H.D. was patient. "Look," he said carefully, "I don't think you quite
understand. I'm H.D. Haworth. From the little you've said I gather
there's been no Bolshevik revolution, common sense be praised, so the
Haworth Trust must be worth hundreds of millions. You still use money,
don't you?"
She nodded slowly.
"And I have millions hidden away where no one can ever find them but
myself--don't think I came an empty-handed beggar, even if something
happened to the Trust funds. Millions, I tell you--gold and jewels,
rare old books and art, everything of value.
"And besides that I'm the oldest sleeper--what's the matter with you
people?" he demanded fretfully: "Don't you know what news is? Why am I
met by one insignificant woman doctor?"
Dr. Lorraine did not seem put out by the upbraiding and this in itself
was subtly exasperating. It was her attitude, her air, in which
he sensed--sympathy, yes, and a sort of embarrassment. He did not
understand it but it was absolutely offensive!
"Well," H.D. snarled, beside himself, "confound it, woman, say
something!"
"Three days observation," said Dr. Lorraine, almost stupidly. Then she
visibly readjusted the mantle of her professional cheerfulness and
spoke briskly.
"It won't be so bad. I'll be making tests every day and that will pass
the time and you can play the 'visor." She went over to his bedside
table and pulled out the drawer holding the instrument.
"I hate radios," H.D. said sullenly. "I'd like to jam every one down
Marconi's throat, first breaking the tubes. Confounded trashy programs,
changing every five minutes!"
"Is that how they were? How awful for you! See, you just dial, like
this, and one station has nothing but dance music, another nothing but
Jimmurian dissonances. See? Anything you like.
"And if you first dial "0" you can then dial for any number or any
entire program that's ever been recorded. Here's the index. Too bad we
don't have one in English."
H.D. yielded a snicker. "Where's the screen?" he asked, slightly
mollified.
"Oh. I did say 'visor,' didn't I? Well, you see, this is a modified
visor. No visual, no talking programs, just music. It's too bad, in
a way, but we had to have you here for some of the tests. This is a
neuro-psychiatric ward, you see. Yes, soft walls and all. It can be
stripped down for violents."
H.D. showed signs of becoming that way himself and the doctor smilingly
stepped to the door and opened it.
"See you tomorrow."
"_Wait!_" H.D. roared. "What happens then? What--"
"Three days observation." She nodded, and the door was closing. He
reached it in a bound but the lock clicked first.
* * * * *
Late in the afternoon of the third of those maddening days that
loathsome woman--the part of her that wasn't phonograph must have been
clam--brought him some clothes. And the word that she spoke as she
quietly left was music--Goodby.
He vaguely remarked the clothes as he pulled them on--socks, thin-soled
shoes, a loosely draped one-piece garment of a closely woven sky-blue
material resembling silk but duller--a light cape of darker blue. Just
as he was appraising the quite satisfactory effect in the wall mirror a
sound turned him toward the door.
They stood a little awkwardly in the doorway, pulling rather solemn
faces. The black-haired man, who would have been big by ordinary
standards, was mopping his red face in a nervous gesture and the
seven-foot giant who dwarfed him was stroking his platinum-blond beard.
H.D. stared at the giant gape-mouthed. _He looks exactly like God, if
God were in the shape of a man_, he thought.
Teeth flashed in a smile through the silvery brush and God said,
haltingly, "Hello, Grampaw."
H.D. started violently. The black-haired man came forward with a
jovial, if forced, laugh and a deprecating wave of the hand.
"You _are_ his grandfather, you know, Mr. Haworth. Fourteen times
removed, that is. He's the Administrator now. Don't you know me? Guess
the bird looks different with all this plumage, eh?"
There was, at that, something familiar about this coarse, good-natured
fellow, something....
"Jones!" It was the delighted cry of a homesick sailor sighting the old
church steeple.
"Garibaldi Jones! It's good to see you, man! When did they dig you up?"
