Before Tomorrowland (8 page)

“Plus Ultra’s leadership keeps many secrets from its own people, even misdirecting them about the nature of their projects for secrecy’s sake. I wish I knew more.”

Lohman took a slurping sip of his green drink before he spoke: “I get so very tired of hearing about everything you don’t know. Tell me, are you truly a doctor of
anything?”

Rotwang was a doctor of many things, in fact. He held degrees in nine different disciplines, all related to his area of specialty: brain science. He had come by his distinctive genius
ironically. Growing up in Graz, Rotwang had idolized fellow Austrian Nikola Tesla and resolved to become every bit as smart as the chief engineer of the electrical age. When he learned his hero
owed his brilliance in part to a photographic memory, Rotwang began studying the brain, hoping to gain the property for himself. It was his first great failure as a scientist. But along the way,
serving as assistant to the likes of Freud, Boltzmann, Mach, Wallace, and Maxwell, Rotwang became very smart about many things. He also became obsessed with radical Cartesianism—the belief
that mind and body are separated but connected, not wholly integrated. In nineteen twenty five, his work in theoretical cybernetics and robotics earned him an unusual admirer: German filmmaker
Fritz Lang, who asked him to work as a consultant on his film
Metropolis
. Lang rewarded Rotwang for his insight by naming a character after him and offering an opportunity to petition for
membership in a certain secret society to which Lang belonged. Rotwang was admitted into Plus Ultra in nineteen twenty eight and immediately distinguished himself by playing a key role in resolving
one of the perilous crises in Plus Ultra history, “The Great Robot Uprising of 1929.” Thus, he was granted the freedom to pursue his muse, at least to the extent of Plus Ultra’s
boundaries. The rest of his freedom he had to make for himself.

Lohman moaned in pain again as Hagen reached the small of his back. He threw the convention flyer at Rotwang. “Here is what I think,” he said. “Among the many promises
you’ve made in your life, I believe one is pertinent here: that is the promise you made to your test subject regarding Plus Ultra’s
destruction.
You’ve held the poor boy
back so long, what do you think he would do if he saw a flyer like this, advertising a major Plus Ultra event in New York with leadership present? He is heading there now, isn’t
he?”

Rotwang had to give Lohman credit. He was ancient, but his brains were still razor-sharp. Not as sharp as his own, he hoped, but sharp.

“Doctor Lohman. Commander Hagen. I believe you must be correct, in everything. I have failed you, and I apologize,” said Rotwang, bowing his head. “But I assure you, I will
capture the HS1. I know its motivations, its vulnerabilities. It cannot elude me for long. I pray you give me one more chance.”

Lohman swirled the contents of his cup and sighed through his yellow teeth. “I didn’t think you were a praying man. But God must love you, because I am going to give you one more
chance. I was about to have Hagen dump you in that trench in one of your heavy suits, unfueled, when this arrived.” He opened an envelope on his desk and removed a piece of ticker tape. He
held it out for Rotwang to take. His old fingers trembled. “This is from your mole. There was a fire at a Plus Ultra facility. They suspect arson.”

Rotwang held tight to the ticker tape like it might snuff out his life to let it go. “Get me into Manhattan,” said Rotwang, “and I can find the HS1 there, easily.”

“Easily?” said Hagen, breaking his silence. “You speak of executing a mission on foreign soil. We will need approvals from Berlin—”

“Let me worry about Berlin,” said Lohman. His tone was serious, but Rotwang knew the man’s alleged respect for Nazi authority was pure theater: Lohman was loyal to only one
higher power, and his name was Lohman. He was also a desperate man in need of a permanent fix to the pressing problem of his declining health. For better or worse, Rotwang was his best chance at
getting it. He had no choice but to take the gamble.

“I will not fail you again, Herr Lohman,” repeated Rotwang. “If you can get me into the city, I will find the HS1, and I will deliver all of Plus Ultra to you and Nazi Germany,
and its treasures will make the Führer as strong as God himself.” Rotwang tried to give Lohman a look that suggested that the “Führer” he had in mind was sitting across
from him.

