Before Tomorrowland (11 page)

He played back his recording of the conversation between Faustus and the agent, picking out key words and phrases. “Criteria.” “Selections.” “Seed material.”
The language suggested recruitment. Plus Ultra programmed its Faustus robots with specific criteria to determine worthy candidates, generally from groups of engineers, mechanics, and physicists.
Almost ten years ago, one had interviewed Henry and determined him “fit to serve.” He had been an eleven-year-old boy. That was unprecedented at the time, and it had outraged many of
the senior leadership. Every day, Henry wished their dissent had prevailed. Now it seemed they were casting an even wider net.

Fourth of July party.
If it wasn’t a conclave, what was it? That nettled him, but not half as much as the image on that comic book’s cover. He needed to confirm what the image
promised. He needed to find another.

He marched back toward the entrance of Caravan Hall, running probabilities as he went.
Five comics out. One found in trash.
Four remaining copies, perhaps. Four individuals being groomed
and guided toward something. It was 3:15. The convention would close soon, if it hadn’t already. There were no other digital signatures nearby, meaning any other agents wouldn’t have
means to ID him. He thought of the numbers Faustus had spoken. Were they an alert code? Doubtful, but all the more reason to move.

Henry entered the building, followed the signs up to the convention, paid the entrance fee, and stepped into the auditorium. Two hundred and seven attendees sat in chairs before a stage, where a
young man behind a lectern gave a fiery speech. A placard identified him as William S. Sykora. “Whether we believe in science fiction as existing purely for entertainment or not, let us not
permit ourselves to be labeled as ‘save the world’ crackpots, and let us take the messages of the authors of science fiction, and working together, hand in hand with the progressive New
Fandom, strive to make the fancies of science fiction become reality!”

Plus Ultra propaganda,
thought Henry. Yet he had no file on Sykora. Just another deluded fan who bought Plus Ultra’s lies. Another dreamer seduced by the idea of technological
wonderland. A crackpot.

Henry X-rayed every handbag, coat, and sack, but he found no copies of the Plus Ultra book on anyone. He scanned under the tables, in every corner of the hall. Nothing. Then, among the dull
drone of hundreds, he picked up a voice saying, “Plus Ultra.”

The voice came from just off the main floor. He followed it through a set of doors on the side of the hall and further tuned his ears to its specific tone. “I didn’t believe it,
either! They talked to me, as clear as I’m hearing you now.” Henry stepped into an adjoining hall designated to fanzine publishers. A dozen people surrounded the largest table,
listening to the animated speech of someone who could only be the voice in question. Henry stopped near another table, picked up a pamphlet, and listened to their exchange.

“Come on, Ackerman, what’s the punch line?” said a young man who removed a set of glasses and handed them back to Henry’s target. “I just see a guy in a sequined
dress.”

The others around Ackerman laughed. The man running the large table, labeled
FOREST J
.
ACKERMAN
’
S
IMAGINATION
, wore a futuristic
costume, as did his female companion. Their name tags confirmed him as the man behind the
Imagination
publication, and her as Myrtle Douglas. Henry found neither of them in his Plus Ultra
files. The man making fun of him was labeled Ray Bradbury, and he stood beside several others with their own name tags: surnames Asimov, Del Rey, and Berke, among others. None of them checked out
as Plus Ultra. Ackerman yanked the glasses back from Bradbury and said, “Har, har. If you don’t believe me, come outside and you can see for yourself. The whole city’s
reinvented.” He turned to his assistant and spoke to her in the familiar way of a mate. “Did you find that Plus Ultra guy again?” She shook her head. He turned back to his
friends, frustrated. Then he lifted one of the Plus Ultra comics into view, gesturing with it.

“He had a whole stack of these. Just come outside with me and look through the glasses, I’m telling you. We’re going to the hotel as soon as the convention’s done. You
can come with us or not, it’s your loss.”

The one named Asimov chuckled. “The hotel Orson Welles told you about?”

“That’s right, wise guy.”

“Orson Welles in a pair of glasses,” laughed Del Rey. “I never would have thought you could fit such a deep voice in such small glasses.”

