A couple days after the new year began, I took the Searoad Line north toward the city of Paxlight from the southern Centon Station near Sunmount. My father, having believed me when I stressed the seriousness of my commitment to a political career, had telephoned for his man at Cabinet and explained that he had a bright young son who was willing to do almost anything in order to get his foot in the door. Less than forty-eight hours later, through mechanisms I was not entirely privy to, an arrangement was made and a job offer for a position in Archcove was presented.
True to what my father had warned that night in the tavern, it was the lowly job of assistant to an assistant. The pay was hardly anything, and I wouldn’t have even been able to afford to live in Archcove if my parents hadn’t arranged to get me an apartment. I suppose I could have lived at a single men’s hall, the way Tom was planning on living at the Guild Hall in Paxlight while he worked at the Army Engineering Labs. It all sounded a bit stuffy and smelly and cramped to me. Besides, not being a descendant of artisans, I wasn’t eligible for membership in that fraternal organization. So, an apartment had been found, and all the plans had been arranged for me to finally move away from home.
Speaking of Tom, I knew that he was in Paxlight, and I knew that he had escorted Violet to Archcove or somewhere near it just a few days prior. I should have liked to take the train north with them, but there were two good reasons why that hadn’t occurred.
The first, as I said, was that I had needed time at home to make sure I really did have a job and confirm all the practical arrangements. The second was that I was strongly inclined to travel first class, as my father allowed and my mother recommended.
It was my preference, not because of the amenities so much, but because of the interesting conversations one would hear in the first class carriage. I justified to myself that the extra cost of the ticket would be worth it just for the chance of picking up on some gossip or political intrigue that might give me an edge at Cabinet. This, of course, was fanciful, but it made me feel better as I wrote a check for the money to cover the ticket.
I knew Tom and Violet, for their part, would have been nestled comfortably in each other’s arms in second class. It would have been presumptuous for me to buy a place in their box, and it would have been awkward to buy a first class ticket and then walk back and forth between the rattling carriages just to say hello and goodbye a few times more.
So here I sat, alone in an armchair facing forward, as the proud locomotive chugged forward in gleaming midday sun. Some odd little electric box passed by on the neighboring line and I paid it little notice. Lunch that day was a fish fillet with green beans served on a porcelain plate and included in the price of the ticket. I sometimes worried to myself that I might reach a portly weight just from taking advantage of all the free meals that came with various high-class accommodations. I felt the need to indulge in them all—and the free drinks too—just to get my money’s worth. So far, a rotund figure had not found me, and I remained trim.
Finishing my plate, I slid it to the far end of the small table where I was seated. Then I removed my napkin from my collar, folded it into a diamond, and lay it on top. There was a certain ceremony, an order to these things, to show the waiter you were done. It was a wordless dance between you two, and when you did it right everything was smooth.
Most of the other passengers in the car on that trip were older, either single men or men with their wives. Almost all were sleeping. There was something about the midday sun and the rock of the train that turned all of them into babies in the crib. There had been a shift change right at noon, and the mimosa I had ordered to accompany my meal was brought out not by a man but a young, slim waitress in a skirt, blouse, jacket, and heels.
I was astonished to see her, a shapely hourglass in her little rouge uniform. Her hair was a bob like a pageboy, and she had a button nose and a sweet smile and couldn’t have been any older than me.
“I can’t believe you can balance in those things on a moving train,” I said, watching her approach. My eyes started at her little feet as she caught her balance, then worked their way up until they found her eyes.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, “and apologies for the delay on your drink.”
I traded a ten-gildnote bill for the glass, which was perhaps an excessive tip. I hoped she’d see it as a token of affection as much as thanks for her service. “No problem at all,” I said. “Are you from Paxlight?”
“Not initially, sir,” said the waitress, standing above me. I very much liked to have a woman stand above me. “But I live there now. I’m from Archcove.”
“Oh, that’s where I’m going,” I said, sitting up with excitement. “I’m moving to Archcove for work.”
The train jolted on a bump as we passed through farm fields, and I watched her instinctively shoot a hand out to grab for the brass side railing.
“Here, sit with me,” I said, motioning to the armchair opposite. It was a gesture of mercy to spare her from nearly falling again and again. It was also an invitation to lessen our formality.
I saw her glance back at the kitchen car, probably to see if a stern boss was watching. Then she sat across from me.
