A Century of Progress by Fred Saberhagen Read Free Book Online

was okay: roast beef, mashed potatoes. Plain home-cookin’, folks. Norlund, retreating into his thoughts, tested himself silently, determining that everything Ginny had taught him before he slept was still clear in his mind, as available as if he were reading it from a printed page. There wasn’t much talk at table, and none of it about anything more consequential than the weather. Norlund had coffee again, and enjoyed it, though he was reasonably sure that they had drugged his coffee earlier. If they wanted to drug him again they’d find a way, as long as he stayed here. And he was not about to jump up and run out. Not as long as they kept their word on Sandy . . .
    That was true, but it was also rationalizing. Actually, and it surprised him to realize it, on some deep level he was starting to thoroughly enjoy all this.
    But he was also tired, in spite of his nap. He turned to Ginny. “Have we got anything else planned for tonight?”
    “Not at all. Wait a minute and I’ll walk you upstairs. I want to get something in my room.”
    When the two of them reached Norlund’s room, Ginny said, “I think all your new clothes have probably arrived by now,” and walked in with him. She looked at the garments hanging in the closet, and checked the dresser drawers, which Norlund now saw were stocked with clothing too.
    He took down the coat of the gray suit now hanging in the closet and tried it on. The mirror mounted on the bathroom door showed him it was a good fit. Though the suit was clean it didn’t look new; it looked used as well as old-fashioned, a little baggy at the elbows. Of course men’s suits didn’t age much in terms of style. On a hunch Norlund reached for the hanging gray trousers and examined the fly. Sure enough, buttons and not a zipper.
    Ginny was at the door. “I’ll let you get settled in.”
    “Okay. See you in the morning.”
    He was sleepy again; it had been a day not easily matched in any lifetime. No need to hypothesize more drugs to explain his tiredness, he thought.
    His room had a small television and a radio, but he didn’t feel a need for noise. He was down to his underwear, looking out into the night from a darkened room and not seeing much, just about ready to turn down the bed and retire, when a light tapping sounded at his door.
    There sprang to mind the image of Ginny coming back, wearing something filmy . . . It had been a day of miracles; why not? “Just a minute,” he called quietly, and pulled on his pants again. Then he switched on a light and opened the door.
    Nineteen-year-old Andy Burns was standing there, dressed as he had been when Norlund saw him in the afternoon, with the sling still supporting his altered right arm.
    Andy said: “Al? It is you, ain’t it?”
    “Yeah,” said Norlund, letting out a sigh. He had the feeling that he was dreaming, though he knew that he was wide awake. He stood back from the door. “Come in,” he told the kid waiting outside.
    Young Andy Burns entered, looking ill-at-ease. He peered around as if he expected to find someone else. “Ah wanted t’talk t’you,” he said. “Ah’m still tryin’ to get it straight in m’mind. They’ve told me what happened and all, how they caught me right outta the air, and Ah gotta believe ‘em . . . You mind if Ah smoke? Ah mean, here, maybe you want one?”
    “No.” Norlund had quit decades ago, and declined the offered pack. “But you go ahead. Here, sit down.”
    “Thanks.” Andy dug out matches and lit up, the flame making his face look, to Norlund, quite incredibly young. Then he located an ashtray, and threw himself into the one padded chair.
    Norlund sat down on the edge of the bed.
    Andy gave him a look in which nervousness, fear, and recognition were all mixed. “You’re really . . .” He didn’t know quite how to say it.
    Norlund nodded. “Alan Norlund. Yes. Not the same one you remember, not by forty years. But it’s me.”
    Andy nodded, obviously relieved to have his