A plan formed in Henry’s mind. He stepped toward the group. “It’s your loss,” repeated Ackerman. “Myrtle and I are going to see the future. You guys keep dreaming
about it if that’s all you want to do.”

“Mr. Ackerman,” said Henry with an authoritative voice. The people turned to him. Some of their smiles faded. “My name’s Henry. I’m with Plus Ultra. I’m very
glad you’ve enjoyed our work, but I’m afraid I have to cancel the rest of your tour.”

“What?” said Ackerman, confused and disheartened.

“You were supposed to go to the hotel immediately, and to go there by yourself. I’ll need your comic and glasses back, please.”

The members of the small crowd exchanged glances with each other, shifting back and forth on their feet while Ackerman processed Henry’s order. His moment of disappointment vanished as he
realized his experience had just been validated in front of all of his friends. “You see?!” he exclaimed to them. “I told you—”

“The comic and glasses, Mr. Ackerman.”

He held the book out to Henry, but before he could take it, the costumed man yanked it back under his arm along with the glasses. Ackerman had a knowing smile on his face. “Ahhhh-ah-ah,
no,” he said, wagging a finger at Henry. He grinned at his colleagues, who weren’t sure what to make of their exchange. “The first guy told me there’d be tests. I’m
not supposed to let anyone else touch the book, that’s what he said. He didn’t say anything about going places at certain times. Hah!
Nice try
, my friend.”

Henry narrowed his eyes. The one named Bradbury crossed his arms and leaned back against the table with a curious smirk. Ackerman wiped his forehead dramatically. “
Phshew!
They
almost had me there, boy.”

“Mr. Ackerman,” said Henry. “I’m quite serious. You’re in violation of our rules, and if you don’t give me the materials now, I will be forced to take them
from you.”

“Jeez, what a fascist,” said Bradbury to Asimov.

Henry shot his arm across the table at half the speed at which he could move; fast enough to grab the comic and glasses from Ackerman, but not so fast that he risked revealing himself as a
freak. There were still a few gasps from onlookers. Ackerman reacted with a ludicrous cry to battle and jumped over his table, grabbing for the book. “Give it back!” he shouted at
Henry, who held him at arm’s length with his free hand.

“Yeah, give it back to him, fascist!” shouted another.

In that moment, Henry felt a strange sensation of heat growing in his right hand—the one holding the comic. While he fought to be delicate with Ackerman and not accidentally crush his
bones, he felt Del Rey yank the materials from his hand. And when Del Rey did, he yelled and threw them on the floor. Everyone stopped to watch as flames licked up over the comic’s pages.
Myrtle screamed as the flames gave out a final burst, then died. All that remained was a smoldering mark on the hardwoods.

Ackerman looked like he might cry. Myrtle put her arms around him and rubbed his shoulder, squinting at Henry in disgust. Bradbury just stared at the ashes and rubbed his jaw. “What could
make a book burn like that? It’s not
that
hot in here.”

Henry shoved past them and made his way out of the convention. Whether there were Plus Ultra staff on hand or not, it wouldn’t pay to attract more attention now. Perhaps this was the wrong
entry point into their scheme. Perhaps he needed another way. What were the chances he’d find one of the other three books now? Even as he thought it, stepping down the stairs in front of the
building, fortune smiled.

He saw them on the sidewalk. A boy, not much older than he’d been before his accident. The boy supported a woman; probably his mother. She seemed faint from the heat, and her son helped
her into a cab while fanning her with a copy of the Plus Ultra comic. Henry couldn’t reach them before the boy closed the cab door and it pulled away, but he read his lips when he gave a
destination to the driver.

Sloane House.

T
HE THICK
atmosphere of cigarettes and diesel dissipated as Rotwang stepped through the submarine’s exit hatch and
into the fresh air. The mouth of the Hudson lay three miles ahead, crowned by the afternoon glow of New York City’s towers. He hoped he wouldn’t step foot inside a U-boat for the rest
of his hopefully infinite life. It would have also been fine if old Lohman died reclined in Rotwang’s leather chair, with two lungs full of salt water and Nazi blood.

