They reached Columbus Circle and started climbing the ramp up to the bridge over the Grand Canal that now bisected Manhattan. On the level below, bikes, trikes, and passenger capsules were racing silently back and forth; and on the level below them, the famous Checker Gondolas were shuttling between the East River and the Hudson. Duncan was surprised to see such heavy traffic so far north of the city area, but guessed it was almost all recreational or tourist.
There was a brief pause at an Eighth Avenue comfort station for the benefit of the horses and miniphants—which, like all herbivores, had low-efficiency, rapid-turnover conversion systems. Some of the passengers also took advantage of the stop, even though the facilities were not intended for them. Remembering his contretemps at Mount Vernon, Duncan tried to imagine what the New York streets must have been like in the days when horses provided the only transportation, but failed and thankfully abandoned the attempt.
Now they were skirting the northern flank of Mount Rockefeller, which towered two hundred and fifty meters above them—challenging the Empire State Building in altitude and completely eclipsing it in bulk. With the exception of a few dams and the Great Wall of China—hardly a fair comparison—it was the largest single structure on Earth. Here had gone all the rubble and debris, all the bricks and concrete, the steel girders and ceramic tiles and bathtubs and TV sets and refrigerators and air conditioners and abandoned automobiles, when the decayed uptown area was finally bulldozed flat in the early twenty-second century. The clean-up had, perhaps, been a little too comprehensive; now the industrial archaeologists were happily mining the mountain for the lost treasures of the past.
The straggling line of men and animals continued south along the wide, grassy sward of Eighth Avenue, skirting the western face of the huge pyramid. Unlike the southern façade, which was entirely covered by the celebrated hanging gardens of Manhattan, this side was a montage of frescoes, murals, and mosaics. It would never be completed. As fast as one work of art was finished, another would be demolished, not always with the consent of the artist. The west side of Mount Rockefeller was an aesthetic battlefield; it had even been bombed—with cans of red paint. The terraces and stairways of the man-made hill were crowded with sightseers, and on many of the vertical surfaces craftsmen were at work in swinging chairs suspended by cables. Morbidly conscious as he was of terrestrial gravity, Duncan could only look on these courageous artists with awe-struck admiration.
Nearer ground level, there were hundreds of more informal attempts at expression. Once section of wall, four meters high and fifty long, had been set aside for graffiti, and the public had taken full advantage of the opportunity with crayons, chalk, and spray guns. There was a good deal of cheerful obscenity, but most of the messages were totally meaningless to Duncan. Why, he wondered, should he SUPPORT THE MINIMALIST MANIFESTO? Was it true the KILROY WAS HERE, and if so, why? Did the announcement that COUNCILMAN WILBUR ERICKSON IS A YENTOR convey praise or censure? He brooded over these and similar world-shattering problems all the way south to 44th Street.
Here, in a small plaza between Tenth and Eleventh avenues, they said good-bye to the horses and miniphants. Duncan’s mount gently collapsed in slow motion, so that its riders could step off onto terra firma; then, with equal solemnity, it rose to its feet, gravely saluted them with upraised trunk, and headed back toward its home in the Central Park Zoo. The ride had been an enjoyable experience, and Duncan could imagine few nicer ways of sightseeing, in perfect weather such as this. Nevertheless, he was glad to be back on his own feet again. That gentle swaying had been growing a little monotonous. And although he had been in no real danger, he now knew what the first intimations of seasickness must be like.
They were now only a few hundred meters from the elevated ribbon of the West Side Highway and the impressive expanse of the Hudson River, blue and flat in the morning sunlight. Never before had Duncan seen so large a body of water at such close quarters. Though it looked calm and peaceful, he found it slightly ominous—even menacing. He was more familiar with the ocean of space than the realm of water, with all its mysteries and monsters; and because of that ignorance, he felt fear.
There were numerous small villas and cafés and shops along the riverfront, as well as dozens of little docks containing pleasure boats. Although marine transport had been virtually extinct for more than two centuries, water still had an irresistible fascination for a large part of the human race. Even now, a garishly painted paddleboat, loaded with sightseers, was skirting the New Jersey shore. Duncan wondered if it was a genuine antique, or a modern reconstruction.
The three-masted man-of-war with the gilded figurehead could not possibly be the real thing—it was much too new and had obviously never gone to sea. But moored at a dock close to it was the scarred yet still beautifully streamlined hull of a sailing ship which, Duncan guessed, might have been launched in the early twentieth century. He looked at it with awe, savoring the knowledge that it had already finished its career before the first ships of space lifted from Earth.
Boss did not give them an opportunity to linger over these relics; he was heading toward an enormous, translucent half-cylinder lying along more than three hundred meters of the shoreline. It appeared to be a makeshift, temporary structure, quite out of keeping—in scale and appearance—with the careful good taste of everything around it.
And now, as they approached this peculiar building, Duncan became aware of a sudden change in the behavior of his companions. All the way from the park they had been chattering and laughing, completely relaxed and enjoying themselves on this beautiful summer day. Quite abruptly, it seemed as if a cloud had passed across the face of the sun; all laughter, and almost all talking, had suddenly ceased. Very obviously, they knew something that he did not, yet he was reluctant to disturb the mood of solemn silence by asking naïve questions.
They entered a small auxiliary building, so much like an airlock that it was easy to imagine that they were going into space. Indeed, it was a kind of airlock, holding rows of protective clothing: oilskins, rubber boots, and—at last!—the hard hats that had been exercising Bill van Hyatt’s imagination. Still in that curious expectant hush, with only a few fleeting smile at each other’s transformed appearance, they passed through the inner airlock.
Duncan had expected to see a ship. In this, at least, he was not surprised. But he was completely taken aback by its sheer size; it almost filled the huge structure that surrounded it. He knew that, toward the end, oil tankers had become gigantic—but he had no idea that passenger liners had ever grown so huge. And it was obvious from its many portholes and decks that this ship had been build to transport people, not bulk cargo.