the aeroplane? And, if we consider the development of nuclear science as accelerated by WWII, would it exist in any form in an alternative world where Fermi and the like were not gathered in the US but scattered across Europe (because here they were not fleeing the Nazis — who do not exist). And Europe was not that far behind the Wright brothers in developing planes, and by 1910 most of the development was happening in Europe. There are other, similarly unconvincing repercussions, but to pick at them misses the charm of the book. Yes, tunnelling thousands of miles across the Abyssal Plane is … unlikely to say the least. Yes, the stiff Victorian-ness of key characters seems unlikely — just because the empire persisted, does not mean it stood still. But Augustus Washington’s journey by giant lumbering gas-powered helicopter, his battles with the forces of sabotage, privilege and misunderstanding, the races against time, the rescues and cliff-hangers, these things make this a fun read. Perhaps not a scholarly one, even the author admits! These days, we would consider the book as steampunk And it is. I can’t say I’ve read a lot of steampunk, so I hesitate to recommend this to the modern connoisseur; but it would certainly be worth a look. Harrison wrote a lot of pretty ordinary SF. While his work was popular and widely available, no one considers him as the genre at its most literary. The books he is most well known for are fast actioners like the Stainless Steel Rat books, and another parallel universe series, the West of Eden books, which are in many ways his most major achievement. This book deserves to be ranked up there with his most highly regarded books. It is still mostly about fast action, but it places it in an interesting time and place. Though there are some pretty cardboard characters, Harrison does not play them false and maintains excellent control of tone. Harrison’ s grip on the required terminology and appropriate technology is solid and never takes you out of the story — as long as the preposterous tunnel of the title doesn’t bother you too much. I believe this is also known by the inferior title Tunnel through the deeps . By either name, it’s what I would call ‘a good read‘. Perhaps find it in a different, more carefully edited edition, though. While Harrison’s prose and characters never jerked me out of the story, the errors certainly did! It makes a good airport novel; read it while you fly over the Atlantic, and imagine spending half a day hurtling through an evacuated tunnel inside a sealed can towed by nuclear powered steam locomotive. It’s a glorious vision of a world that never was. ResoluteReader. Harry Harrison's novel A Transatlantic Tunnel Hurrah! (also known as Tunnel Through the Deeps ) is a forgotten classic of steampunk alternate history. In this reality, history diverged from our own timeline around the time the Moors occupied Spain. This leads to a number of major differences in Europe (Spain and Portugal don't exist for instance). But the most important piece of this alternate history for our story, is that the American Revolution failed, and George Washington was shot as a traitor. As a result, the United States remains part of the British Empire, though other bits are breaking away. The US is a smaller group of states, and economically in hoc to Britain. The great victorian engineer, Brunel is in the process of slowly building a transatlantic tunnel that will link this major colony with the motherland. But his drilling will take hundreds of years, and funding for the American end is short. The hero of the tale, Captain "Gus" Washington, is a direct descendent of the traitor Washington. A brilliant engineer, his ideas and enthusiasm clash with Brunel. He determines to drive the American end of the tunnel forward faster, with new technologies, ideas and funding. The race to finish the tunnel becomes a a race between the old of the British Empire and the new of a strengthening US capitalism. This is steampunk, so coal powered aircraft and rocket mail is mixed with atomic trains and the odd lack of the internal combustion engine. The strict hierachical society of Victorian England remains, though at its apex is the current Queen and Prince Phillip. First published in 1972 there are enough knowing nods towards the modern world to make this an amusing tale, and Harrison plays it very much for laughs. There is an obligatory race scene, that really ought to be form the centrepiece of a movie adaption, a love interest and a whole collection of pompous Victorian businessmen. A forgotten classic of science fiction that deserves a new steampunk audience. ISBN 13: 9780765327864. Over 4,000 miles in length, intended to sustain a pressure of 1,000 atmospheres while accommodating cargo and passengers traveling in excess of 1,000 miles per hour, the Transatlantic Tunnel is the greatest engineering feat in the history of the British Empire, a project worthy of Her Majesty's Empire in this the eighth decade of the twentieth century. If the project is a success, the credit will belong to Captain Augustus Washington, the most brilliant engineer of our age. It is Washington's greatest hope that his success will at last erase the family shame inspired by that other Washington, George, traitor to his King, who was hanged by Lord Cornwallis more than two centuries ago. "synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title. HARRY HARRISON, author of innumerable science fiction novels and stories, divides his time between Ireland and California. Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. : Chapter One A HURRIED MESSAGE AND A DANGEROUS MOMENT Leaving Paddington Station, the Flying Cornishman seemed little different from any other train. Admittedly the appointments were cleaner and newer, and there was a certain opulence to the gold tassels that fringed the seat cushions in the first-class carriage, but these were just a matter of superficial decoration. The differences that made this train unique in England, which was the same as saying unique in the entire world, were not yet apparent as the great golden engine nosed its way over the maze of tracks and switches of the station yards, then out through the tunnels and cuttings. Here the roadbed was ordinary and used by all trains alike. Only when the hulking locomotive and its trailing cylinder of closely joined coaches had dived deep under the Thames and emerged in Surrey did the real difference show. For now even the roadbed became unusual, a single track of continuously welded rails on specially cushioned sleepers that was straighter and smoother than any track had ever been before, sparkling in deep cuttings that slashed a direct channel through the chalk of the downs, shooting arrow-straight across the streams on stumpy iron bridges, a no-nonsense rail line that changed direction only in the longest and shallowest of curves. The reason for this became quickly apparent as the acceleration of the train steadily increased until the nearby fields and trees flashed by, visible as just the most instantaneous of green blurs; only in the distance could details be picked out, but they too slipped backwards and vanished almost as soon as they had appeared. Albert Drigg had the entire compartment to himself, and he was very glad of that. Although he knew that this train had made the return trip from Penzance every day for almost a year now and had suffered no mishap, he was aware of this only in theory, so that now experiencing it in practice was a totally different matter. From London to Penzance was a total of 282 miles and that entire incredible distance would be covered in exactly two hours and five minutes—an average speed including stops of well in excess of 150 miles per hour. Was man meant to go that fast? Albert Drigg had a strong visceral sensation that he was not. Not even in this year of Our Lord 1973, modern and up-to-date though the empire was. Sitting so bolt upright in his black suit and black waistcoat that they showed no wrinkles, his stiff white collar shining, his gleaming leather portfolio on his knees, he generated no sign of his internal emotions. On the rack above, his tightly rolled umbrella and black bowler indicated he was a city man and men of the city of London are just not given to expressing their innermost feelings in public. Nevertheless he could not suppress a slight start when the compartment door whisked open on silent runners and a cheerful cockney voice addressed him. “Tea, sir, tea?” One hundred and fifty miles an hour—or more!—and the cup remained in place on the ledge beneath the window while the tea poured into it in a steady stream. “That will be thrupence, sir.” Drigg took a sixpence from his pocket and passed it over to murmured thanks, then instantly regretted his largesse as the door closed again. He must be unnerved if he tipped in so magnanimous a manner, but he was solaced by the fact that he could put it on the expense account since he was traveling on company business. And the tea was good, freshly brewed and hot, and did very much to soothe his nerves. A whisky would do a lot more he realized, and he almost touched the electric button for the waiter when he remembered the Saloon Car, often seen in the pages of The Tatler and Pall Mall Gazette, but visited only by the very few. He finished the tea and rose, tucking the extra length of chain back into his sleeve. It bothered him that the portfolio was irremovably shackled to the cuff around his wrist and indicated that he was something less than a completed gentleman, but by careful maneuvering he could keep the chain from the public view. The Saloon Car, that was the very thing! The carpeting in the corridor was a deep gold in color, making a subtle contrast with the ruddy, oiled gloss of the mahogany paneling. Drigg had to pass through another coach to reach the Saloon Car, but there was no need to struggle with recalcitrant doors as on an ordinary train, for as he approached, some concealed device detected his proximity and the doors opened swiftly before him to the accompaniment of the hum of hidden electric motors. Naturally he did not look through the compartment windows he passed, but out of the corners of his eyes he had quick glimpses of finely dressed men and elegantly attired women, some children sitting sedately, reading—then a sudden loud barking that inadvertently drew his eye. Two country gentlemen sat with their feet up, emptying a bottle of port between them while a half dozen hounds of various breeds and sizes milled around and sought after their attention. And then Drigg was at the Saloon Car. No automatic devices here but the best of personal services. A grand carved door with massive brass handles and a pillbox-capped boy, his double row of uniform buttons glinting and catching the eye, who saluted and tugged at the handles. “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 splendor Drigg realized that the newspaper photographs did not do the establishment justice. There was no feeling at all of being in a railway carriage, for the atmosphere was rather that of an exceedingly exclusive club. One side contained immense crystal windows, from floor to ceiling, framed by ruddy velvet curtains, 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 the right and left of the bar, delicately constructed stained-glass windows through which the sun poured to throw shifting colored 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 history 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 appeared, the juggernaut of the rails that pulled this very train. Drigg sat