A Century of Progress

by Fred Saberhagen

  Now he was sure of the faint British flavor in her voice. “I’m sorry,” Norlund said, “but do I know you? Should I?”

  “No, not apart from our meeting last week. I do have the advantage of you, as they say. But I think that you are going to get to know me fairly well.”

  “You’re not asking me how Sandy’s doing.”

  “I didn’t ask you about that last week either, did I?” Ginny Butler continued to be pleasantly business-like. Definitely a salesperson, thought Norlund. Big-ticket items. She went on: “We both know that Sandy’s doing very well right now. So today we can start talking about a certain job that you can do for me, in return.”

  Norlund cleared his throat. “Wait, now, just a moment.” He was interrupted by kids shouting and speeding past them on roller skates—just as, thank God, Sandy ought to be doing again soon. If . . . “Let me get this straight. It sounds to me like you’re claiming to be responsible for Sandy’s improvement. And you’re saying you want me to do something for you in return.”

  The woman nodded. It was only a slight movement of the head, but it was very firm. “Yes, absolutely, Mr. Norlund. I—or the people I represent—have helped Sandy. And I think you do owe us a return favor now.”

  Norlund thought that hallucinations would have been relatively easy to understand. He crossed one leg over the other. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I’ve given you my name,” the young woman answered patiently. “Telling you my life story wouldn’t help right now. I think that by helping your granddaughter we have established a perfectly legitimate claim on your friendship.”

  “Who’s ‘we’? Who’s this group you say you represent?”

  “We ask only for a day or two of your time, time that I know you can well afford to spare. You will not be asked to do anything illegal during that day or two, I promise you that. But at the same time I must continue to insist on secrecy.”

  “Lady . . .” Norlund paused, sighed, shook his head, and tried again. “Look here, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t admit that you’ve established any kind of claim on me.”

  Ginny Butler remained patient. “Mr. Norlund—may I call you Alan?”

  “Why not?”

  “Alan, then—I certainly wouldn’t expect you, at this stage, to completely understand what I’m talking about, as you put it. But I really think we have established a claim. Just think back seven days. You sat here on this bench, and you knew that your granddaughter was dying. And she was. The funeral would have been over by now.”

  “Just a minute.”

  “Please, let me finish?”

  “A week ago, as I recall, you made no claim that you were going to be responsible for curing her.”

  “Would you have believed me for a moment if I had? You would have been angry instead of only puzzled. We preferred to make a demonstration instead. I’m sure you remember what I did tell you a week ago.”

  “Not word for word.”

  The young woman waited silently.

  Norlund muttered something like a curse. “All right, you told me she was going to get better.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I don’t care for catechisms, lady.” Norlund was starting to get angry. He supposed it was largely something bottled up from when Sandy had seemed to be dying. “You come here and talk to the next of kin of all the cancer patients, is that it? And when one of them does get well, you try to cash in.”

  Ginny Butler did not appear surprised or angered. “No, that isn’t it. Have you seen me talking to relatives of any other patients? And I haven’t asked you for money; I’ll turn down money if you offer it. I say again, I’m asking only for a small amount of your time. Perhaps two days.”

  “My time, doing what, driving an old truck? You could hire a lot better drivers than I am.”

  The young lady leaned forward a little on the bench, eagerly, as if she felt that she was starting to get somewhere. “Driving a truck is only part of it. But nothing about it will be very hard for you. You have all the qualifications that we want.”

  “Such as what?”

  “We’ll discuss the details when you’ve told me that in principle you agree. Two days of your time?”

  Norlund thought that he would eventually say that he agreed, just to see what came next. But not yet. “No, lady, I just don’t buy it. You really claim that this mysterious group of yours is responsible for Sandy’s getting well?”

  “Yes, I do.” “

  “And how did they work this miracle cure?”

  “When you’ve agreed to give us two days, a lot of things will be explained to you.”

