In the Electric Eden

by Nick Arvin

  She turns and waves to me across the chairs. I wave.

  She is such a clever girl. I have a logical mind and I work well as an engineer but I have never been able to make those leaps of creativity that the great ones make. My own ideas are small and dull and unworkable (e.g., the cell phone under the chair) and though I love my work I will never be more than a conscientious and adequate engineer. But Angie seems to have a creative instinct that I lack and if it is nurtured and given room to grow more sophisticated she could become one of those people who have vision: able to see where technology is headed five or ten years ahead of time and place herself squarely in its path. She will see and create the things that no one else imagines possible. She will invent the flying cars and dime-size computers and better mousetraps and sixty-three-way adjustable office chairs and mechanical supercows and/or more: the things my clumsy mind cannot now imagine that will change and improve the way the human race lives its collective and individual lives.

  She has disappeared among the chairs. There is a silence. There are so many chairs. I think of all the thousands—possibly millions—of man-hours these chairs represent. Each chair has cradled a man for ten or twelve or fifteen hours a day. Five or six or seven days a week. Years and years. Held that man up to his computer screen. His phone. His endless intractable tasks. I think of my new chair and perhaps I should feel horror at the thought of it but the fact is I want to go back to it. These are still working hours and I should work.

  I call: “Angie.”

  She reappears. I say: “Okay. Let’s go back. Time to go back to work.” I hope they will not fire me but lingering here will not alter the outcome one way or the other. Right now I need to retrieve my cell phone in order to get on with my job. Because it is all I know to do.

  Aeronautics

  Hours of sun and jolting travel had reduced George to a state of dazed, turbid pain; nevertheless, when the pulsing clamor of many hard-ridden horses began closing in behind him he straightened his shoulders and looked around. And as the cavalry caught up and then coursed rapidly by, he wondered if at last the battlefield lay near, and if he would finally see the balloon. The cavalrymen—with their carbines shining, the yellow facings of their uniforms bright, their sabers and caparisons clanging counterpoint to the pounding of hooves—wore their hats low and studied the terrain ahead with grave expressions. They surged rapidly by and disappeared around a low hill, and George saw, at the fore of the caravan he traveled with, Professor Lowe on his black charger gathering pace behind them. Only with obvious reluctance did Lowe eventually halt and wait for the others. The procession behind him included half a dozen soldiers on horseback and two heavily laden pack mules, none which necessarily kept to the narrow beaten road, and two peculiar wagons, which did. All the men wore mustaches or full beards, except George who had been clean-shaven for more than seven decades and felt no want to alter the habit for fashion’s sake. The two wagons were shaped like large, wheeled, wooden shipping crates with pieces of gleaming steel hardware and pipe issuing from their topsides. George rode beside the driver on the second of these. On the rear of the wagon before him were letters stenciled in black paint:

  LOWE

  BALLOON GAS GENERATOR

  U.S. No. 14

  Professor Lowe called out to the wagons to hurry, and the driver beside George muttered imprecations while he lightly slapped the reins. George leaned forward, trying to alleviate the pain in his hips. This journey had been a mistake. He had known it was a mistake as soon as he had agreed to it, and now he dearly felt the error—he had grown too old for such traveling; he was excruciatingly sore all through his body. Only the thought that soon he would see again a manned balloon ascending recalled to him any stirring of joy and relief.

