The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (54 page)

Descending the
automatically unfolding steps of the streamlined railcar, Wheatstone glanced
about the several platforms of the Lincolnopolis station for a brief moment. He
saw a bustling scene, as thousands of brightly dressed visitors and natives
mingled beneath the great vitrine-roofed, adamantium-girdered enclosure, which
dwarfed any Old World cathedral in its spaciousness. Despite a constant flow of
trains, the air within the station remained fragrant and wholesome, thanks to
the clean gravito-magnetic engines that pulled the various expresses.

Although a young man of
only twenty-nine, and thus too youthful to more than dimly recall the era of
coal-powered propulsion that had been the rule up until 1875,Wheatstone was a
student of history sufficiently well-versed to realize that such a pristine
environment had not always been associated with rail travel. His parents, for
instance, would have been forced to endure the soot and smut and cinders
belched by coal-burning steam engines.

But all such
inconveniences had been eliminated by a genius named Cyrus Smith,
President-for-Life of Lincoln Island, and his many capable
comrades-in-invention.

Hefting his single
valise, Wheatstone leisurely traversed the space separating him from the
nearest egress, threading his way among the many exotic specimens of humanity
thronging the platforms. Sheiks from the Holy Land, Zulus and Watusis from
darkest Africa, Laplanders, Muscovites, Mongols and Manchurians.

Lincolnopolis as a
general rule during any period of the calendar attracted numerous
representatives of every nation on the globe, diplomats, tourists and business
folk eager to experience the wonders of the city or to conduct negotiations or
to facilitate trade. But this day was unlike any other, and had occasioned even
greater numbers of foreign visitors. For this very day marked the inauguration of
the grand festivities connected with the thirtieth anniversary of the founding
of Lincoln Island.

But even more startling
than the cosmopolitan mix of humans was the presence of innumerable
ape-servitors, all neatly garbed in red vests and pillbox hats, busy trundling
steamer trunks, polishing brightwork, and sweeping the immaculate tiled floors.
These intelligent quadrumanes belonged to the same race as the legendary
Jupiter, the anthropoid servant who had been a loyal member of the household on
the original Lincoln Island. Jupiter and his tribe had perished in the
destruction of the ocean-girt Lincoln Island, but his cousins had been
discovered on neighbouring Tabor Island in subsequent expeditions to that
region, adopted and brought back to North America. Although not widely employed
outside sovereign Iowa, the quadrumanes formed an essential component of that
nation’s working class.

As Wheatstone drew
closer to his chosen exit, the travellers bunched into a line focused on the
portal, one of many such queues. When he drew even with the customs station,
holding his credentials expectantly, he immediately encountered the famous
efficiency of the Lincoln Island government.

Teams of inspectors,
their impressive white linen uniforms featuring the governmental crest that
depicted the starfish-shaped outline of the original Lincoln Island, were
rapidly and dispassionately going through the luggage of each visitor. While
this procedure was underway, another official verified the identity of the
person seeking entrance via his ordinator console.

Soon it was Wheatstone’s
turn. He surrendered his valise and handed over his passport. He watched as the
ordinator operator — a competent-looking young fellow with a spray of freckles
across his face lending a schoolboy charm to his person — expertly stroked the
complicated controls studding the surface of the big mahogony cabinet that bore
its proud brass plate identifying it as a “Saml. Clemens & Co. Mark Two”
model.

Once the unique code
attached to Wheatstone’s citizenship in the USA had been translated into a
format sensible to the ordinator’s machine intelligence, the information was
transmitted telegraphically to the central clearinghouse of such data. In less
than a minute, the response returned, activating a piece of attached equipment
that featured a scribing pen moving over a continuous sheet of paper. With
remarkable speed, the pen engraved a likeness of Wheatstone with all the
verisimilitude of any illustration from, say,
The London Illustrated News!
Following
the portrait, the pen dictated some text.

