A Century of Progress (16 page)

“Mr. Norlund?”

The speaker was a man in his fifties, trimly built and about six feet tall. His smooth-shaven face displayed what looked like hopeful relief. Dressed in an expensive-looking summer suit and hat, he reminded Norlund vaguely of some movie actor of distinguished appearance.

“Yes,” said Norlund, pushing himself away from the wall, standing up straight, ready as he could be for Hajo Brandi to reappear.

The relief in the other’s face became more definite. “Good. My name is Geoffrey Holborn. Our mutual friends have said that you are to be staying with me for, ah, some time.” There had been a slight pause after the name, as if the man expected it might be recognized; and Norlund, who had been thinking of movie actors, thought again. There was something about that name . . . but he couldn’t manage to pin it down right away.

Holborn continued. “Have you any baggage?”

“Not much. It’s over at my hotel.”

“If you’d like to give me your room key, I’ll have my chauffeur pick it up. We’ll be staying at my place in town, at least for now, if that’s all right—?”

“Perfectly all right, I’m sure.” Feeling lightly dazed, Norlund dug out his room key and handed it over. After a moment he remembered to pass on a ten-dollar bill. The room would have to be paid for.

Holborn stepped aside, making a small hand gesture. “Then shall we—?”

“Yes. By all means.”

The limousine was parked arrogantly at the curb, not far away, with other traffic picking its way around it resignedly, as if it were the type of obstruction about which nothing could possibly be done. Holborn paused to speak to the uniformed driver, and handed over the ten-spot and the hotel key.

Then he rejoined Norlund, leading him in a stroll along the sidewalk. “Griffith will pick up your things and take them home. I’d like to stop in at my office for a moment; then we’ll go along home, too. Unless there’s something else you’d prefer to do first—?”

“No, not at all. You’re being very accommodating, and I hope I’m not putting you to too much trouble. You say that I’m supposed to stay with you for some time?”

They had come to a corner, and Holborn indicated which way they were to proceed. “Yes, those were my instructions. There’s no problem, we’ve plenty of space and a guest room that we hardly ever use. Look here, I presume you understand that I’ve been strictly forbidden to try to find out anything about you. Which would be all right, except . . . well, it does rather dampen the small talk, and so on. Don’t know if I should ask if you’ve had a pleasant journey, or what.”

“I see your point. Well, we can small talk about the weather. But is it all right if I ask you a few questions?”

“On most subjects, I should think so.” A panhandler approached, took a look at Holborn, and gave up without trying.

“How long is this ‘some time’ that I’m to stay with you? Have you any idea?”

The taller man shrugged, appearing unconcerned. “I got the impression that it might be weeks or months. As I say, there should be no problem. I was a bit worried, until I saw you . . .” He let it trail off, then resumed: “I expect you’ll fit right in.”

“I see,” said Norlund, who wasn’t sure that he did. “I didn’t realize I was going to be moving into someone’s house for a long stay. Sorry, Mr. Holborn, I seem to have relinquished a great deal of control over my own future.” Which always happens, he thought, when you enlist.

“Call me Jeff.” Holborn sounded anxious to be reassuring and co-operative. “You must, under the circumstances. I’m going to present you to my daughter as someone I knew well during the War.”

A daughter, but no mention of any wife on the scene. “All right,” said Norlund. “And I’m Alan.” They shook hands. When someone in the early Thirties spoke about the War, there was no need to ask which war they meant. They meant the Great, the World, the One to End All. Few yet realized how strong the demand was going to be for a sequel. The War to End All Wars had been over now for about fifteen years.

They entered another tall office building. At one side of the lobby a couple of elevators appeared to be reserved for use of the exclusive few, and Holborn naturally gravitated toward these, leading Norlund into one. The lift was passenger-operated, probably, thought Norlund, to afford the passengers greater privacy.

Norlund thought that they might as well take advantage of the fact. “What part did you and I play in the War?” he asked. “I mean, army, navy—?”

Holborn gave him a look that betrayed a trace of surprise, quickly concealed. “Army. In France. I was a lieutenant colonel by the time the bloody thing was over. I should say we’re about of an age, so perhaps you would have been of comparable rank.”