Lohman sipped the last of his schnapps with a tinny gurgle and gazed up at Rotwang with his glassy eyes. “Once more, my friend. Tell me: What do you need?”

Rotwang stood. The dizziness was gone and his head was clear. “A radio tower,” he said. “I will need a tall radio tower.”

T
HE REFRESHMENT
counter in Caravan Hall offered popcorn without butter, hot dogs, watery punch, and watery coffee. Lee
ordered coffee for himself and a punch for his mom, who was busy with another portfolio review across the auditorium. At the beginning of their convention time, he was anxious to keep her in sight,
but she only seemed to gain energy as the afternoon wore on. It was Lee who felt exhausted.

He sat down at a table messy with crumpled napkins, cups, and a couple flyers. He took a sip of his drink but the sugar didn’t sit well with him. Lee had felt unsettled since his strange
encounter with the Plus Ultra peddler and his mesmerizing gaze. He must have passed the funny-looking man’s table more than a dozen times while following Clara from publisher to publisher. It
was almost like the arrangement of exhibitors and the traffic flow was all engineered to parade attendees past his station, over and over. The memory of their creepy conversation only reinforced
his paranoia. How could the man know about his mom’s cancer? He couldn’t have, not unless she had told him her life’s story when they met at Penn Station. Clara Brackett was a
friendly and chatty woman who had no problem talking to strangers, but she wouldn’t tell some random soul about her cancer. She hated to talk about it even with the people she knew and loved.
It must have been a coincidence.

Lee tried to settle on that, but he couldn’t.

He pulled the comic book Faustus had given him out of his back pocket and looked over the cover, taking another sip of his drink. Lee didn’t want to read it, but it wasn’t because he
didn’t go in for science fiction.

He shook himself and set his cup down on the table. This was silly. It was just a stupid comic book. He flipped open the cover and the bamboo glasses flew out, skidding across the floor. He
grabbed them, checked to see if anyone had noticed, and sat back down. Stupid.

He opened the book and began to read.

Lee lingered on the last page of the comic and its scrambled letters. He’d expected that reading the book would distract him from his paranoia about Faustus, but it just disturbed him
more. “
Follow the signs
” read more like propaganda than fantasy. Even though he knew it was all fabrication, any idea of a big secret society pulling all the strings just made
Lee’s skin crawl. The weirdest part was still Faustus and the look in his eyes when he handed Lee the comic, like he really expected it to have some meaning. Some of these people took their
science fiction so seriously it was like some crazy religion, and Faustus must have been the most devout geek Lee had ever met. A lot more devout than his mom’s book group, and that was
saying something.

Lee came back from the refreshment table, avoiding eye contact with Faustus, to find his mom engaged in another portfolio review. She noticed Lee, and he gave a little wave, not wanting to
interrupt them. The editor she spoke to was a stout man with black suspenders and slick hair trying to cover a bald spot. “Nicely observed details,” he said. “You do a lot of
utopia.”

“Thank you so much!” said Clara.

“I don’t need utopia.”

Lee frowned. The man spun her drawings around, shuffling them as he rattled off words so fast it sounded like he needed to be somewhere else. He picked out one drawing of a space woman walking
her alien pet. “This is cute, but again…Do you have any, no, I guess not, something like a wasteland scene, dystopia kind of thing? More drama.”

“I can do that, sure,” she nodded. “I don’t have anything with me, but I can paint when we get back to our hotel—”

“Yeah, do that,” said the editor. “Bring it tomorrow. A tough guy and a pretty girl, they’re maybe standing on a pile of bones…” Clara scribbled notes in her
journal, trying to keep up. “…and there’s a cloud of smoke and ash, burnt-out buildings. Go for broke. And keep the colors clear, too; I don’t like it how you have this
one.” He picked up another of her pieces. “Looks like I’m seeing things through a filter. A cover needs to pop.”