The ordinator technician
ripped the inscribed paper off its roll and studied the picture and text,
frequently glancing at Wheatstone’s visage for purposes of comparison. At last
he seemed satisfied, turning to Wheatstone with a smile and a handshake.

“Welcome to Lincoln
Island, Mr Wheatstone. I note that you are a journalist.”

“Yes indeed. I am
employed by the
Boston Herald.
I have been dispatched to report on your
grand anniversary celebrations.”

“You’ll need a press pass
then. One further moment, please.”

“Of course.”

The second response to
the ordinator operator’s fiddling took but an additional ninety seconds, at the
end of which a solid
thunk
signalled the arrival of a capsule delivered
through the pneumatic-tube system that threaded all of Lincolnopolis. The
capsule disgorged a wallet-sized, flexible sheet of adamantium inscribed using
a diamond stylus with the particulars of Wheatstone’s employment and the terms
of his liberty in Lincolnopolis.

“Once you are settled
into your hotel,” said the customs official, “present this at the Bureau of
Public Information at the intersection of Grant Boulevard and Glenarvan Way.
They will have further instructions and counsel for you.”

Wheatstone took the
flexible rectangle of adamantium. “Thank you very much for your help.”The
reporter collected his valise, neatly repacked, and strode off toward the broad
exterior doors of the rail station. Within a few seconds, he found himself
outside the crystal transportation palace.

Avenues lined with
stalwart buildings in marble, granite and travertine stretched away radially
from the hub of the train station. The wide sidewalks were thronged with
bright-eyed, happy, strong-sinewed citizens of both sexes, all clad in pleasant
modes of costume suitable for the Iowan spring climate; with awestruck tourists
goggling at the sights; and with scuttling quadrumanes busy running errands for
their masters.

The avenues themselves
boasted a steady traffic of wheeled vehicles of every elaboration, all propelled
by clean magnetogravitic engines. The slices of sky visible above the urban
canyons featured the occasional passing light aircraft. So far the sciences of
Lincoln Island had managed to permit the construction only smallish atmospheric
craft capable of hosting one or two riders at most, and not useful for much
more than aerial observation or pleasure jaunts. But there was already talk in
such gazettes as
Scientific Iowan
of scaling up these vessels into
long-range behemoths that would revolutionize travel.

As Wheatstone hailed a
passing jitney, he was already mentally casting the lead paragraphs of his
first story, a paean to this tiny nation.

“Hotel Amiens, please.”

“Sure thing, mister!”

The Hotel Amiens proved
to be a superior establishment, from its natatorium and billiard rooms to its
corps of quadrumane bellhops. Every room featured ordinator-mediated
communication outlets and piped music from the central Lincolnopolis chamber
orchestra, which performed twenty-four hours a day, thanks to an extensive
complement of musicians.

After refreshing himself
and replacing his travel-sweaty shirt collar and exchanging his informal
checkered coat for a more sombre black one, the young reporter set out for his
appointment with the Bureau of Public Information.

The impressive columned
government edifice at the corner of Grant and Glenarvan bore an inscription
chiseled above its entrance: INFORMATION WISHES TO BECOME DISSEMINATED.

Presentation of his
adamantium press pass to a Bureau concierge earned Wheatstone swift admission
to the office of one Andrew Portland, an under-secretary responsible for
foreign reporters. Portland sported a magnificent set of muttonchop whiskers
and a vest-covered cannonball of a gut that hinted at certain large appetites.
On the wall behind the under-secretary’s desk hung a portrait of Cyrus Smith,
President-for-Life, looking fatherly and compassionate as he gazed off into
some half-apprehended future.

Mixing probing questions with hearty chatter Wheatstone found
himself talking at length about the charms of his fiancée, Miss Matilda Lodge —
Portland eventually satisfied himself as to Wheatstone’s bona fides.

“Well, Mr Wheatstone”
said the under-secretary, “I’m pleased to grant you the freedom of our city and
countryside, with the exception of certain military installations. Of course, I
expect you’ll want to spend the majority of your time at the exposition itself.
Over five hundred acres of exhibits located on the outskirts of town and easily
reached by public transportation. You’ll hardly be able to exhaust the various
pavilions during your stay here, and your readers will be insatiable, I’m sure,
for all the details you can provide.”

