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Title: The Undersea Tube

Author: L. Taylor Hansen

Illustrator: Hans Waldemar Wessolowski

Release date: December 25, 2008 [eBook #27609]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
UNDERSEA TUBE ***

The Undersea Tube

BY L.
TAYLOR
HANSEN

Classic Reprint
from
AMAZING
STORIES,
Nov., 1929
Copyright, 1929, by E. P.

Incorporated

I F my friend the
engineer had not
told me the
Tube was
dangerous, I would
not have bought a ticket on that fatal night, and the world would never have
learned the story of the Golden Cavern and the City of the Dead. Having
therefore, according to universal custom, first made my report as the sole
survivor of the much-discussed Undersea Tube disaster to the International
Committee for the Investigation of Disasters, I am now ready to outline that
story for the world. Naturally I am aware of the many wild tales and rumors
that have been circulated ever since the accident, but I must ask my readers
to bear with me while I attempt to briefly sketch, not only the tremendous
difficulties to be overcome by the engineers, but also the wind-propulsion
theory which was made use of in this undertaking; because it is only by
understanding something of these two phases of the Tube's engineering
problems that one can understand the accident and its subsequent
revelations.

It will be recalled by those who have not allowed their view of modern
history to become too hazy, that the close of the twentieth century saw a
dream of the engineering world at last realized—the completion of the long-
heralded undersea railroad. It will also be recalled that the engineers in
charge of this stupendous undertaking were greatly encouraged by the
signal success of the first tube under the English Channel, joining England
and France by rail. However, it was from the second tube across the
Channel and the tube connecting Montreal to New York, as well as the one
connecting New York and Chicago, that they obtained some of their then
radical ideas concerning the use of wind power for propulsion. Therefore,
before the Undersea Tube had been completed, the engineers in charge had
decided to make use of the new method in the world's longest tunnel, and
upon that decision work was immediately commenced upon the blue-prints
for the great air pumps that were to rise at the two ends—Liverpool and
New York. However, I will touch upon the theory of wind-propulsion later
and after the manner in which it was explained to me.
It will be recalled that after great ceremonies, the Tube was begun
simultaneously at the two terminating cities and proceeded through solid
rock—low enough below the ocean floor to overcome the terrible pressure
of the body of water over it, and yet close enough to the sea to overcome
the intensity of subterranean heat. Needless to say, it was an extremely
hazardous undertaking, despite the very careful surveys that had been made,
for the little parties of workmen could never tell when they would strike a
crack or an unexpected crevice that would let down upon them with a
terrible rush, the waters of the Atlantic. But hazard is adventure, and as the
two little groups of laborers dug toward each other, the eyes of the press
followed them with more persistent interest than it has ever followed the
daily toil of any man or group of men, either before or since.

O NCE the world was startled by the "extree-ee—" announcing that the
English group had broken into an extinct volcano, whose upper end
had apparently been sealed ages before, for it contained not water but
air—curiously close and choking perhaps, but at least it was not the watery
deluge of death. And then came the great discovery. No one who lived
through that time will forget the thrill that quickened the pulse of mankind
when the American group digging through a seam of old lava under what

scientists call the "ancient ridge," broke into a sealed cavern which gleamed
in the probing flashlights of the workers like the scintillating points of a
thousand diamonds. But when they found the jeweled casket, through
whose glass top they peered curiously down upon the white body of a
beautiful woman, partly draped in the ripples of her heavy, red hair, the
world gasped and wondered. As every school child knows, the casket was
opened by curious scientists, who flocked into the tube from the length of
the world, but at the first exposure to the air, the strange liquid that had
protected the body vanished, leaving in the casket not the white figure, but
only a crumbling mass of grey dust. But the questions that the finding of the
cave had raised remained unanswered.

