“Think they’ve got a bar?” asked Matt.
“Nope. That’s in car nine, apparently.”
“Maybe we oughta check it out?”
Bill looked at Matt with a look that said, “are you kidding me?”
“Yeah, maybe not right away,” Matt said after getting the hairy eyeball.
59
The train crossed the border into Deseret late in the afternoon. It was practically a non-affair. Everyone had to fill out a simple customs form, listing their name, address, and purpose of visit. These were collected by a bored-looking agent who came down the coach aisles, inspecting passports. Bill was too engrossed looking out the window at Lake Coeur d’Alene, the small city by the lake, and the people outside, to pay much attention to the customs agent, which also helped reduce his natural tendency to be nervous when doing something wrong. He countered that by thinking, Well, it is a real passport, and that really is me. That helped calm him.
Looking at the people, he noticed a slight difference in composition from what he had seen in the Republic of California. Rather than a mix of whites and Asians, here the population was mostly white.
As a matter of fact, the only Asians I see are here on the train. He briefly mentioned that to the others, keeping his voice deliberately low.
Jordan looked around, then out the window. “Even whiter than any KKK or White Supremacist movement back on Earth could hope for.”
Matt slapped Jordan on the shoulder. “Guess it’s time you finally earned all that money the Corps’ has been giving you to have fun.”
“Well, it has been fun. I’m not sure if the pay is gonna be good enough for this shit, though.”
For the next several days, the men spent countless hours in their chairs. Sleeping, reading, sitting and staring out the window, and even engaged in card games. Lane was the best at poker, but Bill found he could hold his own at cribbage.
Matt finally made his way to car nine, but only for a single drink each day, and accompanied by at least one or more of his companions. The idea of getting drunk and into a compromising discussion, or worse yet, a duel on a strange planet had a somewhat sobering effect on the foursome. Nothing quite like having a drink while the fellow next to you had several, and was armed with a pistol or revolver on his hip.
Not many women frequented the bar car while they were present. Bill wasn’t sure if that was because there were a lot of relatively rowdy men present, or the culture frowned upon it. Then again, it might have been all the cigar, pipe, and cigarette smoke that permeated the air. It seemed that the bar car was one of the few that had opening windows to let the fumigation from tobacco out. Ain’t no way the AC can filter this stuff out, Bill thought, coughing slightly as he took a sip of the single malt Scotch he was allowing himself at the end of the day.
The dining car was interesting. Expecting a meal similar to the standard fast-food fare of his Earth, he was pleasantly surprised to find that food on this Earth (at least, in the Republic of California) was a bit tastier, and with a stronger Asian influence. He still wasn’t used to getting soy sauce on his eggs, but at least they weren’t serving grits, something that Matt despaired of.
Bill spent a lot of time looking out the window at the passing landscape, amazed, once again, at how similar it was, yet how different. Passing over the many mountain ranges before they entered the high plains was reminiscent of his Earth but without the ubiquitous interstate highways. Once they hit the high plains, and after a short stop in Denver, Bill felt like he was transported back to Planet 42. A winter on the plains can do that to you, and Bill had spent the last winter there, stranded with Meri, Karen, and eventually Jack, who was born there. Of course, the difference between the agriculture evident on this Earth and the complete primitiveness of Planet 42 soon disabused him of that notion.
Interestingly enough, the agriculture he saw wasn’t quite in keeping with what he knew existed on his Earth. While there were plenty of grain fields, corn wasn’t quite as ubiquitous, nor did he see any cattle feedlots.
Finally, the mountains disappeared, replaced by prairie. Towns became slightly more numerous, as did smaller farms. Fortunately, the train didn’t stop at every podunk town, so the trip didn’t take even longer.
The stop at the Deseret/United States of America border between what Bill still thought of as Colorado and Kansas was a bit more lively than their last border crossing. The border agent not only questioned the few remaining Asians on their reasons for visiting the U.S., including Lane, but he spent an inordinate amount of time questioning Jordan, specifically on his origins.