Wheatstone arose,
sensing the interview was over, and extended his hand. “Thank you very much, Mr
Portland. I’m sure that with your assistance I will be able to convey a vivid
sense of Lincoln Island’s unique character to the
Herald’s
readers.”

Out once more on the
street, Wheatstone pondered his next actions. As the hour was well past noon
and he had not eaten since breakfast on the train, he considered a meal quite
appropriate. With the aid of a passing citizen, he managed to find a nearby
chophouse, where he enjoyed a thick T-bone steak, an enormous Iowa spud, and a
pitcher of beer. Pleasantly sated, smoking a post-prandial cigar, Wheatstone
let his gaze rest benevolently on his fellow diners, many of whom were
handsomely accoutred Negroes.

One of the founders of
North America’s Lincoln Island in 1868 had been Cyrus Smith’s manservant, Neb,
who had always been an equal member in the workings of the original castaway
colony. Consequently, Negroes had enjoyed full suffrage in Lincoln Island from
the country’s inception. This model of interracial equality had served as a
beacon to the United States during its painful post-war Reconstruction period.

And this doctrine of the
universal rights of mankind had been spread further by a policy which Lincoln
Island promulgated once its ascendancy had been cemented. Any nation which
desired to trade with Lincoln Island and benefit from its technologies had to
eliminate legislated racial biases within its own borders. With this
combination of carrot and stick, the Iowans had managed to transform much of
the world’s attitude in only three short decades.

His cigar finished, Wheatstone
contemplated his next step. Although the Hotel Amiens and its luxurious bed
beckoned for a nap, Wheatstone hitched up his braces and resolved to head out
to the fairgrounds for his first look at the exposition that had drawn him and
so many others hither. It was no difficult feat to hop aboard one of the many
special bunting-decorated trolleys ferrying people for free to the fairgrounds,
and within half an hour Wheatstone was disembarking with dozens of other eager
sightseers at the gates of the exposition.

The massive entrance was
flanked by two groups of statuary depicting the founders of the republic. On Wheatstone’s
left loomed the titanic figures of Cyrus Smith, the lusty sailor named
Pencroff, and humble Neb. At their feet lay the equally gigantic form of Top,
Smith’s loyal dog. Matching the formation on the other side of the gates were
representations of journalist Gideon Spillet, Ayrton the ex-mutineer, and young
student Harbert Brown. The animal totem in their tableau was Jup, the original quadrumane.

It was these six brave
souls who, having found themselves dumped, weaponless and without tools or
provisions, from a runaway hot-air balloon upon the bountiful but rugged
Lincoln Island, had through sheer ingenuity, perseverance and hard manual
labour created a small utopia which, regrettably, met its end due to a volcanic
explosion.

All six of the men,
Wheatstone knew, were still alive, with Smith being the oldest at some
seventy-eight years of age and Brown the youngest at forty-eight. Together,
they formed the ruling council of the current Lincoln Island, with Smith as
first among equals. Wheatstone felt particular affection for the figure of
Spillet, naturally, who had turned the
New Lincoln Herald
into one of
the most formidable gazettes in the world.

Joining the mass of his
gay fellows — women in long gowns and ostrich-plumed hats, children in
kneepants and caps, men handsomely besuited —Wheatstone soon passed through the
gates and was greeted by an astonishing vista. On these several hundred acres,
the magnificent Iowans had constructed what amounted to a second city, one
dedicated not to mere habitation but the nobler cause of displaying the wonders
of Iowan science and the promises it held for an
even
brighter future.
The architecture of this city-within-a-city recalled such fabled past metropoli
as Babylon, Nineveh and Alexandria, but with an ultra-modern slant.

Feeling somewhat at sea,
Wheatstone resolved to attend the introductory lecture advertised to occur
half-hourly in the hall nearest the gates.