Lee looked over the books on the editor’s table. Most of them were pretty cheap, with titles like
Oh, Spicy Mars
and
The Doomsday Queens
. “Thank you so much,”
Clara said to the editor. “This is all very helpful.” She put a last dot on her notes.

“That’s okay, that’s what these things are for,” the editor replied. “Help out the little guy, maybe one day he helps you. Oh, on that, I don’t think your
name works for pulps. You need a male pseudonym.”

That did it for Lee. “Why does she need a pseudonym?”

“Who’s this?” asked the editor. His sideways glance indicated he didn’t care at all who Lee was.

Clara put a hand on Lee’s shoulder. “My son, Lee. Lee, this is Mr. Miller. He’s been kind enough to—”

The editor cut her off. “See there, Lee, that almost works, could be a guy’s name, could be a girl’s name.”

Lee was indignant for his mom. He couldn’t believe she was just standing there, nodding politely to all the stuff this guy shoveled at her. Lee picked up one of the pulps on display.
“So her name’s gonna turn off the perverts who buy these? She could paint a better cover in her sleep.”

“Lee!” said Clara.

“Mom, you think you’re gonna go places doing
Savage Lust on the Frontier?
Gimme a break.”

The editor stood up. “You know what, I was trying to help, but some people won’t be helped.” He grabbed her drawings off the table in a handful and shoved them back at Clara.
“Teach your kid some manners before you try getting a job, lady. Somewhere else.” He huffed off.

His mom shook like a tea kettle about to boil over. She rolled her papers and stuffed them back into her drawing tube, not facing Lee. He picked up a smaller drawing the editor had missed and
handed it to her. “Ah…Sorry, Mom.”

Now she looked at him, amazed. “Are you really? That was the closest I got to a deal all afternoon!”

“Well, then these man-babies have other problems.”

“Man-babies?”

“Yeah, I mean look at their stuff here! They’re not going to appreciate your art!” Just as Lee was defending her art, he gestured at it with a touch too much excitement and
knocked it clean out of Clara’s arms and onto the floor.

“Thanks a lot!” she said, sinking to one knee to grab a drawing out from under a passing foot.

“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry, Mom…Here—” As Lee knelt down with her to gather them up, he noticed her reach to the floor to steady herself. She didn’t seem nearly as
strong as she had before; maybe even a little sick. Some timing he had. He moved closer to her, checking her color. “You doing all right, Mom?”

She brushed him off and kept gathering her papers. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it. I’m fine.” She wasn’t fine. The color was all gone from her face, and when he took
her hand to help her balance, it was clammy and quivering. Lee wondered if she was going to throw up.

He let her have a moment to breathe before he said anything else. “Maybe we should call it a day. Try some other publishers tomorrow. What do you say?”

She squeezed his hand and nodded.

As usual, Lee found they couldn’t even walk out of the show without passing Faustus’s table. Lee nudged Clara as they walked by: “You recognize that guy from the
station?”

“Yes, isn’t that funny?”

“Maybe you can ask
him
for a review tomorrow.” Lee smiled.

“I already did.” She pulled one of the Plus Ultra comics out of her purse. “He said I’d have to go through a screening process.”

Lee rolled his eyes. “You’d think these guys ruled whole planets the way they talk.”

There was a shouting match out on the sidewalk when Lee escorted his mom down the front steps. The gang of dapper geeks from the stairway were yelling at another gang of dapper geeks, ordering
them to leave the premises. They were the same men who’d been handing out the yellow pamphlets when they arrived. “Them again,” Lee muttered. “What did they do?”

It was a rhetorical question, but one of the costumed onlookers was more than happy to answer: “You don’t know about The Exclusion Act?”

Lee shrugged. Of course he had not heard of The Exclusion Act.

“The organizers banned the Futurians from WorldCon. They’re not supposed to be here.”

“What’s a Futurian?”

“Boy, are you out to lunch!” The boy was a head shorter than Lee and wore a purple mask that covered the top half of his face and kind of gave him crossed eyes. “They’re
the Marxists of science fiction fandom. They want sci-fi to promote a sociopolitical agenda—”