near the window, his portfolio concealed beneath the table, and ordered his whisky, sipping at it slowly while he enjoyed the gay music-hall tune that a smiling musician 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 Salisbury, where he looked on approvingly as a policeman appeared to chase from the platform a goggling 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 flat-footedly on about his official affairs. Once more the Flying Cornishman hurled itself down the track, and with his second whisky 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 Highlanders, 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 most powerful engine in the world. Despite the urgency of his mission Drigg slowed, as did all the other passengers, unable calmly to pass the gleaming length of her. Black driving wheels as tall as his head, drive rods thicker than his legs that emerged from swollen cylinders leaking white plumes of steam from their exhausts. She was a little travel-stained about her lower works, but all her outer skin shone with the seamless, imprisoned-sunlight glow of gold, fourteen-karat gold plating, a king’s ransom on a machine this size. But it wasn’t the gold the soldiers were here to guard, though that was almost reason enough, but the propulsive mechanism hidden within that smooth, unbroken, smoke-stackless shell. An atomic reactor, the government said, and little else, and kept its counsel. And guarded its engine. Any of the states of Germany would give a year’s income for this secret while spies had already been captured who, it was rumored, were in the employ of the King of France. The soldiers sternly eyed the passersby, and Drigg hurried on. The works offices were upstairs in the station building, and a lift carried him swiftly to the fourth floor. He was reaching for the door to the executive suite when it opened and a man emerged, a navvy from the look of him, for who else but a railway navvy would wear such knee-high hob-nailed boots along with green corduroy trousers? His shirt was heavy canvas and over it he wore a grimy but still rainbow waistcoat, while around his pillarlike neck was wrapped an even gaudier handkerchief. He held the door but barred Drigg’s way, looking at him closely with his pale-blue eyes which were startlingly clear in the tanned nutbrown of his face. “You’re Mr. Drigg, aren’t you, sir?” he asked before the other could protest. “I’ve seen you here when they cut t’tape and at other official functions of t’line.” “If you please.” The thick-thewed arm still prevented his entra. A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! Sign up for LibraryThing to find out whether you'll like this book. No current Talk conversations about this book. A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah Author: Harry Harrison Publisher: Tor Published In: New York City, NY Date: 1972 Pgs: 237. REVIEW MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS. Summary: The 1970s on a Earth quite different than ours. Here science and engineering is on the verge of a tunnel crossing the Atlantic connecting Britain to the colonial America. This will be the crowning engineering feat of the twentieth century. The most brilliant engineer of the Empire, Augustine Washington, is working on it. His success would go a long way toward erasing the stain brought on the family name two centuries past when one of his family stood against the crown and was hanged as a traitor. The traitor’s name was George. Genre: Adventure Alternate History Fiction Multiverse Science fiction. Why this book: Harry Harrison caught my eye. then, alternate history reeled me in. Favorite Character: Gus Washington is a good character. Noble. A bit stiff. Least Favorite Character: Sir Isambard being a repetitive jackass because his ideas are being superseded. Favorite Scene: Fighting Jack getting sucked out through a pressure blowout. The Nautilus event. Pacing: The pace is alright. ______. Last Page Sound: Well. Author Assessment: The repetitive piece concerning Sir Isambard is damaging to my enjoyment of this story. I would still read anything with Harry Harrison’s name on it, but this sticking point keeps coming back to me. Editorial Assessment: Seems that the editor should have tried to talk Harrison out of the Isambard repetition. I know I’m harping on it. Knee Jerk Reaction: instant classic, real classic, real genre classic, really good book, glad I read it, it’s alright, meh!, why did I read this, not as good as I was lead to believe. Disposition of Book: Westbank Community Library Austin, TX. Would recommend to: genre fans ( ) My reactions to reading this novel in 1996. Spoilers follow. I decided to read this book to see how it influenced Richard Dreyfuss’ and Harry Turtledove’s The Two Georges since Harry Harrison is specifically mentioned in the acknowledgements of the latter novel. This novel is better than that one, and there are enough similarities between Harrison’s alternate universe and that of The Two Georges to show Turtledove’s and Dreyfuss’ debt is great. Both feature worlds dominated by French and English Empires and lacking united Germanies though Harrison’s novel mentions Russia very little. Both novels feature relatively genial worlds spared our two World Wars; indeed, one of the final scenes in Harrison’s novel is a psychic viewing our world and horrified by what she sees. Both have North Americas with prominent Indian and Irish populations. While both novels feature Iroquois Indians, Harrison’s novel mentions several other Indian tribes in North and South America who seem to have maintained sovereignty or, at least, respect and power. Still, as befitting the pseudo-Victorian tone of this novel, the Irish and Indians are mainly there to be colorful, humorous characters. The Two Georges really only mentions