  A little farther on there were tents thrown up beside the road in rows or in seemingly random locations and men wearing uniforms weathered to varying shades of blue. They stood or sat, stared into space or cleaned their weapons and talked without looking at one another. They played cards or probed idly into the embers of cooking fires that leaked upwards uncoiling strands of smoke—George saw Professor Lowe gazing along the length of these, looking for signs of wind. The soldiers watched the passing balloon gas generator wagons sometimes balefully but sometimes with a smile or a wave. Along one stretch of the road an entire regiment was arrayed, standing at rest, and these men stared fixedly at the ground. Some wore wound dressings around the thigh or arm or head, and the bandages were shockingly white against the ragged blue uniforms and sun-darkened flesh made darker by accumulations of dust and mud and the oils of human anxiety. A nearby bivouac of hospital tents smelled horribly like an abattoir. Passing along a short stretch of graveled road, the iron rims of the wagon wheels made a sizzling sound, and George, in a state of mild befuddlement, was cast briefly back to his childhood: a few miles from his parents’ house was a wide path scattered with stone that included a lot of flint, and George’s father had ridden there one night with George and his twin sister, Madeline, to show them how the wagon wheels and the horses’ shod hooves threw sparks. Standing with Madeline in the darkness beside the road, George had thought the scene a little frightening, but Madeline watched undaunted, then called, simply, “Like fairy horses, Pa.”

  Now, however, the sun was high and hot and it stared down on George with one-eyed murderous intent. They came to a caravan of artillery and caissons stopped in the middle of the road, apparently abandoned by men and horses alike, the cannons angled repentantly toward the earth. To bypass them Lowe’s wagons were laboriously dragged off the road. George realized suddenly that he could hear and feel in his flesh the distant thrum of artillery, that he had in fact been feeling it for some time now without recognition. The horses were lathered with sweat, but Lowe urged the drivers on, scanned alertly, spurred his own horse ahead. He cut a striking figure in his black coat, black trousers, and tall black hat.

  George had first met him the evening before—a servant boy had arrived at George’s house with a message for George, asking if he could ride out to see Smith, who was an old friend of George’s, and meet some guests. The servant boy said he didn’t know who the guests were, but some were soldiers.

  They had ridden together to Smith’s. The servant boy took the horses to the stables while George stood alone in front of the house, trying to get his legs to straighten properly, trying to pull his spine upright. The two strange gas generator wagons stood here, and George studied them a minute before easing himself, step by step, up the stairs to the porch. A servant took his hat and conducted him to the parlor, where George hesitated in the doorway. His friend Smith and a half dozen other men were seated in a loose circle, and one of the guests was engaged in a story that had the rapt attention of the others.

  “—I cast off a bag of sand ballast,” he was saying, “and began to rise away again. And one of those on the ground—there was quite a crowd by now—called up, ‘Halloo stranger! Come back, I reckon you’ve lost your luggage!’” The gathered men laughed and the speaker sat back, crossing his legs with satisfaction.

  George shuffled forward slightly. The men sat around a large, marble-topped center table on which stood a kerosene lamp and a thick Bible. In the shadows behind them could be seen the fireplace and mantel clock, several bookcases and a cluttered whatnot, various end tables and corner tables and vases. Smith stood, smiling at George. “Here’s the aeronaut!” he cried.

  Embarrassed, George stepped into the lamplight and nodded to the men. “Aeronaut—that’s Smith’s old joke,” he explained. “I’ve never actually been in a balloon.”

  “George,” Smith said. “I would like to introduce you to a real aeronaut.” He touched the shoulder of the gentleman who had just finished speaking. “Professor Lowe is the commander of the United States Aeronautical Corps.”

  Lowe had a thick handlebar mustache under deep-set eyes and curved, hawkish eyebrows, and even as he smiled these features lent him an expression of concentrated intensity. “It�
��s a pleasure,” he said. “I understand you were at Blanchard’s 1793 flight.”

  “Yes,” said George. “I was just a boy.”

  “I would very much like to hear about it.”

  “That’s why I asked you over, George,” said Smith. “I thought you should tell the story yourself. And Professor Lowe and his men will be continuing on their way tomorrow, to rejoin the Army of the Potomac.” Smith introduced George to the other men—a captain, a sergeant, several privates in blue uniforms, and two civilian employees of Lowe’s. Several were smoking pipes, and the room was filled with a pungent tobacco fog. Each man held a glass of bourbon, and after George sat, the servant appeared with a glass for him as well.

  Smith said to George, “The professor was just telling us about a balloon he landed in the Carolinas.”

