A Century of Progress Read online

  In the dining car he found linen tablecloths, silver, and flowers in vases on the tables. The menu might have been that of a good restaurant, though the prices, for the time, were high.

  Norlund was early enough to have a table to himself. He ate with his thoughts elsewhere, coming back to himself now and then with a start, realizing how rapidly he was becoming accustomed to the change of time.

  After dinner he went to the smoking car, and treated himself to a cigar. He sat reading a newspaper, listening with half an ear meanwhile to traveling salesmen nearby complain about business and exchange jokes. Norlund had heard all of their jokes before.

  The newspaper was of some interest.

  ROOSEVELT DRAFTS MESSAGE

  DETAILING PLAN FOR PARLEY

  TO INCREASE WORLD PRICES

  NEW DIPLOMATIC APPROACH

  TO NAZIS URGED

  SOVIET RECOGNITION

  SEEN IN SEPTEMBER

  Provisional recognition of Soviet Russia, at

  least to the extent necessary to permit

  unhampered trade, is a distinct probability

  within the very near future . . .

  HITLER ALTERS AIM, SEEKING ‘EVOLUTION’

  ITALIAN FLEET OF 25 SEAPLANES TAKING OFF

  . . . bound for the Century of Progress . . .

  gesture seen as improving relations with

  the Fascist government . . . Graf Zeppelin

  to visit US in October . . .

  TWO-CENT POSTAL RATE

  GOING INTO EFFECT

  Letters to cost three cents if sent outside

  local districts . . .

  The salesmen were passing a flask around now, taking no particular care to conceal it. Booze was of course still illegal, except for beer. Norlund wondered if the dining car would have served him a beer if he’d asked for one; he had no yearning for whatever might be in that flask.

  He thought of law. Whose laws ran here, besides those that the inhabitants themselves might have passed and were aware of? Hajo Brandi had invoked the laws of humanity, as if it were his perfect right to do so.

  Norlund at once decided that anyone who spoke so confidently in the name of the People, or of God, was his enemy.

  Ginny Butler had invoked no authority, only friendship. Friendship of a precarious sort, and not one that Norlund had had a whole lot of choice about. Well, by their fruits ye shall know them. Ginny had healed his granddaughter, Brandi had slugged him in the face when he was handcuffed.

  All this was getting Norlund nowhere. He looked at his newspaper again.

  VIENNA DIET

  OUSTS ALL NAZI DEPUTIES

  JAPANESE CONSOLIDATING

  GRIP ON MANCHURIA

  Further conflict in north China likely . . .

  Ginny Butler didn’t claim to speak in the name of anyone, except her boss, whoever that might be. Was that why Norlund tended to trust her and believe her, even after he knew she’d drugged him? Or was he still drugged into doing so? Or because she sent him out on a mission that he was really, deep down, enjoying?

  Norlund returned to his compartment to find that his berth had been made up for him, sitting space converted to sleeping space with a surface of taut white sheets, and a blanket that probably would not be necessary. The porter, of course, came and went with his own key. He’d have to remember to tip the porter . . .

  Norlund dreamed that he was riding a train across Manchuria. Japanese soldiers, fugitive characters from the war movies of the Forties yet to come, were charging as cavalry against the train windows from outside. To repel them Norlund had as weapon his old waist gun from the Fortress, a fifty caliber Browning, swivel-mounted. There was supposed to be some modern attachment on the machine gun to keep it from jamming or overheating, and he was pouring out a stream of tracers against the enemy, who for some reason could not seem to break in through the Twentieth Century’s glass windows. Norlund’s only worry, but it grew and grew as the dream progressed, was that he was going to run out of ammunition before the buzz-bombs appeared, with swastikas on them. Only he could defend London,-where the train was headed. And now there was going to be a wreck . . .

