Cities in Flight

On an impulse, he stopped at a station that he knew and called for an aircab, partly, he assured himself, to see whether or not the City Fathers still considered that service worth maintaining at this stage in the city’s long death. In due course one came, to the obvious delight of the children, leaving Amalfi with the rueful realization that his had not been a fair test; a million years from now, with the last ergs of energy remaining in the pile, the City Fathers would of course still send a cab for the mayor; if he wanted to know whether or not the entire garage was still alive, he would have to ask the City Fathers directly.

But Web and Estelle were so delighted at soaring through the silent canyons of the city in the metal and crystal bubble, and in exploring the limited and very respectful repartee of the Tin Cabby, that they fell entirely off their precarious adolescent dignity with squeals of laughter, alternating with gasps of not very real alarm as the cab cut around corners and came close to grazing the structures of the city which familiarity had worn smooth to the point of contempt inside the Tin Cabby’s flat little black box of a brain. It was, in a way, a shame that, as the cab cut around corners and came close to grazing the youngsters were unable to make out, even had they known where to look for it, the graven letters of the city’s ancient motto— MOW YOUR LAWN, LADY?— if only for the sense it might have given them of the reason why Okie cities once flew; but the motto had become unreadable a long time ago, as its meaning had become obliterated soon after. Only the memory remained to remind Amalfi that were the city ever to go aloft again—which, suddenly, he did not even believe—it would not be for the purpose of mowing lawns for hire; there were no more; that was all over and done with.

The control room in City Hall muted the children considerably, as well it might, for no one much below the age of a century had ever been allowed in it before, and the many screens which lined its walls had seen events in a history unlikely to be matched for drama (or even simple interest) in any imaginable future saga of New Earth. In this dim stagnant-smelling room the very man who was with them now had watched the rise and fall of a galaxy-dominating race—of which, to be sure, these children were genetically a part, but whose inheritors they could never be; history had passed them by.

“And don’t touch anything,” Amalfi said. “Everything in this room is alive, more or less. We’ve never had the time to disarm the city totally; I’m not even sure we’d know how to go about it now. That’s why it’s off limits. You’d better come stand behind me, Web and Estelle, and watch what I do; it’ll keep you out of reach of the boards.”

“We won’t touch anything,” Web said fervently.

“I know you won’t, intentionally. But I don’t want any accidents. Better you learn how to run the board from scratch; come stand right here—you too, Estelle—and call your grandfather’s house for me. Touch the clear plastic bar—that’s it, now wait for it to light up. That lets the City Fathers know that you want to talk to somebody outside the city; that’s very important; otherwise they’d give you a long argument, believe you me. Now you see the five little red buttons just above the bar; the one you touch is number two; four and five are ultraphone and Dirac lines, which you don’t need for a local call. One and three are inside trunk lines, which is why they’re not lit up. Go ahead, push it.”

Web touched the glowing red stud tentatively. Over his head, a voice said: “Communications.”

“Now it’s my turn,” Amalfi said, picking up the microphone. “This is the mayor. Get me the city manager, crash priority.” He lowered the microphone and added, “That requires the Communications section to scan for your grandfather along all of the channels on which he’s known to be available, and send him a ‘call-in’ signal wherever he may be; New Earth Hospital has much the same call-in system for its doctors.”

“Can we hear him being called?” Estelle said.

“Yes, if you like,” Amalfi said. “Here, take the microphone, and put your finger on the two-button as Web did. There.”

“Communications,” the invisible speaker again said briskly.

“Say, ‘Reprise, please’,” Amalfi whispered.

“Reprise, please,” the girl said.

Immediately the air of the ancient room was filled with a series of twittering pure tones and chords, as though every shadow hid a bird with a silver throat. Estelle almost dropped the microphone; Amalfi took it from her gently.

“Machines don’t call for people by name,” he explained. “Only very complicated machines, like the City Fathers, are able to speak at all; a simple computer like the Communications section finds it easier to use musical tones. If you listen a while, you’ll begin to hear a kind of melody; that’s the code for Web’s grandfather; the harmonies represent the different places where the computer is looking for him.”