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  And all these improvements could be laid ultimately at the feet of 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. There were sheiks from the Holy Land, Zulus and Watusi 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. The celebrations had been heralded as fully the equal of any prior international exposition or fair, however elaborate, and perhaps would prove even more extravagant. Naturally, given the Iowans’ reputation for startling displays of scientific prowess, the whole world was desirous of seeing how they would commemorate their third decade of existence.

  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-girded Lincoln Island, but his cousins had been discovered on neighboring 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 travelers bunched into a line focused on the portal, one of many such queues. This line of arrivals moved with all expedition, however, and Wheatstone feared no delay, assuming that the ultracompetent Lincolnopolis officials had fully prepared themselves for the expected crush of visitors.

  And when he drew even with the customs station, holding his credentials expectantly, he found his faith in the efficiency of the Lincoln Island government fully justified.

  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 under way, 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 mahogany 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 United States 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.

  Wheatstone marveled at the paper reproduction of his own open, ingenuous face, complete with handsome mustache and disordered shock of hair. Utterly uncanny, how this stored image had been transmitted over miles of wire so swiftly!

  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 signaled 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. I hope your duties are not so burdensome that you cannot participate at some point in the festivities connected with this proud occasion.”

  The clerk shrugged. “That is as it may be. All citizens of Lincoln Island stand ready to render whatever our nation demands of us, happily and without cease.”

  “An admirable attitude. If only the members of some of Boston’s trade unions exhibited the same selflessness, the Herald might be able to lower its price from a nickel to three cents once more.”

  Wheatstone 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, on the actual sidewalks of Lincolnopolis, drinking in the vistas of that magnificent city.

  Avenues lined with stalwart buildings in marble, granite, and travertine stretched away radially from the hub of the train station. (Lincolnopolis had been laid out on an exceedingly rational plan based on certain of Fourier’s proposals.) 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 gravito-magnetic engines. The slices of sky visible above the urban canyons featured the occasional passing aircraft. So far the sciences of Lincoln Island had managed to permit the construction of 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.

  The overall effect of this panorama, Wheatstone thought, was to conjure up fancies of a classical Athens that had never fallen to savagery, but rather had been transformed by centuries of continuous progress into a veritable paradise on Earth! No wonder that all the countries of the globe admired Lincoln Island, courted her, purchased her manufactures, aped her social systems and customs, and licensed her technologies.

  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. Wheatstone silently praised the largesse of his flush employer, and began to entertain second thoughts about the wisdom of letting the price of a copy of the Herald revert to three cents.

  After refreshing himself and replacing his travel-sweaty shirt collar and exchanging his informal checkered coat for a more somber 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. As he climbed the broad steps to the heavy front doors, Wheatstone contemplated this sentiment insofar as it related to his own profession. It tallied neatly with his own feelings when, on prior occasions, he’d been confronted with large stories with great public impact that practically begged to be told. Wheatstone believed that a modern society demanded efficient and open channels of communication, and was grateful to see that the Iowans apparently felt the same.

  Presentation of his adamantium press pass to a bureau concierge earned Wheatstone swift admission to the office of one Andrew Portland, an undersecretary 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 undersecretary’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 undersecretary, “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. Of course, if you want to offer some local coloration and context by venturing out to some of our model farms and smaller villages, I will certainly understand. You may contact my office for any help or advice you may need in making those arrangements.”

  Wheatstone rose, 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 on the street once more, 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 postprandial 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 Reconstruction, a painful period. As a northerner, Wheatstone had been raised in a liberal tradition, and naturally regarded Negroes as equals. But really there was scant to distinguish his liberal attitude nowadays from that of any of his right-thinking peers from below the Mason-Dixon Line.

  And this doctrine of the universal rights of mankind had been spread further by a policy that Lincoln Island had begun promulgating once its ascendancy had been cemented. Any nation that wished 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.

  Incredible, thought Wheatstone, how much a small set of determined, clear-sighted men could achieve when they put their shoulders to the wheel of progress. He spared an admiring look for the portrait of Cyrus Smith above the bar of the chophouse before getting to his feet—a little unsteadily, it must be admitted—and heading outside.

  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 labor, created a small Utopia which, regrettably, met its end due to a volcanic explosion.

  All six of the men, Wheatstone knew, were still alive; Smith was the oldest at some seventy-eight years of age, and Brown was 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 knee pants and caps, men handsomely suited—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 to 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 metropolises as Babylon, Nineveh, and Alexandria, but with a modern slant.

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

  Once seated on a velvet-covered chair in a large darkened amphitheater with scores of others, Wheatstone was treated to a show of magic-lantern slides accompanied by a very entertaining speech given by one of the many trained actors who served as guides to the fair. He thrilled once more to the famous tale of the castaways, an abbreviated saga, followed by an account of the subsequent thirty years. The act of Congress in 1875 which had reluctantly but decisively allowed the petition of the Iowans asking to secede from the rest of the United States; the attempted invasion of the fledgling country by a cabal of European powers, launched from their base in Canada, which had been efficiently and mercilessly repelled by uncanny weapons of a heretofore unseen type; the signing of various peace treaties and the establishment of Iowan hegemony in several areas of international commerce and trade; the immigration policies that encouraged savants from all corners of the globe to flock to Lincoln Island—

  At the close of half an hour, Wheatstone felt once more the full weight of the marvelous story. What a golden age had dawned for mankind with the foundation of this small but potent nation
!

  After this, Wheatstone toured several exhibits, taking copious notes. From the Hall of Gravito-Magnetism to the Chamber of Agricultural Engineering; from the Arcade of Electrical Propagation to the Gallery of Pneumatics—one exhibit after another demonstrated the astounding achievements of the Iowans and promised even more astonishments to come.

  Finally, though, even the exciting speculations failed to keep at bay Wheatstone’s natural fatigue after such a busy day, and, after consuming a light snack of squab and sausages from a fairground booth, he returned reluctantly to his hotel room.

  There, to his surprise, a blinking light on the ordinator panel in his room signaled that a message awaited him. Triggering the output of the electronic pen produced a cryptic note that lacked all attribution of sender, as if such information had been deliberately stripped away.

  Mr. Wheatstone—have you noticed the absence of a certain name from these festivities? I refer to the appellation of “Nemo.” Would you know more? Meet me this evening after midnight at the Gilded Cockerel.

  As a journalist, Wheatstone was used to such anonymous “tips.” In the majority of cases, they led precisely nowhere. But every now and then, such secret disclosures did produce large stories of consequence. The young reporter could feel his blood thrill at the possibility that he would bag such a “scoop” from this message. This was an outcome he had hardly dared hope for when he had received his current assignment. But if he could manage to distinguish his reportage from all the other laudatory profiles that would be filed from this dateline, both he and the Boston Herald would benefit immensely. And proprietor William Randolph Hearst could be most generous to his successful employees.

  Checking his pocket watch, Wheatstone determined that he could snatch a few hours’ sleep before the rendezvous with the mysterious informant. But before he stretched himself out, he fired off an ordinator message of his own, to his ladylove back in the land of the bean and the cod.