Ripper by Stefan Petrucha Read Free Book Online

button hidden by the wall pattern. The grinding gears became more insistent, the breeze stronger. Carver
had
been in elevators, but he could always feel the rumble, the sense of movement. Here there was none.
    “It’s pneumatic,” Hawking explained. “The shaft is nearly airtight, the car pushed and pulled by a large fan. It’s a later addition by the fellow who built this place.” He sneered slightly. “It does offer a smoother ride, I suppose.”
    In moments, the wind died and the door clicked open, revealing a huge room, dimly lit by a series of small gas fixtures. A huge steel cylinder and cogwheel were at the room’s far end. It was so tall, it ran nearly all the way to the high ceiling. The metal was covered with frescoed woodwork. Between the gaps he could see huge blades turning.
    “Is that the fan?” Carver asked.
    “The top,” Hawking replied absently. “You’ll see the rest in a moment. No more questions, you’ll slow us down.”
    They passed a metal sign reading
Broadway Pneumatic Transit Co.
Otherwise, the place seemed abandoned. They entered a long featureless hall, then walked down several steps into a tiny room. Carver thought it was another elevator, but here Hawking simply opened a second door and, with a vague wave of his hand, said, “Welcome to the future. At least what Mr. Alfred Beach
thought
would be the future about twenty-five years ago.”
    Carver gasped. There were chandeliers, couches, curtains, easy chairs and settees, a piano and, in the center, a working fountain with goldfish swimming in its shallow pool. To the right, beyond a low wall, were the slowly turning gears and shaft of the vast fan in the room above. It would all seem more at home in the Astor family’s finest mansion or a Jules Verne novel than hidden beneath the ground.
    But the most exciting part was the shining train car sitting below twin staircases. A tall metallic cylinder with oval windows on either side of a door, it was unlike anything Carver had ever seen or read about. There was just the one car, no locomotive. Beyond it was a round tunnel, an iron tube, a perfect match for the car’s shape, its entrance ringed by colored gas jet flames glowing red, white and blue.
    Carver longed to study every inch of this odd and wonderful place, but Hawking pushed him forward. “I’ll explain it when we get into the car. I want to sit down!”
    At the stairs, the reason for his testiness became clear. After putting his cane to the first step and twisting his hips to lower his foot, his face registered intense pain. Overcoming his hesitation about touching the grisly man, Carver grabbed Hawking’s arm.The detective mumbled something that sounded like “good,” then continued grunting until they entered the car.
    The dim, eighteen-foot space held two rows of long cushioned seats, broken up by tables with gas lamps. It looked like a luxurious, but narrow, living room.
    Hawking dragged himself to one of the lamps and settled into the cushions beside it. After a single exhale, he leaned over and twisted the valve. “The zirconia light,” he said with a sigh. “Two small cylinders, one with oxygen, the other hydrogen, are under the seats, feeding this nozzle, which contains a bit of zirconium.”
    Lowering his head to shield his eyes, he struck a match and held it to the lamp. A brilliant pencil-thin flame erupted, casting a powerful brilliance.
    Unlike the usual yellow gaslight, this was like sunlight. Carver loved it.
    Hawking waved at the light as if it were a mosquito. “It’s toys, boy, all toys. You’ll see more and more contraptions as you get older, but if I teach you anything, you’ll learn that this is
all
decoration. What counts is what’s inside you and what you can see in others. Got that?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “No, you don’t. When our time together is nearly over, you may start to understand.”
    He shifted his back to the glow and motioned for Carver to sit beside him.
    Using his heel, Hawking