The Gernsback Continuum (Robert Drummond)

[Grognardsw]

On the morning of July 19, 1955, Robert Drummond woke up SCREAMING out of a dream.

It was more real than any dream he had ever had in his life. He could still hear and feel the sharp, ripping-metal explosion, the violent heave that had tossed him furiously out of bed, the searing wave of heat.

Robert sat up convulsively and stared, not believing what he saw, at the quiet room and the bright sunlight coming in the window.

His wife Betty was not in the bed next to him. The covers were tumbled and awry, as though she had just left it, and the memory of the dream was so strong that instinctively Robert found himself searching the floor to see if the dream explosion had thrown her down.

But she wasn't there. Of course she wasn't, looking at the familiar vanity and slipper chair, the uncracked window, the unbuckled wall. It had only been a dream.

Bedroom

"Rob?" His wife Betty was calling him querulously from the foot of the stairs. "Rob, dear, are you all right?"

[Starbeard]

"I — what in…? …Yes, dear, I'm fine."

Rob spends a long moment staring dumbly at the vanity, followed by another long moments wiping his clammy hands over his face. Was that a shell shock dream? Is that what that is like? Absently Rob thinks back to his time in the Army, filing through distant events and past friends, the blank faces of his battalion's front liners after Guadalcanal. It's been years, I can't have shell shock. His memory shoots back to the Popular Science article he read the other day about latent manifestations of psychological combat trauma. He brushes it off shakily, chuckling to himself without much enthusiasm. "Stress. Must be stress."

Dragging himself out of bed into slippers and shuffling to the closet for his robe, Rob is already at the bottom of the stairs before he realizes where he is. He gives Betty a kiss and smiles. " 'Morning, dear. Oh, don't mind me. Just a strange dream I had. For a second there I thought everything had… well, had just blown up. Funny, isn't it? How a dream can be just so vivid sometimes."

Sitting down for fresh coffee and eggs, over medium with dark buttered toast, he continues to reason out loud, mostly for his own benefit. "You know, I think it's stress. I have that golf game with the president of the TV station this weekend. He wants me to renovate his penthouse office again. Oh Betty, you know how bad I am at golf, I hate getting dragged to those games. And, and as soon as Gary hears about it he'll wonder why I haven't told him and pester me to get him a spot in the game too. You know he knows I can't do that! Jeesh, why couldm't VIPs pick a less nerve-racking sport to play? What's wrong with boxing, or, or swimming? Why couldn't we just go fly some control line airplanes or something?"

He greets the kids as they rush in and gobble their breakfast, and goes about his usual morning business as always, but with automation. Behind his eyes he can still see the fiery blast billowing out, over and over.

[Grognardsw]

As Robert Drummond walked downstairs he passed his sons Wally and Willis' room.

"Was that you yelling Dad?" asked Wally as he was getting dressed.

Then passed his daughter Donna's room.

"Good morning dear," said Betty as she released Rover the electric vacuum and it whirred past him. "Bad dream?"



Rob described his dream. "...and for a second there I thought everything had… well, had just blown up. Funny, isn't it? How a dream can be just so vivid sometimes."

Betty face suddenly looked stricken. "You too?" Her voice was astonished. "Why, Rob, I dreamed the same thing! Well, almost the same thing. I didn't actually hear anything. I dreamed that something woke me up, and then there was a sort of quick bang, and then something hit me on the head. And that was all. Maybe there really was some kind of explosion downtown. Maybe we heard it and it started us dreaming."

Sitting down for fresh coffee and eggs, over medium with dark buttered toast, Rob and Betty talked. "Phylis next door was showing me her new Arctica Freezer - it's so efficient and space-saving. Suzie in the garden club has one too. I think I want one, Rob. Our refrigerator freezer is too small to fit all the meat we need for our growing family."

"Your latest magazine came in the mail yesterday." She passed it to Rob.



"Well, there'll be an explosion down at your office if you don't get there soon," Betty said, pointing at the clock that read 7:40 am.

