He seemed to deflate as he pointed at the letter. “My resignation is effective immediately. I would like time to clean out my office and then I’ll be gone.”
He turned to go and nearly reached the door before his uncle spoke. “Thomas.” A choked voice, a voice that made Tom blink and turn around. His uncle was staring at the letter that he had still not picked up. After a moment, Lord Pirrie raised his eyes to his nephew. “Tom, don’t clear out your office, yet. Give me one day. Please. Just go home and give me one day to see what I can do. That’s all I ask.”
Tom sighed. “Uncle, I’m not bluffing about this. I won’t be placated or coddled.”
Lord Pirrie nodded. “I know. Just one day, Tommie.”
Tom blinked back tears of anguish and exhaustion, then nodded, once. “All right. Call me tonight.”
He left and walked blindly to the drafting room. He had promised not to clean his office, but one book locked in his safe belonged to him and he could not leave it under these circumstances. Waving Ham back into his seat for the moment, Tom went in to his office and closed the door. Taking the small key from his pocket, he unlocked the safe and took out his time travel journal, placing it in the raincoat’s inside pocket. He stopped to talk briefly to Ham.
“There’s a situation, Ham. I promise I’ll talk to you about it later, but for now, just cancel today’s appointments. I’ll be at home, but no calls, no messages. Nothing at all.” He patted Ham’s shoulder and left Queen’s Island.
~~~
Tom was in the parlor after dinner, when the bell rang. He continued to stare into the fire as Mrs. Pennyworth went to the door. A wave of fear, mixed with relief, moved through his body when he heard his uncle's voice greeting Casey and teasing the baby. He stood, dread nailing him into place.
"Where is that nephew of mine, dear?" he heard Pirrie say. "Will he speak to me?"
"I'm here, Uncle," Tom paused in the parlor doorway. His uncle was holding the baby, laughing down at him. Was that a good sign? "Come on in."
He waited as Pirrie handed Casey his coat, hat, and the baby. He returned Lord Pirrie's appraising stare before gesturing him to a seat. Tom knew he looked terrible–his head had been pounding all day.
Pirrie opened his briefcase and pulled out an envelope. Tom followed his movements warily. Leaving the envelope on his lap, Lord Pirrie steepled his fingers as he gazed at Tom. "You had us running today, lad. I've spent most of today talking to Bruce, with a few telegrams to Morgan in New York." He paused as Mrs. Pennyworth brought in tea and cakes, leaving them on the table.
"I'll leave out the details for now, but," he handed Tom the envelope, "you've got the higher bulkheads and sixty-four lifeboats, if Alex can come up with a davit design that works. Bruce won't give on the double hull and I'm taking the chance that you'll compromise. This is an addendum to the contract for the Olympic Line. All it needs is the Managing Director's signature."
For a moment, Tom didn't move, his eyes on the envelope. We got it. Almost everything we asked for. Slowly, he reached out and took it, removing the papers inside. Lord Pirrie continued, "There's the original and a copy for you. Take your time and look it over. If you decide to sign, bring it in with you in the morning."
Tom nodded, laying the papers flat on his lap, then looking up at his uncle. He felt lighter, somehow. "Thank you, Uncle Will." A twitch moved his cheek and he took a deep breath. "It could be better, but I promise, this will make White Star and Harland & Wolff better companies. These ships will be unbeatable."
Lord Pirrie smiled at that. "I have no doubt, Tommy." He cocked an eyebrow. "Tom, did you actually think they could let you walk away? Do you have any idea how that would have looked to the rest of the world?"
Tom laughed a little. "Casey mentioned something about that, today. Believe me, I hadn't even thought of it. I just knew I couldn't build those ships."
"You're considered one the best shipbuilders in the world, lad, maybe the best. If you had left us for these reasons, both companies would be out of business in a year. People wouldn't sail on our ships. I'm just counting my blessings that you didn't ask for a huge raise, too!"
Tom did laugh at that, shaking his head. Lord Pirrie reached over to pat his knee. "Some of us do know what it would have done to you to leave the firm, son. I have no doubt that you would have left, if it came to that. But Tommy, it would have killed you."
Tom thought of a metaphorical death versus a cold, real one at the bottom of the Atlantic. He smiled sadly at his uncle. "Perhaps. I have certainly never hurt so much as in the last twenty-four hours."
Lord Pirrie stood to go, reaching out to shake Tom's hand. "You keep giving vent to those Irish passions, lad. They work well on you, but I want to get one thing straight." He looked Tom sternly in the eye, still gripping his hand. "You have concerns in the future, you bring them to me and I'll give them a hearing. But I am the head of this company, Thomas, and you still have a lot to learn. You can disagree, but you better back it up, and when I give the final word, it's final. I need to know I can depend on you, Tom, like I always have. Can you work under those terms?"
Tom's mouth tightened, but he nodded slowly. "Aye, Sir. I can."
He walked to the door with his uncle. "I want you to know how grateful I am that you believe in me as you do. I really am devoted to the firm, Uncle Will. There's nothing else I would want to do in my life."