“Don’t want any escaped niggers from the Confederacy trying to cross our borders,” he grumpily stated while inspecting Jordan’s fake passport. “We already got enough problems with them.”
Bill was shocked by the conductors use of a derogatory racial epithet, and he could tell Jordan was steaming, but hoped his friend remained calm enough to be allowed entry into this strange, apparently racist United States. Then again, that just might be the agent. Can’t judge a country by one asshole.
Finally, the customs agent was willing to believe that Jordan really was from the Republic of California, and not from the Confederacy. He stamped Jordan’s passport, granting him entry.
Crossing into the Independent States of Franklin was another study in contrasts. The immigration officer didn’t seem to care where people were from, why they were entering Franklin, or what they were carrying. He did, though, caution Lane and Jordan to stay extra vigilant. “Your type ain’t really liked hereabouts.” He passed Jordan’s passport back to him.
“Why’s that?”
The officer looked hard and long at Jordan. “You obviously ain’t from around here, so let me edjumicate you. Any Negroes fleeing from the Confederacy, be they free or indentured, ain’t really wanted. We got our own problems, and bringing in more problems don’t seem like much of a good idea. You won’t find many willing to help you, and you’re likely to be attacked just because of your race.”
“What about the police?”
“If’n you’re lucky, they won’t attack you. But don’t count on it. Negroes ain’t wanted in Franklin.”
The officer’s words were sobering, and as he continued along the car, collecting customs slips and checking passports, the four looked at each other.
Jordan raised both eyebrows. “Well, this should be interesting.”
After four days, the men were more than ready for sleep in a real bed along with a real shower.
The train entered the outskirts of St. Louis late in the afternoon. As expected, no Gateway Arch existed on this Earth, but Bill spotted a Cardinal’s stadium as they pulled into town. Huh. Guess they’ve got baseball here. Not being a fan of sports, Bill had never paid attention to what was happening in that world. He didn’t even bother to read the sports sections of the daily newspapers they had collected along the way.
Not too many minutes later, the train rolled into Union Station.
Over the last couple of days, Lane had spoken with other passengers, porters, and the conductor, about places the four of them could stay while in St. Louis. Bill decided that they should stay at a hotel recommended by the porters. His reasoning was that if the racism he saw evidenced in the U.S. existed in full scale, then he’d rather have the team stay someplace where it would be toned down. “Besides,” he said, as they took their packs off the luggage rack, “the porters probably even get a bit of a kickback. And, I’m sure every penny they can get helps those guys.”
After disembarking the train, they entered a totally different offshoot of America than they had grown up in. Franklin was not only smaller, but also far less diverse. People stopped in their tracks and stared at Jordan and Lane as they made their way to the information booth near the station’s entrance.
Bill saw the stares but was more focused on taking in his surroundings. The station was much like the Yakima Train Depot. Wooden benches aligned in rows, occupied by businessmen, families,
and the occasional lone woman. There were also a few military types, wearing a type of uniform Bill associated with World War I: khaki, with Sam Browne belts and campaign hats, the type that resembled the one’s worn by park rangers, cocked jauntily on the head.
A pair of beat cops wearing blue uniforms, one twirling his nightstick around his hand by its leather wristband, walked by. Both had revolvers and speed loaders on their Sam Browne belts. Neither seemed to be wearing the body armor that most cops on Bill’s Earth wore. Both gave pointed stares to Jordan, and then Lane, but did nothing further.
A large Seth Thomas clock on the wall rang, announcing it was half-past the hour. Looking up, Bill saw it was four-thirty.
They finally reached the information booth, and after a short wait, were greeted by a young woman with bright red hair. This reminded Bill of Meri, whom he wouldn’t see for several months. Keeping the brief bout of melancholy at bay, he asked the redhead for information on how to get to the hotel they planned on staying at.
She directed them to a taxi stand in front of the station. “Don’t let ‘em try and rip you off. Shouldn’t cost more than two bucks for all of you. If you don’t mind walking, though, it’s only about a half-mile away.”
