THE TWO GEORGES
Richard Dreyfuss and Harry Turtledove
Acknowledgments
The authors would like to express their appreciation to Mr. Bob Urhausen of Goodyear Airship Operations, Gardena, California, for arranging for them to ride on the Goodyear airship Eagle and for the material he provided, all of which made scenes in The Two Georges involving airships more realistic than they could have been otherwise.
Special thanks to Harry Harrison for his thoughts on how a world without the American Revolution might look.
Maps
Thanks also to Anne Wenzinger for her generous assistance in all matters pertaining to railroads, especially those having to do with food.
I
Thomas Bushell bent over the little desk in his stateroom, drafting yet another report. From Victoria, the capital, it was two days by airship west across the North American Union to his home in New Liverpool. He’d taken advantage of that to catch up on his paperwork, the bane 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 in observing 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 the desk and got to his feet - it could wait. He salved his conscience by reminding himself they’d soon be serving luncheon anyhow.
He needed only a couple of quick strides to reach the door; the stateroom’s mirrored wall made it seem larger than it was. He paused a moment to adjust his cravat, run a comb through 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 . . . until you 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 mad love for paper would have come away from his stateroom disappointed, but he was not a man who invited misfortune. It came too often, even uninvited.
The lounge was decorated in the Rococo Revival style of King-Emperor Edward VIII; after half a century, the Revival was being revived once more. Plump pink cherubs fluttered on the ceiling. No wooden surface was without a coat of gold leaf, an elaborately carved curlicue, 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 the ground a quarter of a mile below, he made it plain he did not welcome even the most casual companionship.
“Something to drink, sir?” Like any servant, the tuxedoed waiter slipped unnoticed past personal 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 reserve he’d put up around himself. The drone of the dirigible’s engines, louder here than in the staterooms at the center of the passenger gondola, blurred the conversations in the lounge and helped him maintain his isolation. The airship’s whale-shaped shadow slowly slid across Meteor Crater. The crater was about three quarters of a mile across; the shadow took the same fraction of a minute to traverse it from east to west. Someone not far from Bushell said, “Looks as if God were playing golf in the desert here and didn’t replace His divot.”
“If God played golf, could He take a divot?” the fellow’s companion asked, chuckling. “There’s one I’d wager the Archbishop of Canterbury has never pondered.”
Meteor Crater did not remind Thomas Bushell of a golfer’s divot. To him, it looked like a gunshot wound on the face of the world. Murders by gunfire, thankfully, were rare in the civilian world, but he’d seen more gunshot wounds than he cared to remember in his days in the Royal North American Army. The British Empire and the Franco-Spanish Holy Alliance were officially at peace, so skirmishes between the North American Union and Nueva España seldom made the newspapers or the wireless, but if you got shot in one, you died just as dead as if it had happened in the full glare of publicity. The waiter returned and went through the lounge with a silver tray. When he came to Bushell, he said, “Jameson over ice,” and handed him the glass. “That will be seven and sixpence, sir.”
Bushell drew his wallet from the left front pocket of his linen trousers. He took out a dark green ten-shilling note and handed it to the waiter. Like all NAU banknotes, whatever their color and denomination, the ten-shilling green bore a copy of Gainsborough’s immortal The Two Georges, which celebrated George Washington’s presentation to George III as the leading American member of the privy council that oversaw British administration of the colonies on the western shore of the Atlantic. The waiter set the banknote on his tray. As he gave Bushell a silver half-crown in change, he remarked, “Exciting to think the original Two Georges is touring the original NAU, isn’t it, sir? And it’ll be coming to New Liverpool next. I hope I have the chance to see it, don’t you?”
“Yes, that would be very fine,” Bushell said. Ever since it was painted, The Two Georges had symbolized everything that was good about the union between Great Britain and her American dominions.
Bushell did not tell the waiter he would be the man chiefly responsible for keeping The Two Georges safe while it was in New Liverpool. For one thing, in that kind of job anonymity was an advantage. For another, he had enough work to catch up on back in the stateroom that he preferred not to think about what lay ahead till it actually arrived.
From speakers mounted in the ceiling of the lounge, the airship captain said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to remind you luncheon will be served in the dining room in ten minutes. I trust you’ll enjoy the cuisine that’s made the Upper California Limited famous all over the world.”
The alacrity with which the lounge emptied said the passengers trusted they would enjoy the cuisine, too. Thomas Bushell had seated himself a long way from the exit, and in any case was in no hurry. He left a shilling for the servitor who’d brought him his drink, then followed the crowd to the dining room. A bowing waiter escorted him to a seat. Because he was one of the latecomers, he did not have a table to himself, which disappointed him, but he was near a window; though the company might prove uncongenial, the scenery never would.
The dining room would have done credit to a fine restaurant down on the ground. Bushell’s feet sank deep into colorful Persian carpets as he approached his place. Starched white linen, crystal goblets, and heavy silver flatware greeted him there.
“Fred Harvey food!” boomed the man who sat across the table from him. He smacked his lips in anticipation. “We couldn’t eat better at Claridge’s, sir, nor even in Paris, by God.” His red, jowly face and the great expanse of white shirt-front beneath his jacket said his opinion was to be reckoned with when it came to food.