Rob went into his bedroom and showered. In the shower, punching the lukewarm-and-cologne he favored, Rob told himself that it had been a beaut of a dream. Still, bad dreams weren't unusual. In the past thirty years of H-bomb jitters, who had not dreamed of explosions?

Rob got dressed in his grey flannel suit, gathered his files into his brief case.

The architect said his goodbyes to the family, got in his new 1955 Lincoln Futura

and drove to the bus station where he took the 57 to downtown.

Coming in on the bus, Rob watched critically out the window, seeking evidence of an explosion. There wasn't any. If anything, Middletown looked better than it ever had before: It was a beautiful crisp day, the sky was cloudless, the buildings were clean and inviting.

The only strange thing Rob noticed was that none of the usual crowd was on the bus. He was a little relieved when he spotted his old pal Henry Sanderson get up and move toward the front.

"Excuse me," Sanderson said without recognition, moving past Rob.

[Starbeard]

"Well what's wrong with the freezer we have, dear? Is it really that small? You know we're saving up for that car of yours, if we replace the freezer unit it'll have to come out of the car allowance or this year's vacation."

Though Rob is only half paying attention to conversation. His mind is still distracted by the dream—and apparently Betty's dream too—and now by the mesmerizing cover of his Mechanix Illustrated. Are we really that close? he wonders. The thought of future homes and scientific progress sends a jolt of consumer's optimism to his mood. "Energy efficient, you say? Well our electric bill sure could use the help, and that freezer's noisy as a freight train too. Oh, hang it. Tell you what: your birthday is coming up, I'll be sure to talk to the gift fairy about it." He gives her a peck on the lips to seal the deal and runs upstairs to get ready.

A goodbye kiss later he is out the door to start the car, back in with a dash to grab the forgotten magazine and another kiss, and finally off to work.

On the bus…
"Hi, Harry!" His friend gives no recognition. "Say, Harry, you ought to hear about the dream I had last night. You wouldn't believe it, but Betty had… Harry? Hank?" He places himself in front of his friend's view. "Hey pal, are you alright? Everything okay?"

[Grognardsw]

"Pardon me sir," replied Henry. "Sorry, I don't believe we've met." He moved hurriedly forward in the bus. "If you'll excuse me, this is my stop."

Perplexed, Rob watched Henry quickly exit the bus.



Several stops later the bus stopped at the corner of Fifth and Lehigh, the location of Rob's building. The futuro-deco style 26-story building housed a half-dozen companies, the largest being Kuttner Kornbluth and Randall, an advertising agency, and Rob's own architecture firm Silverberg, Bradbury & Vance (SB&V). The bus pulled away with an electric hum.



In the lobby of the building Rob stopped off at the cigar and newstand in the lobby to pick up his twice-weekly pack of Chesterfield cigarettes. Ralph the usual clerk wasn't there.

"Would you like to try these new Westboroughs?" asked the unfamiliar clerk as Rob put his Chesterfields on the counter.

[Starbeard]

Rob looks around, as if checking for another newsstand in the lobby. "Uh, no thanks. What sort of world would this be if we didn't keep brand loyalty, right? Just ask the fellas at KK&R upstairs." He chuckles a little too enthusiastically, and realizes that his small talk is a nervous attempt to sweep away the weird pit growing cold inside him, like a sort of vertigo of the mind.

"Say, kid, where's Ralph? Isn't this his usual day?" He breaks the pack and lights a Chesterfield right there. He notices his hands shaking a little, but quickly reasons that he'll just blame coffee jitters if anyone asks. He looks around the lobby to see if he recognizes anybody.

[Grognardsw]

“Certainly, sir," the clerk said of Rob's Chesterfields. “They put a smile in your smoking after all.”

Rob had seen the ubiquitous Chesterfield ads as well.

"Ralph is out sick. He should be back tomorrow. Do try these, sir," he suggested. "They contain an anti-cough factor. Ever notice how ordinary cigarettes make you choke every once in a while?"

Rob had not heard of the new brand. As he took a draw on the cigarette, Rob looked around and didn't see anyone he knew.

