The houses and towers and cars and trains and planes were filled with a happy, invisible populace that had tamed the wild chaos of the past; they’d figured out not only how to build the future but how to live in it side by side, in peace.
Virginia was riveted to her seat as the future rolled by. Carmen smiled at her and looked at Bert. She leaned toward him and whispered, “She’ll live there and likes what she sees.”
The words landed on Bert like so many soft kisses. The narration had paused, leaving only the swelling strings of violins and cellos from the musical score. He smelled Carmen’s perfume, the soft whiff of lilac mixed with vanilla. Her lips stayed close to his cheek.
“Do you think it will all happen?” Carmen asked quietly. “Just like this?”
Finding her ear surrounded by the dark curl of her black hair, Bert whispered back, “If it does, it will be wonderful.”
When they exited, the afternoon shadows had grown longer. As they crossed the Bridge of Wheels over the Grand Central Parkway, Virginia announced that she would be thirty years old in 1960. “I wish I could jump in a time machine right now and go there!”
Bert checked his watch—it was 5:56 p.m. In the past, he had been in a taxi by now, on his way back to room 1114. By 7:00 he had undressed, removed all the items that had been provided for his adventure, like the rings and the watch, had squeezed back into his compression suit, and was lying on the precisely placed bed for Progression out of 1939. He should be leaving right now; the taxi stand was just outside the gate on the other side of Chrysler Motors. Instead, he asked Carmen when the Fountains of Light show was to start.
“Not until dark,” she said. “Hey, since you are now in the presence of a couple of VIPs, may I treat you to some pie?”
“I happen to love pie.”
“Let’s go to Borden’s!” Virginia said. “We can see Elsie the Cow.”
Over pie and coffee, he relearned about Carmen and her niece—of the Radio Club and the roommates on East Thirty-Eighth Street. Everything was just as it had been. Then the past took a turn.
“Do you have anyone special in your life, Mr. Allenberry?”
Bert looked into Carmen’s eyes. Framed now in the décor of Borden’s Food Court, they’d turned an even deeper shade of green.
“She means are you married!” Virginia teased.
“Virginia! I’m sorry, Mr. Allenberry. I don’t mean to be forward, but I see you have no wedding ring and I just thought, well, a fellow like you must have someone special.”
“I’ve thought so, many times,” Bert said, wistfully. “I’m forever looking, I guess.”
“You bachelors are so lucky. You can wait and wait for the right girl to come along and nobody says boo.” She rattled off the names of movie stars and athletes who had yet to marry, names Bert did not recognize. “But us ladies? If we wait too long we become old maids.”
“Mama says if you don’t find a man soon, there’ll be none left for you!” Virginia giggled. “You’re almost twenty-seven!”
“You hush,” Carmen hissed, reaching over with her fork to stab the best piece of crust, then popping it into her mouth.
“You dirty rat!” Virginia laughed.
Dabbing her lips with a napkin, Carmen smiled at Bert. “It’s true. I’m the last hen in the barnyard.”
“How old are you, Mr. Allenberry?” Virginia asked. “I’m guessing you’re like Mr. Lowenstein, my school principal. He’s almost forty. Are you forty yet?”
“Young lady, I am going to throw you into the Lagoon of Nations! Mr. Allenberry, I’m sorry. My niece has yet to learn the practice of tact. Maybe by 1960.”
Bert laughed. “I’m like your aunt Carmen. The last rooster in the barnyard.”
They all laughed at that. Carmen reached over and took his wrist. “Aren’t we a pair?” she said.
Bert should have excused himself right then. Six p.m. had passed. If a cab was available, he could be in room 1114 just in time for Progression. But this was his last day ever with Carmen. He would never see the woman in the green dress again.
Now, Bert Allenberry was a smart man, many say a genius. His invention of the Shuffle-Access Digital Valve-Relay had changed the world and garnered him the rapt attention of audiences at conferences full of movers and shakers—in Davos, Vienna, Abu Dhabi, and Ketchum, Idaho. He had teams of lawyers obeying his dictates, researchers and developers turning his ideas of whimsy into realities. He had more money than the GNP of most nations of the world, including those where he owned factories. He had donated to very good causes and had his name on buildings he had never even bothered to visit. He had everything a man—a very rich man—was supposed to have, need, or want.
Except for time, of course.
Chronometric Adventures said he had twenty-two hours of June 8, 1939, to do whatever he wanted. But now, what he wanted was to stay awhile. There must be some wiggle room, right? After all, Progression, or was it Reprogression—he was never sure—could not begin until his body, all his atoms and molecules, were in place in room 1114 of the Hotel Lincoln on Eighth Avenue. He understood why Chronometric Adventures demanded such terms—to cover their asses! Why did he have to be in that tight compression suit and on that bed according to the tick of the clock? Was he Cinderella at the Ball? Why couldn’t he saunter into the room at, say, midnight, then slip into that rubber suit and then whoosh away? What was the big deal?
“Have you seen the Time Capsule?” he asked Virginia.
“I read about it in school. It’s buried for the next five thousand years.”
“They have what’s in it on display in Westinghouse. Electro the robot, too. Do you know what television is? You just have to see television.” Bert was rising from the table. “Shall we go to Westinghouse?”
“Let’s!” Carmen’s eyes were smiling again.
The Time Capsule was loaded with silly stuff—Mickey Mouse comics and cigarettes and whole sets of books printed on microfilm.
Though the Time Capsule and Electro were impressive, television was what had Virginia over the moon. She could see her aunt and Mr. Allenberry on a small screen, in black and white, almost like they were stars in a movie, but their images were in miniature, projecting from a screen in a cabinet no bigger than the radio at home. In fact, they were in another room, standing in front of a camera, one unlike any she had ever seen, and they were also in front of her. The vision was thrilling. When they switched places, Virginia waved and spoke into the microphone: “This is me, on the television saying hello from right here and you can see me right there!”
“Look at you!” Carmen said. “You look so pretty! So grown up! Oh, Bert!” She turned to him. “This should be impossible, but here it is!”
Bert was looking not at Virginia on the screen but at Carmen. He was thrilled that he was no longer Mr. Allenberry.
Checking his watch, Bert saw that it was 7:06. The deadline had passed, the twenty-two hours were up, and, lo and behold, there was wiggle room!
They visited the DuPont, Carrier, and Petroleum Industry Buildings, none of which had the socko exhibits to match television. The Glass Building, the American Tobacco exhibit, and Continental Baking were just time killers; the longer they lingered in them the sooner came darkness and the light show.