THE PLACE WHERE CHICAGO WAS
By JIM HARMON
Illustrated by COWLES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine February 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Well, they finally got rid of war. For the first
time there was peace on Earth—since the only
possible victims were the killers themselves!
It was late December of 1983. Abe Danniels knew that the streets andsidewalks of Jersey City moved under their own power and that half thefamilies in America owned their own helicopters. He was pleased withthese signs of progress. But he was sweating. He thought he was gettingathlete's foot instead of athletic legs from walking from the NewJersey coast to just outside of Marshall, Illinois.
The heat was unbearable.
The road shimmered before him in rows of sticky black ribbon, on whichnothing moved. Nothing but him.
He passed a signal post that said "Caution—Slow" in a gentle butcommanding voice. He staggered on toward a reddish metallic square seton a thin column of bluish concrete. It was what they called a sign, hedecided.
Danniels drooped against the sign and fanned his face with hissweat-ringed straw cowboy hat. The thing seemed to have something tosay about the mid-century novelist, James Jones, in short, terse words.
The rim of the hat crumpled in his fist. He stood still and listened.
There was a car coming.
It would almost have to stop, he reasoned. A man couldn't stand muchof this Illinois winter heat. The driver might leave him to die on theroad if he didn't stop. Therefore he would stop.
He jerked out the small pouch from the sash of his jeans. Inside thespecial plastic the powder was dry. He rubbed some between his handsbriskly, to build up the static electricity, and massaged it into hishair.
The metal of the Jones plaque was fairly shiny. Under the beating noonsun it cast a pale reflection back at Danniels. His hair looked areasonably uniform white now.
He started to draw the string on the pouch, then dipped his hand in andscooped his palm up to his mouth. He chewed on the stuff while he wassecuring the nearly flat bag in his sash. He swallowed the dough; thepowder had been flour.
Danniels took the hat from beneath his arm, set it to his head and atlast faced the direction of the engine whine.
The roof, hood and wheels moved over the curve of the horizon andDanniels saw that the car was a brandless classic which probably stillhad some of the original, indestructible Model A left in it.
He pondered a moment on whether to thumb or not to thumb.
He thumbed.
The rod squealed to a stop exactly even with him. A door unfolded and avoice like a stop signal said flatly, "Get in."
Danniels got in. The driver was a teen-ager in a loose scarlet tunicand a spangled W.P.A. cap. The youth wouldn't have been bad-lookingexcept for a sullen expression and a rather girlish turn of cheek,completely devoid of beard line. Danniels wrote him off as aprospective member of the Wolf Pack in a year or two.
But not just yet, he fervently hoped.
"Going far? I'm not," said the driver.
Danniels adjusted the knees of his trousers. "I'm going to—near whereChicago used to be."