"Look, try them out free at my risk,” the clerk continued. “If you like them, buy a pack this week.”

He handed Rob the Chesterfields and the Westboroughs.

The elevator door opened with a low-pitched sound of music. Rob and four others got in and they nodded to each other as the door closed. The thread of music switched off and the speaker in the ceiling of the cab began its usual commercials.

No, not the usual commercials, Rob realized. He had been exposed to the captive-audience commercials (many he suspected from KKR, probably in a deal with the landlord) for so long that they hardly registered on the outer ear any more, but what was coming from the recorded program caught his attention. It wasn't merely that the brands were mostly unfamiliar; it was a difference in pattern.

There were jingles with an insistent, bouncy rhythm, about soft drinks he had never tasted. There was a rapid patter dialogue between what sounded like two ten-year-old boys about a candy bar, followed by an authoritative bass rumble: "Go right out and get a DELICIOUS Choco-Burst and eat your TANGY Choco-Burst all up. That's Choco-Burst!"

Then a man announced: “Men, are your wives happy with their current freezers? Need more space, better energy savings, less freezer burn? Try Arctica Freezers!” Followed by a female whine: "I wish I had an Arctica Freezer! I'd do anything for an Arctica Freezer!"

Rob reached his floor and left the elevator in the middle of the last commercial. It left him a little uneasy. The commercials were not for familiar brands; there was no feeling of use and custom to them.



But the office was happily normal—except that Mr. Silverberg wasn't in. His secretary Ms. Horn, doing her nails at the reception desk, didn't know why. "His home phoned, that's all. He'll be in tomorrow."

Rob realized that it was July 19 and today Mr. Silverberg was suppose to give the final sign off on the big Nebula building project.

Ms. Horn had a striking new hairstyle this morning.

[Starbeard]

"I like the new hair, Ms. Horn. It suits." Rob realized that he still held both packs of cigarettes in his hand, and moved to put them in his coat pocket after first retrieving a Chesterfield. He caught himself mid-pull and, after a brief calculating pause, impulsively retrieved a Westborough instead. "Say, Ms. Horn, you haven't had one of these before, have you? The kid downstairs just handed me a pack, says they have some new kind of 'anti-choking factor' in them. You know how some cigarettes will make you choke now and then?"

He drew the cigarette in and looked around. "You're sure Mr. Silverberg didn't mention anything else? He's supposed to sign off on the Nebula project today. Crummy timing to call in sick." He absently hummed the Arctica jingle while collecting his memorandums and papers from Ms. Horn.

"Anything else I ought to know? Please tell me the TV studio called to say the President sprained his ankle and canceled SB&V's golf game."

[Grognardsw]

Rob chatted with Ms. Horn as he walked into his office.

The architect felt comfortable in his office, everything as it should be.

“Why thank you Mr. Phillips,” said Ms. Horn, her hand brushing back a hair. “I’m so glad you noticed. Why yes, I smoke Westboroughs. They’re so smooth. No, Mr. Silverberg didn’t mention any details.”

At the doorway to Rob’s office, Ms. Horn looked though her pink message pad. “Mr. Aldiss from Otis Elevator called. Mr. Wells from the Middletown zoning commission. And Mr. Brunner from HR.” She handed Rob the pink pieces of paper.

Ms. Horn smiled her alluring smile. “And no, sorry, it looks like the golf game is still on for this weekend." As she turned to go she added: "Is there anything more I can do for you Mr. Phillips?”

[Starbeard]

"Really?" he asked of the Westboroughs. "How long has this brand been around? I never heard of them. Come to think of it, I never heard of just about any of the products I've seen today. Choco-burst? What kind of a candy bar is that?" The last muttering was more for himself than anything else.

Ms. Horn asked if he needed anything else. She probably had to get back to work. "No, no I don't think so. Thanks." Rob walked over to his office and stopped at the threshold. "Well—just one thing. Gee, this must sound really funny, but … you didn't happen to hear about any big explosions last night, did you?"

A concussion, perhaps? Maybe I've got some minor, temporary amnesia, that's why nothing seems familiar. If this keeps up I'll have Ms. Horn phone a doctor.

