The whirr of the rolling wheels, the reverberations from the blast walls, a crescendo of sound, and they were free of earth. An accelerating, effortless flight, a faint tremor as they pa.s.sed the sonic barrier, then no sensory impressions at all.

Flight as free as the wind's pa.s.sage but more silent. Through the visacrys windows a blur of blue-green. Speed without strain, power without tumult.

Doak relaxed and for the first time since the Chief's summons he wasn't thinking of June. He was thinking of Man, from the cave to Venus, from the wheel to free flight. And something out of his childhood memory came to mind.

_Studious let me sit_ _And hold high converse with the mighty dead_

Where had he heard that? Some Scotch poet, it must have been, for his mother recited only the Scotch poets. _Studious let me sit_--in front of a video set, to watch the wrestling?

_And hold high converse with the mighty dead_--not in this world where there was only tomorrow, not in this world of no books. There were no writers on television--they had no need to attract an audience. They _had_ an audience. An audience that would watch wrestling would watch anything.

So the ad men took over the duties of the semi-writers who had prepared the radio programs. Ad men offended n.o.body, even those with denture breath. That could be cured and so could acne, B.O., straight hair and seam squirrels.

_Hey!_ he though suddenly. _Watch where you're thinking, Doak Parker._

A government man, a Security Officer, he straightened in his seat as the stewardess came along the aisle.

She smiled at him, "Everything all right, Mr. Parker?"

"Dandy," Doak said. "Great, fine! Why?"

She paused, disconcerted "I beg your pardon?"

"Why shouldn't everything be all right? Lateral-American, the skyway to the stars, right?"

She smiled "Absolutely correct."

"_And_ Milwaukee," Doak added. "Do you only handle the earth runs?"

"Until next year," she said. "I'm new."

"I'm old," Doak said. "Is there anything to drink on board?"

"Water, Mr. Parker."

"I'm not _that_ old," he said.

She glanced at her watch. "We'll be in Milwaukee in six minutes. And that's the beer town."

But he had no time for a gla.s.s of beer. The limousine took him to the elevated station and the last car for Dubbinville was leaving in three minutes.

It was a nine-minute trip. He'd picked up an hour, coming west, and used but thirty-three minutes. It was still only seven o'clock when the huge elevated car hissed to a stop in front of the Dubbinville station.

There was a smell to the place, a smell of sun-warmed gra.s.s and fruit blossoms, of lilacs and quiet rains. Doak stood on the platform, surveying the winding main street leading up into the gentle hills.

People on porches and teenagers in front of the drugstore. A reddish-brown setter padded past on some secret business of his own.

There was no whiz, no whir, no clank, no squeal, no grind. This was Dubbinville, U.S.A.

The station agent was picking up a pair of film boxes, as Doak walked over. He smiled at Doak. "Beautiful evening, isn't it?"

"It certainly is. Is there--a place to stay in town, a hotel?"

The station agent shook his head. "No hotel. But you could stay at Mrs. Klein's. She takes in boarders." He pointed with a bony forefinger. "That grey house with the blue shutters, right on the curve there."

"Thank you," Doak said. "What's the population here?"

"Around eight hundred, last census, though we had a couple families move in since then. Hasn't changed much the last hundred years."

"Retired farmers, mostly?" Doak asked.

"Mmmm, I guess. Just--people."

People.... Which meant nothing and everything. Doak had turned away before he remembered. Then he turned back. "Oh, yes, and Senator Arnold? Where does he live?"

"Big house, over the hill," the agent said. "Only big house around here--you can't miss it. Got a high stone fence all around it and two vicious dogs. G.o.d knows what he's scared of." This was a different man from the one who had remarked on the beauty of the evening.

"Thanks," Doak said. "Thanks again."

Political resentment--or some local feud? Doak went along the platform to the single step that led to the street.

There was a breeze from the east, cooling the warm air. He turned in at the drug store and could scarcely believe his eyes.

Bent wire chairs and marble-topped tables with bent wire legs. No toasters, video sets, geiger counters, ray guns or portable garbage detergents.

But dim and cool and with a high marble fountain. "A lime-ade," Doak said, "with a sprig of mint."

The man behind the fountain wore a blue jacket over his white shirt.

He had a thin face and a high-domed head and intelligent blue eyes.

Doak sat on one of the high wire stools and lighted a cigarette. "Hot day, was it?"

"Hot enough. But we get the night breeze. Stranger in town?"

"From Milwaukee," Doak said. "Out to visit Senator Arnold."

"Oh." The man set the drink in front of Doak.

"Trying to talk him into leaving some money to the University," Doak added. "Guess he's a pretty hard man to get money from."

"I hear he is. I wouldn't know about it. He--doesn't shop in town."

The drink was freshly flavorful, cool as springwater. Doak rubbed the beaded moisture with a thumb. "Pretty town," he said. "Pretty country around here."

"Peaceful," the man agreed. "I've never been anywhere else, so I couldn't judge it right, I guess--but then I've never had the urge to go anywhere else, so it must be all right."

"These days," Doak said, "a man doesn't need to go anywhere else. They bring the world right to you."

"I guess. Hear they're having a hard time getting Venus populated. I guess people aren't as rootless as the planners figured."