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 hiswish 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 puttingconnoisseur features on synthetic camels!"
Peter Stone put on his hat and started for the station. Every thirdstep he inhaled and told himself: "It isn't that bad." Peter had a goodjob, a good wife, and commuting was wearing him down to a twitch. Sootyteeth-rattling train, Penn Station's steaming caverns, a soggy lurchingbus, lunch down in sun-seared, exhaust-ventilated streets and the ridehome ... as the hated maroon dot of his train appeared, a convulsion ofrevulsion shook him.
"I wish it weren't that bad!" he thought with every fiber. AndPowers-of-pearl, suffused with the glow of challenge, laughed.
Peter Stone, fighting at the newsstand, noted with annoyance that acrew of maintenance men swarmed about the train. "Broke down again,"he thought bitterly. Halfway down his car two men ran a vacuum cleanerover the tired plush. Keeping pace behind them, two others aimedwide-mouth silver hoses upwards, spreading thick sheets of foam on theceiling. It wasn't until Peter Stone unfolded his newspaper that henoticed how quiet had spread with that foam. Next, his ears registeredwith surprise the purr of freshly-oiled machinery, and his eyes thesight of a tree, for once without its double window screen of hair-oiland dried grime droplets.
When he boarded his bus, a maintenance man was just hanging a sign overthe gagged fare box:
Due to Tax Readjustment, Urban Transportation Free.
The driver, liberated from change-making and police duties, smiled agreeting at him. No crush in the bus, perhaps because there seemed somany about. The silver one coming towards him had a big green and whitesign: DOWN FIFTH TO 33rd. WEST ON 33rd TO SEVENTH. PENN STATION LASTSTOP. It was the first readable bus sign he remembered seeing.
Whenever the light turned red, he found, squads of maintenance mendarted about the stopped cars and trucks, slapping silver cylindersover each exhaust pipe. He could hear snatches of explanations: "Cityordinance," "Free service." As soon as a cylinder was in place, smokeand 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, hissecretary smiled, his boss looked in once and whistled. At noon onlythe thought of paraffined carton coffee restrained him from staying in.
"Coming right up, Seventeen!" said the new silver grille next to theelevator button. Cheered, he clove the mindless rush downstairs andpushed inside a luncheonette where maintenance men were finishing theremoval of every second stool and the re-upholstery of the remainderwith foam cushions. A smiling waitress brought him a menu and a pencil.Opposite e