Rob settled into the office for the day: he threw his notes atop the desk and arranged them in just the right order, then hung his coat and hat and replaced his grey double-breasted jacket with the more comfortable olive single-breasted office tweed he always kept in the closet. Knowing that Silverberg would be out, and not expecting any office calls from clients, Rob even kicked off his shoes and donned the soft-lined leather loafers he kept handy for just such days.

"Alrighty. What we have here?" It was the same thing he said to himself every morning when first sitting down at the desk. Going over his schedule aloud was always helpful. "Aldis from Otis. Wells from Middletown Zoning… let's save that for last, and after another pot of coffee. Brunner from HR? Well that could be important, better get that out of the way first."

He buzzes the front room. "Ms. Horn? If you aren't busy, could you get Mr. Brunner in HR on the line? I can wait."

[Grognardsw]

Ms. Horn looked thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose I've been smoking Westboroughs now for two weeks. I don't know how long they've been around. I try to stay away from Choco-Bursts; I have to keep my figure you know." She smiled demurely. "And no, I didn't hear any explosions last night."

After settling into his office, Rob was connected to Mr. Brunner in HR. Rob knew him as an overweight jovial man who filled the "people person" role well.

"Hi Rob! How are things? How's the family? Just wanted to have a quick word. Old man Bradbury, he has a niece who just graduated from college. A Radcliffe girl, smart cookie. He wants to give her break. I know you're between secretaries (laughing in some knowing way that Rob wasn't following), and well Ms. Horn can only juggle so many balls (again the laughter) between you and Silverberg. So we were thinking you could take on Becky. Show her the ropes you know."

Love the tweed jacket and loafers for the office

[Starbeard]

"Uh, well gosh Brunner, let me think about it." Rob blew out his cheeks to intimate aurally having to weigh a heavy decision.

"I don't mind having a new girl in, but the timing isn't great. We're right in the middle of a big project, and I've already got everything just the way I like it. —Tell you what: anyone with that old Bradbury gumption is obviously always welcome here, just as long as she understands that I might not have much for her to do these first few weeks. When can she come in?"

After the call with Brunner, he went through his other calls, while doodling fanciful ideas for the futuristic space houses he so often enjoyed making, even though the others at the office ribbed him for it.

Thanks, it came to me when I randomly and unexpectedly tried picturing how Mr. Rogers would have worked in an office.

[Grognardsw]

“Yes, yes of course,” replied Brunner. “I know how it is. We can have her start in two weeks then. That way you won’t have her in your hair (increasingly annoying laughter). Thanks Rob! Bradbury will be pleased.”

Rob worked through the morning, his focus on the business of architecture distracting him from his earlier mental discomforts. He often tried to clear his schedule of administrative matters first, so that after lunch he could focus on the more creative part of his job.

Mr. Aldiss at Otis Elevator informed Rob that specs for the new Skylift 2000 had been sent. This was the newest elevator technology with integrated “voice response” computers, allowing riders to verbally state their desired floor. One could pick any number of women voices for the “program.” Aldiss said “Veronique,” the sultry French voice, was proving very popular. Customers enjoyed hearing her say “going down.” And not having the ever-present elevator operators was a big cost savings.

Mr. Wells at the Middletown Zoning Board had bad news. New code specifications would require a one-foot build out on the sub-basement shafts for the Xavier mansion project. While only 12”, it would be a costly and time consuming change that would put the project over budget. Mr. Wells suggested that perhaps they discuss the matter.

Having worked with Mr. Wells many times in the past, Rob knew that “discussing the matter” meant an evening at the Seventh Heaven Club for drinks, cigars and entertainment. The private club was well known by executives for its ample and varied entertainments. Mr. Wells particularly enjoyed the entertainment called Daisy. The cost would be a hell of a lot less than a redesign. Such were the wheels of business greased.

Rob had a two-martini lunch with Max Gibson, a fellow architect with an ever-present five-o'clock shadow. They talked of his Grant & Cranston project, the rumored goings-on at other firms, and Gibson’s divorce after his continuing affair with his secretary Ms. Lane.

