Future Man

Chapter 1

ODD BIRDS

November 25, 2003. The sky is cloudless. It’s been like that all morning, allowing the Hudson River to show off its many shades of deep greens and dark browns. An old barge moves slowly upriver. Perched on it like a sleek bird on a branch is a Concorde, the only supersonic airliner ever to go into service. The river’s dull surroundings bring out the aircraft’s white silhouette even more, allowing it to be seen from miles away. Its destination is the Intrepid Sea, Air, & Space Museum. Hundreds of New Yorkers and tourists lining the shores contemplate the unusual cargo.

With his nose pressed to a fence, Vincent hopes to see it one last time, before the jetliner reaches its resting place. He can’t shake the frustration of never having gotten around to taking a flight in one. The tickets cost an absurd amount, but he never thought they’d be retired in such a hurry after decades of flawless service. A single accident seemed a paltry justification for impoverishing the skies forever.

Gazing at the airliner in the distance, still a quarter-mile away, Vincent thinks, There’s something else to this picture. More than meets the eye. But what?

He looks around at the people next to him, wondering what their motivations could be. Some are little more than curious bystanders, but others look excited to be in the right place at the right time to see the historic event.

This isn’t a parade, guys. It’s the closest it gets to a funeral procession. That’s it! This does feel like a funeral. It’s like they’re burying the future. Not that anyone cares. I’m not going to reveal that to them. What authority do I have anyway? It’s not like I’m an engineer.

Vincent had been made to feel foolish by experts before. But not today. Today, he’s just another anonymous face in the crowd. Anonymous sounds good.

Excuse me, somebody behind him says.

Vincent turns and sees a guy in a long coat. Yes?

Do we know each other? You look familiar.

I get that a lot. I don’t think so. I’m sorry.

What’s your name?

Here we go again. Vincent De Marcos.

The guy frowns. Nah! He walks away.

Anonymous would be good if it weren’t for his familiar face. Apparently, his dark-brown eyes and dark-brown hair are so common that people often mistake him for somebody else. After spilling his full name to perfect strangers, Vincent is usually treated with dismissing frowns and disappointed faces, as his name obviously means nothing to them. It’s a depressing reminder he gets from time to time of how little he means in the universe of things.

Still, it doesn’t take long for complete strangers to ask intrusive questions about his natural streak of grey hair and unnaturally pale face, the only features he has which he believes might distinguish him from any typical guy in his early twenties. People are also quick to say that he’s tense and obsessive. Perhaps his intensity and ability to focus could fairly be misinterpreted as such.

He’s startled by the screeching of tires. A Yellow Cab stops by the crowded fence and a tall, striking Mexican-American woman wearing tight yellow gym gear steps out. Vincent waves at her, smiling to himself as he notices her outfit and guesses she’s had no time to change. A couple of years younger than him, Nuria Guzman is one of the guys. Except, he amends, there are no other ‘guys’. Only Nuria.

After cutting through the crowd like a hot knife through butter, she arrives next to him.

Just in time, Nuria says with a heavy Mexican accent.

"Yes. Vistosa!" he says, playfully checking her out.

Eyes on the river, mister.

Vincent smiles and turns to the river. Not as close as I thought it’d be but as close as I’m ever going to get to it. The delta-wing airliner’s elegance makes it look like a bride in a white gown with squared, double-turbine intakes under her wings and massive outlets on her back. To reach supersonic speeds and prevent in-flight turbine shutdown, the plane’s intakes had to be mechanically fooled into believing the incoming air was subsonic. A feat of engineering still unmatched in commercial aviation.

The contrast between the old, dark barge and the embodiment of groundbreaking technology with stunning grace overwhelms him and brings a tear to his eye. He wipes it away and asks, What do you see?

Okay. I see a passenger airplane that can fly two times the speed of sound. Faster than a speeding bullet. After a thirty-year run, I feel it has earned its rest. What do you see?

I see the end of an era. It’s no longer possible to cross the Atlantic in under three hours. Distances have become longer. When was the last time something like that happened in transportation?

Don’t know. When?

Never in history. The technological wave that started in the twentieth century and gained momentum after World War II is dying down. Can’t you see it?

