JAKE’S STEAK HOUSE No. 4
The Fastest Meal on the Fastest Road!
“To dine on the fly
Makes the miles roll by!!”
“Amazing!” said Mr. Blekinsop. “It would be like dining in a tram. Is this really a proper restaurant?”
“One of the best. Not fancy, but sound.”
“Oh, I say, could we—”
Gaines smiled at him. “You’d like to try it, wouldn’t you, sir?”
“I don’t wish to interfere with your plans—”
“Quite all right. I’m hungry myself, and Stockton is a long hour away. Let’s go in.”
Gaines greeted the manageress as an old friend. “Hello, Mrs. McCoy. How are you tonight?”
“If it isn’t the chief himself! It’s a long time since we’ve had the pleasure of seeing your face.” She led them to a booth somewhat detached from the crowd of dining commuters. “And will you and your friend be having dinner?”
“Yes, Mrs. McCoy—suppose you order for us—but be sure it includes one of your steaks.”
“Two inches thick—from a steer that died happy.” She glided away, moving her fat frame with surprising grace.
With sophisticated foreknowledge of the chief engineer’s needs, Mrs. McCoy had left a portable telephone at the table. Gaines plugged it in to an accommodation jack at the side of the booth, and dialed a number. “Hello—Davidson? Dave, this is the chief. I’m in Jake’s beanery number four for supper. You can reach me by calling ten-L-six-six.”
He replaced the handset, and Blekinsop inquired politely: “Is it necessary for you to be available at all times?”
“Not strictly necessary,” Gaines told him, “but I feel safer when I am in touch. Either Van Kleeck, or myself, should be where the senior engineer of the watch—that’s Davidson this shift—can get hold of us in a pinch. If it’s a real emergency, I want to be there, naturally.”
“What would constitute a real emergency?”
“Two things, principally. A power failure on the rotors would bring the road to a standstill, and possibly strand millions of people a hundred miles, or more, from their homes. If it happened during a rush hour we would have to evacuate those millions from the road—not too easy to do.”
“You say millions—as many as that?”
“Yes, indeed. There are twelve million people dependent on this roadway, living and working in the buildings adjacent to it, or within five miles of each side.”
The Age of Power blends into the Age of Transportation almost imperceptibly, but two events stand out as landmarks in the change: the achievement of cheap sun power and the installation of the first mechanized road. The power resources of oil and coal of the United States had—save for a few sporadic outbreaks of common sense—been shamefully wasted in their development all through the first half of the twentieth century. Simultaneously, the automobile, from its humble start as a one-lunged horseless carriage, grew into a steel-bodied monster of over a hundred horsepower and capable of making more than a hundred miles an hour. They boiled over the countryside, like yeast in ferment. In 1955, it was estimated that there was a motor vehicle for every two persons in the United States.
They contained the seeds of their own destruction. Eighty million steel juggernauts, operated by imperfect human beings at high speeds, are more destructive than war. In the same reference year the premiums paid for compulsory liability and property damage insurance by automobile owners exceeded in amount the sum paid that year to purchase automobiles. Safe driving campaigns were chronic phenomena, but were mere pious attempts to put Humpty-Dumpty together again. It was not physically possible to drive safely in those crowded metropolises. Pedestrians were sardonically divided into two classes, the quick, and the dead.
But a pedestrian could be defined as a man who had found a place to park his car. The automobile made possible huge cities, then choked those same cities to death with their numbers. In 1900, Herbert George Wells pointed out that the saturation point in the size of a city might be mathematically predicted in terms of its transportation facilities. From a standpoint of speed alone the automobile made possible cities two hundred miles in diameter, but traffic congestion, and the inescapable, inherent danger of high-powered, individually operated vehicles cancelled out the possibility.
In 1955, Federal Highway #66 from Los Angeles to Chicago, “The Main Street of America,” was transformed into a super-highway for motor vehicles, with an underspeed limit of sixty miles per hour. It was planned as a public works project to stimulate heavy industry; it had an unexpected by-product. The great cities of Chicago and St. Louis stretched out urban pseudopods toward each other, until they met near Bloomington, Illinois. The two parent cities actually shrunk in population.
That same year the city of San Francisco replaced its antiquated cable cars with moving stairways, powered with the Douglas-Martin Solar Reception Screens. The largest number of automobile licenses in history had been issued that calendar year, but the end of the automobile era was in sight, and the National Defense Act of 1957 gave fair warning.
This act, one of the most bitterly debated ever to be brought out of committee, declared petroleum to be an essential and limited material of war. The armed forces had first call on all oil, above or below the ground, and eighty million civilian vehicles faced short and expensive rations. The “temporary” conditions during World War II had become permanent.
Take the superhighways of the period, urban throughout their length. Add the mechanized streets of San Francisco’s hills. Heat to boiling point with an imminent shortage of gasoline. Flavor with Yankee ingenuity. The first mechanized road was opened in 1960 between Cincinnati and Cleveland.