  George’s fingers trembled, so he held his bourbon with both hands while he sipped at it and felt its warmth spreading through him, calming. He listened without comment to the talking of the other men. He noticed a general deferment to Professor Lowe and his opinions; everyone stopped to listen when he spoke. Lowe’s landing in the Carolinas had evidently occurred just days after the Confederates opened fire on Fort Sumter, and Lowe hadn’t realized the entire gravity of the political situation at the time, but he also had not intended to land in the South, had been flying from Cincinnati to test upper atmospheric winds against his belief that those winds might be used to carry an aeronaut eastward all the way across the Atlantic. But he was carried as much south as east. After being variously shot at, run from, and mistaken for a demon, he finally put his balloon down among some people who carted him away to jail for spying. Someone of learning in town recognized him from newspaper accounts of his aeronautical exploits and got him released, but he was jailed a couple more times during his slow progress northward. Shortly after he had finally returned to Union territory, he traveled to the War Department to propose the formation of an Army Aeronautical Corps. “I am sure,” Lowe said to Smith and the others, “that if the Confederates had known I would begin flying balloons for the United States, they never would have let me out of their jails. They waste endless volleys of bullets and cannon in my direction every time we go up. But they’ve not hit us yet—we begin well behind lines, and then we’re up too high.” Lowe smiled. He gestured vaguely southward with his bourbon. “They’ll have to try another tack if they are to remove my balloons from overlooking them.”

  Smith nudged George. “Why don’t you tell us about Blanchard?”

  So George told the story. He had never been one to talk a lot, but there were certain stories he had told aloud many times over the years and many more times inside his head, and this was one of those stories. Blanchard’s had been the first manned balloon flight in the United States, and George described it slowly and in detail. Lowe, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, interrupted to ask about technical details—the size of the gondola, the form of the netting over the balloon, the apparatus Blanchard used to generate the gas that filled his balloon—and when George had finished, Lowe exclaimed, “Come with us tomorrow! Come see our balloon launched! It would be an honor for me, to be connected in a way with the famous Blanchard.” And George, moved by Lowe’s enthusiasm and the idea of the balloon, had agreed.

  That night, however, he slept only fitfully, doubting himself and fretting. And the next morning Lowe also seemed to be having second thoughts. “I should warn you,” he said, “this isn’t some balloon novelty flight. There’s a war on, and when that balloon goes up all the enemy artillery aims for us. We’ve only been lucky so far. Our cookshack was hit not long ago, and recently a shell exploded in a nearby cesspool. One of our sentries was completely coated with filth.”

  George, however, felt he had already committed himself Quietly he said, “I’m not worried about shelling.”

  “That sentry couldn’t eat for days afterward.”

  “I’ll stay out of your way,” George said. He smiled to reassure Lowe. “I’ll be gone the next morning.”

  They left when the black sky was just lightening to a Prussian blue in the east, tinged faintly green at the horizon. George had ridden until about noon on his horse before the extraordinary pain in his back and hips forced him to stable the animal at an inn and take a seat on one of the wagons.

  Now the sun was moving west and down the sky. They followed a two-track dirt path past a small farm and through a wood where the arms of the trees met above them. There were no soldiers. Then they emerged again into the sun, and suddenly the little convoy halted. They were in a small meadow protected by a wooded hill. Two tall wooden poles stood in the center of the meadow with a rope running from the top of one to the other, and, some distance away, several tents were spread in a semicircle. Perhaps two dozen men in blue uniforms and kepi hats were here, standing around or sitting on empty hardtack boxes. The rumbling of cannon fire and the riffling of musket shots sounded in the distance, and a boiling gray-white smoke obscured the sky in that direction. Several men rose and came over to meet the wagons, but they did not move with urgency and, conspicuously, no balloon was to be seen. George might have thought it was only packed away somewhere, but Professor Lowe was already trotting from man to man and tent to tent, demanding explanations.