You’re such a geek!

Maybe. But I’m not the only one here.

Do I look like a geek?

You’re probably the best-looking geek in the world, he says with a chuckle.

I’ve heard the costs of keeping these babies flying were outrageous.

But that’s not all, Vincent says Apollo seventeen remains the most-recent manned flight beyond low-Earth orbit. The year was 1972. It’s been over three decades.

That’s true. And if you add that all means of transportation today, from cars to airliners and even spacecraft, rely on half-century-old concepts, most even more—

Yeah. As far as high-concept technologies go, it feels the world has come to a full stop.

In this case, it’s even going backward.

Vincent feels Nuria geekily syncing with him and confidently adds, This may seem irrelevant to most people, and it may be. But for humanity, it’s unnatural, naïve.

Isn’t it extremely presumptuous of us to think we’re the only or the first sort of intelligent life out there? she asks. Copernicus tried so hard to displace Earth from the center of the universe, but in most ways, humanity seems incapable of seeing it otherwise.

Meaning to tease her into a metaphor duel, a game they sometimes play, he says, We behave like a little fish that after coming out of its egg and swimming around and not finding anything in the vicinity assumes there’s only it and its kind in the ocean.

She smiles. People see only as far as their branches stretch out. Politicians may still care about their trees, but no one seems to be worrying about the forest or even considering there could be other forests. What if there’s a huge forest fire?

There’s no hiding from the future. And the world has stopped moving.

You win, she says.

Vincent notices her gaze going back to the airliner on the barge. The old boat still has a place in the world, but the Concorde apparently does not.

What would it take to get it moving again? The world, I mean, she asks.

I just don’t know. Perhaps someone will come around.

Someone?

Everything starts with someone.

An idealist like JFK? A brilliant scientist with a game-changing invention maybe? Or some A-list celebrity championing a cause?

It doesn’t matter. Anyone who would turn the tide, Vincent says.

News helicopters buzz around the airliner like flies over a carcass.

Chapter 2

UNFULFILLED PROMISE

Wednesday morning. Rush hour in downtown Wilmington, Delaware. On a bus, Vincent checks the time. He’s not late for work yet. The person sitting next to him gets up and exits the bus, leaving a pamphlet on the seat. It’s about the thirty-seventh anniversary of the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum. He’s thirty-seven. Beside a picture of the space shuttle Enterprise, it shows the Concorde. He recalls the graceful, supersonic airliner going upriver on the barge sixteen years earlier, and how odd the whole thing felt. The aircraft has aged well, though.

Vincent feels the years have also been kind to him even with the few extra pounds he has gained, mostly around the waist. He can still get away with it if he wears a black T-shirt under an unbuttoned shirt.

He gently puts the pamphlet down and notices the guy in front of him is holding the dernier cri in tablets. Even from where he’s sitting, he can see through its translucent screen, allowing for a multitude of augmented-reality apps. Not that he’s a stranger to these devices; he got to work with a prototype one time in a contest. But the guy in front of him is checking out an oldies-but-goldies sci-fi bundle. He sees Space 1999’s opening credits, a space station scene from Kubrick’s 2001, the 2010 spacewalk between spaceships scene, a Back to the Future 2 flying-car scene, and Blade Runner’s opening slug line, Los Angeles, 2019. That’s this year, he sadly realizes.

After getting off the bus at his stop, Vincent procrastinates a while, watching people around him going about the business. The show is uninspiring. He mutters, We have arrived at the future, ladies and gents. Welcome to the much-fabled twenty-first century! He sighs and walks toward the Rigor Insurance building across the street. His bread and butter. He passes an office boy running an errand. The guy looks miserable with his job and his life. Vincent’s head shakes. He can relate.

He looks up at the tall building in front of him, and with another silent sigh, he enters.

Inside, he feels his swollen belly and decides to take the stairs instead of the elevator. To be a fit leader, one has to climb a few stairs. And take the bus instead of the car once in a while.