After lunch, Rob turned to his drafting desk and lost himself in design matters. Before he knew it was 5:00 pm.

“Have a nice evening Mr. Phillips,” said Ms. Horn on her way out.

[Starbeard]

"Boy, what a day! Goodnight, Ms. H—" Wait a second. Rob looked around the office for anyone else. "Mr. Phillips?" He looks behind himself almost comically. "Yeah… yeah, goodnight."

Alone in his office, Rob nervously pulls out his wallet and checks his driver's license.

Well done, that was an honest delayed double take!

[Grognardsw]

Those ditzy secretaries. She must have confused Rob with Rog Phillips down the hall.

Rob left work and took the bus home. Again, he didn't see the usual crowd on the bus. He brooded about his day. It wasn't anything bad per se, just... off. The routine network of impressions, people and reactions one expects every day hadn't been there. The bus pulled into the station and Rob got into his car, lit a smoke, and drove the ten minutes to his home.



Pulling up, Rob took pride in the house that he designed. He pulled into the two-car garage, having to move the boys' bikes to do so. They never remembered to put them off to the side.

"Hi honey!" Betty greeted him in the kitchen as Rob came in. Rob liked how Betty looked just as fresh and perky - in her dress, apron and high heels - in the evening as she did in the morning. "How was your day?"

She pecked him on the cheek and handed him a martini. "Remember we have bridge tonight with the Fennermans."

[Starbeard]

"Hi, honey! You look beautiful," Rob said, returning the peck on the cheek. "Oh right, it's bridge night. The Fennermans won't know what hit them!" He ignored her question and insisted on hearing about her day and the kids before summarizing his own. He had tried to make a habit of that in the past couple of weeks, after listening to a radio church address about the Science of Good Living and putting others first. Only after he had redressed himself in a pastel casual sweater and house loafers, hatless and martini in hand, comfortably inhabiting Dad's Chair that stood proudly at the head of the informal family room, did he talk about his day at work.

"It wasn't a bad day, just… I dunno, a little off. You know, honey, when nothing seems to align. Like you can't quite focus and everything just seems a little distant and fuzzy around the edges. Normal things you probably see everyday, but you hardly recognize them. Like, take the ads, for instance. I work in a building that's inundated with advertisements, and I couldn't hardly place a single one of them all day. I didn't recognize a face on the bus"—Rob suddenly snapped his fingers in revelation and sat upright, inadvertently swallowing his olive—"and you know what's something else, people kept not recognizing me! Henry Sanderson looked right at me on the bus—I mean right at me—and thhwpp, walked right on like he'd never seen me before in his life. And Ms. Horn at the office kept mistaking me for Rob Phillips down the hall." Rob chuckled and finished his martini.

"Anyway, it wasn't all bad. It looks like I'll finally get a look at the new voice-activated elevator systems. And they'll be giving me my own secretary in a couple of weeks, one of the bosses' nieces. Oh! That reminds me…" Rob grabbed the notepad off of the lamp stand next to his chair and penned out a reminder to himself. "I need to arrange a dinner meeting with Mr. Wells from the Zoning Board as soon as I get into the office tomorrow. I guess the new building code will force us to redesign the Xavier mansion, but if I can make him laugh enough then maybe he'll cut us some slack. I think that means I'll be home late on that day, sweetie."

[Grognardsw]

"Oh, I'm so sorry dear," said Betty, nodding her head enthusiastically at Rob's account of his unusual day. "But I recognize you." She laid a hand demurely - perhaps even suggestively - on his leg, then removed it quickly as little Wally ran into the room.

"Hi Daddy!" he yelled. "Look at what I drew today!"

Wally held up a scrawled drawing of a rocket ship landing on a red planet. "It's Mars!"

"Do you need me to join you for that business dinner with Mr. Wells?" asked Betty. For those times when wives were trotted out, Betty was a skilled social asset. She had made Vance laugh hard at the company barbecue last July, and got along quite well with Silverberg's wife Karen.

