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Page 9.
Chapter 8.
 Louis Beering had met the future and hated it. He'd brought his precious book forward in time, hoping to impress the powerful master race who should by now rule the world. He'd planned to return to his own time, to offer Hitler the wisdom of those future giants and thereby not only expedite Aryan rulership but also assure himself a position in the inner circle of world power. It was an intoxicating dream, and therefore what a nasty surprise to find the Fuehrer's brilliant dreams shattered, and everything the Fuehrer dreaded come true.
Still wilting and sweaty from a hot, muggy July day in 1936, he had climbed out of his vehicle. The Mass Car loomed like a darkened brass caricature frozen on its tracks inside the tunnel atop the Raritania City Tunnel. Louis had felt as though he'd stepped into an ice box, and shivered as he donned the winter clothes he'd brought. He'd crawled in a greenish half-light along the tracks, emerging behind a clock face that looked as though nobody maintained it. Though his heart pounded, and his breath came short in joyful expectation, the sight of that neglected clock should have tipped him off, he later reflected. For a moment he'd perched on the narrow ledge outside the clock works, and watched thick clots of traffic slam past below.
Where were the little cars flying through the sky? Where were the sky ramps to walk between magical towers? The smiling families going shopping in their private airships?
In the drizzle of an autumn afternoon, as he clutched his coat spastically around himself, and water dripped from his shocked face, he'd seen a skyline dominated by the age-blackened clock towers of his own time. Under that empty charcoal sky, he'd almost fallen off the ledge. He'd stumbled to safety on the embankment that sloped down into a weed-overgrown lot beside the turnpike, sat on a damp log, and whispered over and over again: "Oh my god."
Here he bumbled amid decaying streets filled with freaks, wanting desperately to make the most of his brief visit in the future, and there was so little time! He realized now he should have given himself more time, but he'd been impatient and so sure of himself. His key to the future was Anna Cranston. As long as she lived, so did he. They'd struck a bargain, he and the long-legged blonde who adored him so: she'd send him forward as far as she could, as close to the moment of her death as possible, and when he returned he'd marry her. Or so he promised. He actually dallied with the thought of marrying her; after all, she was as Aryan as he, and might continue to be useful. If he outstayed his welcome by as much as a second after her death, when her powerful chronokinetic mind expired, he'd vanish in time like an image of steam blown upon a cold window. It would be death itself, a vanishing, a dreadful disintegration in which he would look down at himself as first his limbs, then his torso, and finally his screaming mind winked out of existence.
He'd checked on her. She lay in a Beering clinic, kept alive by marvelous pumping machines of some sort that Beering wealth had contrived in this dark age of ignorance and chaos. Albert saw to that, no doubt -- Louis had no intention of contacting his obtuse sibling, though he was pleased that his 'younger bother' had managed to cling to life so long.
Checking libraries and news stands, Louis had little difficulty locating the few visible sympathizers. On a rainy day he'd lain smoking moodily on the gray sheets in his room at the Matterhorn Motel, paralyzed by the opposing demons of depression and a frantic urge to do something, anything. Now, he concluded, was the time to wait. He'd sent a copy of "The Future of the Race" to Marie Sondergood at American Press, and in a day or two he'd contact her to see when his book would be published. She was a tall, Aryan-looking blonde, he'd readily seen from prowling the corridors in her building, and no doubt horrified to live in a mixed society like this. His views would convince and rivet her, he was sure.
Meanwhile, he'd easily figured out how to turn on the Zenith -- everything in this world had to be geared for use by idiots -- and now he hopped from studio to studio using a little rubber wand with tiny buttons. His contempt and anger had grown as insipid melodramas and animated drawings flickered in his glasses. To top it all off, there were constant interruptions urging him to buy cars wreathed in mist, pills he would drop in his toilet to make the water blue, women with swollen lips he could call to talk dirty, Negroes in suits who urged him to sign up for college courses... Louis stubbed out his cigarette in a hotel ashtray as he swung suddenly upright. Then he screamed and threw the wand at the Zenith. The Negro kept talking, and Louis bounded across the room to tear the cord from the wall.
In the ensuing silence, as rain dribbled and drabbled outside the window, and the 'motel' sign pulsated regularly like a pounding headache, Louis pawed the radio on his nightstand. Somehow, he expected soothing music to squeeze out like fresh toothpaste. He should have known better, he immediately realized. From station after station poured a harsh, grating noise, often filled with obscene words. "Dammit!" he yelled and shoved the radio away, hoping it would shatter and grow silent.
Instead, a man's voice said: "Oh really?"
And a woman said: "Yeah really. You should be ashamed of yourselves, talking about all that Nazi nonsense."
Louis perked up.
The man on the radio said: "I'm proud to be a Nazi."
Louis licked his lips. What was this?
Another man, who appeared to be in charge, said: "Okay lady, you've had your fifteen seconds of fame. Now flame off and shove on out of here, give someone else a chance."
A new voice, also male, younger, said: "I agree with everything -- "
"Oh shut the fuck up," said the man in charge. "I don't like your tie. You look like a jerk, with them bottle-bottoms on your nose, and I don't want to waste my time listening to your shit. Hey, do we have anyone in the audience with a brain -- ?"
Louis heard boos, and was baffled. As he slowly lit another cigarette, softly clicking his lighter not to miss a syllable, a woman's voice cut in: "You're listening to Tough Talk with Joe Ramo on WRCR, the Radio of the People. If you're tough enough to talk, we're tough enough to listen. No issue gets past Joe Ramo! Call us at 919-565-5555 now. This is Cindy, your operator, and I'm standing by for your call."
Louis grinned, dialing the number. There was an electrics shriek, and the desk clerk said harshly: "That's a pay number you're calling, Mister."
"So put it on my bill, you stupid Jew."
"This ain't no bar," the man said. "You wanna talk dirty, go stick your head inna toilet." He hung up on Louis.
"Dammit," Louis said. He rummaged in the night stand, fished out a phone book, found WRCR, and called.
"Yes?" a bored woman said.
"I want to speak with Mr. Ramo."
"Minute." There were clicks. Then a bright young voice said: "Mr. Ramo's office. This is Cindy."
Ah! "Yes, Cindy, this is Louis er Matterhorn, and I've written a book about the future of the white race. You sound like a white gal yourself."
"Oh Mr. Matterhorn," Cindy intoned, audibly licking her chops, "we want to SPEAK with YOUUUUU!"
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