them look badass. Tweed and twill, cord and knitwear. Proper shoes, very shiny. Denim had never been invented in this universe. Everett in his jeans, his glowtube decorated North Face weather-proof, his thick-soled but very comfortable trainers, and his backpack, looked like an astronaut, Not an astronaut, a traveller from much farther away than that. A quantumnaut .
He was in another universe .
The hall curved around a central spine of ticket desks and chutes where porters dropped baggage. People milled around Everett, too busy on their businesses to spare more than a glance at the bizarro kid. A shout, a kid pointing and staring could change all that. Head up. Keep walking. Look like you belong here. The outer wall carried advertisements for hotels and banks and resorts. Blown-glass video tubes the size of cars hung from the ceiling at regular intervals; marked arrivals and departures . Some kind of a port. An airport? The people pushing past had anxious airport faces and carried clutch bags, tightly clutched, and leather briefcases and satchels. The outer wall opened into a panoramic window. Everett stopped, dizzy with wonder. The pain in his chest was forgotten. A metal and glass tube twenty metres long led from the centre of the curved window. At the end of the spoke an airship nosed in to the dock. This was the vast object he had glimpsed through the Heisenberg Gate from underneath Folkestone. Even from Everett's head-on perspective it dominated the skyline. The upper part of the nose cone carried a stylised coat-of-arms, lions and unicorns and shields. The lower part bore the words British Overseas Air Services , and a name, Sir Bedivere . Beneath the two sets of lettering was a band of windows. Everett held his breath in excitement. Behind the glass, uniformed figures in peaked caps moved, checking equipment. A shadow passed over him. Everett looked up. A cylinder of girders and conduits and pipes and elevator shafts rose a hundred metres above him and blossomed into four spokes, each set forty-five degrees out of phase with the docks on Everett's level. An airship had just cast off. An airbridge retracted, pipes were reeled in, dripping water that fell in smearing drops on the glass roof below. The airship was a sleek, streamlined flattened torpedo, much more sophisticated and elegant than the lumbering sausages Everett had seen on Discovery programmes. It must have been two hundred metres long, but it manoeuvred lightly and nimbly on its fan engines in their sleek pods. As it backed away from the dock it turned so that Everett could see the rows of windows that ran its entire length. People stood at the windows, looking down, waving. Deutsche Kaiserlich Luftservis was written in massive letters along the airship's lower flank. Then the engine pods swivelled, the rudder moved, and the airship drifted out of Everett's sight.
Enchanted, Everett moved through the crowds to the outward-curving window. He looked down. Vertigo made him sway on his feet. He was high, very high. As far beneath him as he was beneath the uppermost dock was another set of four docking-spokes, and that was the same height again above the ground. Airships were nosed in to each dock like piglets at the teat. Everett calculated: the entire tower was six hundred metres high. Even at this intermediate level, he was higher than any building in London. His London. He felt dizzy again. Maybe there was an aftereffect to the Heisenberg jump. Maybe it wasn't anything physical. Maybe it was philosophical; that moment when something tells you that you are farther from home than anyone in human history.
Everett looked down on this new London. He saw angels and brick. He saw the spires and domes, the saints and lions and Greek gods and cornices of Christopher Wren and Nicholas Hawksmoor churches, all Portland stone and angel figures with their wings wrapped around them looking down into the teeming streets; and he saw the brutal sheer brick cliff-faces of
He was in another universe .
The hall curved around a central spine of ticket desks and chutes where porters dropped baggage. People milled around Everett, too busy on their businesses to spare more than a glance at the bizarro kid. A shout, a kid pointing and staring could change all that. Head up. Keep walking. Look like you belong here. The outer wall carried advertisements for hotels and banks and resorts. Blown-glass video tubes the size of cars hung from the ceiling at regular intervals; marked arrivals and departures . Some kind of a port. An airport? The people pushing past had anxious airport faces and carried clutch bags, tightly clutched, and leather briefcases and satchels. The outer wall opened into a panoramic window. Everett stopped, dizzy with wonder. The pain in his chest was forgotten. A metal and glass tube twenty metres long led from the centre of the curved window. At the end of the spoke an airship nosed in to the dock. This was the vast object he had glimpsed through the Heisenberg Gate from underneath Folkestone. Even from Everett's head-on perspective it dominated the skyline. The upper part of the nose cone carried a stylised coat-of-arms, lions and unicorns and shields. The lower part bore the words British Overseas Air Services , and a name, Sir Bedivere . Beneath the two sets of lettering was a band of windows. Everett held his breath in excitement. Behind the glass, uniformed figures in peaked caps moved, checking equipment. A shadow passed over him. Everett looked up. A cylinder of girders and conduits and pipes and elevator shafts rose a hundred metres above him and blossomed into four spokes, each set forty-five degrees out of phase with the docks on Everett's level. An airship had just cast off. An airbridge retracted, pipes were reeled in, dripping water that fell in smearing drops on the glass roof below. The airship was a sleek, streamlined flattened torpedo, much more sophisticated and elegant than the lumbering sausages Everett had seen on Discovery programmes. It must have been two hundred metres long, but it manoeuvred lightly and nimbly on its fan engines in their sleek pods. As it backed away from the dock it turned so that Everett could see the rows of windows that ran its entire length. People stood at the windows, looking down, waving. Deutsche Kaiserlich Luftservis was written in massive letters along the airship's lower flank. Then the engine pods swivelled, the rudder moved, and the airship drifted out of Everett's sight.
Enchanted, Everett moved through the crowds to the outward-curving window. He looked down. Vertigo made him sway on his feet. He was high, very high. As far beneath him as he was beneath the uppermost dock was another set of four docking-spokes, and that was the same height again above the ground. Airships were nosed in to each dock like piglets at the teat. Everett calculated: the entire tower was six hundred metres high. Even at this intermediate level, he was higher than any building in London. His London. He felt dizzy again. Maybe there was an aftereffect to the Heisenberg jump. Maybe it wasn't anything physical. Maybe it was philosophical; that moment when something tells you that you are farther from home than anyone in human history.
Everett looked down on this new London. He saw angels and brick. He saw the spires and domes, the saints and lions and Greek gods and cornices of Christopher Wren and Nicholas Hawksmoor churches, all Portland stone and angel figures with their wings wrapped around them looking down into the teeming streets; and he saw the brutal sheer brick cliff-faces of
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