The Oilman's Daughter by Allison M. Dickson, Ian Thomas Healy Read Free Book Online

driver shouting an unending stream of blistering profanities at other Hansoms, horse-drawn carts, and bicyclists. Overhead, brightly-colored dirigibles cruised the skies; the large international flights docked at the Eiffel Tower gangplanks while the smaller domestic ones descended toward a large field north of town. Travelers from exotic locales like Hong Kong, Delhi, and Cairo spread through the streets of the City of Lights. Jonathan knew that sooner or later he’d be visiting all those cities and more as he helped spread the reach of the Orbital empire, at least if he survived this little adventure.
    Beyond the Eiffel Tower, at the center of a large plaza, rose the Ascension Tower. Its elevator cable disappeared into the sky overhead, where it terminated a hundred and fifty miles straight up at Pinnacle Station. While the Eiffel Tower’s majesty was black iron, the obelisk of Ascension Tower was clad in brilliant white marble. The Hansom driver paused in his tirade long enough to stop at the edge of the large plaza. “ Sortir, messieurs. ” He added a lengthy diatribe in French.
    “This is as far as he’ll go, sir,” said Porter.
    Jonathan looked across the plaza, where the tower sat nearly a quarter mile away. “No front door service? I see other taxis there.”
    “It would seem he’s superstitious, sir. Afraid of the cable falling.”
    Jonathan snorted. “That’s preposterous. My father tested those connections against fifty times the forces they could be subjected to.”
    “Nevertheless, sir, he won’t take us any further.”
    “ Non. Je suis désolé .” The driver shook his head in an unmistakable negative.
    “Pay the man,” said Jonathan. “We’ll hike from here.”
    They crossed the plaza to the main entrance, all leaded glass and brass filigree. Elevator passengers milled about the entrance, enjoying the sunshine and fresh breeze. Vendors, buskers, and pickpockets worked the crowd. Jonathan wondered how soon the next elevator would lift. He reached for his pocket watch before remembering he’d lost it to pirates.
    A dark-skinned doorman in a red jacket and hat opened a brass-and-glass door for Jonathan and Porter. “ Bonjour, messieurs. Bienvenue a la Tour Montée et de l’ascenseur á Station Pinacle .”
    “ Merci .” Jonathan exhausted most of his French vocabulary with the doorman and then hurried across the marble floor of the large lobby to the station offices. He glanced off to one side where engineers worked over the elevator car to prepare it for its next ascent. It was a great, finned brass sphere, designed to let even the strongest gales blow around it without shaking it as it climbed or dropped. A coal boiler provided heat for passengers as the vessel would rise into the higher altitudes, and the steam from it drove the pumps which kept the air flowing. While the stewards restocked the appetizers and beverage service, other maintenance people cleaned out the water closets and pumped sewage from the holding tanks. Still others wiped down the thick leaded glass portholes or applied grease to the clamps that held the car to the main cable.
    “ Je suis désolé, messieurs. Ces bureaux sont pour les employés de Circulaires Rail seulement ,” said an earnest young fellow in a red jacket like the one worn by the doorman. He stood by the entrance to the station offices.
    Jonathan’s grumble was heartfelt. “French. Why do they all speak French?”
    “We are in France, sir,” said Porter in his best dry butler’s tone.
    Jonathan crossed his arms. “I’m Jonathan Orbital. I need to speak to the stationmaster.”
    The young man’s eyes flicked upward to the large painted portrait of the Orbitals hanging overhead. He looked back down at Jonathan and then his eyes grew wide. “I’m so sorry, sir! I didn’t recognize you. I must have looked at that portrait a thousand times.”
    “Just let us inside, please.”
    The man unclipped the velvet rope and motioned them inside the