  Norlund awoke, luckily, congratulating himself on his good timing, just as the phase of real nightmare was about to start. He lay there sweating, feeling deep pain in his old leg wound, rejoicing in the pain because perhaps it had awakened him. The Twentieth Century of his present reality had stopped, somewhere in the anonymous country of the night. The train started up again as he lay there listening, then stopped again. It kept on doing that, shaking with the little jerks and hesitations of its progress. The distant whistle questioned the night. Were they changing engines? Making way for a fast freight? The passengers were never going to know.

  Time for night thoughts now. They were of course unwelcome, but he had to have them.

  The train was in fast motion when Norlund awoke on Monday morning. He cracked his window shade and obtained another view of a freight train passing, this time with no ‘bos to be seen. Now he saw green countryside, fences and farms. He looked at his watch and timetable, and decided that he was somewhere in Pennsylvania.

  With nightmares behind him, he felt good, actually eager to get on with things, though when he got up he had enough leg pain to make him limp. And he was sore all over from being manhandled by Brandi and his people, and running in the alley with his arms bound.

  Breakfasting in the dining car, he was told that arrival ought to be on time, or very nearly. He thought he might be able to meet his contact at the Empire State Building today.

  Arrival in New York actually took place a little after one in the afternoon, local time. Norlund alighted from the train inside another enormous station. Swift alternations of cloud and sunlight made dramatic lighting effects through vast skylights above. He handed the final porter a final tip in exchange for his modest baggage. He had remembered to lip the others, generously he hoped, but not enough to make himself especially memorable.

  Avoiding the struggle for taxicabs, he walked out into the streets of Manhattan, carrying his bag. It was decades since he’d been in the Big Apple—and he didn’t think anyone in this decade would call it that.

  The streets and sidewalks flooring the narrow rectangular canyons were briefly beautiful in the aftermath of rain. Norlund saw people selling flowers out of pushcarts. He crossed Fifth Avenue, watching a doorman in an operatic uniform drive a derelict scavenger away from garbage cans nearby. Garbage cans were distributed everywhere, up and down the street, spoiling the sidewalks’ hope of elegance.

  Now, in the middle distance, Norlund could see the Empire State, more prominent now among lower buildings than it would be in fifty years. But the time was already well after one, and Norlund was supposed to meet his contact at around noon. He decided he’d wait until tomorrow, and began to look for a hotel.

  He entered a large and impressive one. Uniforms cluttered the lobby, outnumbering the visible guests—there were bellhops, elevator operators, messenger boys, a whole swarm of the underemployed somehow clinging to subsistence jobs.

  Going up in the elevator the bellhop, halfway through his teens, gave Norlund a rundown on the types and qualities of bootleg liquor available. He also dropped a broad hint that it wouldn’t be hard to arrange for female companionship. Norlund shook his head to both offers, considering that they represented complications that he didn’t need right now.

  His room was ornate. He wondered if he would be able to leave his shoes out in the hall tonight and find them there shined in the morning; but he decided not to try. He left his bag in his room and went out for a stroll. There were theaters but he didn’t want to spend his time seeing old movies. Broadway? Right now, tonight, he’d rather look at life.

  He had last visited New York in the early Seventies, when Times Square was already Babylon and Sodom. It was different and more human now in nineteen thirty-three, he thought, for all the beggars.

  On Tuesday he got up and breakfasted, hesitate
d, and told the desk clerk that he’d be keeping his room for one more night. Then he went out. At the Empire State Building he entered the lobby, leaned against the marble wall, and observed the Thirties Modern decor and the passing crowd. The uniforms in the lobby were doubtless on the alert for loitering bums, but Norlund, obviously waiting to keep an appointment, was too well dressed to have to worry about that.

  The crowd in Times Square had looked more human than its Eighties counterpart. But this business-hour throng was very little different from what it would be in fifty years, Norlund thought, once you allowed for change in hair styles and in dress, and that this mob was more racially homogeneous. But it was basically the same rush of people, wearing the same concentrated expressions, that he might have seen any day in . . .

  “Mr. Norlund?”

