Our travels and our relaxation from them had kept us from paying much attention to the election campaign, although we had gathered from occasional discussions between Oxford and Wells that there was hardly any chance that Edison would not get what Oxford called the nod. This was a relief, as it was clear that Mr. Bryan, if victorious, would deal with us harshly, as offenders against his cult's views.
We were, all the same, somewhat on edge as we gathered in our hotel suite on the night of the election to listen to the results. A newly installed device, something like an enlargement of the Communicator amplifier I had given Edison, hung on one wall, and transmitted to us the latest information.
After some time, I realized that the voice relaying it was curiously familiar. "Bryan's sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, ladies and gentlemen," it said. "Latest reports show that there's something rotten in the State of Georgia—by less than a thousand votes, it's gone Republican for the first time since Reconstruction. O! that this too, too solid South would melt—and, by God, it's doing just that! Hum; there's nothing else coming in over the wires for the moment. Just time for a quick—that is, in the ensuing interval, my sister Ethel will entertain all you hundreds of electrodiffusion subscribers out there with a rendition of her Broadway hit, 'Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines.' "
"Wasn't that . . . ?" I asked Oxford.
"It sure was," he answered. "Barrymore's got a, great voice for this thing. Good for him—but what's it going to do to newspapers? These gadgets have only come out in the last month or so, so hardly anybody has 'em, but by the time the next election rolls around, they'll be all over the place—and then who's going to rush out and grab the papers out of the newsies' hands to find out what's going on? I tell you, this century's rolling on a bit fast for mine."
"It's a great medium for popular education," Wells said. "Imagine—the great men of the time speaking their thoughts into every home, the classics of the race brought within the reach of all. It'll be ten times more the cultural revolution that we had in England with the Popular Education Acts and the penny press."
Oxford gave him a tired look. "Maybe so," he said.
"But you'll notice that they don't have a great mind or even an experienced reporter handling the election coverage on this thing, but an actor. Barrymore doesn't know beans about politics, but he's got nice, pear-shaped tones, and that seems to be what counts. I think this gadget's going to be a way to get more drivel across to people than the papers ever dreamed of trying."
Ari, Dark, Valmis and I turned in, once it was mathematically certain that Edison had won the election; Wells and Oxford remained awake, intent on the electrodiffuser, until well past sunrise. As I left the sitting room, I heard Barrymore's voice saying, "It appears, ladies and gentlemen, that William Jennings Bryan, in the words of the Swan of Avon, must now be seen as a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more." At least, I thought, he had dropped his monomania, which I so vividly recalled from our encounter at the player's club, for someone he called the Bard, and had a new enthusiasm, this Swan, whoever he might be.
11
It was in a state of some discomfiture that I found myself, a few days after the election, in a horse-drawn vehicle ascending the winding road that led to President Roosevelt's home outside New York City—Sagamore Hill. I had been given to understand that Mr. Edison would not become President for some months, and I had hoped to defer my confession of our actual circumstances until that time. However, an urgent summons to Sagamore Hill to meet with the (soon-to-be-ex-) President and his successor to discuss "matters of mutual concern to the United States of America and the Galactic Empire," delivered the day before by a White House messenger, left no doubt that Mr. Edison meant, as Oxford put it, to "jump the gun."
I could not expect Edison to take at all well the news that we were not an advance embassy, sent to open the way for a profitable relationship between Earth and a mighty realm of spacefarers, but rather that we were merely a party of castaways with nothing to offer. And even this, of course, would not be the whole truth. Our intention of making every attempt to speed the growth of the planet's technology still presented our only hope of departure, though we had not yet been able to arrive at any clearly defined plans, and it did not seem to me to be prudent to go into this.
I looked uneasily at Ted Oxford, who sat next to me in the carriage. I had wished to tell him of our problem, but Dark and Ari had been firmly against that. "Do it once and get it over with," Dark had advised. "If you spill it to Oxford, he'll likely start getting the jim-jams imagining what the government will do to him for being mixed up in it—prison, hanging, the Edison chair, or something else they might get up specially. The very thought would make the poor chap so nervous he'd be apt to do anything."
I could well believe this—certainly, similar thoughts centered on myself were producing very unsettling effects. I felt that I could have consulted Wells to useful effect, but he had been obliged to return to England the day after the election, as he put it, "to see to my affairs." Dark later told me that, from what he gathered from Wells's conversation, these affairs were apt to be political or sexual or a combination of the two, and I could understand the urgency which possessed the slightly built journalist.
I was roused from my brooding by the halting of our conveyance and a murmured "oh-oh" from Oxford. A large and elegant automobile, with a small American flag displayed on its front parts, stood in front of us, leaning at an angle, with two wheels in a ditch at the side of the road. Two uniformed men were laboring with long poles to right it, but did not seem to be making much progress.
"Them as takes their autos up this road always seems t' get stuck just about here," the driver of our carriage said dreamily. "Or if 'tain't here, then on the next bend. Station hack ain't good enough for 'em, my, no, got t' chug up here in their fancy gas-burners. Pride goeth before a fall and an haughty spirit before destruction," he further observed, which seemed to me an excessively harsh way of putting it.
