THE LONG SILVERY DAY

By MAGNUS LUDENS

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine April 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

It was one of those days—perhaps you've
had them—when everything went right!

"Let's go slumming," said Powers-of-pearl. "Let's give an earthman his wish for a day. We haven't played that game in ages."

"How do we pick him?" Firepride asked indulgently. "Phone book?"

"Intensity's more fun. But no more nomads, I got so bored putting connoisseur features on synthetic camels!"

Peter Stone put on his hat and started for the station. Every third step he inhaled and told himself: "It isn't that bad." Peter had a good job, a good wife, and commuting was wearing him down to a twitch. Sooty teeth-rattling train, Penn Station's steaming caverns, a soggy lurching bus, lunch down in sun-seared, exhaust-ventilated streets and the ride home ... as the hated maroon dot of his train appeared, a convulsion of revulsion shook him.

"I wish it weren't that bad!" he thought with every fiber. And Powers-of-pearl, suffused with the glow of challenge, laughed.

Peter Stone, fighting at the newsstand, noted with annoyance that a crew of maintenance men swarmed about the train. "Broke down again," he thought bitterly. Halfway down his car two men ran a vacuum cleaner over the tired plush. Keeping pace behind them, two others aimed wide-mouth silver hoses upwards, spreading thick sheets of foam on the ceiling. It wasn't until Peter Stone unfolded his newspaper that he noticed how quiet had spread with that foam. Next, his ears registered with surprise the purr of freshly-oiled machinery, and his eyes the sight of a tree, for once without its double window screen of hair-oil and dried grime droplets.

When he boarded his bus, a maintenance man was just hanging a sign over the gagged fare box:

Due to Tax Readjustment, Urban Transportation Free.

The driver, liberated from change-making and police duties, smiled a greeting at him. No crush in the bus, perhaps because there seemed so many about. The silver one coming towards him had a big green and white sign: DOWN FIFTH TO 33rd. WEST ON 33rd TO SEVENTH. PENN STATION LAST STOP. It was the first readable bus sign he remembered seeing.

Whenever the light turned red, he found, squads of maintenance men darted about the stopped cars and trucks, slapping silver cylinders over each exhaust pipe. He could hear snatches of explanations: "City ordinance," "Free service." As soon as a cylinder was in place, smoke and noise stopped coming out of the exhaust.

When his hat sailed gaily towards the hook, Peter Stone realized that, incredibly, he wasn't tired. Work flowed through his fingers, his secretary smiled, his boss looked in once and whistled. At noon only the thought of paraffined carton coffee restrained him from staying in.

"Coming right up, Seventeen!" said the new silver grille next to the elevator button. Cheered, he clove the mindless rush downstairs and pushed inside a luncheonette where maintenance men were finishing the removal of every second stool and the re-upholstery of the remainder with foam cushions. A smiling waitress brought him a menu and a pencil. Opposite each item was a small circle, and a line at the top explained: THIS IS YOUR MENUCHECK. PLEASE MARK WANTED ITEMS, DROP MENUCHECK IN SLOT.

Served incredibly fast, Peter Stone ate in blissful peace. On his way out he saw that the cashier's cage had been replaced with three silver cabinets with hoppers for Menuchecks and money, recessed cups for change and a turnstile each. When he walked through he found that he still had forty minutes of his lunch hour left.

Forty minutes! He could walk to a bookshop, or the park ... walk, through exhaust fumes and the belches of airconditioner waste? But silver mesh covered the noisome vents. A cautious sniff assured him it worked.

He decided to walk to the Library newsstands for a foreign magazine. As he reached 42nd and Fifth an army of workmen were putting the last touches on a structure of dull silver that spanned the four sides of the intersection. Airy and elegant, with faint echoes of Library style, the quadruple arch provided the perfect finishing touch for the square. Each side was composed of three escalators and moving platforms in both directions, with a set of stairs and a promenade.

Timidly, he set foot on the silver filigree. He was wafted up, across and down. Beneath him flowed a brilliant river of quiet cars. Fascinated, he took the trip back, then stood on the promenade watching the pattern, breathing in incredulous lungfuls of clean air.

The afternoon fled on newly silent feet. Once more he put on his hat to face the ride home.

His small, air-conditioned silver bus reached Penn Station ten minutes earlier than usual. By now Peter Stone was not overly surprised to see silver moving ways disappearing into the Station's maw, nor, once inside, to feel breezes that blew silently from silver gadgets like jet engines. He also accepted the waiting passengers dancing in the great lobby—the piped music there had long been excellent.

A low, pleasant voice announced his train in diamond-cut syllables that floated from silver-dollar speakers spangling the walls. Silver escalators swept to a bright platform covered in springy non-skid green plastic.

One wall of his train was made up of clear plastic sliding doors. Inside, there were deep pile carpets, reclining chairs, low blue overheads and movable reading lights. As the doors slid softly shut, Peter Stone remembered as usual the letter he'd forgotten to mail for his wife; but this time he could see a stamp machine and mail box at the end of the car. When he got up he saw that there were also milk, coffee, soda, fruit, cigarette, aspirin and newspaper vending machines, and three telephone booths.

The train glided to a hushed halt three minutes after a speaker at his elbow had murmured the name of his station. Before his wife's goggling eyes, Peter Stone bounded down the steps and ran to their car. She remembered that evening the rest of her life.

Powers-of-pearl let the silver evaporate, and with it the memory of it. "The best game yet," she smiled, leaning in happy exhaustion against Firepride's shoulder.

"You were magnificent," laughed Firepride. "One step ahead of an entire city!" Powers-of-pearl blushed radiantly.

No trace of their game remained. But for some obscure reason, Peter Stone decided that one day he would run for Mayor.