“I can for a minute.”
“Swell,” I said, grinning. “I’m Jack. I’m going into politics, you see, so it’s important for me to know the lay of the land. I’m not from Eastwall.”
“Oh, I know,” she said with a little bit of a smirk. It felt like lightning jolting through my cheeks to see her business-like demeanor break into the creases of a smile.
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Everyone from Eastwall just calls the city Pax,” said the waitress, referring to the grand and haughty mid-island prefecture that boasted both Paxlight and Archcove.
“Ah, Pax,” I said. “Thanks for the tip. Say, it’s unusual for a woman to work on a train, no?”
The waitress nodded like she had heard this a few times before. “Yes, but Mr. Laycross wants Eastwall Rail Group to have all the feeling of a Far West luxury rail line, so he made a point to hire male and female attendants starting in ’32.”
I nodded. “You get that question a lot, I’m sensing. Laycross, he’s a good chap. We summered at his place in Willow Bay in ’26. Ah, I suppose I sound like the worst sort of low-born merchant brat, don’t I?”
“Not the worst by any means, sir,” she said, in a way that made me wonder what other sort of vile creatures she was dealing with up here in first class. Eager to keep things light and amiable, I unfolded a letter and handed it to her.
“Take a look at that address and tell me if that neighborhood’s rotten,” I said. “That’s the apartment I found last week in the Archcove Gazette when I decided I wanted to start at Cabinet Hall.”
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
“You can just decide to work at Cabinet Hall?” the waitress asked. She didn’t mean me particularly, but rather one in general.
“If your test scores are good enough,” I said. I didn’t have the heart to give her the truth about how the world works, all chums and phone calls.
She skimmed the letter, which included a clipping of the listing. “This is a good apartment,” she said. “There’s a bakery under it. My friends and I used to get spoon cakes there.”
I couldn’t take it slow anymore. I knew at any moment she could be called away and I would lose my chance to really get to know this lovely young thing with a real career job. I could just see the way my hand would fit under the side of her bob as I caressed her ear and picked her up by the waist. I imagined her skin would be hot, perhaps slightly salted with sweat, from all the difficult balancing.
Making a move to check my wristwatch, I smiled. “I have a few hours in Pax before my connection to Archcove if you’d like to show me the town.”
She put her hands on the arms of her chair and stood, not looking cross but nevertheless a bit reserved in a way I couldn’t understand. “I should check on the other patrons, sir,” she said. “Enjoy your visit to Pax and your new apartment.”
I held no ill will toward the girl for the rejection, and I still tipped her well for a coffee right before the train pulled in. Who knew what personal life or odd tastes might have been keeping her from a rendezvous? It wasn’t anything about me or my shortcomings, I was certain.
I connected on a regional train to Archcove, deciding not to bother with the clamor of the streetcars and cable cars. It was a fast train, an electric train, and before the sun had even touched the water I was there on the east side of the island we call Paxana.
We had received instructions by telegraph on how I should get myself into the apartment, because the landlady wouldn’t be available to meet me until near dusk. Doing as the telegraph commanded, I let myself in and strolled around this empty corner unit, gazing out on the docks and the pretty little roofs of eastern Archcove.
Though Archcove did not bear the namesake of our nation—that honor, of course, falling to Paxlight—it was the seat of government and seemed to be growing just as fast as anywhere on the globe. Although people in Pax were loath to admit it, it had left that sister city somewhat in the dust.
Beyond the docks I saw our luminous emperor’s own battle fleet at sea. At the time, I did not know the strike groups by heart. I could not have told you about the battleships Diamond and Deepshore, the carriers Bluebeast and Redcastle, the Safflower-class cruisers and the January-class destroyers that escorted them. I only knew that once upon a time the Far West powers had used great ships to push us around, and now we had great ships of our own and no Westerner would ever tell us how to run our lives again.
I had just completed my second circle of the empty apartment, wishing as I walked that I had been able to find a furnished one, when I heard the knock. Before I could answer, the old door of the unit swung open, hitting the opposite wall with a sound that made me jump. It was, I presumed, the landlady, a Mabel Netsman in her sixties, with a hunched and stubborn build.
“Oh, you startled me,” I said. “I was hoping it would be those damned movers with my things, pardon the language. Jack Clearwater. Thank you for the use of your apartment, Mrs. Netsman.”