It was, as one would expect, comparatively primitive in design, being based on the ore belt conveyors of ten years earlier. The fastest strip moved only thirty miles per hour, and was quite narrow, for no one had thought of the possibility of locating retail trade on the strips themselves. Nevertheless, it was a prototype of social pattern which was to dominate the American scene within the next two decades—neither rural, nor urban, but partaking equally of both, and based on rapid, safe, cheap, convenient transportation.
Factories—wide, low buildings whose roofs were covered with solar power screens of the same type that drove the road—lined the roadway on each side.
Back of them and interspersed among them were commercial hotels, retail stores, theatres, apartment houses. Beyond this long, thin, narrow strip was the open countryside, where the bulk of the population lived. Their homes dotted the hills, hung on the banks of creeks, and nestled between the farms. They worked in the “city” but lived in the “country”—and the two were not ten minutes apart.
* * *
Mrs. McCoy served the chief and his guest in person. They checked their conversation at the sight of the magnificent steaks.
Up and down the six-hundred-mile line, Sector Engineers of the Watch were getting in their hourly reports from their subsector technicians. “Subsector one—check!” “Subsector two—check!” Tensionometer readings, voltage, load, bearing temperatures, synchrotachometer readings—“Subsector seven—check!” Hard-bitten, able men in dungarees, who lived much of their lives ‘down inside’ amidst the unmuted roar of the hundred-mile strip, the shrill whine of driving rotors, and the complaint of the relay rollers.
Davidson studied the moving model of the road, spread out before him in the main control room at Fresno Sector. He watched the barely perceptible crawl of the miniature hundred-mile strip and subconsciously noted the reference number on it which located Jake’s Steak House No. 4. The chief would be getting in to Stockton soon; he’d given him a ring after the hourly reports were in. Everything was quiet; traffic tonnage normal for rush hour; he would be sleepy before this watch was over. He turned to his Cadet Engineer of the Watch. “Mr. Barnes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think we could use some coffee.”
“Good idea, sir. I’ll o
rder some as soon as the hourlies are in.”
The minute hand of the control board chronometer reached twelve. The cadet watch officer threw a switch. “All sectors, report!” he said, in crisp, self-conscious tones.
The faces of two men flicked into view on the visor screen. The younger answered him with the same air of acting under supervision. “Diego Circle—rolling!”
They were at once replaced by two more. “Angeles Sector—rolling!”
Then: “Bakersfield Sector—rolling!”
And: “Fresno Sector—rolling!”
Finally, when Reno Circle had reported, the cadet turned to Davidson and reported: “Rolling, sir.”
“Very well—keep them rolling!”
The visor screen flashed on once more. “Sacramento Sector; supplementary report.”
“Proceed.”
“Cadet Guenther, while in visual inspection as cadet sector engineer of the watch, found Cadet Alec Jeans, on watch as cadet subsector technician, and R.J. Ross, technician second class, on watch as technician for the same subsector, engaged in playing cards. It was not possible to tell with any accuracy how long they had neglected to patrol their subsector.”
“Any damage?”
“One rotor running hot, but still synchronized. It was jacked down, and replaced.”
“Very well. Have the paymaster give Ross his time, and turn him over to the civil authorities. Place Cadet Jeans under arrest and order him to report to me.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Keep them rolling!”
Davidson turned back to the control desk and dialed Chief Engineer Gaines’s temporary number.
“You mentioned that there were two things that could cause major trouble on the road, Mr. Gaines, but you spoke only of power failure to the rotors.”
Gaines pursued an elusive bit of salad before answering. “There really isn’t a second major trouble—it won’t happen. Whoever—we are travelling along here at one hundred miles per hour. Can you visualize what would happen if this strip under us should break?”
Mr. Blekinsop shifted nervously in his chair. “Hmm—rather a disconcerting idea, don’t you think? I mean to say, one is hardly aware that one is travelling at high speed, here in this snug room. What would the result be?”
“Don’t let it worry you; the strip can’t part. It is built up of overlapping sections in such a fashion that it has a safety factor of better than twelve to one. Several miles of rotors would have to shut down all at once, and the circuit breakers for the rest of the line fail to trip out before there could possibly be sufficient tension on the strip to cause it to part.
“But it happened once, on the Philadelphia-Jersey City Road, and we aren’t likely to forget it. It was one of the earliest high-speed roads, carrying a tremendous passenger traffic, as well as heavy freight, since it serviced a heavily industrialized area. The strip was hardly more than a conveyor belt, and no one had foreseen the weight it would carry. It happened under maximum load, naturally, when the high speed way was crowded. The part of the strip behind the break buckled for miles, crushing passengers against the roof at eighty miles per hour. The section forward of the break cracked like a whip, spilling passengers onto the slower ways, dropping them on the exposed rollers and rotors down inside, and snapping them up against the roof.
“Over three thousand people were killed in that one accident, and there was much agitation to abolish the roads. They were even shut down for a week by presidential order, but he was forced to reopen them again. There was no alternative.”
“Really? Why not?”
