A Century of Progress

by Fred Saberhagen

  The option of eventual retirement somehow made the grim prediction more believable. Jerry felt a chill. He repeated: “I’m going home.”

  “And, when they do let you retire, if you should live so long, it’ll be to some place that you’ve never been before anyway.”

  “How do you know?” asked Andy, curious at least about retirement. But he got no answer.

  Jerry wasn’t going to let her leave it at that. He kept after her. “Where are we now? Do you know where we are?”

  She nodded, smiling, as if she had gotten him to admit that he agreed with her. “Those big gray doors you saw, outside, when you arrived? It’s twenty thirty-three outside those doors.”

  Now it was Andy’s turn. “How do you know?” “They can’t send you home, man, knowing about this place. At least they’re not going to. They won’t send any of us home, no matter what they’ve said.”

  1933-34

  The phone rang in Norlund’s bedroom in the middle of the night, and he struggled into wakefulness to answer it.

  It was Jeff’s voice that he heard from the receiver, and in the circumstances this was disorienting. Jeff ought to be in his own bedroom two doors down the hall, and how was he managing to phone from there? Then Norlund remembered. Holborn had been called away on one of his fairly frequent business trips, this time to Chicago. It was the fourth or fifth time he’d gone out of town during the ten weeks or so that Norlund had been staying with him.

  “Yes, Jeff . . . what is it?”

  “Can you talk freely?” asked the voice on the phone. “I take it you’re alone?”

  Norlund had a lamp switched on now, and squinted into its glare at his bedside clock. It was two in the morning; he felt vaguely complimented. “Yes, I’m alone. What’s going on in Chicago?”

  “I’m here making sure for the Fair people that the mooring mast on the Skyride tower is ready. We don’t know if the Graf Zeppelin is going to want to use it or not, and it hasn’t really been tried as yet. Anyway, I’m sorry about the hour, but this is important. I’m calling on a private line, you see.”

  “A private line?”

  “I’m saying that a special phone arrangement has been made, to connect me with you directly, privately. Understand? To conduct business of the kind that brought you to my house.”

  “Yes, all right. I’m awake now.” They’re about to send me somewhere else, thought Norlund. He didn’t look forward to hearing where they wanted him to go now. I’m going to have to insist on seeing whoever it is that makes these decisions, he thought; I’m going to have to get my career settled.

  “There’s an important job you have to do, Alan. Tell Holly that I called, and that I want you to take a close look for me at the top of the mooring ring on top of the mast on the Empire State. It’s a copper-plated structure, holding heavy pulleys and so on, about ten feet in diameter, almost at the very top of the mast. To do it from the air will be the most practical way; she’ll have to fly you. You’re going to have to use her plane, because the equipment for the real job’s installed in it;”

  “What equipment is that?”

  “I’m told you’ll recognize it as soon as you see it, and that its use is already familiar to you. If you want to prove to Holly that you’re interested in the mooring ring, you can find some drawings of it on my desk in my study there at home. Take the drawings along.”

  “All right, but what’s the real job, that I’m to do with this special equipment?”

  “I’m to tell you that you’ll get your final instructions when you turn the equipment on, after you’re airborne.” Holborn paused. When he spoke again it was in a less constrained, more open tone. “Does that make sense to you?”

  “I’ll know for certain when I try it. But yes, I think it makes a kind of sense.”

  “Good. It didn’t make much to me. And Norlund.”

  “Yes.”

  “Holly knows nothing of what’s really going on here. She must know nothing. She thinks that all that special gear in her plane is for some kind of survey of the strength of radio broadcast signals.”

  “I understand,” said Norlund.

  “Good night, then. Or good morning. Tell Holly I’ll be seeing her in a few days.”

  “Yes. Good night, then, Jeff.”

  It wasn’t a regular click when the connection broke, but a smooth fade into dial tone.

