The Two Georges - Richard Dreyfuss, ebook
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//-->THE TWO GEORGESBy Richard Dreyfuss and Harry TurtledoveThis is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are eitherfictitious or are used fictitiously.THE TWO GEORGES Copyright © 1996 by Richard Dreyfuss and Harry TurtledoveMaps by Ellisa Mitchell Design by Michael MendelsohnAcknowledgmentsThe authors would like to express their appreciation to Mr. Bob Urhausen of GoodyearAirship Operations, Gardena, California, for arranging for them to ride on the GoodyearairshipEagleand for the material he provided, all of which made scenes inThe Two Georgesinvolving airships more realistic than they could have been otherwise.Special thanks to Harry Harrison for his thoughts on how a world without the AmericanRevolution might look.Thanks also to Anne Wenzinger for her generous assistance in all matters pertaining torailroads, especially those having to do with food.IThomas Bushell bent over the little desk in his stateroom, drafting yet another report. FromVictoria, the capital, it was two days by airship west across the North American Union to hishome in New Liverpool. He’d taken advantage of that to catch up on his paperwork, thebane of every police officer’s life.The stateroom speaker came to life with a burst of static. Then the captain announced,“Ladies and gentlemen, we are nearing the famous Meteor Crater. Those interested inobserving it are invited to gather in the starboard lounge. We’ll pass it in about five minutes,which gives you plenty of time to walk to the lounge and find yourself a seat. Thank you.”More static, then silence again. Bushell glanced down at the report. He laid his pen on thedesk and got to his feet - it could wait. He salved his conscience by reminding himself they’dsoon be serving luncheon anyhow.He needed only a couple of quick strides to reach the door; the stateroom’s mirrored wallmade it seem larger than it was. He paused a moment to adjust his cravat, run a combthrough his hair, and smooth down his sleek brown mustache with the side of a forefinger.He was a compact, solidly made man who looked younger than his forty-eight years . . . untilyou noticed his eyes. Police officers see more of the world’s seamy side than most mortals.After a while, it shows in their faces. Bushell had seen more than most policemen.He locked the door behind him when he went out into the corridor. Any thief without a madlove for paper would have come away from his stateroom disappointed, but he was not aman who invited misfortune. It came too often, even uninvited.The lounge was decorated in the Rococo Revival style of King-Emperor Edward VIII; afterhalf a century, the Revival was being revived once more. Plump pink cherubs fluttered onthe ceiling. No wooden surface was without a coat of gold leaf, an elaborately carvedcurlicue, or an inlay of contrasting wood or semiprecious stone.Bushell took a chair well away from the chattering group who’d got there ahead of him.Even after the lounge grew full, he sat in the center of a small island of privacy; studying theground a quarter of a mile below, he made it plain he did not welcome even the most casualcompanionship.“Something to drink, sir?” Like any servant, the tuxedoed waiter slipped unnoticed pastpersonal boundaries the upper classes respected.Without taking his eyes off the approaching crater, Bushell nodded. “Irish whiskey -Jameson - over ice, please.”“Very good, sir.” The waiter hurried away. Bushell went back into the little bubble of reservehe’d put up around himself. The drone of the dirigible’s engines, louder here than in thestaterooms at the center of the passenger gondola, blurred the conversations in the loungeand helped him maintain his isolation.
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