Copyright © 2015 Disney Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.
ISBN 978-1-4847-1123-1
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disney.com/tomorrowland
Contents
Part One: Yesterday Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Part Two: Today Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Photos from the Film
Pittsfield, NY 1964
SUMMER IN upstate New York was always brief. When the flowers finally bloomed and the leaves finally appeared, they came upon the countryside with the swiftness of a storm. For the farmers who made their living tilling the land, the season was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because summer meant money in their pockets and food on the table come winter, and a curse because it was always a race against time. So as soon as the first warm wind blew, every man, woman and child would be out on the farm, doing their part. Well, almost every child.
As the sun rose on this particular harvesting day, ten-year-old Frank Walker was not getting ready to help his father on their farm. Instead, he stood inside the barn, tinkering. Above him, the old, rusty weather vane squeaked as it moved slowly in the sticky morning wind. But Frank barely registered the noise. He was too busy finishing up his project.
As Frank looked down at the object in front of him, a smile spread across his young face. His eyes shone brightly with anticipation. That was it. That was the moment he had been working toward all summer.
Running a hand through his messy brown hair, Frank took a deep breath. Then he put an old football helmet on his head. A pair of goggles rested atop the helmet. It seemed an odd addition until Frank leaned over and picked up the jetpack resting in front of him.
The jetpack was not much to look at on first sight. Frank had had to use whatever scrap metal he could get his hands on, so no two parts seemed to match exactly. He had also soldered the metal himself, so the machine looked a bit like a poorly stitched metal version of Frankenstein’s monster. But still, there were hints of beauty to the jetpack. Frank had spent hours lovingly crafting metal wings, which were now attached to the back of the pack, and while there were clearly flaws, it all appeared rather streamlined.
Hearing a rooster caw, Frank started. He had lost track of time. And now he didn’t have much of it left. He needed to get out of the barn and into the fields before his father found him. He grabbed the pack, secured it onto his back, and headed out the door. First, though, he grabbed a pail of water. Better to be safe than sorry.
Safety precautions in tow, Frank quickly made his way into the middle of the closest field. The sun was rising higher and higher, bathing everything it touched in an orange hue. It hit Frank’s pack, and for a brief moment, the thing sparkled like something brand-new and futuristic. Unaware of the transformation, Frank grabbed the cord dangling from the side of the pack. Then he took another deep breath as he looked up.
“Please, God,” he whispered, “don’t let me blow up.” Lowering his goggles, Frank began the countdown. “T minus ten. Nine. Eight.” As the numbers got smaller, his voice grew shakier with nerves. “Seven. Six. Five.” He gulped. “Four. Three. Two…”
Frank pulled down on the cord with all the strength his ten-year-old arm could muster. With a loud growl, the engine came to life, and a moment later, flames spurted out of the bottom of the rocket. It was working!
And then it wasn’t.
Instead of propelling Frank high into the sky, the force of the engine threw him down onto his belly. Within seconds he was blasting through the field, his body cutting a path between the dirt and crops. “Ahhhhhhhh!”
After what felt like hours but was actually only seconds, there came a sound Frank never thought he would be happy to hear—the unmistakable pfftt of the jetpack’s flame sputtering out. A moment later, Frank slid to a stop.
To his surprise, he was alive and relatively unscathed. The field behind him, however, had not been quite as lucky. As he turned around, his eyes grew wide. Patches of fire had sprouted up in his wake and were growing larger. Frank let out a shout and leapt to his feet. He ran and frantically stomped at the burning crops. By the time he reached the pail of water he had left, he had managed to put out most of the fires. But then he realized there was something else burning.
Letting out another shout, Frank tore the jetpack off his back and threw it to the ground. He dumped the bucket of water over it. There was a sizzle as the flames went out. Pulling off his goggles, Frank looked down at his masterpiece—now a singed pile of metal. He let out a sigh. Not all inventions worked the first go-around, he told himself. Einstein had tried hundreds of formulas before he came up with E=mc². Frank just needed to go back to the drawing board. Things would go smoother next time….
Inside the barn, Frank sat on a workbench, repairing his jetpack. On the wall in front of him, a board had been covered with comic panels, sketches, and pages ripped from magazines. This was Frank’s idea board. In the middle of it all was a brochure for the world’s fair happening then in Queens, New York.
As the radio blared a Beach Boys tune through his homemade headphones, Frank smiled. This was what he loved to do more than anything in the world: create. This was what he wanted to do with his life. Not plant crops and harvest them and then do it all again. If only his father could understand….
A dark shadow suddenly washed over him. Frank looked up. His father stood in the open door of the barn, his arms crossed over his chest. Unlike his son, Pa was a man of the land. Always had been and always would be. That was why seeing Frank surrounded by odd gadgets and gizmos made Pa’s hackles rise.
“Ground’s burnt out there,” he said after Frank had pulled down his headphones.