  As usual, Norlund once awakened had difficulty in getting back to sleep. He was awake when Holly came home, not long after the phone call. He could hear her quiet movements down the hall, and the closing of her bedroom door. As far as Norlund could tell, no one had entered the apartment with her. Doubtless she had been out with Dr. Niles, a young bachelor physician who was coming round more and more.

  Norlund had learned early on in his stay that Holly was married but separated. Mrs. Rudel. Husband Willy, a native of Germany and a pilot too, had gone back to his homeland some months ago to assist in building the New Order, the Third Reich as it was sometimes called. Either by direct action or subterfuge he had succeeded in taking seven-year-old Willy Jr. along with him. Norlund had heard mention of divorce proceedings, though they weren’t really started yet, he gathered. He would have highly recommended them in this case if he had dared. Doubtless Dr. Niles would have, too.

  Norlund got snatches of sleep off and on through the wee hours. Then he got himself up early, afraid of missing Holly, who seldom slept very late even on the infrequent occasions when she came in that way. He went to have his breakfast in the room they called the library, overlooking the yellowing October leaves of Central Park. This room did have more bookshelves and books in it than any other in the apartment, but Norlund had yet to see either Holborn or his daughter sitting still anywhere long enough to read a book. Holborn himself had read some of the books during the last ten weeks, and had taken long walks, and seen some shows, and had spent some of his money. He thought that a middle-aged but not unattractive widow he’d met at one of Holborn’s friends’ parties a couple of weeks ago was probably interested in him. Norlund, though, wasn’t interested in her.

  Now he sat looking out the window at autumn leaves and sipping his coffee while he waited for Holly to appear, and listened to the radio. The radio was giving the news.

  “—the British government today continued to preserve an attitude of calm toward the crisis precipitated by the German withdrawal from the arms conference, and from the League of Nations—

  “—meanwhile, the Graf Zeppelin, after battling strong winds yesterday to reach Akron on the second leg of its goodwill tour of this country, was off again today, attempting to reach Chicago. Its appearance there in conjunction with the World’s Fair is scheduled for tomorrow—

  “In other news: near Springfield, Illinois this morning, some ten thousand striking coal miners are still confronting troops in labor unrest that continues to sweep the country—”

  “They’re all Communists, that’s what Dad would say.” Holly had arrived. She had materialized before the library mantel while Norlund’s thoughts were elsewhere, puzzling over the mooring mast and Skyride tower. And in the second before he looked at her, she might have been looking at the photo on the mantel, of Willy and little Willy Jr. Norlund had once heard her say that it was the best picture of her son she had.

  She had dropped her gaze into the dark empty fireplace now. “Almost cold enough for a fire these mornings,” she said. And in almost the same tone added: “Yesterday I got a letter from Willy.”

  For a moment Norlund looked at her hands, expecting to see in one of them a letter ready to be crumpled up and consigned to flames. “Bad news, evidently,” he said with sympathy.

  “Oh, Alan, I’ve been hoping, expecting, that when he’d been in Germany a while he’d wake up and see what a . . . I’ve never been there myself, what do I know? But I can’t believe this Hitler is really any good. He has done some good for Germany, I guess, got the people standing up on their feet again . . .”

  “Those wh
o haven’t been knocked down by Storm Troopers.”

  “What? Oh, I suppose.” Holly, in the way she had, paused and seemed really to focus on Norlund for the first time. “Well, good morning, Alan. You’re up early.”

  “I had a call from Jeff last night.”

  “Oh. Did he ask for me?”

  “No, just business. And it was two in the morning.”

  “Funny I didn’t hear the phone ring. Of course I was out late.”

  Norlund, avoiding any comment on that, gave the explanation that Jeff had prescribed of what they wanted to do. “And besides getting a look at the mooring ring . . . I take it that there’s some special radio gear that’s been installed in the cabin of your ship?”

  “Oh, that. Yes. Dad asked me a couple of months ago if I would mind. I told him no; after all, it’s still mostly his money that keeps me flying. Are they really broadcasting from that mast already?”