As he closed the door after his uncle, he heard Casey on the stairs, and turned to her. She stood on the bottom step and opened her arms as he walked into them.
~~~
Final approval for the Olympic class ships came on 31 July 1908, just in time for the new financial year. Lord Pirrie waved White Star's letter of approval as he stood on the landing near his office, and the men on the floor erupted into cheers. The first two ships were numbers 400 and 401, and work would begin on them straight away. The directors and shareholders, along with their spouses, celebrated with a dinner at Ormiston House, where Lord Pirrie opened several bottles of champagne, noting that Harland & Wolff did not christen their ships at launching in the usual way, but by gum, they’d celebrate the contract correctly!
The work proceeded in all haste. Tom and the other directors put in many hours wrapping up the designs and preparing orders for construction. In September, they gave the orders to the yard and engine works to proceed with preparations, and made up their reports for material purchases. It seemed to Tom that the entire year would run on adrenaline. The meetings were endless, the workforce was expanding rapidly, and finally, on 16 December 1908, they laid the keel for the first ship. The keel for the Titanic would be laid in March; her construction would trail the Olympic’s by three months. As he watched them lay the Olympic’s keel, supervising from the plans rolled out in front of him, Tom felt as if he had just stepped up and shaken hands with destiny. There was no turning back.
Chapter 30
December 1908
Sam had his team working on technologies he secretly intended for the shipyard: higher capacity batteries, more efficient pumps, and stronger rivets, among them. That these technologies would have applications beyond shipbuilding was obvious. Now he was ready to get them started on another huge endeavor.
“Let’s assume something.” He glanced up at the group of scientists and research assistants reposed around the laboratory. They were all watching him, used to these meetings by this time. He would call them to attention, throw out a few ideas and ask them to come back with something. A way to invent it. A way to use it. Prerequisites. Whatever they could think of. They often laughed and shook their heads, but a job in Sam’s laboratory was the most coveted spot a local science student could get upon graduation. Graduate students clamored for part-time work. Word had gotten around that he even wanted women to apply, that he would hire them and pay them the same as the men, and let them do the same work.
Sam encouraged results, but the truth was, if they managed, just a few times a year, to invent something and sell it to a
manufacturer, they made enough to support their work for the rest of the year. They came up with results a lot more often than that. Sam’s ideas were often bizarre, sometimes terrifying, but if a researcher followed through, the universe seemed to open up. Now they waited to see what he would throw at them, next.
“Let’s assume our world is heading for extreme technological change. That we’re going to discover ways to travel quickly, communicate faster and more clearly, learn about news from halfway around the world almost the minute it happens. Assume Jules Verne is right and we’ll explore space, travel to the moon.” There was a stir around the room and Sam grinned. It seemed that no matter the era, a scientist always got excited about space exploration. Why was that?
He continued, “What is the one thing we need in great supply, to accomplish all of this?”
He waited. A few of them looked at others, but most seemed lost in thought, staring at the floor or wall. Finally, Ellen Brendan spoke up. “Energy,” she said, and raised an eyebrow at him.
He wanted to cheer. Not only a right answer, but from one of the women on the team. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them.
“Indeed! Energy is exactly right! Where are we going to get it?”
“Rock oil.” Those words were the current name for petroleum, and they were spoken by several of them at once, the others all nodding in agreement. Sam put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the table behind him. Everyone got quiet. When he did this, they knew they had the wrong idea.
But they were frustrated. “Why not rock oil?” Alan Mackey gestured to the globe in the corner. “It’s everywhere, in nearly infinite supply. Companies are making impressive gains in extraction and refinement. It’s the way of the future, no doubt about it.”
Sam stood straight and paced for a minute. He had to go carefully, here. But if he were very, very lucky, he’d be able to completely turn the tide of several future crises. Of course, humans could always find other ways to screw things up, but that wasn’t his problem. He stopped and looked up at his team.
“All right. Let’s make another assumption.” He saw their amusement, but hey, he was the boss. “Let’s assume there isn’t enough rock oil. Let’s assume that there are problems we don’t know about, yet. Let’s just assume we can’t use oil. What else is there?”
With the air that they were humoring him, they began shouting out ideas.
“Water.”
“Wind.”
“The sun.”
“Elephants.”
They all laughed and Ellen spread her hands. “Well that’s how silly the other suggestions are. None of them can provide enough energy, all the time.”
Sam spoke over the agreeing murmurs. “You may be right. But let’s start there. With any energy supply, we need a way to put the supply into a usable form, store it and distribute it. Agreed?”
They nodded.
“Let’s do that with all three of our more practical suggestions. Sorry Ellen—no elephants.” He paused to let the laughter recede. “Think of ways to capture, develop, store and distribute energy from these sources. Wind and water have strong potential for local energy use, but sunlight just might be usable everywhere except for the southern and northern extremes. Let me give you a hint about sunlight.”
He watched them for a moment. Were they ready for this? “You’re going to think in terms of mechanics: what machines and processes do we need to use sunlight? That’s okay. I want to see your ideas on that. But also consider how the planet, and all living things on it, use sunlight. How is it captured, stored, altered? Can we replicate that?”