“The country had become economically dependent on the roads. They were the principal means of transportation in the industrial areas—the only means of economic importance. Factories were shut down; food didn’t move; people got hungry—and the President was forced to let them roll again. It was the only thing that could be done; the social pattern had crystallized in one form, and it couldn’t be changed overnight. A large, industrialized population must have large-scale transportation, not only for people, but for trade.”
Mr. Blekinsop fussed with his napkin, and rather diffidently suggested, “Mr. Gaines, I do not intend to disparage the ingenious accomplishments of your great people, but isn’t it possible that you may have put too many eggs in one basket in allowing your whole economy to become dependent on the functioning of one type of machinery?”
Gaines considered this soberly. “I see your point. Yes—and no. Every civilization above the peasant-and-village type is dependent on some key type of machinery. The old South was based on the cotton gin. Imperial England was made possible by the steam engine. Large populations have to have machines for power, for transportation, and for manufacturing in order to live. Had it not been for machinery the large populations could never have grown up. That’s not a fault of the machine; that’s its virtue.
“But it is true that whenever we develop machinery to the point where it will support large populations at a high standard of living we are then bound to keep that machinery running, or suffer the consequences. But the real hazard in that is not the machinery, but the men who run the machinery. These roads, as machines, are all right. They are strong and safe and will do everything they were designed to do. No, it’s not the machines, it’s the men.
“When a population is dependent on a machine, they are hostages of the men who tend the machines. If their morale is high, their sense of duty strong—”
Someone up near the front of the restaurant had turned up the volume control of the radio, letting out a blast of music that drowned out Gaines’s words. When the sound had been tapered down to a more nearly bearable volume, he was saying:
“Listen to that. It illustrates my point.”
Blekinsop turned an ear to the music. It was a swinging march of compelling rhythm, with a modern interpretive arrangement. One could hear the roar of machinery, the repetitive clatter of mechanisms. A pleased smile of recognition spread over the Australian’s face. “It’s your Field Artillery Song. The Roll of the Caissons, isn’t it? But I don’t see the connection.”
“You’re right; it was the Roll of the Caissons, but we adapted it to our own purposes. It’s the Road Song of the Transport Cadets. Wait.”
The persistent throb of the march continued, and seemed to blend with the vibration of the roadway underneath into a single tympani. Then a male chorus took up the verse:
“Hear them hum!
Watch them run!
Oh, our job is never done,
For our roadways go rolling along!
While you ride;
While you glide;
We are watching ‘down inside’,
So your roadways keep rolling along!
“Oh, it’s Hie! Hie! Hee! The rotor men are we—
Check off the sectors loud and strong! (spoken)
One!
Two! Three!
Anywhere you go
You are bound to know
That your roadways are rolling along!
(Shouted) KEEP THEM ROLLING!
That your roadways are rolling along!”
“See?” said Gaines, with more animation in his voice, “See? That is the real purpose of the United States Academy of Transport. That is the reason why the transport engineers are a semi-military profession, with strict discipline. We are the bottle neck, the sine qua non, of all industry, all economic life. Other industries can go on strike, and only create temporary and partial dislocations. Crops can fail here and there, and the country takes up the slack. But if the roads stop rolling, everything else must stop; the effect would be the same as a general strike—with this important difference: It takes a majority of the population, fired by a real feeling of grievance, to create a general strike; but the men that run the roads, few as they are, can create the same complete paralysis.
“We had just one strike on the roads, back in ’sixty-six. It was justified, I think, and it corrected a lot of real abuses—but it mustn’t h
appen again.”
“But what is to prevent it happening again, Mr. Gaines?”
“Morale—esprit de corps. The technicians in the road service are indoctrinated constantly with the idea that their job is a sacred trust. Besides which we do everything we can to build up their social position. But even more important is the Academy. We try to turn out graduate engineers imbued with the same loyalty, the same iron self-discipline, and determination to perform their duty to the community at any cost, that Annapolis and West Point and Goddard are so successful in inoculating in their graduates.”
“Goddard? Oh, yes, the rocket field. And have you been successful, do you think?”
“Not entirely, perhaps, but we will be. It takes time to build up a tradition. When the oldest engineer is a man who entered the Academy in his teens, we can afford to relax a little and treat it as a solved problem.”
“I suppose you are a graduate?”
Gaines grinned. “You flatter me—I must look younger than I am. No, I’m a carry-over from the army. You see, the Department of Defense operated the roads for some three months during reorganization after the strike in ’sixty-six. I served on the conciliation board that awarded pay increases and adjusted working conditions, then I was assigned—”
The signal light of the portable telephone glowed red. Gaines said, “Excuse me,” and picked up the handset. “Yes?”
Blekinsop could overhear the voice at the other end. “This is Davidson, Chief. The roads are rolling.”
“Very well. Keep them rolling!”
“Had another trouble report from the Sacramento Sector.”
“Again? What this time?”
Before Davidson could reply he was cut off. As Gaines reached out to dial him back, his coffee cup, half-full, landed in his lap. Blekinsop was aware, even as he was rocked against the edge of the table, of a disquieting change in the hum of the roadway.
“What happened, Mr. Gaines?”
Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky Page 7