She bowed to me and I bowed back. I’d been raised right enough to know my manners. “Honored, Mr. Clearwater,” she said, all politeness. “My husband said we shouldn’t rent to a young stag, but I assured him you’re well bred and won’t impugn the dignity of the building.”
Did I really seem like such a cad that this had to be the first thing out of her mouth? I wondered it to myself as I hurried to find a self-effacing joke. “No, of course. I do all my dignity-impugning out on the town.”
To me this was a crack remark, but she didn’t seem to laugh in the slightest. So I paused for an awkward moment and then went on. “And I’ll be so busy with work, ma’am, you won’t even know a man lives here. My mother’s name is Mabel too, funny thing.”
“If you have any trouble,” said the stern woman, “I trust you’ll let me know.”
I sensed she was about to leave again without so much as a chat. Her lack of hospitality had me suddenly feeling a little lost. I wasn’t used to being on my own without a mother or a mother figure around to help me with the little things.
“Would you happen to know where I could find a couple more suits?” I asked, in a bid for some attention and guidance. “Can’t be wearing the same old gray into Cabinet Hall five days a week.”
“There’s a department store two blocks west. Is that all?” the woman said, curt.
“Yes, well, I mean, what else would there be?” I was struggling to converse in a way that wouldn’t seem to annoy her further. “Should there be? I wouldn’t know. Thank you for having me again.”
I bowed and she departed. The next week, I started my job at Cabinet Hall wearing a sharp navy suit in the latest Western style that I had indeed picked up at the department store on Miss Netsman’s recommendation. It was only upon arriving at the administrative pool that I realized everyone else was in brown or gray.
My direct supervisor was the Assistant to the Master Secretary, a tall and slim man with a thin mustache named Edmund Depper, who seemed close to thirty and very bitter about it. I could only assume that he'd expected better things than being an assistant, even a high-powered one, at an age when so many were having their third or fourth child.
He met me with an air of displeasure, which seemed leftover from whatever he'd been doing that morning. "Come with me," he said, and I followed him in a brisk stride through an open floor of men working with phones, typewriters, and notebooks. There were files scattered everywhere, thousands at least, all open or stored in heavy stacks.
Edmund Depper, I found, was a clear speaker, and I appreciated that. It made it possible to understand him even as he walked quickly and faced away from me. "We do not use type girls at Cabinet Hall, Mr. Clearwater," he told me. "They can't get security passes, so we do all our own typing and notes."
I was doing my best to take in the culture of the floor as I followed my man. No one, I noticed, was wearing a pocket square. That would be a simple enough change to make to blend in. With a sly gesture, I removed my own and hid it in the pocket of my trousers. All the while, I kept pace with Depper. "No problem," I said.
"You will need impeccable shorthand and longhand. How are they now?"
"Excellent," I told him.
"They could always be better. Buy the 122-88 Paxanan Handwriting Guidebooks and drill."
As he said this, we arrived at an office marked: ‘Assistant to the Master Secretary Edmund Depper.’
"This is my office," he said, although it was fairly obvious from the plaque. "I have a telephone line to the Master Secretary. His office is up the hall. If someone comes to you with an urgent matter for the MS, who do you go to?"
I was so flustered by everything he was throwing at me that I did not at first pick up on MS being Master Secretary. After another second, it all clicked.
"You, sir," I told him.
"Me." He nodded. It seemed like that had been a quiz, and I had answered to his liking. "I'm like the liver of the Office of the Master Secretary. I filter out all the waste before it reaches the bloodstream. It's not glamorous, but it's crucial. Do not go directly to Master Secretary Knollblum."
"Except in an emergency," I offered.
Edmund Depper shook his head negative. "You don't know how to tell what's a real emergency yet. Everyone acts like every little thing is an emergency."
That made sense to me, and I fell in line. cc"Understood."
He seemed to switch modes, coming in closer to me and pressing a finger into my chest. "You should know, Clearwater, I'll be evaluating your conduct strictly on its merits, with no outside political consideration."
By this, it seemed, he meant to allude to my father. "Good," I told him.
"Is it?" Depper asked.
I stood tall. "That's the only way I'd want it."
Again, I seemed to have pleased Depper in my response. He softened, like he'd been expecting to hate me and now realized I was not quite as rotten as he’d feared. "Good," he said. "Then maybe we'll get along."
