assistant, Don Stanley, coming toward him. ‘Can we go over?’ he asked Don Stanley. ‘Is it safe? I want to see it.’ He felt eager desire rising up inside him.
Stanley, a portly man, bald with heavy-rimmed glasses, said, ‘Before we do that, Mr Turpin, I’d like to show you the stellar shots they took over there.’ He took hold of Leon Turpin’s arm, supporting him. ‘Let’s sit down, sir, and discuss this.’
Disappointed, Turpin said, ‘I don’t want to see any charts; I want to go there.’ However, he seated himself with Stanley beside him opening a large manila envelope.
‘The stellar charts show,’ Stanley said, ‘that our initial appraisal of the situation was incorrect.’
‘It’s Earth,’ Leon Turpin said. He felt keenly discouraged.
‘Yes,’ Stanley said.
‘Past or future?’
Stanley, rubbing his lower lip, said, ‘Neither. If you’ll look at the star chart, which . . .’
‘Just tell me,’ Turpin said. He could not decipher the star chart; his eyes were not that good any more.
‘Suppose we go over there now,’ Stanley said, ‘and I’ll do my best to show you. It’s perfectly safe; our engineers have shored up the nexus, expanded and reinforced it, and we’re experimenting with the idea of a broader power supply.’
‘You’re really sure we’ll get back?’ Turpin asked querulously. ‘I understand there’s a girl over there who killed somebody.’
Don Stanley said, ‘We’ve caught her. A group of company police went across; she didn’t try to fight it out with them, fortunately. She’s in N’York now. Held by the New York state police.’ He assisted Turpin in rising to his feet. ‘Now, as to the stellar chart: I feel like a Babylonian when I start talking about "celestial bodies" and their positions, but . . .’ He glanced at Turpin, ‘There’s nothing to distinguish it from a sky-shot taken on this side of the tube.’
What that signified, Leon Turpin could not tell. However, he said, ‘I see,’ and nodded soberly. Eventually, he knew, his vice presidents and executive staff, including Stanley, would explain it to him.
‘I’ll tell you who we’ve got to conduct you across,’ Don Stanley said. ‘To be entirely on the safe side we’ve hired Frank Woodbine.’
Impressed, Leon Turpin said, ‘Good idea. He’s that famous deep-space explorer, isn’t he? The one who’s been to Alpha Centaurus and Proxima and . . .’ He could not recall the third star-system which Woodbine had visited; his memory was just not what it once had been. ‘He’s an expert,’ Turpin finished lamely, ‘in visiting other planets.’
‘You’ll be in good hands,’ Stanley agreed. ‘And I think you’ll like Woodbine. He’s competent, integrated, although you never know what he’s going to say. Woodbine sees the world in his own creative way.’
‘I like that,’ Turpin said. ‘You’ve notified our PR people that we have Woodbine on the payroll, of course.’
‘Absolutely,’ Stanley said. ‘There’ll be teams from all the media along, catching everything you and Woodbine do and say. Don’t worry, Mr Turpin; your trip across will be well-covered.’
Tickled, Leon Turpin giggled in glee. ‘Terrific!’ he exclaimed. ‘I think you’ve done a good job, Don. It’ll be an adventure, going over there to . . .’ He broke off, again puzzled. ‘Where did you say it is? It’s Earth; I understand that. But . . .’
‘It’ll be easier to show you than to tell you,’ Stanley said ‘So let’s wait until we’re actually there.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Leon Turpin said. He had always found that it paid to do what Don Stanley told him; he trusted Stanley’s judgment completely. And, as he aged, he trusted Don more and more.
On the second subsurface level of TD’s Washington plant, Leon Turpin met the deep-space explorer Frank Woodbine, about whom he had heard so much. To his vast surprise, he found Woodbine to be dainty and slight. The man was
Stanley, a portly man, bald with heavy-rimmed glasses, said, ‘Before we do that, Mr Turpin, I’d like to show you the stellar shots they took over there.’ He took hold of Leon Turpin’s arm, supporting him. ‘Let’s sit down, sir, and discuss this.’
Disappointed, Turpin said, ‘I don’t want to see any charts; I want to go there.’ However, he seated himself with Stanley beside him opening a large manila envelope.
‘The stellar charts show,’ Stanley said, ‘that our initial appraisal of the situation was incorrect.’
‘It’s Earth,’ Leon Turpin said. He felt keenly discouraged.
‘Yes,’ Stanley said.
‘Past or future?’
Stanley, rubbing his lower lip, said, ‘Neither. If you’ll look at the star chart, which . . .’
‘Just tell me,’ Turpin said. He could not decipher the star chart; his eyes were not that good any more.
‘Suppose we go over there now,’ Stanley said, ‘and I’ll do my best to show you. It’s perfectly safe; our engineers have shored up the nexus, expanded and reinforced it, and we’re experimenting with the idea of a broader power supply.’
‘You’re really sure we’ll get back?’ Turpin asked querulously. ‘I understand there’s a girl over there who killed somebody.’
Don Stanley said, ‘We’ve caught her. A group of company police went across; she didn’t try to fight it out with them, fortunately. She’s in N’York now. Held by the New York state police.’ He assisted Turpin in rising to his feet. ‘Now, as to the stellar chart: I feel like a Babylonian when I start talking about "celestial bodies" and their positions, but . . .’ He glanced at Turpin, ‘There’s nothing to distinguish it from a sky-shot taken on this side of the tube.’
What that signified, Leon Turpin could not tell. However, he said, ‘I see,’ and nodded soberly. Eventually, he knew, his vice presidents and executive staff, including Stanley, would explain it to him.
‘I’ll tell you who we’ve got to conduct you across,’ Don Stanley said. ‘To be entirely on the safe side we’ve hired Frank Woodbine.’
Impressed, Leon Turpin said, ‘Good idea. He’s that famous deep-space explorer, isn’t he? The one who’s been to Alpha Centaurus and Proxima and . . .’ He could not recall the third star-system which Woodbine had visited; his memory was just not what it once had been. ‘He’s an expert,’ Turpin finished lamely, ‘in visiting other planets.’
‘You’ll be in good hands,’ Stanley agreed. ‘And I think you’ll like Woodbine. He’s competent, integrated, although you never know what he’s going to say. Woodbine sees the world in his own creative way.’
‘I like that,’ Turpin said. ‘You’ve notified our PR people that we have Woodbine on the payroll, of course.’
‘Absolutely,’ Stanley said. ‘There’ll be teams from all the media along, catching everything you and Woodbine do and say. Don’t worry, Mr Turpin; your trip across will be well-covered.’
Tickled, Leon Turpin giggled in glee. ‘Terrific!’ he exclaimed. ‘I think you’ve done a good job, Don. It’ll be an adventure, going over there to . . .’ He broke off, again puzzled. ‘Where did you say it is? It’s Earth; I understand that. But . . .’
‘It’ll be easier to show you than to tell you,’ Stanley said ‘So let’s wait until we’re actually there.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Leon Turpin said. He had always found that it paid to do what Don Stanley told him; he trusted Stanley’s judgment completely. And, as he aged, he trusted Don more and more.
On the second subsurface level of TD’s Washington plant, Leon Turpin met the deep-space explorer Frank Woodbine, about whom he had heard so much. To his vast surprise, he found Woodbine to be dainty and slight. The man was
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