"Hi! You!" With some dismay, I recognized a stocky, white-haired figure standing beside the stranded car as Edison. "I've got to get on up to Sagamore Hill to—oh, it's you fellows. Give me a lift, will you?"
"Lift," our driver muttered to Oxford. "It's farm carts, or as it might be your family buggy, that gives lifts. A hack, now, takes fares. There's a difference, you see, one bein' in the amateur line and t'other in the professional."
"Driver," Oxford informed him in a low voice, "the gentleman requiring our help is Thomas Alva Edison, President-Elect of the United States."
"Hum," the driver said. "In that case, and seein' as we're most of the way there, he c'n ride for half fare."
To my relief, Edison did not plunge into the topic which I had been summoned to discuss. Looking back at the toiling chauffeurs as our carriage moved on, he said, "That's a fool way to do things, building cars that don't fit the roads they've got to run on. I expect you people"—he turned to face me with a sour look—"don't have that sort of problem."
"Our ground transportation is organized on somewhat different lines," I admitted. "I don't know the details, but the—"
"Don't tell me," Edison said. "Whatever you've got there, it wouldn't work for us, I'm sure. But there should be a way to get a narrower wheelbase that'd support enough weight and still be stable . . . let me see . . .". He fished a notepad from his pocket and became absorbed in making notes and sketches on it. "No, that wouldn't do it," he muttered. "Outriggers? A built-in jack . . . nope. Ha! There's a thought, now. You'd have to . . . Yeah, that'll make Ford sit up and take notice; I c'n get this off to him tonight . . ."
He spent the rest of the journey on his rapid calculations, giving vent to an occasional pleased exclamation.
Mr. Roosevelt met us on the lawn in front of his house and ushered us into a room of considerable size, much more imposing, yet, as it were, personal, in atmosphere than his office in the White House. A large heating device in whi
ch pieces of wood were burned, providing both warmth and a decorative effect, stood at one end of it; that it was dangerous to approach this mechanism was indicated by the presence of the outer covering of a large animal, with intact teeth displayed warningly, stretched in front of it.
Another such skin, covered with irregular spots, but without the teeth, was thrown over the back of a type of wide chair, ample for two or three; this skin must have had a different significance, as Roosevelt seated himself and Edison on the piece of furniture with no sign of a qualm, and invited Oxford and me to draw up chairs to face them. I was glad to do so, as this position placed my back to the head of a large, horned animal protruding from one wall. Although the balance of its body was evidently contained behind the wall, so that it was prevented from entering the room, it had a fixed, unfriendly stare that I did not care for.
"Now that we don't have to worry about Bryan declaring you anathema," Roosevelt said, "we can get down to business. Most of it's going to be Edison's problem, but I imagine there are some things I can do while I'm still in office to get this business started."
"Right, Mr. President." It seemed to me that Edison used the term with a certain sardonic relish. "For instance, Ambassador, just about how soon do you expect to be able to make your report to your people?"
It was clear that my last chance to temporize was gone, that my only possible course was to be completely candid and forthright. "There is a . . . um . . . difficulty about that," I said, suddenly feeling that forthrightness could wait for a bit.
"Difficulty?" "Difficulty?" The two Presidents spoke as one President.
"Well, about this Empire . . . it . . . there isn't what you could actually call an Empire, really. . . ."
Edison's face was unnervingly stony, Roosevelt's even more unnervingly mobile, as I gave my explanation.
When I had finished, Roosevelt said slowly, seeming to bite off each word with his large teeth as if he wished to destroy it as it was spoken, "Do you mean to tell me that you have turned the politics and government—the very history—of the United States of America upside-down with this story? And that it's not true? By Godfrey—"
"Well, we are from another planet," I broke in hastily. "That part's true enough, and there's really quite a number of advanced civilizations about. It's that . . . um . . . well, they don't do much in the way of trading and such, especially with the . . . ah . . ."
"Primitives," Roosevelt said heavily.
"Well, yes; you see, it wouldn't be worthwhile . . . It's not that your sort of world isn't interesting," I said. "Why, that's what the Explorer Service is all about, to gather information about places unlike our own planet, don't you see? It helps the young people so much, and quite a few adults consult our archives, too, when they've nothing better—when there's something they want to know about, that is."
Edison jammed his hands deeply in his trouser pockets and regarded the tips of his shoes. "Well, well," he said mildly. "Ten thousand or so years of human history, a few billion souls, the great republics, kingdoms and empires of a planet—a rainy day's amusement for the kiddies, that's what we are, huh?"
"Our climate differs from yours in that—" I began.
"Keep quiet, by George!" Roosevelt said. "You'll pay for—"
Edison lifted a hand. "Now, Mr. President," he said. "Just put yourself in these fellows' place. When you're off to Africa next year, why, s'pose you got lost in the jungle, lost your supplies and so on. And you came to some tribe you couldn't be sure was friendly. Now, wouldn't you maybe try a tall story on 'em so's you could count on their help? You didn't have any big stick to carry, why, you'd have to bluff, right?"