  For the moment, George did not care. The pain in his back had become like the probing of a long, thick knife, the joints of his hands were inflamed, and his hips were grinding like emery paper. His teeth, which ached all the time now anyway, were flaring hotly in several places. He managed to lower himself from the high seat of the wagon to the ground, but then he nearly collapsed face-first. He stood gripping the wagon wheel for a minute, gathering his strength before he let go, moved off several paces, and lowered himself to the grass. He put his head in his hands, closed his eyes, and focused on the pain in his back, in his knees, his hips, his fingers, his teeth, sank into the hurt until the hurting seemed merely a kind of warmth from within to counterbalance the warmth of the sun overhead. He leaned back and stretched lengthwise in the grass, which seemed wonderfully cool. He could feel distinctly the heavy, deep sound of cannon reports moving through the ground. Covering his face with his hat, he willed himself to sleep or at least to rest without thinking. He lay for what seemed a long time, moving on the currents of pain, floating between these and the sun as if on a salty sea.

  Then he felt a shadow upon him and he pushed back his hat. Directly above, looking down, was a young man with a downy blond beard, a serious expression, and a bulky knapsack slung over his shoulder. “Good day, sir,” said the young man. “Please, can I offer you something from among my fine selection of wares?”

  George’s mouth was dry. His flesh felt dusty and scorched. The peddler suddenly smiled broadly, revealing a pair of black gaps in his teeth. “Maybe,” George said, softly, “a little water?”

  The peddler nodded and went away. With a great effort, George sat up. He pulled his hat firmly down on his head and looked around. Professor Lowe had dismounted, but he was still angrily stalking about. Several men were opening the bags on the pack mules and exclaiming to one another. On the road, a few dozen loosely assembled soldiers sauntered by. George loosened the cravat at his neck. He saw the peddler returning with a dipper of water, limping badly. He wore brown wool trousers, vest, and coat, all loose-fitting and besmirched by dust and stains of various shades. He also wore a kepi hat such as the soldiers wore, but his was more thoroughly battered, as if it had been discarded and trampled by horses and infantry alike before the peddler claimed it. He offered the dipper full of water to George. “For this,” he said, “no charge.”

  George took the dipper and drank. His hand trembled and water slopped onto his coat and trousers. “Are you all right?” the peddler asked gently. “You seem fatigued.”

  “I’ll be fine,” George said. “Thank you for the water. I only need a little rest.”

  The peddler nodded. He remained crouched beside George, watching him. After a moment he offered his
hand. “My name is Nathan.”

  “Mine is George.” Nathan had a firm handshake. George hoped the tremor of his own hand was not too apparent.

  “George,” said Nathan, “I may have the remedy you need.” He swung around his knapsack and extracted a small glass bottle. He shook it. “Rush’s Pills,” he said, then chanted in a singsong rhythm:

  What Rush’s Pills alone can do,

  Man testifies, and woman too.

  For thousands say with eager breath,

  They saved me from disease and death!

  All ye ailing, give me heed,

  ’Tis Rush’s Pills your system need!

  George shook his head. “No pills, thank you.” He had spotted Professor Lowe striding across the clearing toward him. He struggled to rise, but his legs were flaccid and would not obey. Nathan, with a last, rueful shake of the pills, put the bottle away, then saw him struggling and slid a hand under his shoulder to help him up. “Thank you,” George said.

  Lowe hardly glanced at the peddler. To George he said, “I am terribly sorry about this.” He lifted his hat and wiped at his brow with his sleeve. “The balloon has not arrived. It’s inexcusable, but there’s nothing to be done but to wait.”

  George nodded. “It’s all right. I can wait.”

  Lowe wagged his head in a care-worn fashion. “The truth is, many of the army’s officers view my Aeronautical Corps with disdain. They cannot see that these balloons represent the future of warfare, and the Aeronautical Corps seems to them nothing but a distraction of resources and materials. Sometimes I have to go up the entire chain of command and back down again in order to requisition something as simple as a wagon.”

  “I’m sorry,” George said. He felt strangely constrained and formal with Lowe: the man unnerved him with his intense single-mindedness. “I suppose in a venture like this there must always be new obstacles.”