Who was this woman? How did she get into the sealed cavern? If she had
been the court favorite of that mythical kingdom, now sunk beneath the
waves, and had been disposed of in court intrigue, why would her
murderers have buried her in such a casket? How had she been killed? An
unknown poison? Perhaps she had been a favorite slave of the monarch.
This view gained many converts among the archaeologists who argued that
from all the evidence we have available, the race carrying the Iberian or
Proto-Egyptian culture, long thought to have been the true refugees from
sinking Atlantis, were a slight dark-haired race. Therefore this woman must
have been a captive. Geologists, analyzing the lava, announced that it had
hardened in air and not in water, while anthropologists classed the skull of
the woman as essentially more modern than either the Neanderthal or Cro-
Magnon types. But the engineers, secretly fuming at the delay, finally
managed to fill up the cave and press on with their drills.

Then following the arguments that still flourished in the press, came a tiny
little news article and the first message to carry concern to the hearts of the
engineers. The sea had begun to trickle in through one slight crack. Perhaps
it was only because the crevice was located on the English side of the now
famous "ancient ridge" that the article brought forth any notice at all. But
for the engineers it meant the first warning of possibly ultimate disaster.
They could not seal the crack, and pumps were brought into play. However,
as a month wore on, the crack did not appear to widen to any material
extent and the danger cry of a few pessimists was forgotten.
Finally, it will be remembered, that sounders listening in the rocks heard the
drillers of the other party, and then with wild enthusiasm the work was
pushed on to completion. The long Tube had been dug. Now it only
remained for the sides at the junction to be enlarged and encased with cast
iron, while the work of setting up the great machines designed to drive the
pellet trains through, was also pushed on to its ultimate end. Man had
essayed the greatest feat of engineering ever undertaken in the history of the
planet, and had won. A period of wild celebration greeted the first human
beings to cross each direction below the sea.
Did the volume of water increase that was carried daily out of the Tube and
dumped from the two stations? If it did, the incident was ignored by the
press. Instead, the fact that some "cranks" persisted in calling man's latest
toy unsafe, only attracted more travel. The Undersea Tube functioned on
regular schedule for three years, became the usual method of ocean transit.

T HIS was the state of matters, when on the fourth of March last, our
textile company ordered me to France to straighten out some orders
with the France house, the situation being such that they preferred to
send a man. Why they did not use radio-vision I do not care to state, as this
is my company's business.
Therefore, upon entering my apartment, I was in the midst of packing when
the television phone called me. The jovial features of "Dutch" Higgins, my
one-time college room-mate and now one of the much-maligned engineers
of the Undersea Tube, smiled back at me from the disk.

"Where are you? I thought we had a sort of dinner engagement at my
apartment, Bob."
"By gollies I forgot, Dutch. I'll be right over—before it gets cold."
Then immediately I turned the knob to the Municipal Aerial-car yards, and
ordered my motor, as I grabbed my hat and hurried to the roof. In due time,
of course, I sprang the big surprise of the evening, adding:
"And, of course, I'm going by the Tube, I feel sort of a half-partnership in it
because you were one of the designers."
A curious half-pained look crossed his face. We had finished our meal, and
were smoking with pushed-back chairs. He finished filling his pipe, and
scowled.
"Well? Why don't you say something? Thought you'd be—well, sort of
pleased."
He struck his automatic lighter and drew in a long puff of smoke before
answering.
"Wish you'd take another route, Bob."
"Take another route?"
"Yes. If you want it straight, the Tube is not safe."
"You are joking."
But as I looked into his cold, thoughtful blue eyes, I knew he had never
been more serious.
"I wish that you would go by the Trans-Atlantic Air Liners. They are just as
fast."
"But you used to be so enthusiastic about the Tube, Dutch! Why I
remember when it was being drilled that you would call me up at all kinds
of wild hours to tell me the latest bits of news."
He nodded slowly.