“Really?” Frank replied. “Weird.”
There was a pause as Pa stared at his son, his eyes drilling into the young boy. He knew Frank was playing dumb. Just like he knew Frank wanted to do anything but farm. “It’s getting warm,” Pa finally said. “We need to start harvesting today.”
“Yeah,” Frank replied. “That’s, uh, why I got up early.”
Pa raised an eyebrow and nodded at the jetpack. “I thought we talked about that.”
“You talked about it,” Frank said defiantly. Then he looked at the ground. His father hated when he talked back.
Pa narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think you’re gonna make that thing fly?”
Frank shrugged. “I’m optimistic?”
“You’re ten,” Pa pointed out.
“Karl Benz started engineering university when he was ten,” Frank pointed out. When his father just looked at him blankly, he explained, “He invented cars.”
Pa shook his head. “Henry Ford invented cars,” he retorted.
“Henry Ford produced cars,” Frank
said, correcting him. Instantly, he wished he hadn’t said it. He had pushed too far. Sure enough, Pa’s face grew red and his frown deepened.
“You’re wasting your time,” Pa growled.
Frank always backed down. Today, he wouldn’t—even though he knew he was playing with fire. “I’m not!” he shouted.
“This contraption doesn’t work!” Pa shouted back.
“It’s not a contraption!” Frank cried. “I can make it work.”
“No. You. Can’t!” Pa’s words boomed through the barn, causing Frank to take a nervous step back.
For a long moment, father and son just stood there, staring at each other, their chests heaving. And then Frank took a deep breath. “I’m not giving up,” he said softly.
Pa reacted instantly. With one swift sweep of his arm, he knocked everything off the workbench. Papers, tools, even pieces of the jetpack went flying. His face fire-engine red, Pa turned and looked at his son. He had had this argument for the last time. Frank had to stop pretending he would be anything other than a farmer. That was what Walkers did—they farmed. “You want to use your ‘optimism’?” Pa asked. “Use it to harvest that field.” With that, he left the barn.
Behind his father, Frank’s face mirrored the anger in his. But there was also resentment in Frank’s eyes. Looking down at his jetpack lying in pieces, Frank felt trapped. How could he ever get his father to see that he was good at this kind of thing? That he could help in his own way if Pa would only let him. And then his eyes landed on something on his workbench: an old gear. He smiled. He was going to show his father exactly what he could do.
Pa was still fuming. As he stood in the kitchen frying some eggs, he kept replaying the scene in the barn in his head. Time after time he had tried to reason with Frank, and time after time it had ended the same way—with the two of them angry.
Turning to grab a plate from the cupboard, Pa paused. Then he tilted his head. He had heard something he shouldn’t be hearing: the noise of an engine. Specifically, the noise of his combine’s engine. Last time he had checked, it had been sitting in the field, the engine most definitely off. Spinning around, Pa looked out the window. His eyes grew wide. The combine was moving across the field. And then Pa noticed something really strange: no one was in the cab. The combine appeared to be driving itself!
Letting out a shout, Pa raced through the front door. His arms pumped furiously as he tried to catch up. Finally, he managed to grab hold of the combine’s side and pull himself up next to the cab.
When he finally was able to see inside, his eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. The strangest contraption he had ever seen was driving the combine: a combination of devices Pa recognized from his son’s workbench had been cobbled together. Reaching through the window, Pa yanked the key out of the ignition. The combine groaned to a stop. Pa angrily pulled free an envelope that had been taped to the dashboard. Inside was the brochure for the 1964 World’s Fair—the same brochure that had, until just recently, been posted on Frank’s idea board. The fair’s slogan—The Gateway to Imagination—stood out on the brochure’s front. And below it, in Frank’s childish handwriting, was: I’m not giving up.
FRANK STARED out the window of the bus as it made its way through the borough of Queens. He had never seen so many people in one place in his entire life. Tourists from all over the country, all over the world, had come to Flushing Meadows to see the world’s fair. Even from inside the bus, Frank could feel the excitement in the air. As the bus pulled up to the main gate of Corona Park, Frank’s eyes grew wide. There, only a few feet away, was what looked like the greatest amusement park ever. And Frank was about to go play.
Frank waited impatiently for the bus to come to a stop. He waited again for the people in front of him to funnel out the door. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Frank made it outside. Throwing his duffel bag over his shoulder, he took an excited breath and walked into the world’s fair.
Everywhere he looked, there was something amazing to see. Pavilions showcased the newest technology, cars, and even life-size replicas of dinosaurs! In one, people sat in moving chairs that glided past 3-D models of what life might look like in the future. In another, Ford introduced its newest car, the Mustang.
For some, it could have been sensory overload, but for Frank, it was paradise. Coming to a stop in front of a huge egg-shaped pavilion, Frank heard a crowd let out excited oohs and aahs. As he craned his head to see what the fuss was all about, his eyes grew wide. Inside the pavilion a man stood in front of a large machine that bore a vague resemblance to a pinball machine. Small balls dropped through a maze of pins as the man explained what was going on.