He left them to it.
~~~
“So, Altair, still twisting the minds of our youth?”
Sam sighed and turned toward the voice coming up to him as he was on his way to see the Dean of the Science Department at Queen’s. He’d noticed Riley in the office he just passed and had hoped he’d sneak by. No luck today.
“Dr. Riley. You’ll be happy to know that despite your efforts, I’m able to set them right in a relatively short time, once they come to work for me.”
Riley’s face darkened as he glowered at Sam. “You’re not getting all of them, Altair. I’ve managed to send some to safe employment on the continent.”
“Excellent!” Sam leaned forward solicitously. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir? I’m on my way to a meeting.”
“I intend to discuss your paper at the regents meeting later this month, Altair,” Riley told him.
Sam’s eyebrows nearly obtained orbit. “My paper? I have no paper out, Dr. Riley.”
Riley stood straight. “It makes no difference if one of your team wrote it, sir. You and I know the truth behind the work you are doing.” He reared back a little and examined Sam as if he were a specimen. “Capturing the sun? Is your plan to destroy the earth, Altair? Is that why you were sent here?”
Sam’s laugh was spontaneous and amazed. He found he couldn’t stop to even respond, so he just held up a hand, turned it into a wave, and stepped back to his path. He chuckled all the way to the dean’s office.
~~~
Later, Sam settled into his chair in the library at Dunallon, for a satisfying read of Einstein's latest letter. Their correspondence had become a source of deep enjoyment for him, and he thought, for Einstein as well. Without ever acknowledging, in so many words, that Sam and Casey had traveled through time, Einstein had simply started writing as if it were all true and a simple fact of life. This allowed them to discuss all the ramifications, all the theories, all the dangers inherent in living in another time.
Although his theories were still new, and he had not completely worked out his General Theory, Einstein leaned toward the idea that Sam's experiment had created an alternate universe. In that case, he admitted, he couldn't see the point of trying not to change things. From his point of view, the future hadn't happened yet, so he was open to any suggestions.
Sam loved Einstein's sense of humor and joviality. Their letters touched on all subjects, including their own lives, frustrations, and joys. Sam wrote often about Casey and Tom, eventually telling him about Titanic and what they were doing. This was in response to Einstein once again inviting Sam to visit, so they could meet and perhaps work together.
"I will come out one day," he had written, "but not until this situation is resolved. I'm actively helping Tom with the ship and with what I know happened that night. And I can't leave Casey to face this alone. She is already afraid, but if we fail…I will never be able to leave her. She will need me, and I will stay with her until I die."
Chapter 31
March–November 1909
As she packed up her map of Belfast, with its gardens running all over town, Casey hoped that Mike Sloan would be too busy with work at the shipyard to attend the Society meeting. She'd been working on the plans for a year and she knew they were good. There was room for the other members to debate about specifics, but she wanted the locations to stay constant. The locations were the point.
Sam offered to go with her. "You realize it could get nasty. You could use some support."
She hesitated. "That would be nice, but since you never have attended, it might look strange. As if I'm trying to intimidate them."
He grinned. "I'm not usually called intimidating, but I see your point. Still…"
She kissed his cheek. "I'll be fine. Will you read to Jamie for me?"
"Sure. I have a paper on "The Electric Properties of Steel" I'm sure he'd love." Sam laughed with her, and waved her off to her meeting.
~~~
Sloan was there. Casey sighed and took her seat, holding her rolled-up plan on her lap and staring at it in consternation. A year spent working on it, and it would be so much simpler to just pretend it didn’t exist. To let it go. To live quietly…
“Goodness, dear. Is that your last will and testament?” Mrs. Herceforth sat next to her and cocked an eyebrow at the roll Casey held. “You’re looking at it like you’re terrifie
d of it.”
Casey flushed and put the roll on the chair next to her. “I might be, at that,” she said noncommittally, unwilling to explain much. “Just some garden plans. I hope someone likes them.”
“Oh, I’m sure we will, dear. Your plans are so inventive, and we haven’t seen many of them lately.”
As Mrs. Herceforth chatted on, Casey nodded and looked around the room. They still met in the social hall of the First Presbyterian Church and the walls were adorned with pictures of Jesus with the children, with the disciples, and catching fish. A large fireplace supplied the only heat, which worked fine when the large congregation was present with food and activities, but the Horticultural Society, like most groups, had a small number of active members. The room was cold and Casey still wore her gloves and a warm cardigan, although she’d hung her cloak on one of the racks in the back. A few long tables were set up front with rows of chairs facing them. The president sat in front and called them to order. They began with announcements.
Her nervousness grew as the time for new presentations approached. She knew it was radical. She knew she was asking for trouble. She closed her eyes and went over the words she had prepared, hoping to keep the group calm. Hoping to help them see the beauty behind the plans.
Members were required to place their names on the agenda if they wanted to make a formal presentation. She had done this a week ago, and was pretty sure that’s why Mike Sloan had made an effort to attend. A stab of resentment went through her. Tom was working late nearly every night. Sloan should be working, too, instead of looking for ways to cause her trouble.
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