“All right. Say that I was Lieutenant Colonel Norlund, and that we knew each other in France. I suppose we can be rather tight-lipped about the details.”

“Yes, certainly. God knows everyone’s used to me not wanting to talk about the War.”

The elevator had reached Holborn’s destination, on one of the highest floors. Norlund, before opening the door, asked, “Excuse me, but what about my current occupation? And how are we going to explain that I’m staying with you for a long time?”

Holborn looked almost offended. “No need to ‘explain’ anything to anyone, old fellow . . . Alan. Your present occupation, though. Hmm. You do have a point there. What would you like?”

“Say I’m in radio. How’s that?”

“Good enough. Manufacturing, or what?”

“Say that I’m a consultant,” Norlund decided thoughtfully. “That sometimes I work for the networks. My job entails a lot of travel, and right now I’m resting up between assignments. What do you do, by the way?”

This time the tall man’s surprise was scarcely concealed at all. “I’m a designer,” Holborn said shortly, and reached past Norlund and with a flip of his finger opened the elevator door. Ahead of them stretched the reception area of a large office. The decor was Modern Thirties, as Norlund thought of it: partly Art Deco, mostly something more American and mechanically exuberant. A tastefully modern sign announced HOLBORN AND ASSOCIATES, DESIGN.

And now it came to Norlund where he’d heard the name, what it ought to have meant to him. Geoffrey Holborn was one of this decade’s second-rank celebrities, a War hero, to be reknowned through the Thirties and Forties for his practice and advocacy of modern, streamlined design for objects ranging from toasters to circus tents to opera houses.

With Holborn half a step ahead, they moved briskly forward into the office. But just as they were passing the first receptionist, who voiced a cheerful greeting to the big boss, Holborn tugged Norlund aside. Standing at a window that overtopped all but a few of those in Manhattan he pointed out and upward.

“That radio mast going up on the Empire State—see? That’s one of mine. A good reason, by the way, for you and I to have some professional connection. To spend time in private business meetings, if that becomes necessary.” .

“Sure.”

“Take a good look at it, Alan. That’s not just your ordinary broadcast antenna, though of course it serves that purpose. It’ll also serve as a mooring mast for dirigibles.”

“Ah.” Norlund was staring at impressive complexity, hard to distinguish in the distance.

“The extra strength, and the mechanism. Imagine unloading passengers and cargo a thousand feet above the street. Not easy to come up with ways of doing that in perfect safety.”

Norlund turned. Jeff Holborn was looking at him as if his opinion on the matter were something of importance. “Very impressive,” said Norlund, and meant it.

Holborn was pleased. “I’ve done something similar on one of the Skyride towers, at the World’s Fair in Chicago. Actually we designed several buildings for the Fair, though when the Crash came those fellows couldn’t come up with the money to build ‘em all.”

They turned away from the window, and began to penetrate the office, passing one receptionist and secretary after another. Norlund noted that some of these were good-looking and some were not; he got the impression that Holborn hired for efficiency. Everyone they passed, unless absorbed in work, gave Mr. Holborn a good afternoon. It was a large establishment. And, to judge by the level of activity, it had no shortage of work even now in the deep Depression. A couple of rooms, one large, one small, were occupied by draftsmen. Elsewhere there were clerks, typists—not a word processor in sight, of course. Holborn returned all greetings absently—rather, thought Norlund, as a general returns salutes.

Eventually Norlund and Holborn were alone, in a room that had to be Holborn’s private office, though it wasn’t overly large or expensively furnished. Holborn went at once to the large desk and riffled through its litter in search of something. A drafting table stood near the window, which offered a great view out over the city. Photographs and awards hung thickly on the walls. Models—of aircraft, towers, radios and locomotives—hung from the ceiling and perched wherever shelf and table space allowed.

“Here it is,” said Holborn absently, recovering some papers. He put them into a briefcase, which he left atop his desk, as if to have it in readiness to pick up when he left the office. Then he sat down behind the desk, motioning Norlund to another comfortable chair.

“By the way, Alan, something has just occurred to me. A possible difficulty. I know some people who are rather high up in one network and another. If you claim to be consulting for them, they’re going to think something funny’s going on.”