  “So, it’s possible for you to give me that ride as Jeff requested?”

  She hesitated, lifting the cover of one of the breakfast dishes, sniffing the aroma with healthy appetite. “Today?”

  “Jeff did sound in a hurry. I think he would like it to be taken care of today, yes.”

  “All right. I’ll go phone the airport now.” Holly went to the window and took a quick look at a partly cloudy sky. “Doesn’t look bad. Then I’ll grab some breakfast and change, and we’ll be off.”

  “Thanks. I suppose you had something else planned,” Norlund said when Holly came back from phoning. A silent maid had by now arranged her breakfast for her, across from Norlund’s place at the library table. His dishes had already been collected. He marveled, in passing, at how quickly and easily he had gotten used to being waited on.

  “It can wait,” she said, sitting down. “Your project will take my mind off things.”

  “Dr. Niles last night?” Norlund asked, and then instantly regretted it. “It’s none of my business.”

  “No, it isn’t.” But she didn’t sound angry. “Maybe later I’ll start talking about it all.”

  After breakfast Holly changed into garments that Norlund had seen her in before, and recognized as flying gear: what looked almost like army pants, and a man’s shirt. “Let’s go,” she said.

  The lobby of the apartment building was lifeless as usual. A uniform opened the front door for them. Griffith was already waiting with Holly’s roadster in front of the building, at a curb kept clear of casual parkers. After holding the car door for Holly, the chauffeur saluted and walked away.

  “You don’t mind if I drive, do you Alan?”

  “You’re going to have to do all the driving when the time comes to switch vehicles. But if you want to drive this one too, suit yourself.”

  “I like to drive.”

  “I’ve noticed.” They had been together on a number of outings of one kind and another, most recently to the Whitney Museum. Norlund wondered if his name and Holly’s would someday appear, linked, in somebody’s gossip column. Maybe they already had; he never read the damned things and thought that she didn’t either. Jeff probably did. Or would, if he ever had the time, and perhaps would have seen his own name more than once. His wife, Holly’s mother, had been dead now for a good number of years.

  Holly, as usual driving a little too fast, said, “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that you could handle the airplane, too.”

  “You would be surprised, if you bailed out up there and left me to try it. I think you’d be out one . . . you’ve never told me what kind of a ship you have.”

  “Lockheed Vega.” Smiling a little smugly, she glanced over at him. “I think you’ll like it. No, it’s not a seaplane.” Her enthusiasm for the waterfront skyport in Manhattan had become a gentle standing joke between them.

  She never does talk to me, thought Norlund, as if there were forty years of chronology between us. That was probably why certain fantasies on his part were becoming harder and harder to dismiss, and why he had disliked Dr. Niles from their first brief meeting.

  “It’s strange, in a way, that you and Jeff are working together.”

  If there were any logical consistency behind the way she sometimes called her father by his first name and sometimes did not, Norlund hadn’t yet figured it out. Anyway he couldn’t very well deny now that he and Jeff were partners in some enterprise. “How so?” he asked.

  “Just that you’re so different from each other.” Holly paused with traffic, shifted expertly, and was off again. “In one way you’re alike. Good at keeping secrets. There’s a whole area of Dad’s life that he never allows me to get into. I don’t mean his girl friends; I can pretty well see what’s going on there. I used to think it was something to do with the War, that maybe he’d been in Intelligence work, though he never would admit to that, and some of it was still going on somehow . . . but now I wonder.” She looked over at Norlund. “Whether it was the War or not, I think it was something to do with you.”

  He tried to frame his answer carefully. “I can’t talk about my work. Not much, anyway. Not even to you.”

  “I didn’t expect you would. You probably wouldn’t be much good at your work, whatever it is, if you did.”

  They rode in silence for a while, into and out of the Holland Tunnel. West of the river the land was largely flat and empty marsh, with screaming birds hovering above it. When Norlund turned his head to look back from the curving highway, he could see the Empire State hovering on the horizon, standing above the flatness to what appeared to be a mountain’s height.