  The speaker was a man in his fifties, trimly built and about six feet tall. His smooth-shaven face displayed what looked like hopeful relief. Dressed in an expensive-looking summer suit and hat, he reminded Norlund vaguely of some movie actor of distinguished appearance.

  “Yes,” said Norlund, pushing himself away from the wall, standing up straight, ready as he could be for Hajo Brandi to reappear.

  The relief in the other’s face became more definite. “Good. My name is Geoffrey Holborn. Our mutual friends have said that you are to be staying with me for, ah, some time.” There had been a slight pause after the name, as if the man expected it might be recognized; and Norlund, who had been thinking of movie actors, thought again. There was something about that name . . . but he couldn’t manage to pin it down right away.

  Holborn continued. “Have you any baggage?”

  “Not much. It’s over at my hotel.”

  “If you’d like to give me your room key, I’ll have my chauffeur pick it up. We’ll be staying at my place in town, at least for now, if that’s all right—?”

  “Perfectly all right, I’m sure.” Feeling lightly dazed, Norlund dug out his room key and handed it over. After a moment he remembered to pass on a ten-dollar bill. The room would have to be paid for.

  Holborn stepped aside, making a small hand gesture. “Then shall we—?”

  “Yes. By all means.”

  The limousine was parked arrogantly at the curb, not far away, with other traffic picking its way around it resignedly, as if it were the type of obstruction about which nothing could possibly be done. Holborn paused to speak to the uniformed driver, and handed over the ten-spot and the hotel key.

  Then he rejoined Norlund, leading him in a stroll along the sidewalk. “Griffith will pick up your things and take them home. I’d like to stop in at my office for a moment; then we’ll go along home, too. Unless there’s something else you’d prefer to do first—?”

  “No, not at all. You’re being very accommodating, and I hope I’m not putting you to too much trouble. You say that I’m supposed to stay with you for some time?”

  They had come to a corner, and Holborn indicated which way they were to proceed. “Yes, those were my instructions. There’s no problem, we’ve plenty of space and a guest room that we hardly ever use. Look here, I presume you understand that I’ve been strictly forbidden to try to find out anything about you. Which would be all right, except . . . well, it does rather dampen the small talk, and so on. Don’t know if I should ask if you’ve had a pleasant journey, or what.”

  “I see your point. Well, we can small talk about the weather. But is it all right if I ask you a few questions?”

  “On most subjects, I should think so.” A panhandler approached, took a look at Holborn, and gave up without trying.

  “How long is this ‘some time’ that I’m to stay with you? Have you any idea?”

  The taller man shrugged, appearing unconcerned. “I got the impression that it might be weeks or months. As I say, there should be no problem. I was a bit worried, until I saw you . . .” He let it trail off, then resumed: “I expect you’ll fit right in.”

  “I see,” said Norlund, who wasn’t sure that he did. “I didn’t realize I was going to be moving into someone’s house for a long stay. Sorry, Mr. Holborn, I seem to have relinquished a great deal of control over my own future.” Which always happens, he thought, when you enlist.

  “Call me Jeff.” Holborn sounded anxious to be reassuring and co-operative. “You must, under the circumstances. I’m going to present you to my daughter as someone I knew well during the War.”

  A daughter, but no mention of any wife on the scene. “All right,” said Norlund. “And I’m Alan.” They shook hands. When someone in the early Thirties spoke about the War, there was no need to ask which war they meant. They meant the Great, the World, the One to End All. Few yet realized how strong the demand was going to be for a sequel. The War to End All Wars had been over now for about fifteen years.

  They entered another tall office building. At one side of the lobby a couple of elevators appeared to be reserved for use of the exclusive few, and Holborn naturally gravitated toward these, leading Norlund into one. The lift was passenger-operated, probably, thought Norlund, to afford the passengers greater privacy.

  Norlund thought that they might as well take advantage of the fact. “What part did you and I play in the War?” he asked. “I mean, army, navy—?”

