Their plan was to pose as a married couple, not quite well-heeled enough to afford admission to the City, who had come to Futurity Station for a glimpse of the flying machine and to buy any futuristic contraband they could lay their hands on. This morning they would get the lay of the land by way of a leisurely stroll, and the weather was ideal for it: vivid sunlight and a pleasant warmth, the town’s gaudy signs and wooden sidewalks all washed clean by last night’s rain.
The town had two main streets, one parallel to the train tracks and one perpendicular to them. The first street was called Depot, the second was called Lookout. Most of the respectable establishments—hotels, a barber, an apothecary shop, a Methodist church—were situated on Depot, west of the train station. Lookout Street was home to saloons, pawn shops, penny theaters, music halls dedicated to burlesque shows and minstrelsy, and, at its southernmost extremity, rows of bleachers where customers could buy a “guaranteed best” view of the regularly scheduled fly past of the City airship.
Jesse and Elizabeth began by dawdling along Depot Street. Any hour before noon was early for a town like Futurity Station, but the sidewalks were far from empty, and daylight hours were especially suited for the respectable tourists they were pretending to be. It was the element of pretense that worried Jesse. He had reminded Elizabeth as tactfully as possible that she must not swear or swagger or express her opinions too freely or do any of the ten thousand other things City women did without thinking and which might, in the year 1876, raise eyebrows or start riots. Her response had been to roll her eyes and say, “So they tell me,” which had not entirely reassured him.
But she carried herself convincingly enough as they strolled, taking his arm and keeping to his side. Her skirt and bodice must have made her uncomfortable in the warm weather, but the City outfitters had also provided her with a straw hat with a flat brim and blue ribbons, which disguised her short hair and gave her some protection from the sun. They stopped briefly at an apothecary shop with a soda fountain, and she put on a plausible show of interest in the patent medicines on the shelves and the array of red and blue bottles of all sizes, but when the druggist asked whether he could serve them she smiled and said, “No, thank you, maybe we’ll stop by on our way back to the hotel.”
At the western end of Depot Street they passed a shop offering novelty items and curios—it looked too respectable to be a source of contraband weapons, but something in the window caused Elizabeth to pause and tug him toward the door. A table inside was stocked with books claiming to be guides to the City or fictional accounts of future history, most with stamped covers featuring lurid or fantastical illustrations. Elizabeth picked up a novel that gloried under the title America’s War with Mars. “I guess H. G. Wells is screwed,” she murmured.
He didn’t know what that meant, but he smiled in response to her smile.
The proprietor of the shop, a skinny man with a mustache and a striped shirt, bustled out from behind his counter. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Elizabeth said, “There’s a book in your window … at least, I think it’s a book.” She pointed. “May I see it?”
The shopkeeper made a tragic face. “I’m not sure you would like to, frankly.”
The book in question was made of paper without boards, like a pamphlet. But it was thick. The title of the book was The Shining. “It sounds as if it might be religious,” Elizabeth said.
“Quite the contrary, I’m sorry to say. It’s an authentic book of the future, left behind by a visitor, but the contents aren’t suitable for a female reader. If it weren’t such a significant artifact I should be ashamed to sell it.”
“Are such books typical reading material for the people of the future?”
“I wouldn’t care to speculate, ma’am. But if you’re interested in the future, we have many other publications that discuss it. Our hand-colored lithographs are popular with the ladies, and we also offer engraved spoons, decorative mugs—”
“Thank you, I’ll look,” Elizabeth said.
Which gave Jesse an opportunity to take the shopkeeper aside and ask about the price of the book, which was predictably astronomical. He said, “Don’t you have any less expensive editions?”
The shopkeeper glanced at Elizabeth, who feigned interest in a display of commemorative ribbons, and leaned toward Jesse’s ear. “That’s an astute question. You’re right, the book has been copied to a contemporary edition.” He tipped open a drawer to show Jesse a crudely bound volume on which the words The Shining were stamped in flaking gilded letters. “Completely unexpurgated—you understand the need for discretion. If you’re interested—” He quoted a number, less than half the price of the original but still startling.
“I am interested,” Jesse said. “If I can come back for it later.”
“The edition is nearly sold out, and it’s not available at other vendors.”
“Well, in that case.” Jesse took out his wallet. “Will you hold a copy for me?”
The proprietor nodded knowingly and scribbled a receipt. Jesse accepted it and said, “Can you tell me whether there are other items like this for sale in town? I don’t mean books exclusively. Any artifact or object. But authentic ones.”
“City people don’t approve of such transactions, so that’s a ticklish question. Such items do come up for sale from time to time. Mainly on the south side of town. More than that I’m reluctant to say.”
Did he want to be bribed? Jesse had been supplied with enough cash to appear convincingly prosperous, and more was available if they needed it. But if the shopkeeper had any sense he would have negotiated an arrangement with the other clandestine sellers in town. “Any recommendation would be welcome,” Jesse said flatly.
“Well … there’s a certain vendor on Lookout Street. The shop is called Onslow’s. Onslow might be willing to show you his private stock. But his goods aren’t cheap, and he only deals with genuinely interested buyers.”
“This whole town,” Elizabeth said, “is August Kemp’s nightmare.”
They followed Depot Street until the sidewalk ended in a clutter of squatters’ shacks, then crossed the street and turned back toward Lookout, dodging a flock of female tourists with sun umbrellas and bright calico day dresses. “What does Kemp have against Futurity Station? It hardly seems to threaten him.”
“Kemp tries to keep a strict wall of separation between our guys and your guys. Guests from the twenty-first century get a guided tour of 1876, and guests from 1876 get a sanitized glimpse of the twenty-first century. But they’re not supposed to mix, except when Kemp arranges it. Policing the wall between them is how he makes his money.”
“Looks like there’s plenty of money being made here.”
“But it’s not Kemp who’s making it. It’s diluting his product. Authenticity is everything when it comes to the revenue stream. People who pay to see the Old West don’t want some kind of theme park where ersatz cowboys kick back in the ranch house with Netflix and a bag of Doritos. They want the real thing.”
“Or so they think.” Jesse had met a few cattlemen. He did not despise them, as a class, but he couldn’t imagine spending money for the privilege of looking at one of them.
“That’s why Tower One guests coming from the City go directly to the tour trains, no dallying at Futurity Station. Kemp won’t give them more than a glimpse of this town, because it reeks of—well, lots of things, but from Kemp’s point of view it reeks of inauthenticity. And authenticity is what he sells.”