- Author: Clive Cussler
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Table of Contents
BOOK ONE - “come, josephine in my flying machine”
Chapter 2 - “Hoopla!”
BOOK TWO - “balance yourself like a bird on a beam”
BOOK THREE - “up, up, a little bit higher”
BOOK FOUR - “in the air she goes! there she goes!”
DIRK PITT® ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
Crescent Dawn (with Dirk Cussler)
Dragon (with Dirk Cussler)
Treasure of Khan (with Dirk Cussler)
Cyclops (with Dirk Cussler)
Raise the Titanic!
The Mediterranean Caper
FARGO ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
(with Grant Blackwood)
ISAAC BELL NOVELS BY CLIVE CUSSLER
The Spy (with Justin Scott)
The Wrecker (with Justin Scott)
KURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
(with Paul Kemprecos)
OREGON FILES ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
(with Jack Du Brul )
The Silent Sea
(with Craig Dirgo)
NONFICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER AND CRAIG DIRGO
The Sea Hunters
The Sea Hunters II
Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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Published by the Penguin Group
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Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The race / Clive Cussler and Justin Scott.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54773-1
1. Bell, Isaac (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Fiction.
I. Scott, Justin. II. Title.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the authors have made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the authors assume any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
“the moon is on fire”
A TALL DRUNK DANCED ALONE IN THE GUTTER, singing a Stephen Foster song loved by the Anti-Saloon League. The melody was mournful, reminiscent of Scottish pipes, the tempo a slow waltz. His voice, a warm baritone, rang with heartfelt regret for promises broken.
“Oh! comrades, fill no glass for me
“To drown my soul in liquid flame . . .”
He had a golden head of hair, and a fine, strong profile. His extreme youth—he could not have been more than twenty—made his condition even sadder. His clothes looked slept in, matted with straw, and short in the arms and legs, like handouts from a church basement or lifted from a clothesline. His linen collar was askew, his shirt was missing a cuff, and he had no hat despite the cold. Of gentleman’s treasures to sell for drink, made-to-order calfskin boots were all he had left.
He bumped into a lamppost and lost the thread of the lyric. Still humming the poignant tune, still trying to waltz, he dodged a potter’s field morgue wagon pulling up at the curb. The driver tied his horses and bounded through the swinging doors of the nearest of the many saloons spilling yellow light on the cobblestones.
The drunken youth reeled against the somber black wagon and held on tight.
He studied the saloon. Was it one where he would be welcomed? Or had he already been thrown out? He patted empty pockets. He shrugged sadly. His eyes roved the storefronts: five-cent lodging houses, brothels, pawnbrokers. He considered his boots. Then he lifted his gaze to the newspaper dealer’s depot on the corner, where press wagons were delivering Chicago’s early editions.
Could he beg a few pennies’ work unloading the bundled newspapers? He squared his shoulders and commenced a slow waltz toward the depot.
“When I was young I felt the tide
“Of aspiration undefiled.
“But manhood’s years have wronged the pride
“My parents centered in their child.”
The newsboys lining up to buy their papers were street-toughened twelve-year-olds. They made fun of the drunk as he approached until one of them locked gazes with his strangely soft violet-blue eyes. “Leave him alone!” he told his friends, and the tall young man whispered, “Thanks, shonny. Whuss yer name?”
“You’ve a kind soul, Wally Laughlin. Don’t end up like me.”
“I TOLD YOU TO GET RID OF THE DRUNK,” said