“We could do with a bit of stretch, after spending all that time on the train,” Bill replied with a smile.
She produced a map and gave Bill directions. “Just watch out for the bums. Some get real nasty when they’ve been drinking.”
Bill thanked her, took the map, and drew the other three aside.
“Walk or ride?”
“I don’t mind walking,” Matt said. The others agreed.
“All right then, let’s do it. But first things first, we should probably procure some local currency.”
Jordan gestured to a location near the station’s entrance. “Looks like a currency exchange over there.”
“How much you think we’ll need?” Matt asked.
Bill shrugged. “Don’t know. Depends on how much things cost.”
A brief conversation with the currency exchange clerk reminded Bill that all the countries on this Earth were still on the gold exchange, so currency from the Republic of California would work in the USA, at pretty much the same rate. As a matter of fact, it would work just about all over the world.
With that, the four headed out of the station and into the much reduced in size United States of America.
If Bill thought the air inside the train and station from all the smokers was bad, he was in for a rude shock when he stepped outside. Apparently, the Clean Air Act was never passed on this Earth, as the air was full of smoke and pollutants. Looking over the skyline, he could see dozens of smokestacks pouring out smoke. Probably coal burning, I bet.
The streets were also much busier than what he had seen in Yakima, Coeur d’Alene, or any of the other cities along the way. Cars and buses filled the roadways, and pedestrians filled the sidewalks. All looked to be in a rush. The cars were similar to the ones he he had along the way, looking like retro-1940s or 1950s.
Again, the glaring absence of any other races was jarring to him. As in the train station, people passing by would stare at the two minorities in their mix.
“Man, I’m beginning to feel like a vaudeville show,” Jordan said.
“Yeah, me too,” Lane said.
“You still wanna walk?” Bill asked.
“No, but we’ve gotta conserve dinero, so we probably should,” Jordan said.
Looking down at the map, Bill oriented himself, then turned right. “This way a couple of blocks, then another right for about four.”
The walk to the hotel started off uneventful, but when they were within a couple of blocks of their destination, an obviously drunk man staggered from a bar, took one look at Jordan, and yelled, “Go back to the Confederacy, ya damned nigger!”
Hoping to avoid conflict, the four ignored him, but he wasn’t having any of that. Walking up behind Jordan, he grabbed him by the collar.
Whatever the man intended was put to short shrift when Jordan reacted violently. Spinning around to his left, he slapped the man’s wrist away with a knifehand strike while simultaneously punching the man under the sternum.
Before the wounded man could even fall to the ground, gasping for air, the other three had dropped into fighting positions around Jordan, attention directed outward.
“Clear,” Jordan said, looking down at the gasping drunk.
“Clear,” the others said. While there were onlookers about, none of them appeared to want to engage the obviously prepared men.
Bill took a quick glance at the man on the ground, and the onlookers, then dropped his fighting stance. “Let’s go.”
They quickly continued on their way to the hotel, this time without further incident.
On the way, they passed a bookstore.
“Might be worth checking out in the morning,” Bill told the others.
Located as it was near the tracks of the train station, it was clear that the hotel wasn’t what one would call the best. It didn’t appear to be quite a dump, but it was barely a step above that. The front steps appeared clean, but there was the whiff of an odor Bill couldn’t quite place.
“Bet they got bums pissing here in the night,” Jordan said as they walked up the still-wet steps.
That’s when Bill recognized the slight twinge of ammonia.
“Man, hope this place don’t have bedbugs,” Matt muttered under his breath.
Inside,the carpeting was frayed, as was the front desk staff. He was an older man, clearly on the wrong side of sixty, and didn’t appear to have shaved in a couple of days. Rather than wearing a blazer or something a bit more formal, he was dressed in a stained T-shirt and pants held up by yellow suspenders. Clearly not one of the better establishments.
“We’d like a couple of rooms, please.”
“Separate rooms, or you okay sharing?”