“These balls follow a random path,” the presenter said. “But advanced computing determines exactly where they’ll end up.” He paused to let his words sink in. “The power of prediction, ladies and gentleman.”
Frank joined in as the crowd clapped. His mind was reeling. Being able to predict a future? Change fate or pick a different path? The future held so many possibilities. He wanted to see what his future held. And to do that, according to his brochure, he needed to get to the Hall of Invention.
It didn’t take Frank long to find the hall. It was pretty easy to spot. A long line of people waited outside, various inventions and contraptions in hand. Moving to the back, Frank pulled his duffel tighter under his arm. Then he waited. And waited some more. The line crept forward at a snail’s pace. But Frank didn’t mind. He had made it that far; what was a few more minutes?
Finally, he was inside the Hall of Invention. The room was set up like a school science fair. People wandered about, holding a variety of homemade inventions and gizmos, all hoping to impress the panel of judges that sat lined up on a dais at the back of the room. Hanging the length of the hall was a large banner that read AMATEUR INVENTOR EXPOSITION—FIRST PRIZE, FIFTY DOLLARS.
Hefting up his duffel, Frank took a deep breath and made his way toward the only available judge. The handsome man sat calmly amid the chaos, his green eyes scanning the room knowingly. A nameplate in front of him identified the man as David Nix.
“May I help you?” Nix asked when Frank stepped in front of him.
“Hello, sir,” Frank replied politely. “My name is John Francis Walker. I’m here to win the fifty dollars.”
A glimmer flashed in Nix’s eyes. The boy was confident, that was for sure. Nix didn’t know whether to be impressed or put off. “Is that so?” he said after a moment.
Frank nodded. Then he unzipped his duffel and began to pull out various components. As he started to assemble them, he talked to Nix. “I took it apart because of the nitrogen compartment, seeing as how the bus ride was kinda bumpy. I could have used a hydrogen peroxide–powered engine, but the Bell Labs tried that with their rocket belt and I guess there were issues with maneuverability, flight duration, and stuff….” His voice trailed off as he clicked the final component into place. He held it up in front of Nix. “It’s a jetpack.”
Nix didn’t say anything at first. His well-trained eye scanned the pack, and he was impressed by the workmanship. It was no toy. It had all the markings of having been made by someone far more advanced in years. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, another voice piped up. “You made this yourself?”
Turning around, Frank found himself staring at a girl probably only a year or so older than him. She was pretty, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and smooth porcelainlike skin. Frank found himself suddenly feeling quite shy.
Nix didn’t seem pleased by the interruption. “Athena, what are you do—”
She didn’t let him finish. “Did you or didn’t you?” she asked Frank.
Frank stared blankly back at her. His heart was pounding oddly in his chest and it seemed he couldn’t form a sentence. Finally, he said, “Ummm, what?”
“Did you make this yourself?” Athena asked again.
“Yeah?” Frank’s answer came out as a question.
“Wh
y?” Athena asked.
A twinkle came into Frank’s eye as he realized that the girl was actually interested in his invention. A girl! Liking his invention! It was awesome! “Guess I got tired of waiting around for someone else to do it for me,” he replied cheekily.
Athena smiled.
Frank smiled back—and kept smiling. He could have stood there smiling at Athena all day.
Nix, however, did not seem to feel the same way. “Does it work?” he asked, breaking the moment.
“Uh…sure,” Frank replied unsteadily. “Mostly. It just doesn’t really, y’know, technically…fly…yet.”
Nix did not seem impressed with the answer. “If it did fly, what is its purpose?” he asked, goading Frank. “How would your ‘jetpack’ make the world a better place?”
“By, uh…” Frank stammered, trying to come up with an answer. Finally, he said, “Can’t it just be fun?”
That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. Nix narrowed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of him. “Mr. Walker,” he said, his tone serious. “Do you think the wheel was fun? Or the lightbulb? Or the cure for polio…that was an absolute barrel of monkeys. Please tell me you can do better than ‘fun.’”
Frank was flabbergasted. This man, this scientist, this judge was making fun of him. Frank felt anger swell up inside him. He got mocked enough at home. He had come to the world’s fair to be taken seriously by serious people. He wasn’t going to sit there and take the insult. Puffing up his chest, he took a step closer to Nix. “If I was walking down the street and I saw some kid in a jetpack fly over me, I’d believe anything is possible. I’d be…inspired.” He raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t that make the world better?”
There was a pause as the words hit home, and then Nix nodded ever so slightly. “Well, I suppose it would.” Frank’s hopes began to rise and then…“If it worked. Unfortunately, it does not. And if doesn’t work, it has no purpose at all. Thank you for your time, Mr. Walker.”
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