"Yes, that was in the days before the crack."
"Yet you expected to take care of possible leaks, you know," I countered.
"But this crack opened after the tunnel had been dug past it, and lately it has
opened more."
"Are the other engineers alarmed?"
"No. We are easily taking care of the extra water and again the opening
seems to remain at a stationary width as it has for the past three years. But
we cannot caulk it."
"Are you going to publish these views?"
"No. I made out a minority report. I can do no more."
"Dutch, you are becoming over-cautious. First sign of old age."
"Perhaps," with the old smile.
"But after all it is now more than three years since we have had a talk on the
Tube. After it began to function as well as the Air-Express you sort of lost
interest in it."
"And the world did too."
"Certainly—but the public ever was a fickle mistress. Who said that before
me?"
He laughed and blew out a long puff of smoke.
"Everyone, Bob."
"But as to the Tube, if I cross under the sea, I would want to be as well
informed on the road as I was three years ago. Now in the meantime, you
have dropped interest in the long tunnel while I have become more
interested in textiles—with the result that I have forgotten all I ever did
know—which compared to your grasp of the details, was little enough."

B UT his face showed none of the old-time animation on the subject.
What a different man, I mused to myself, from that enthusiastic
engineering student that I used to come upon dreaming over his blue-
prints. He was considered "half-cracked" in those days when he would
enthuse over his undersea railroad, but his animated face was lit with
inspiration. Now the light was gone.
"Well, Dutch, how about it? Aren't you going to make me that brief little
sketch of the length plan and cross-section of the Tube? I remember your
sketch of it in college, and it tends to confuse me with the real changes that
were made necessary when the wind-propulsion method was adopted."
"All right, old timer. You remember that the Tube was widened at the sides
in order that we could make two circular tubes side by side—one going
each way."
"I had forgotten that they were circular."
"That is because of the pressure. A circle presents the best resistance," and
picking an odd envelope from his pocket, he made the following sketch and
passed it to me.

I nodded as I recognized the cross-section.
"Now the plan of the thing is like this," he added, putting aside his pipe and
pulling a sheet of paper from the corner of his desk.
Rapidly, with all his old accuracy, he sketched the main plan and leaned
over as he handed it to me.

"You see," he explained, picking up his pipe again, "both pumps work at
one time—in fact, I should say all four, because this plan is duplicated on
the English side. On both ends then, a train is gently pushed in by an
electric locomotive. A car at a time goes through the gate so that there is a
cushion of air between each car. The same thing happens at Liverpool.
Now, when the due train comes out of the suction tube, it goes on out the
gate, but the air behind it travels right on around and comes in behind the
train that is leaving."
"But how are you assured that it will not stall somewhere?"
"It won't be likely to with pressure pumps going behind it and suction
pumps pulling from in front. We can always put extra power on if
necessary. Thus far the road has worked perfectly."
"How much power do you need to send it through, under normal
conditions?"
"Our trains have been averaging about fifty tons, and for that weight we
have found that a pound pressure is quite sufficient. Now, taking the
tunnel's length as four thousand miles (of course it is not that long, but
round figures are most convenient) and the tube width eleven and one
quarter feet each and working this out we have 3,020,000 cubic feet of free
air per minute or 2,904,000 cubic feet of compressed air, which would use
about 70,000 horse power on the air compressor."

"But isn't the speed rather dizzy?"
"Not any more dizzy, Bob, than those old fashioned money-carrying
machines that the department stores used to use—that is in comparison to
size. The average speed is about 360 feet a second. Of course, the train is
allowed to slow down toward the end of its run, even before it hits the
braking machinery beyond the gate."
"But how much pressure did you say would be put on the back of the
diaphragm—I remember that each car has a flat disc on the back that fits
fairly tightly to the tube ..."
"The pressure on the back is less than seven tons. However, the disc does
not fit tight. There are several leaks. For instance, the cars are as you know,
run on the principle of the monorail with a guiding rail on each side. The
grooves for the rails with their three rollers are in each car. There is a slight
leakage of air here."
"You used the turbo type of blower, didn't you?"
"Had to because of the noise. We put some silencing devices on that and yet
we could not kill all of the racket. However a new invention has come up
that we will make use of soon now."