  Holborn gave him a look that betrayed a trace of surprise, quickly concealed. “Army. In France. I was a lieutenant colonel by the time the bloody thing was over. I should say we’re about of an age, so perhaps you would have been of comparable rank.”

  “All right. Say that I was Lieutenant Colonel Norlund, and that we knew each other in France. I suppose we can be rather tight-lipped about the details.”

  “Yes, certainly. God knows everyone’s used to me not wanting to talk about the War.”

  The elevator had reached Holborn’s destination, on one of the highest floors. Norlund, before opening the door, asked, “Excuse me, but what about my current occupation? And how are we going to explain that I’m staying with you for a long time?”

  Holborn looked almost offended. “No need to ‘explain’ anything to anyone, old fellow . . . Alan. Your present occupation, though. Hmm. You do have a point there. What would you like?”

  “Say I’m in radio. How’s that?”

  “Good enough. Manufacturing, or what?”

  “Say that I’m a consultant,” Norlund decided thoughtfully. “That sometimes I work for the networks. My job entails a lot of travel, and right now I’m resting up between assignments. What do you do, by the way?”

  This time the tall man’s surprise was scarcely concealed at all. “I’m a designer,” Holborn said shortly, and reached past Norlund and with a flip of his finger opened the elevator door. Ahead of them stretched the reception area of a large office. The decor was Modern Thirties, as Norlund thought of it: partly Art Deco, mostly something more American and mechanically exuberant. A tastefully modern sign announced HOLBORN AND ASSOCIATES, DESIGN.

  And now it came to Norlund where he’d heard the name, what it ought to have meant to him. Geoffrey Holborn was one of this decade’s second-rank celebrities, a War hero, to be reknowned through the Thirties and Forties for his practice and advocacy of modern, streamlined design for objects ranging from toasters to circus tents to opera houses.

  With Holborn half a step ahead, they moved briskly forward into the office. But just as they were passing the first receptionist, who voiced a cheerful greeting to the big boss, Holborn tugged Norlund aside. Standing at a window that overtopped all but a few of those in Manhattan he pointed out and upward.

  “That radio mast going up on the Empire State—see? That’s one of mine. A good reason, by the way, for you and I to have some professional connection. To spend time in private business meetings, if that becomes necessary.” .

  “Sure.”

  “Take a good look at it, Alan. That’s not just your ordinary broadcast antenna, though of course it serves that purpose. It’ll also serve as a mooring mast for dirigibles.”

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sp; “Ah.” Norlund was staring at impressive complexity, hard to distinguish in the distance.

  “The extra strength, and the mechanism. Imagine unloading passengers and cargo a thousand feet above the street. Not easy to come up with ways of doing that in perfect safety.”

  Norlund turned. Jeff Holborn was looking at him as if his opinion on the matter were something of importance. “Very impressive,” said Norlund, and meant it.

  Holborn was pleased. “I’ve done something similar on one of the Skyride towers, at the World’s Fair in Chicago. Actually we designed several buildings for the Fair, though when the Crash came those fellows couldn’t come up with the money to build ‘em all.”

  They turned away from the window, and began to penetrate the office, passing one receptionist and secretary after another. Norlund noted that some of these were good-looking and some were not; he got the impression that Holborn hired for efficiency. Everyone they passed, unless absorbed in work, gave Mr. Holborn a good afternoon. It was a large establishment. And, to judge by the level of activity, it had no shortage of work even now in the deep Depression. A couple of rooms, one large, one small, were occupied by draftsmen. Elsewhere there were clerks, typists—not a word processor in sight, of course. Holborn returned all greetings absently—rather, thought Norlund, as a general returns salutes.

  Eventually Norlund and Holborn were alone, in a room that had to be Holborn’s private office, though it wasn’t overly large or expensively furnished. Holborn went at once to the large desk and riffled through its litter in search of something. A drafting table stood near the window, which offered a great view out over the city. Photographs and awards hung thickly on the walls. Models—of aircraft, towers, radios and locomotives—hung from the ceiling and perched wherever shelf and table space allowed.