As he passes the second floor, where people work in cubicles smaller than the rest, he notices one employee has two small photos clipped from magazines pinned to his cubicle wall. The space shuttle and Saturn. The ringed planet picture is bigger. The employee is on the phone, just like the guy sitting next to him and most of the others. Vincent moves on. One of his guys joins him. Forty-something years old, formally presented apart from an incongruous taper fade hairstyle. Ever since Vincent’s streak of grey hair appeared twenty-two years ago almost overnight, he’s been noticing other people’s hair.

So how was last week? Vincent asks.

Fine, Taper Fade says.

Oh no. He frowns. Again?

Vincent arrives at his desk next to the cubicles where his three subordinates work. Just another island in a vast, open-space archipelago. There’s an alien-looking, red bromelia plant in a vase on top of his desk along with a photo of Vera, Vincent’s younger sister, who still lives with the folks. She’s a cute brunette whose round face and puppy eyes usually take five years off her age in the mind of anyone who meets her. Next to it, there’s a half-spent notebook with the NASA logo he bought when he visited the Kennedy Space Center twenty years ago and a black, rocket-shaped pencil holder.

Instead of gazing at Cassini’s high-resolution images of Jupiter on his screensaver as he often does, Vincent goes straight to the weekly report on his desk. On top, handwritten, it reads Again! He skims through it and becomes more and more disappointed.

Moments later, in one of his floor’s meeting rooms, instead of sitting at the head of the table, Vincent sits next to it. Taper Fade, a young intern, and the oldest member in his team, a stern-looking woman in her fifties with an unbecoming granny hairdo come in and sit around him.

Vincent puts the report on the table. What happened?

They all look down.

Any calls about the insurance for that forty-footer? What was it called? Vincent asks.

Taper Fade answers, "The boat’s name is Love-You-Not, sir. And yes, the owner called again."

Yes, that was it. Romantic, huh?

His staff chuckles.

What was the call about?

He wanted to know if we’d set a premium for his boat insurance, Madam Stern answers.

I believe sales sent those figures last week. Did I forget to forward them to you? Vincent asks. Now the guy runs his speedboat into a pier in Miami and he’s holding us responsible for not having it ready in time. He has no case, but still, he’s a client, a good one.

You did send those figures to us. But our intern was supposed to check them against the system’s simulator, Taper Fade says, pointing at the intern.

Do you have access to the system’s simulator? Vincent asks the intern.

I do, but, well, she always does it for the boats, and I had to gather the data for the regional reports, the intern says, pointing at Madam Stern.

Madam Stern puts her hand up. She wants to explain herself. With a tense smile, he waves, politely signaling her to wait.

He asks the intern, Do you think that if she trains you for, say, two days on the simulator, you’ll be comfortable with it next time we’re asked for insurance quotes overnight?

Sure! the intern answers.

Vincent nods to Taper Fade and to Madam Stern, confirming the whole thing. They return sincere smiles.

A familiar squeaking noise invades the room. Someone outside is struggling with the doorknob. Vincent gets up and opens it. It’s Duvall, his boss, a man in his sixties, short, bulky, and partially bald but without a single white hair to show for his age. He dyes what’s left of it.

Vincent, can I talk to you in private? he asks.

Of course sir.

His subordinates leave.

Samuel liked you. I liked him. Six weeks ago, he promotes you to team leader and then leaves the company. Personally, I think it does more harm than good to people’s self-esteem when afterward you have to tell them it was a mistake, Duvall says.

Vincent exhales. He’s worried.

Duvall continues. This issue, concerning the forty-foot powerboat, went all the way up. I mean, it’s a two-million-dollar boat. The guy has to be friends with somebody on the board. They always are.

My team has been getting thinner and thinner by the month. I feel—

It’s your job to take care of it, Duvall barks.

It’s no use explaining. It’s been taken care of, sir. It won’t happen again, Vincent says.

Look, we both know that some people are born to be leaders and that it’s possible for a lucky few to grow into leaders. Sometimes, you have fresh angles on things. The app your team developed for our annual innovation contest a couple of years back earned you a few credits, but these devices are coming out only now, so there was no actual use for it two years ago, Duvall says.