  “And so I should go and drive your antique truck. And stand on streetcorners and hand out pamphlets for your cult.”

  It was Ginny Butler’s turn to sigh; it was a sound that spoke of disappointment, but not surprise. And now she surprised Norlund. “All right, Alan, I see we can’t get anywhere just yet. You’ll be able to meet me here.” And she stood up quickly from the bench. Again her dark curls bounced as she walked away, not looking back. This time she left the park in a different direction.

  If she was expecting Norlund to come chasing after her, she was disappointed.

  That afternoon Norlund went to see Sandy again. They discussed her hopeful plans of being able to go home soon, and tried to figure out how many doctors might have to give their approval. Norlund also had to come up with an opinion as to which of Sandy’s girlfriends she ought to telephone first upon her release; this subject took up more time than the question of the doctors, as there were social intricacies involved. Then, with her grandfather’s prodding, the patient even summoned up strength enough to write two brief notes in reply to get-well cards.

  On Saturday morning Norlund, for some reason feeling newly edgy, was back in Sandy’s room. He was early, but the oncologist had been in already, and had ordered another scan. Sandy was once again experiencing some pain and swelling.

  Norlund, looking closely into his granddaughter’s face, made sure to keep an encouraging smile on his own. Even when he saw signs that the bad days had come again. There was a change around the eyes, the reappearance and waxing of the evil shadow.

  He phoned Marge from the hospital, and talked to his daughter gently, trying to prepare her for the setback when she came in later. He repeated the latest hopeful words of one of the doctors about chemotherapy.

  And once again, at one thirty in the afternoon, having just seen Sandy ask for and receive her first pain-reliever in almost a week, Norlund was back on the park bench. He waited there through a mild shower, hardly aware that he was getting wet.

  This time he didn’t notice from which direction Ginny Butler came, but here she was again. Today she had on a translucent plastic raincoat, over jeans and a dark sweater. It was colder again today, but Norlund hadn’t noticed it till now.

  He found himself standing. “What have you done to her?”

  A momentary flash of triumph showed in the woman’s eyes. She flinched a little from Norlund’s anger, but continued to confront him. She said: “We’ve done nothing to harm her. Nothing at all.”

  “She’s had a turn for the—”

  “Refusal to help someone is not necessarily a crime.”

  “Oh no?” His throat felt tight.

  “Mr. Norlund. If you were to walk off in that direction, in maybe half a mile you’d come to a neighborhood where you wouldn’t have to look very hard to find someone who needs help. Some alcoholic passed out in a gutter or a doorway. A life that might very well be saved with some effort on your part, if you were to see that such a man got food and a decent place to sleep and some routine medical care. But you’re not going over there to find that man, are you?”

  “I’m talking about my own—”

  “Yes. Exactly. You concentrate on fighting for your own causes. You can’t do everything, save everyone in the world. Besides, maybe that particular man will make it anyway. Well, maybe Sandy will ma
ke it anyway, now that she’s had some real help for a few days. I wish her well, I really do, and maybe now the hospital’s chemotherapy will work.” Ginny Butler paused. “If she were my kid, I wouldn’t want to bet on it.”

  Norlund stood there, staring at the young woman in front of him. The two of them were just about of a height. He could imagine himself clubbing her to the ground, or reaching out to choke her. He could imagine himself forcing a laugh, and turning and walking away. No, he couldn’t really. Not with Sandy . . .

  The young woman, as if perceiving that he had passed some interior turning point, softened her voice. “Now, what do you want to do? You could make a fuss, perhaps try to report me to the police. But I haven’t asked you for any money; I repeat that I wouldn’t take it if you offered it. I have nothing to fear from your going to the police. But it would end our relationship.”

  Ginny Butler paused at that point, as if to give Norlund time to consider the implications. Then she went on, in a more optimistic tone: “Or are you ready to do me the favor I requested, and grant me a couple of days of your time? I promise that if you do, Sandy will recover.”

  Norlund only stood looking at her.