"B UT I can't understand, Dutch, why you seemed so put out when I
announced my intention of going to Europe via the Tube. Why, I
can remember the day when that would have tickled you to death."
"You followed the digging of the Tube, didn't you?"
"Yes, of course."
"You remember the volcano and lava seams?"
"Yes."
"Well, I do not believe that the crack was a pressure crevice. If it had been,
we were far enough below the ocean floor to have partly relieved the
situation by the unusually solid building of the Tube. The tremendous shell
of this new type of specially hardened metal—"

"And the rich concrete that was used as filling! That was one job no one
slipped up on. I remember how you watched it—"
"Yet the crack has widened, Bob, since the Tube was completed."
"How can you be certain?"
"By the amount of water coming through the drain pipes."
"But you said that once more it was stationary."
"Yes, and that is the very thing that proves, I believe, the nature of the
crack."
"I don't follow you."
"Why it isn't a crack at all, Bob. It is an earthquake fault."
"Good heavens, you don't mean—"
"Yes, I do. I mean that the next time the land slips our little tube will be
twisted up like a piece of string, or crushed like an eggshell. That always
was a rocky bit of land. I thought in going that far north, though, that we
had missed the main line of activity; I mean the disturbances that had once
wiped out a whole nation, if your scientists are correct."
"Then you mean that it is only a matter of time?"
"Yes, and I have been informed by one expert that the old volcanic activity
is not dead either."
"So that is what has stolen away your laugh?"
"Well I am one of the engineers—and they won't suspend the service."
"Fate has played an ugly trick on you, Dutch, and through your own dreams
too. However, you have made me decide to go by the Tube."
He took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at me.
"Sooner or later the Tube will be through, and I have never been across.
Nothing risked—a dull life. Mine has been altogether too dull. I am now
most certainly going by the Tube."

A bit of the old fire lit up his eyes.
"Same old Bob," he grunted as I rose, and then he grasped my hand with a
grin.
"Good luck, my boy, on your journey, and may old Vulcan be out on a
vacation when you pass his door."
Thus we said good-by. I did not know then that I would never see him again
—that he also took the train that night in order to make one last plea to the
International Committee, and so laid down his life with the passengers for
whom he had pleaded.
It was with many conflicting thoughts, however, that I hurried to the great
Terminus that fatal night, where after being ticketed, photographed and
tabulated by an efficient army of clerks, I found myself in due time, being
ushered to my car of the train.

F OR the benefit of those who have never ridden upon the famous
"Flier," I could describe the cars no better than to say that coming upon
them by night as I did, they looked like a gigantic, shiny worm, of
strange shape, through whose tiny port-holes of heavy glass in the sides,
glowed its luminous vitals.
I was pompously shown to the front car, which very much resembled a
tremendous cartridge—as did all of the other segments of this great glow-
worm.
Having dismissed the porter with a tip and the suspicion that my having the
front car was the work of my friend, who was willing to give me my
money's worth of thrill, and that the porter was aware of this, I stowed away
my bags and started to get ready for bed. I had no sooner taken off my coat
than the door was opened and an old fellow with a mass of silver hair
peered in at me.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I understand you have engaged this car alone?"
"Yes."