“Ah, I see your point.” Norlund thought it over, meanwhile gazing out the window. “How’s this? The work I do for the networks is mostly confidential, so much so that not even all the higher-ups of the companies themselves know of it. And those who do know might not admit the fact if they were sounded out. So it would be hard for your friends, for anyone, to check up on me.”

“Good idea. I think that’ll provide all the explanation that we could possibly really need. We’ll keep it in reserve. Cigar?”

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” It was a long time since Norlund had had a really good cigar, and these looked and smelled like prime Havana.

He was just lighting up when he heard the office door behind him opening. There had been no warning of any kind. Norlund turned . . .

Lovely
, was his first thought, as he put down the cigar and automatically got to his feet. He judged that the young lady was somewhere in her late twenties. She wore a red dress that accentuated her slim height; her hair was brown, tinged with auburn, and cut in an upcurling Greta Garbo bob.

Her blue-green eyes flicked once at Norlund, as she stood in the doorway, one hand still holding the knob she had just turned. She seemed to dismiss him as of no importance, and went on to Holborn.

Her voice was surprisingly husky. “Jeff, the damn fools over there just won’t listen to me.”

“What damn fools this time? Oh, I know who you mean. Dear, this is Alan Norlund. We were in France together. Alan, my daughter Holly.”

“How do you do?” said Norlund.

His tentatively outstretched hand was pressed firmly, then dropped. He was again ignored. Holly was not smoking, but somehow her nervous gestures conveyed to Norlund the impression that she held a cigarette. She was wearing what appeared to be a diamond wedding ring. She was also perhaps a couple of years older than Norlund had first estimated.

“Yes,” she was saying, “Damn fools.” Then she really looked at the visitor for the first time. “Hello, Mr. Norlund. Sorry to barge in on your meeting. Some of my father’s stuffy old friends, that’s who I’m talking about.”

“Associates,” Jeff corrected her soothingly. “Not particularly friends. Important businessmen of the—”

“Yes, well. Damn fools whatever else they are.” Holly focused on Norlund now, as if he were some kind of an appeals judge. “I’ve been trying to convince them that a port for seaplanes in downtown Manhattan would be a beautiful project on which to use some of this government make-work money when it starts to flow. But the idiots won’t hear of it.”

“Holly is an aviatrix,” Jeff explained. “Sorry dear, I know you hate that word. You’re a pilot.”

“I see.”

Holborn showed amusement. “Holly, I don’t think it’s been demonstrated that there’s going to
be
any government money thrown around. Not for projects like that, anyway. Even if it would be fun for you to have a seaplane and be able to park it right downtown.”

“I don’t have a seaplane, I’m not planning to get one. But why not a project like that? It would put people to work. It would stimulate aviation, which means more jobs. More business orders. You and your friends can swear at Roosevelt all you like, but he’s going to
do
things. He’s got the country behind him, and Congress will have to . . .”

Something about Norlund was evidently distracting Holly, and she let the subject of the seaplane port drop for the time being. “You know, I rarely get to meet any of Dad’s old comrades-in-arms. Are you free for dinner tonight, Mr. Norlund?”

“For several dinners, I’m afraid.” He reseated himself on the edge of Holborn’s desk, and relighted his cigar. Jeff had continued puffing on his.

Holborn interrupted, with explanations. “Alan’s going to be staying with us for a while. I’ve invited him. He can move into the spare room.”

“Oh, how nice.” It seemed that Holly might mean it. “For how long, Mr. Norlund?”

“Call me Alan, please. Oh, that depends.”

Jeff was on his feet now, picking up the briefcase into which he had put the papers from the desk. “Griffith is taking Alan’s bag over—are we ready to go?” This was addressed to Norlund.

“Yes,” said Norlund. Then he hesitated. “I’m a trifle short on clothes, actually. How formal are we going to be, at dinner and so on?”

“Generally not at all. But of course I can take you round to some shops if you like. Ah . . .”

Norlund read the delicate hesitation. “Oh, I’m solvent enough, it’s just that I’m not all that familiar with New York. Exactly where do you live, by the way?”

“Overlooking Central Park,” said Holly, smiling at him. “Most people are impressed.”

“I’m sure I will be, too. Well then, no rush about visiting shops. I expect we can skip all that for now.”