The app was called Assistance Right Now, and it was meant for smartphones and tablets and made use of the then-experimental translucent-screen technology. It would calculate repair estimates based on real-time video of wrecked vehicles and rebuild it on the device’s screen, instilling trust in the client and creating the illusion that repairs were underway.

Vincent looks down, frustrated.

That’s probably what Samuel saw in you, but that’s not enough. Which one of your people was responsible for the speedboat account? Duvall asks, seemingly looking for a head to roll.

It’s my responsibility, sir.

There you go again, Vincent. This is real life! Sometimes, you have to let go of the weak links to protect the others if not yourself.

If there’s a weak link here, sir, it’s me.

Duvall nods. I won’t fight you on that.

Vincent is leaving for the day when a TV interview showing on a mute screen in the waiting lounge catches his eye. The scroll beneath the picture reads Richard Bard, General Marketing Director, Diggan Beverages. Richard Bard is a world-renowned marketer in his midforties. His abundant white hair in a nearly Einstein style clashes in a good way with his otherwise corporate look. Sometimes I wish I were you, Vincent says. I bet you never wished you were me.

Later that day, Vincent parks his black Volkswagen Jetta in his parents’ driveway. He’s there for a family dinner at seven in Newark, New Jersey. Typical house in the suburbs. Nice, cozy neighborhood. He takes a deep breath and walks out of the car. His father is alone in the backyard, manning the grill. Vincent does his best to enter the house unnoticed and succeeds. He finds himself in the dark. Is the power out? In the entrance hall, he looks for his mother and sister but can’t see anyone. But he hears whispering from his sister’s room. It’s them. Entering the hallway to the rooms feels like entering a dark alley. He arrives at Vera’s room, a girly space with lots of pink and lace visible even under pale moonlight. His sister and his mother are by the window.

Vincent’s mother, Lynn, is a soccer mom from Newark who often sports an apron and always wears a warm smile.

Is there a problem with the power? Vincent asks.

They immediately gesture and whisper Shush! Then they go back to looking out the window.

They’re at it again. Lynn says.

Weird, Vera replies.

What’s going on? Vincent asks.

The Silvas are stargazing again. After all this time, they’re still not over it. Lynn says.

She left, right? Vera asks.

Obviously, Vincent explains in a slightly angry tone while finger-combing his streak of grey. But her parents believe aliens abducted her.

Little Maria was your best friend. I can still see her with her curly, blonde hair and in that yellow dress. Her mother used to make dresses based on her drawings, Lynn says.

I recall Mom and Dad telling me she’d left, Vera says, with an uncle or someone.

She was seventeen, your age, Vincent. So young, his mother says. She wanted to be the princess of the world. Well, she might have been a great fashion designer.

She obviously left for a bigger, better deal. How naive can they be? Vincent asks. I hope she found what she was looking for. He walks away.

Out on the backyard, Arthur De Marcos is grilling steaks. He’s a bald, tough, rough-looking man, the self-made sort who believes recent generations have been irreversibly spoiled. His grilling apron, Vera’s gift from last Christmas, reads, Retired but still King. Ugly apron. Ugly truth.

Vera is leaving to meet with some friends, so there will be only Mom, Dad, and son for dinner. Vincent stands against the wall, holding a beer. Mom picks up a towel by the grill and heads inside to prepare the salad, leaving father and son. Vincent recalls his discussion with Duvall.

So what’s with the long face? his father asks.

Just job stuff, Dad.

Tired of you already?

Why do I even come here? What would I do without your kind words of support?

You are a smar— You’re not dumb, son! But you know you have to be pushed to get it done. Ever since you were a kid.

Dad, you’ve told me that a hundred times. Still and eventually, I did get to achieve.

What? You finished college only because I told you I’d stop sending money!

Lynn arrives with the salad. Will you two stop? Must it be like this every time?

Never mind, Vincent says.

With your health issues, your epilepsy, and everything. By the way, how’s Sarah? his mother asks.

Sarah’s starting a journalism major, Mom. She’s doing great.

His father interrupts. Sarah’s a smart girl. She’s a keeper. She knows what she wants and what to do to get it.

Vincent mimics one of his father’s favorite comments. Just having a desk these days is a blessing. I should be grateful.