Unfortunately, Lohman was getting off the boat, too. He stood just ahead of Rotwang, clasping the U-boat’s deck rail with a frail hand wrapped in a plastic antimicrobial glove. Hagen stood
by his master, ready to help him down the sub’s starboard ladder and into one of three twenty-foot open-topped motorboats bobbing along the
Dunkelstar
’s side. The Nazis’
Plus Ultra mole had arranged for the boats, and they were waiting for the
Dunkelstar
when it surfaced. The skippers, American Nazis and members of the mole’s network of spies, wore
civilian suits of the finest make, though not nearly as fine as the threads worn by Rotwang and the German away team that was accompanying him ashore. When it came to disguises, Lohman’s
policy was to err on the side of high fashion.

Rotwang took an uneasy step toward Lohman as the submarine rocked under them, and the old man turned to give him a reptilian smile. The spotted skin of his face crinkled against the marine air,
and he sucked in a jagged breath through his acrylic oxygen mask. Rotwang had seldom seen Lohman outside of his preferred sterile habitat, but the old man made a surprising show of strength as he
stepped down the boarding ladder. “Good luck, Werner,” he said. “I will await your good report at Herr Duquesne’s safehouse. Please say hello to the Great White Way for me!
I have always wished to take in a show there. Perhaps I will when it belongs to us. Heil Hitler.”

Rotwang saluted him with his own “Heil Hitler.” Commander Hagen helped the old wretch into his boat. When the craft launched with a four-member crew attending to Lohman, Hagen was
not among them. “Herr Rotwang,” the commander called up to him, “you may descend. I will help you aboard our boat.”

The phrase “our boat” made Rotwang’s heart sink. When Rotwang outlined the New York mission to Lohman, they had agreed to a support team of three men: Eichel, the first mate of
Haifisch squad; Kurt, the young cadet; and, finally, his mole. Sticking Hagen on him at the last second stated the obvious, but still unfortunate, fact: Lohman didn’t trust him.

Rotwang hid his disappointment by turning quickly and climbing the ladder. The ocean rolled and splashed the side of the
Dunkelstar
, spattering the bottom of his fashionable slacks. Hagen
reached up a hand to steady Rotwang by his elbow, then guided him down to the motorboat’s deck. Funny. Not so long ago, Hagen’s hand had bloodied his face. Now it assisted him like he
was a dear old relative. In spite of Rotwang’s resentment, he was glad for the help.

“I’m glad to see you coming along for this mission, Commander.”

“I’m sure you are,” said Hagen, with very little sarcasm.

“No hard feelings,” Rotwang continued, lifting his bruised chin toward the taller man. “I know what it is to be under orders. I do not fault you. Neither can I demand your
respect, but I hope you will agree to this: to stand with me as a fellow soldier on this mission, and to see it through.”

For a second, Rotwang thought Hagen might laugh at him, but he only nodded and took a seat on the edge of the cockpit.

As their boat pulled away from the
Dunkelstar
, Rotwang sought out the pilot, his man inside Plus Ultra. He was a short man with a waxed black mustache and youthful good looks. His own
clothes were even more elegant than theirs, and he wore them with an easy confidence that Rotwang envied. The gold chain of a pocket watch swayed out as the man offered his hand.

“Doctor Rotwang,” he said with warm American English.

“Mr. Duquesne. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.” Their handshake turned into another grip for support as Fritz Duquesne gunned the throttle and the motorboat jumped through
the swell toward Manhattan.

“Have a seat there,” said Duquesne, indicating the bench to his right. Rotwang leaned toward it and the seat came up to meet him as the boat’s hull met the peak of another
swell. A fine spray covered everything now. “So where are we headed today?”

The question took Rotwang by surprise. For a moment, he wondered if Duquesne hadn’t received their communication on the mission details, but then he saw the smirk on the American’s
face. He was a jester, playing tour guide to the new arrivals. Rotwang answered in kind. “The Empire State Building, please.”