“We’re fine sharing, just not into sharing beds.”
The man nodded, then looked down at a register on the desk. “Got a couple of rooms on the third floor. Bathroom’s down the hall. Two bucks a night a room, in advance.”
Bill nodded, pulling out a silver dollar and setting it on the desk. “That’ll do.” The others did the same.
The man turned the register around, handed Bill a pen, then scooped up the four coins and deposited them into one of the desk’s drawers with a clinking sound.
“Sign in and I’ll get your keys.”
Registration was simple. All one had to do was sign their name, print their name, and list whatever city and state they were from. Bill decided to use Yakima as the city, as that’s where St. Andrew’s University was located.
As he passed the pen to Jordan, the desk clerk said, “Only need one signature. Here’re your keys.”
Bill accepted the keys, old fashioned types. None of that fancy magnetic stripe stuff here, bub.
“Elevator and stairs are over there,” the old man said, pointing.
The elevator looked like something from the beginning of time.
“Does it work?”
“Most times. That’s why we got stairs, for the times it don’t.”
Bill nodded. “Okay, then.”
Turning to the others, he gestured to the elevator.
“Shall we?”
As they made their way to the elevator, Matt asked, “Who bunks with whom?”
“I don’t care. What do you guys think?”
Jordan pushed the elevator button. “From what I see, I’m thinking one of you white dudes needs to bunk with one of us little brown brothers. Run a little interference, know what I’m sayin’?”
Lane just stood there silently, looking at the numbers above the elevator door.
“Lane?” Bill asked.
With a slight shrug, Lane said, “I’m no coward, but after what I’ve seen so far, I’m thinking Jordan’s right. Then again, I think he needs the interference run more than me. Us Asians are just different, not hated.�
�
Bill knew that the scar on Lane’s forearm, earned when defending one of the former cultural surveyors during a knife fight on a prior exploration, proved that the Explorer wasn’t a coward. It was clear he had concerns about the current situation. Mostly well-founded, Bill thought, as he handed one of the keys to Matt. “Sounds like a plan. Jordan, you with me or Matt?”
Jordan looked over at Matt, shrugged, and raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, dude. Gonna hang with the bossman.”
The elevator door opened, and Matt stepped in first. “Yeah, go ahead. Break my heart,” he kidded.
The ride to the third floor was a study in creaks and squeals. With a jerk, the elevator came to a halt and the doors opened.
A quick survey of the hall identified their two rooms.
Matt and Lane entered the first room and Bill, after struggling with the old-fashioned key, entered the second one, trailed by Jordan.
“Man, what a dump,” Jordan said as he set his pack on the twin bed closest to the door.
Bill had to agree. The room smelled of stale cigarette and cigar smoke, the carpet was frayed and stained, and the bedspreads were also frayed
“Yeah. Home sweet home,” he muttered as he closed the door.
Bill’s thoughts turned to Meri as he set his own pack down on the lumpy-looking bed and looked around the dingy room. Bet she’s sharing our nice clean, comfortable bed with Little Jack.
“Glad we’ve got those silk sleep sacks.”
“Yeah, you ain’t kidding. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I want those sheets touching my skin.”
“Well, it’s just for a night. And, we’ve slept in worse.”
“Speak for yourself, Kemosabe. Just because you spent months sleeping under a flea-infested bison hide doesn’t mean the rest of us have. Mrs. Washington likes her son to be nice and comfortable.”
“Well, your momma ain’t here, so you’re just gonna have to suck it up, cupcake.”
Jordan frowned down at the bed. “Yeah, ain’t that the truth?”
Bill undid the straps and buckles to his pack and dug out a fresh change of clothing, his toiletries kit, and his laundry kit. consisting of a rubber clothesline and a small dry bag with knobbies inside that served as a clothes washer. It was identical to the one he had carried, and worn out, across Planet 42 during his trek.
The Corps of Discovery Trilogy Box Set: Books 1-3: A multiverse series of alternate history Page 65