  She put a hand on his arm, tentatively, almost timidly, and said: “I swear it solemnly. We want to help her. I want to. If you help us, she will not die of this bone cancer. No tricks, no catches. She’ll go home in a short time, happy and healthy.”

  Norlund heard himself asking: “She won’t die?”

  “Not in the immediate future. No one can promise immortality.”

  “She’ll be healthy?”

  “Just like them.” Ginny gave a confident nod toward the noisy skaters, who were now off on a far loop of the walk.

  Norlund had the sensation that he and Ginny Butler were utterly alone, the rest of the surrounding city far away. “Something legal, you say? Driving a truck?”

  “As I told you, there’s a little more to it than just driving a truck. But it’s better than just legal, Alan. In fact it’s for a very good cause.”

  “Ah. I’m not so sure that’s a good selling point with me. You ought to use that ‘good cause’ bit only on your younger clients.”

  “I didn’t want to emphasize it with you. But it is the truth.” Ginny Butler had a very winning smile when she turned it on.

  “You sure you got the right man, lady? I mean, I’m just an ordinary guy. Getting up in years. There’s nothing in my background . . .”

  “I know all about your background.” Her smile had turned impish. “More than you can imagine.” And Norlund could suddenly imagine the possibility of trusting her.

  “And when,” he asked, “do you want me to start on this job?”

  “I want you to come with me right now. The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be finished. If you like we can stop at a phone somewhere, and you can call your daughter and tell her that you’re off on a short business trip. Which will be the truth. Marge won’t be particularly surprised. You still do go off on business trips once in a while.”

  Someone had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to set this up. What did he have that could be worth it? “And what about Sandy?”

  “You can call the hospital tomorrow morning, and find out how she’s doing. Tell you what, Alan. If she’s not doing well tomorrow morning the whole thing is off, and you don’t owe us anything.”

  “Tell me how you work the miracle cure.”

  “We’ll go into that at the proper time. Along with other explanations.”

  “If I do go with you now—” But the young woman had already turned and was walking away. Limping slightly, mumbling swearwords under his breath, Alan Norlund hurried after her.

  Ginny Butler’s car, one of a solidly parked line on a street a couple of blocks away, was a commonplace, year-old Datsun. Norlund made a mental note of the Illinois license number as he got in on the right side.

  She maneuvered the Datsun neatly out of the parking space. “I assume you do want to stop and call Marge?” Ginny was gazing at traffic as she spoke, and her blue eyes were far away, as if she might be thinking two or three moves ahead. “I know where there’s a handy booth.”

  Norlund asked: “You know Margie?”

  “Only as I know you.”

  “You’ve talked to her?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that.”

  Ginny drove in silence for a few blocks. Then she pulled into a small shopping center where there was a large drug store. “There’s a public phone in there. I’ll wait in the car.” She smiled at Norlund’s puzzled expression. “I’m assuming that you’re with me willingly now, Alan. I’m not kidnapping you, I’m not going to listen to your call. You’re keeping what we’re doing secret because that’s the only way you can help Sandy. Right?”

  Norlund got out, then hesitated again before closing the car door. “Two days, you said. Should I buy a toothbrush?”

  “No need. We’ll provide everything.”

  Almost to himself, he asked: “Do you think I ought to tell her that Sandy will get well?”

  “She will get well. My promise stands. Tell Marge whatever you like, as long as you don’t mention me or what we’re doing.”

  Norlund gave her a long look. The blue eyes looked back at him, and he read both sympathy and amusement in them. Then he turned away and went into the drugstore, found the booth and made his call.

  He was faintly surprised at how readily Marge accepted his story about a business trip—he supposed that his daughter’s attention and energies were focused elsewhere. For a little while he talked with her about Sandy. Norlund was optimistic, but made no direct predictions. Tomorrow morning, he told himself, he would call the hospital from wherever he was. Then he would know . . .