Roosevelt evidently did not care for the comparison, but apparently could not fault it. He gritted his teeth, then turned to Oxford, who had sat quite still beside me since I had begun my confession. "By Godfrey, were you in on this? Was Hearst? Was it a put-up job between you and these . . . derelicts?"
"It's news to me, Mr. President," Oxford said, with a forced attempt at his normal jauntiness.
"Well, it had better not be news for Willie Hearst!" Roosevelt declared. "If a word of this gets out in the papers, it'll be an almighty embarrassment to the government and to me personally—but it'll be the devil to pay and no pitch hot for Hearst, let me tell you!"
"Mr. President," Oxford said earnestly, "let me tell you straight out that I had sooner take passage on the Flying Dutchman, and steerage at that, than to explain to Mr. Hearst that the stories I've been getting my bylines on for the last couple of months have been all moonshine. My lips are sealed, believe me."
"They sure are," Edison affirmed, sitting up suddenly. "Now, I'm counting on you to back me on this, Roosevelt, 'cause it's the only way to handle it. Oxford, you're not working for Hearst any longer, effective at close of business, as of even date, and business has just now closed. You are an officer in the United States Army, bound to official secrecy by whatever appropriate acts and ordinances, et cetera, et cetera. Roosevelt, swear him in—you can have Loeb do the paperwork and figure out what rank he is later on."
"But I don't see—" Roosevelt began.
"Don't have to see it, man! I'm goin' t' be carrying the can on this, and you've got to help me!"
Both Roosevelt and Oxford appeared bemused as the one administered and the other received the oath confirming the impromptu commission.
"Fine!" Edison said. "So you're our man now, Oxford, not Hearst's. And your job's to ride herd on this bunch of castaways—keep 'em happy and out of sight until after I'm inaugurated, and make sure there's nothing about 'em gets in the papers that hasn't been there already. I don't have the least idea in the world what I'm goin' to do about 'em, but now's no time to start rocking the Ship of State. Once I get to the wheelhouse, I'll have worked out what to do. There'll be something, I don't doubt. I've lit up the world, startin' with a piece of burnt bamboo for a filament, and it'd be mighty strange if I couldn't figure a use for two brace of astronauts!"
12
Although he appeared to have relegated Mr. Roosevelt to a minor role, Edison did turn to him for help in finding quarters for us, and the President was able to place us in a house some miles from his own, without alerting the owner or the townspeople to our identity. The cost of our housing and maintenance, including an elderly couple named Bonacker who saw to the cooking and housekeeping, was paid out of the public purse, again by some means arrived at by Mr. Roosevelt.
By the time we were settled in the large house, on a bluff overlooking a harbor, the foliage had fallen from the trees, and we were able to see some distance, down to the water and across to the opposite shore. It was a lonely place, sparsely built up, with a huddle of houses and a shipyard and a dock on the shore below us—the name of the place, Glenwood Landing, appeared to derive in part from this last feature—and an establishment which combined the functions of provision store and post office a little inland. A couple of miles' walk up a long hill led to a larger cluster of stores and houses, called Glen Head, and a station on the railway. Oxford told us as we debarked from the train from New York that we were seeing this station for the last time until he had further word from the President or Edison. "You fellows are free to stroll around the shore and so on, but the station area's off-limits, by order of Lieutenant Colonel Oxford, Commanding."
He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he felt the gravity of his hastily conferred military rank. "I tell you, Raf," he confided to me about that time, "it's not that it makes me all that nervous that I could be shot for insubordination or something if I pull a bad boner now; I mean, if you get W. R. Hearst down on you, why, shooting'd seem like a week by the beautiful sea compared to that. But I am now, by presidential order, an officer and a gentleman. Lord, if the Market Street crowd in Frisco heard that Ned Oxford was a certified gentleman, it'd hand them a laugh, no kid!"
We now settled into a time of quiet, which I at least found restful, occupying myself mainly with invigorating walks through the nearby are
a. A few miles away, past a large lake on a private estate, guarded by large swimming birds which appeared ready to attack any intruder, or even passer-by, lay a small village at the head of the harbor. There was in this place a refreshment establishment with a convivial crowd of habitues, from whose conversation I was often able to pick up much information on the culture—which was, after all, a part of my function—although it often developed that after spending some time there and joining in the refreshment, I was unable to retain any very accurate impression of what I had heard.
Valmis spent most of his time reclining on a stuffed piece of furniture on a glassed-in porch, regarding the trees and sky outside. He claimed that this was the best way to Integrate, given our circumstances.
Ari was happily busied with going over great piles of books and journals which Oxford had sent from New York City and elsewhere, and he declared that he was beginning to arrive at an understanding of the principles of Metahistory as they applied to Earth.
Dark also studied some of the journals, though little of their text; he was fascinated by pictorial representations of mechanical devices, especially those of self-powered land vehicles. "Wouldn't it be great to drive one of those," he said wistfully on one occasion. "The thing about running a spacecraft is, unless you run into trouble, there's no feel to it. But imagine pushing yourself through the atmosphere, just ramming through it, the engine roaring in front of you, feeling every bump in the road, the landscape spinning past you, and you controlling the whole thing! But Oxford won't let us have one, damn it!"
And Having Writ . . . Page 9