Rob looked through the day's mail as Betty put dinner on the table. He noticed a new catalog from Hardwick's, a clothier that he liked.

"Dinner everyone!" Betty yelled. Rob stopped pondering the metric measurements of the Moon Maid as Donna, Willis and Wally came down to the table. The Drummond family enjoyed their meal together. They talked of school and upcoming weekend sports.

That evening at the Fennermans, Rob and Betty enjoyed the good company of their long-time friends Anne and Sam. Though Anne seemed to be in a mood, complaining about not being able to get good phone service and the disgusting variety of television commercials these day. Sam seemed to be drinking more than usual. Rob and Betty won the bridge game.

The Drummonds got home at 11:15 pm, paid the babysitter, and went to bed. Betty was enthusiastic in performance of her wifely duty. As Rob glanced sleepily at the clock it showed 12:00 midnight, and he fell promptly asleep...

Robert Drummond woke up screaming from a nightmare of unseen explosions.

"Darling, what is it! What's worng?" Betty said with concern, lying next to Rob in bed. "You gave me such a shock."

Light shone through the window. It was morning.

[Starbeard]

(Sorry for the delay! The domestic juggle has gotten a little hectic lately, and I'm afraid I haven't gotten to my games as soon as I'd have liked)

Rob tussled Wally's hair proudly. "Wowie, Wally, that's a beaut! But I think your forgot to add the canals! You'll need to memorize that canal system if you plan on going to Mars when you grow up."

"Err, it's probably best if you stayed home on this one, dear," he explained to Betty. "Wells is, well…" he caught himself and looked around to ensure that none of the kids were near. "Alright, the man's a sleaze ball." He spat it out under his breath with an apologetic shrug. "He's got a habit of making his partners' wives… uncomfortable, if you know what I mean. And he talks with his mouth full! With this big gap between his front teeth, drawing you in like a fishing lure to stare at whatever got caught there. I guess he's just one of those people you gotta put up with in business. Trust me, the quieter and quicker I can pay his drink tab and get those papers signed, the better."

At the bridge game, Rob found himself agreeing animatedly with Anne about television commercials, and recounted his episode of what he finally came to describe as ad vertigo at work earlier that day. He argued the phone point, insisting that as direct dialing swept through more and more cities, telephone woes would soon be a problem of the barbaric past.

Drifting off to sleep, Rob made a mental note to schedule bridge nights with the Fennermans more often.

Waking violently the next morning, Rob grasped for the glass of water on his bedside stand. "I just had that dream again, Betty. Same exact thing as last time. It feels burned in my head, I can still see it right in front of me." Then he remembered she had a similar dream as well. "How about you? Did you dream the same thing again too?"

[Grognardsw]

"Dream? Why no darling I didn't," said Betty. "I had a dream yesterday? Rob, you're mistaken. I don't remember any dream yesterday. Maybe you dreamed I had a dream."

Betty got up and adjusted her nightgown in the mirror.

"You better get dressed dear. It's July 19. Don't you need to get the sign-off today on that big project?"

[Starbeard]

"No, no, it's the 20th. I already got everything under wraps yesterday." Rob sat up on the side of his bed listening to his wife's explanation, still as stone. "No really, stop pulling my leg. Don't you remember, dear? And we played bridge with the Fennermans last night, and you know how peppy that always makes you when we get home," he winked, easing back into the comfortable security of his memory. Still nothing. "Betty, well—gosh honey, did I dream that too? That can't have been, it was so… so real, and bland—no, not you dear! I mean, well, not that, just…—you know what I mean, it wasn't like a dream at all! I remember every phone call, I—I remember how many times I sharpened my pencil. Go ahead, ask me: four. And the third time I had to sharpen it twice because the nib kept getting stuck in the roller."

He checked the calendar just in case, but the morning was squarely soured for Rob. He kept to his usual routine and remained outwardly jovial, but his fatherly mutterings had taken a cynical edge. "What kind of a dream is that, anyway? And who's in charge of dreams these days? I oughta talk to that guy."