  Holly spoke again. “Well, Dad never begrudges me my own life, my own secrets.”

  Norlund asked on impulse: “Have you heard very often from your kid since they’ve been gone?”

  “When his father has him write. Or lets him. Or makes him. I don’t know. They both talk about my going over there to join them.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ve been unable to make myself do anything. I don’t want it to wind up with lawyers and courts.”

  In the next fifty years the Newark Airport was going to change by an even more mind-boggling amount than the metropolis across the river. For one thing, thought Norlund, the airport was going to become vastly less convenient to use. As it was now, Holly knew the people who ran it, and they knew her, and the necessary things got done with a minimum of fuss and formality.

  Cloud-shadow alternated with sunshine out on the ramp where the Vega stood waiting for them. It was a big high-wing monoplane, thick-shouldered, and the single air-cooled radial engine looked enormous. The craft was painted white with stripes of red and blue. Norlund looked for some kind of name on it, but there were only the official numbers.

  Norlund felt reassured to see Holly doing a thorough walk-around check before they boarded. She even pulled the caps off the fuel tanks and checked the levels inside directly; the fuel gauge must be unreliable, he thought, or non-existent.

  They entered the plane by the cabin door, in the side of the fuselage toward the rear. Inside there was plenty of room for four passenger seats, but only one on each side had been installed. A lot of the remaining cabin space was taken up with what looked like radio gear; it was the back of the Radio Survey truck all over again. With a difference. Each side of the cabin had a row of small windows, and the center window in each row was furnished with a special small mount, bolted in place, and holding what looked like a telescopic camera on a swivel. The lenses stared out through the flat glass. The rest of the equipment was neatly safety-wired into racks, in the best military aviation style. There, on one cabinet accessible from a seat, was his row of dials that ought to be settable like the combination on a safe.

  Holly had already gone on forward, through the tiny hatch leading to the cockpit. And now that big radial engine was coughing into life, shaking the furniture. Norlund had forgotten how loud big engines were.

  A slim arm sleeved in a man’s shirt reached back through the open hatch and beckoned to him. Norlund moved forward. He w
as halfway through the hatch before he realized that the tiny pilot’s compartment ahead of him was meant to accommodate only one. Two smallish, thin people could probably squeeze in, but it was going to be a tight fit. And there would be only one safety belt.

  Holly had squeezed herself over to one side. “Come on, Norlund, I won’t be able to talk to you if you ride back there. I’ve got to know how close you have to go to the damned tower, and when you’ve seen enough of it. Then you can go back in the cabin and play with your radios.”

  He stuffed himself into the seat somehow, with Holly’s thigh pressed tightly against his. Then he reached back to pull the cabin hatch closed behind him. The safety belt was going to go unused.

  They taxied, with guidance by arm-waves from a man trotting beside them on the ground. In tail-down position the aircraft’s nose was so high that it was almost impossible to see anything directly in front of it from the cockpit. Then Holly evidently got some kind of visual signal from the tower, for the next thing Norlund knew they were in a takeoff roll at deafening full power. He tried to find something other than a control handle to hang onto.

  The engine had plenty of power. In seconds they were off the ground, gaining altitude fast.

  Holly leveled off amid cloud-puffs, at about two thousand feet. She shouted toward Norlund’s ear: “How come Jeff just thought of this?”

  He tried to make plausible noises. “Maybe something he noticed about the mast in Chicago. You know the airship people are getting nervous, especially since the Akron went down.” That had been only last February; Norlund had been catching up on his current events in newspapers and magazines. “Seventy-three men lost. They want to be really sure about everything before anyone tries mooring over downtown Manhattan.” He had been privately racking his memory of his previous sojourn through this decade, and he couldn’t recall anything about a dirigible ever actually mooring there. There was only the faintest suggestion that he might have heard of such a project once being planned.

  Holly grumbled something that he couldn’t hear very well, about damned Nazis and the Graf.