"About twenty years ago." Garry grinned.
For a moment H.D. thought he discerned in his grin a trace of that
expression he had so come to hate in the last three days, that tinge of
something like embarrassment. Nonsense!
He rushed on, "Now I'll find out about this new-fangled world and
pretty soon we'll set 'er by the ears. Once I get my...."
The giant said something to Jones, who nodded uncomfortably. H.D.
frowned.
"What's that? Why don't you speak English, Mr.--uh--Mr. Haworth? I
guess you're a Haworth?" The giant smiled politely.
"He don't know any English, Mr. Haworth, except those words I taught
him. Guess you might as well call him Junior--same name as yours. He
says we better get going. Have to be in Washington by six. Your flyer's
waiting."
_Your flyer!_ This was more like it. Well, after all, he was H.D.
Haworth, and they named demigods after him! In the exuberance of the
thought he forgot to ask why they had to go to Washington. He swirled
his cape about him and strode out. The demigod stepped aside for him.
The corridor was a surprise. It was not merely long--it was shockingly
long. It must have been _miles_ long. And it was broad. A truck could
have easily passed and it was lined with doors and little signs in a
wavy lettering. No one seemed to be about.
They hurried along, H.D. gawking to all sides, almost trotting as
Junior set the pace. At the great double door of an elevator shaft
Junior touched the signal button.
Big--everything around here was _big_! The elevator could have
accommodated several pianos and the pretty red-head operating the lift
had to look down at H.D. She winked and made a laughing remark.
"She says you're cute."
H.D. did not know whether to be pleased or offended and before he could
decide the acceleration took his breath away. They went up, up, a
ridiculous distance, and at last he stepped out into another corridor.
_Corridor!_ The floor must have been forty yards across and most of it
was moving, a series of horizontal escalators with three speeds in each
direction, adjacent strips moving at different speeds.
* * * * *
While H.D. stared, Junior and Garry Jones had stepped aboard the
nearest strip and were moving away. Now Jones came trotting back,
making little headway against the conveyor's motion. He had to chuckle.
_In my country, said the queen, you have to run like the devil to stay
in the same place._
"Come on, Mr. Haworth," Garry called. H.D. waited for the next opening
in the rail to oppose him, took hold and stepped on. When he had come
up, Garry explained, "This is Chicago--this building--this is the whole
city, the business part, that is. This is one of the transport levels."
"Hmm." The place didn't look right--too bare, too empty. "Where are the
stores? Where are the signs? Where are the people?"
"Stores? Oh, this is just a garage. Working day's over. Just about
everybody's gone home."
"Garage?"
"Sure, for flyers--remember? Here we are."
The door Junior unlocked let them into a space sufficiently garage-like
in its bareness, but the thirty feet of gold-and-crystal grace it
sheltered was a thing of beauty, enough to warm the cockles of any
limousine-lover's heart. As H.D. gave himself up to the upholstery's
caress he felt his old confidence return.
[Illustration: The thirty feet of gold-and-crystal grace the garage
held was a thing of beauty.]
The wall rolled away as Junior made some unperceived signal. With the
slightest of vibration the flyer wafted out into the shadowed evening.
As the wingless craft emerged into space H.D.'s hands instinctively
tightened their grip on the arms of his chair. Then he relaxed with a
smile. He looked around with appreciation, ready to accept each new
thrill with easy complacency.
When the mounting flyer finally cleared the shadow of that Everest of
a building they must have been six thousand feet up. In the western
distance the dipping sun shed its fire on a doll's garden of patched
green, with here and there a spot of cheerful early autumn color.
_Charming_, he thought patronizingly, _charming!_
"Let's go down closer and have a good look at those suburbs," he
exclaimed on sudden impulse.
Garry shook his head. "Too late. We'd never make it to Washington by
six." The flyer was gaining speed and altitude.
"What's all this about Washington? What happens there?"