the Iroquois and the Irish but treats their situation (possible cultural death in the Iroquois case and discrimination and appalling labor conditions for the Irish) in a much more realistic manner. Both novels postulate worlds more technologically backwards than ours though Harrison (as befitting the author who put steam powered robots in one of his Stainless Steel Rat novels) creates some delightful variations on current technology – typically large, unique, and underemployed. His hero, Augustine Washington, travels by huge “helithopter”. Large, mechanical computers and their new electronic counterparts are rare and unaccountably referred to as “Brabbage” engines not Babbage engines. Transoceanic flight exists but in large, very ornately decorated airplanes owned by the Cunard line which views them as they once did ocean liners. They prefer to go for quality of passenger and not quantity. Both novels also feature the American Revolution as never (at least successfully) occurring. In Harrison’s novel, unlike The Two Georges, Washington is a reviled traitor. However, this novel features another turning point. In the year 1212, Crusaders in Spain do not defeat the Moslems at Navas de Tolosa, and the nations of Spain and Portugal never come into being. England discovers the New World and seems to have settled North America much more slowly. Indeed, Washington works on the transcontinental railway when a young engineer though the novel takes place in approximately 1973. Both novel feature a typical humorous aside of alternate history novels – characters alluding to or reading alternate histories describing our world. Thomas Bushell in The Two Georges dismisses an alternate history describing WWII as absurd. Here Harrison alludes to his friend and literary colleague Brian Aldiss. Here he is the Reverend Aldiss who writes “popular scientific romances”. While I normally don’t like fannish allusions to other sf authors, the joke and idea is much more palatable in alternate histories since part of their charm is seeing literary and historical characters in a new light. As befitting Harrison, this novel features many humorous scenes using this element. Another Harrison friend, colleague, and author is mentioned – Kingsley Amis, here Lord Amis, “foreign minister”. The engineer who enthusiastically talks Washington into being the first human to cross the Atlantic via rocket bears the name Clarke, a suspiciously close resemblance to Arthur C. Clarke. Dick Tracy even shows up and economist Keynes is mentioned. This book is a quick, concise, charming read. Harrison proves he can do the hard science when describing strange Victorian vehicles (I liked the carriages hooked up to electric cars controlled by horse reins.) and, of course, the charming and plausible seeming centerpiece of the novel: the transatlantic tunnel (Though Harrison does a mighty bit of hand waving when explaining how his bridge across the mid-Atlantic fault zone will accommodate mid-ocean spreading). Critic J. J. Pierce called this sort of story (he was talking about another novel featuring a transatlantic tunnel), “industrial science fiction”. That’s a good description though there’s action and a bit of intrigue here too. ( ) Harrison's novel is considered one of the founding works of the steampunk genre. It features all of the expected litererary tropes including an alternate history, overly mechanized technology, and a strangely backward looking and forward leaning world civilization. The hero of this work is Augustus Washington, an engineer and descendant of the disgraced General George Washington who was hung as a traitor during the early failed attempt at American Independance. His skills put him in charge of the effort to build a monumental undersea railway tunnel from England to the American colonies. Combining elements such as the Pinkerton Detective Agency, the Brunel family of English engineers, cloak and dagger derring do, and Washington's desire to establish America as it's own country, Harrison writes a tightly plotted thriller. The copy of the book I obtained was from 1972. The one recurring downside to reading this book was the poor editing used in it's preperation. Normally I'm not one to get stuck on spelling mistakes and the like, but in this copy it was a recurring incident. A shame because it distracted from a very good story. ( ) A Transatlantic Tunnel Hurrah! by Harry Harrison. Over 4,000 miles in length, intended to sustain a pressure of 1,000 atmospheres while accommodating cargo and passengers traveling in excess of 1,000 miles per hour, the Transatlantic Tunnel is the greatest engineering feat in the history of the British Empire, a project worthy of Her Majesty's Empire in this the eighth decade of the twentieth century. If the project is a success, the credit will belong to Captain Augustus Washington, the most brilliant engineer of our age. It is Washington's greatest hope that his success will at last erase the family shame inspired by that other Washington, George, traitor to his King, who was hanged by Lord Cornwallis more than two centuries ago. Praise For A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! … “A genuine flavour of Verne. Very enjoyable.” — M. John Harrison. “The novel's plot is complicated and immensely satisfying. Mr Harrison skilfully inserts all the certainties and basic decencies of the Victorian novel into a revised contemporary setting. It is a book which I can recommend with all my heart.” — Auberon Waugh. “The More Technically Minded Gentlemen of the Reading Public will, I venture to say, find much that is Enjoyable and Most Humorous in A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! Hurrah! for the most redoubtable Mr Harrison--may his imagination Long Continue in such a Queer Vein as this.” — infinityplus.