  Walking back through the drugstore to the parking lot he felt light-headed, a little crazy. But there was the Datsun waiting for him, as real as any other car. Somehow Norlund could not generate a great deal of worry about himself personally in this situation. He wasn’t wealthy enough for anyone to concoct an elaborate plot to kidnap him. And now he was at least doing something, which was a hell of a lot better than simply sitting in the hospital waiting for a little girl to die.

  He got back into the Datsun, and with an energetic movement closed the door. “Ginny, you say. Short for Virginia.”

  “Yep.” His guide, employer, whatever she was, drove out of the parking lot and slid expertly back into the street’s traffic. Now they were heading west.

  “Where we going, Ginny?”

  He had expected more mystery, but her answer was frank, or at least sounded that way. “Out near Wheaton. There’s an old house out there, a former farmhouse actually, that we use as a kind of base. We’ll put you up there for tonight, and tomorrow you’ll be on your way. Meanwhile, the rest of this afternoon and this evening will be spent largely in explanations.”

  “Hooray. I’ll be on my way where?”

  “That’s one of the things the explanations are going to cover.”

  “Do you suppose we could start them now?”

  She glanced sideways at him. “It’ll be much easier if we do it at the house, believe me. It’ll be a sort of show and tell.”

  “Okay. As long as you guys understand I’m not worth kidnapping, I give the plan a tentative okay.” Norlund sat back, watching the passage of ordinary houses and humdrum people. Then he turned to Ginny. “You know, right now I feel like thanking you. I don’t know what this is going to turn out to be, but at least it’s something. Know what I mean? At this moment, for me, life is not terminally dull and grim.”

  Ginny showed him her best smile yet. “Now that’s the kind of man I like.”

  With his first look at the place in Wheaton, Norlund silently agreed that it must have been a farmhouse once. It was a large old structure built on a hill, as a lot of farmhouses had been when there was endless land around to choose from. Now it was heavily surrounded by suburbia. Its shingled sides were painted a dull gray-green, as if in some attempt at
camouflage, and it was set back a good distance from both of the streets bordering its large corner lot. One of these streets was lined with aging middle-class houses. The other was commercial, with some empty lots, and a scattering of shops and gas stations. The former farmhouse looked as if it could not make up its mind which street to belong to. To Norlund, approaching now along the residential way, it displayed an oversized set of sliding garage doors. The garage was obviously a comparatively recent addition, and made the whole structure look something like an auto repair shop. If it was, there were no signs to advertise it.

  One of the garage doors rolled up automatically as Ginny pulled in off the street and up the long, shaded drive. Then the car was inside, the only vehicle in a garage easily big enough for three or four. As the door rolled down automatically behind them, she sighed with what sounded like relief.

  “So far,” she pronounced, looking at Norlund. The look she gave him was for a moment happy, almost twinkly; but in a moment her business-like attitude was back.

  “You live here?” Norlund asked, as they got out of the car.

  “I stay here from time to time.” And she smiled again, this time as if at some private joke.

  Norlund stretched his arms and shoulders, damning tiny modern cars as he usually did whenever he had to ride in one of them—how did the big guys manage? Then he looked around the garage. It appeared quite ordinary, maybe somewhat cleaner than most, with less casual junk and debris. Here and there the concrete floor was oil-spotted. Along the rear wall a bench held a few tools and boxes, suggesting that work of some kind was done here at least from time to time.

  “Lead on,” said Norlund resolutely. And Ginny obligingly led him out of the garage and through an interior door that Norlund expected was going to bring them into a laundry room or kitchen. He was surprised by a narrow passage that traversed the width of the house to deliver them to another garage as big as the first one. The vehicle doors here were on a different wall of the house, and Norlund thought that the driveway approaching them must lead to the commercial street.

  The single vehicle now occupying a space in this second garage was facing away from the large doors, straddling an old-fashioned grease pit sunken in the concrete floor. There were a lot more tools in here, including an overhead engine hoist.