morgan trent
Futility, it was called, written by a Morgan Robertson and published by M. F. Mansfield. Printed a hell of a long time ago, Henning guessed as he opened the book to its title page. And there was the publishing date. 1898, London, he read. Which Morgan Trent seemed to establish Morgan Robertson as jacqueline kirby
kind of obscure British author. Without bothering to disrobe, Henning lay down on his bed and began to read-still wondering who might have left the book in his cabin. He wondered even harder as its subject matter unfolded. ... Futility Morgan Trent was a novel, written rather ponderously in the fashion of that era mega millions
not very well. Dialogue was stilted, the characters stereotyped. But the plot ... He couldnt believe this had been written in 1898, fourteen years before the Titanic disaster. A brand-new giant British ocean liner Morgan Trent filled with very rich and complacent passengers strikes an iceberg in the North Atlantic and sinks with a montgomery bell academy
loss of life. The similarities between fiction and future fact were uncanny. Robertsons ship was eight hundred feet long, a triple-screw vessel with twenty-five-knot speed. She almost could Morgan Trent have been the Titanics twin sister. Her total capacity was two thousand passengers and nearly a thousand crew members. On the night she sank, the montgomery bell academy
aboard was two thousand passengers and crew-a lot like the Titanic.
She sank on an April night; so did the Titanic.
She carried Morgan Trent only twenty-four lifeboats, four more than the Titanic if you counted the latters collapsibles; her builders said no more were needed because she was unsinkable.
Her fatal wound was caused by 
graham harrell
iceberg spur piercing the starboard hull-same as the Titanic. And what did Robertson call his fictitious Morgan Trent ship? The Titan. Henning continued to read until his eyes became heavy. He dozed off and the book slipped from his chest to the floor. He didnt see it fade into nothingness. Chapter 19 He was dreaming. At least that was what john mellencamp
surmised, except it was unlike any dream. He was conscious Morgan Trent of being in a huge, high-ceilinged room-a restaurant, obviously, for it was filled with tables set for dinner. It was a very swanky restaurant, too: snow-white linen, silver tableware gleaming und.
