Collision Course by Gordon Korman Read Free Book Online Page A

Expect office visit Thursday, poss. Friday. Masterson
    Alfie was almost disappointed. It was just a man confirming an appointment.
    Still, he couldn’t escape the feeling that, by sending the Marconigram, he would be aiding in the rebirth of the dreaded Whitechapel murderer.
    Yet he had no choice but to do it. Mr. Masterson would expect to see the receipt from the Marconi company.
    Oh, Mum, if you only knew what your son has gotten himself into
!
    Aboard the
Titanic
, even the wireless room looked luxurious, with dark paneling and thick, elegant carpets. Although the tables were cluttered with transmitters and receivers, they were ornate French pieces of the highest quality.
    Normally, only one operator at a time manned the equipment. But today, both Jack Phillips and Harold Bride were busy sending messages, their fingers working furiously, tapping out Morse code. Neither noticed Alfie in the doorway.
    He cleared his throat. “I have a Marconigram from Mr. Masterson in A-17.”
    “It’ll have to wait,” said Phillips without looking up.
    Alfie shuffled uncomfortably. “Mr. Masterson is not the sort of gentleman who waits patiently. Or quietly.”
    Bride indicated an enormous stack of messages skewered on a metal spike marked
outgoing
. “Every well-heeled toff aboard this ship wants to make surehis well-heeled friends and business associates know that he’s on the maiden voyage of the
Titanic
. When the Astors and the Guggenheims and the Strauses and all the others have had their expensive say, your Mr. Masterson will have the privilege of spending too much money to communicate very little to someone very far away.”
    Tight-lipped, Alfie impaled his message on the spike. Mr. Masterson wouldn’t like this. “Will you deliver the receipt?”
    “Oh, certainly!” snorted Bride. “We’ve got loads of time for that. That’s the part where I stick a mop handle up my trousers so I can swab the deck while I’m running!”
    “Don’t mind him,” Phillips said. “He doesn’t like being overworked unto death.” He held out a handwritten sheet to Alfie. “Listen, old man, will you take this message to the bridge for me? All ice warnings have to go to the captain directly.”
    Alfie read the time notation. “This is from three hours ago!”
    “Well, this one’s fresh,” put in Bride, handing over another sheet.
    Alfie scanned it. “How much ice is out there?”
    Phillips shrugged. “Could be the same berg being reported by two different ships. Don’t get yourknickers in a twist. April’s the time for ice. The Arctic gets warmer, the glaciers calve — it happens every year.”
    There was a sudden series of pops. Sparks flew, electricity sizzled. A billow of smoke engulfed the equipment.
    Bride cursed. “Not again!”
    His partner waved a sheaf of Marconi forms in an effort to clear away the cloud.
    “I hope you weren’t planning on sleeping tonight,” Phillips groaned. “It’s going to take hours to put this back together.” He turned to Alfie. “Go! And tell them the wireless is down again.”
    Alfie took the short walk forward to the bridge.
    Fourth Officer Boxhall was at the wheel. Also present were Mr. Lightoller, Captain Smith, and J. Bruce Ismay, the managing director of the White Star Line.
    Lightoller noticed the young steward first. “And you are —?”
    “Alphonse Huggins, sir.”
    The second officer’s heavy eyebrows rose. “Huggins, is it? So you’re the one the stowaway mentioned. How might you explain that he knew your name?”
    “Maybe he saw it on a crew manifest,” Alfie suggested timidly.
    Lightoller grunted. “And what’s your business on the bridge, Huggins?”
    “Trouble in the Marconi room,” Alfie reported. “Mr. Phillips said it will take several hours to repair.”
    The second officer emitted a short mirthless laugh. “If men were meant to communicate across oceans, the good Lord would have given us louder voices.”
    “And there are two ice warnings for the