"I can get no other accommodations tonight. You have an extra berth here
and I must get to Paris tomorrow. I will pay you well—"
I smiled.
"Take it. I was beginning to feel lonesome, anyway."
He bowed gravely and ordered the porter to bring in his things. I decided he
was a musician. Only artists go in for such lovely hair. But he undressed in
dignified silence, not casting so much as another glance in my direction,
while on my part I also forgot his presence when, looking through the port-
hole, I realized that the train had begun to move. Soon the drone of the
propelling engines began to make itself heard. Then the train began to dip
down and the steel sides of the entrance became too high for me to see over.
My friend of the silver hair had already turned off the light, and now I knew
by the darkness that we had entered the Tube. For some time I lay awake
thinking of "Dutch" and the ultimate failure of his life's dream, as he had
outlined it to me, and then I sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I was awakened by a terrible shock that hurled me up against the side of the
compartment. A dull, red glow poured through the port-hole, lighting up the
interior with a weird, bloody reflection. I crept painfully up to the port-hole
and looked out. The strangest sight that man has ever looked upon met my
eyes. The side of the wall had blown out into a gigantic cavern, and with it
the rest of the cars had rolled down the bluff a tangled, twisted mass of
steel. My car had almost passed by, and now it still stuck in the tube, even
though the last port-hole through which I peered seemed to be suspended in
air. But it was not the wrecked cars from which rose such wails of despair
and agony that held my attention, but the cavern itself. For it was not really
a cave, but a vast underground city whose wide, marble streets stretched
away to an inferno of flame and lava. By the terrible light was lit up a great
white palace with its gold-tipped scrolls, and closer to me, the golden
temple of the Sun, with its tiers of lustrous yellow stairs—stairs worn by the
feet of many generations.
Above the stairs towered the great statue of a man on horseback. He was
dressed in a sort of tunic, and in his uplifted arm he carried a scroll as if for
the people to read. His face was turned toward me, and I marveled even in
that wild moment that the unknown sculptor could have caught such an

expression of appeal. I can see the high intellectual brow as if it were before
me at this moment—the level, sympathetic eyes and the firm chin.

T HEN something moving caught my eyes, and I swear I saw a child—a
living child coming from the burning city—running madly,
breathlessly from a wave of glowing lava that threatened to engulf him
at any moment. In spite of all the ridicule that has been showered upon me,
I still declare that the child did not come from the wreckage and that he
wore a tunic similar to the one of the statue and not the torn bit of a
nightgown or sheet.
He was some distance from me, but I could plainly see his expression of
wild distraction as he began to climb those gleaming stairs. Strangely
lustrous in the weird light, was that worn stairway of gold—gold, the
ancient metal of the Sun. With the slowness of one about to faint he dragged
himself up, while his breath seemed to be torn from his throat in agonizing
gasps. Behind him, the glowing liquid splashed against the steps and the
yellow metal of the Sun began to drip into its fiery cauldron.
The child reached the leg of the horse and clung there.
... Then suddenly the whole scene began to shake as if I had been looking at
a mirage, while just behind my car I had a flashing glimpse in that lurid
light of an emerald-green deluge bursting in like a dark sky of solid water,
and in that split-second before a crushing blow upon my back, even through
that tangle of bedclothes, knocked me into unconsciousness, I seemed to
hear again the hopeless note in the voice of my friend as he said:
"—an earthquake fault."
After what seemed to me aeons of strange, buzzing noises and peculiar
lights, I at last made out the objects around me as those of a hospital. Men
with serious faces were watching me. I have since been told that I babbled
incoherently about "saving the little fellow" and other equally
incomprehensible murmurings. From them I learned that the train the other
way was washed out, a tangled mass of wreckage just like my car, both
terminus stations wrecked utterly, and no one found alive except myself.
So, although I am to be a hopeless cripple, yet I am not sorry that the skill

and untiring patience of the great English surgeon, Dr. Thompson, managed
to nurse back the feeble spark of my life through all those weeks that I hung
on the borderland; for if he had not, the world never would have known.
As it is, I wonder over the events of that night as if it had not been an
experience at all—but a wild weird dream. Even the gentleman with the
mass of silver hair is a mystery, for he was never identified, and yet in my
mind's recesses I can still hear his cultured voice asking about the extra
berth, and mentioning his pressing mission to Paris. And somehow, he gives
the last touch of strangeness to the events of that fatal night, and in my
mind, he becomes a part of it no less than the child on the stairs, the burning
inferno that lit the background, and the great statue of that unknown hero
who held out his scroll for a moment in that lurid light, like a symbol from
the sunken City of the Dead.

THE END

Transcriber's Note: This etext was first
published in Amazing Stories November 1929
and was produced from Amazing Stories May
1961. Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this
publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected
without note.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNDERSEA
TUBE ***

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