Damn right! You have to stop dreaming about imaginary jobs. He turns to his wife. He got this from your side of the family. You know who I’m talking about.

My brother was good man. He’s not here to defend himself.

A good man, Mom? Uncle Maciel was a visionary. He could have been the Einstein of your generation had the world been more accommodating and life less traitorous to him, Vincent says.

Uncle Maciel, a shabby-briefcase physics teacher, was a major influence on Vincent, showing him where high-concept technology trends would eventually lead humanity and illustrating the myriad of possibilities the future would bring—or should have brought. Namely, interesting and fulfilling jobs. Maciel died of brain cancer at age fifty-nine. Devastated, Vincent had his first encounter with sharp grief in his teen years.

All right! I’m sorry about that, Arthur says.

Vincent stares at his dad. But you’re right, Dad. It’s all in the past. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.

Good for you, son. I’m glad you’re finally growing out of your boyhood.

The next day, Vincent enjoys lunch with his Rigor team and his friend Nuria. She is now thirty-five and senior manager in a consulting firm heavily involved in mergers and acquisitions. She has been away for ten years, working in Panama, and has returned two months ago. Her executive-looking shoulder hair has intimidated Vincent, who has ventured into only chitchat and shop-talk territory, no geeky stuff. The fact that she hasn’t aged a day and has apparently lost her Mexican accent isn’t helping. And there’s a boyfriend now, an Argentinian Vincent imagines as manly, virile, and with an interest in technology limited to gadgets. As it should be with normal people.

It’s been a grey fall, but the day is unusually warm, and they’re outside sucking up the few rays that get past the clouds. They have all finished their burgers. Vincent reads a newspaper on his twenty-one-inch tablet. Nuria was reading a fashion magazine, but it’s on her lap, and her face is turned to get the most of the sun. Her eyes are closed. An interesting article in the paper is titled Unfulfilled Promise. It speaks of the trend he believes to have seen coming since the supersonic airliner’s demise and shows pictures of Asimov, Heinlein, Clarke, Sagan, and Roddenberry. Vincent believes he can use it to access Nuria’s interest in the geeky matters they used to discuss. His workers should, unknowingly, provide him the support he needs to not lose face completely if things go sour. He plans to take it slow and start with more mature matters. He asks Taper Fade, So how’s your mother doing?

He answers, She started chemo, but we can’t afford the whole treatment.

Nuria doesn’t seem interested.

That’s awful. I tell you, we’re all going to go that way, Vincent says.

No movement from Nuria.

He takes a deep breath. Has anyone stopped and looked beyond the obvious environmental concerns? Are these the only issues today?

Madam Stern asks, What do you mean?

In the twenty-first century, why is energy still so expensive? Why don’t we have tablet-sized solar panels able to harness all the energy we need? Why are food prices rising like never before?

And the cure for potentially fatal illnesses? Most people still can’t afford it, Taper Fade adds.

Exactly! Vincent says, How can we call ourselves an advanced civilization when utilities and basic goods get more expensive by the hour? We should own these by now.

Nuria doesn’t budge.

His workers nod in agreement, but Vincent sees in their faces they are not getting the bigger picture. He can’t tell if he’s just excited at speaking his heart out loud, something he hasn’t done in a while, but he’s enjoying sharing his thoughts. It may be an opportunity to put his logic to the test with people who never gave it much thought. And it may help bring Nuria into the conversation.

Vincent scrolls through the article he’s been reading. He turns to the intern. You applied for a job at the space agency. How did that turn out for you?

They answered. They said it was unsolicited, and that was the end of that.

Vincent sighs. He holds his tablet up so the others can see the title and the pictures of the classic sci-fi writers. ‘Unfulfilled Promise.’ That’s what they’re calling it here. I couldn’t have said it better myself. We’ve arrived in the twenty-first century, but what do we have to show for it? It’s not just about basic goods. What about our hopes and dreams? You still can’t buy a proper flying car anywhere. You can’t count on a humanoid robot to help you around the house and space exploration or interstellar travel. These are probably still centuries away.

Nuria yawns. Vincent can tell she’s faking it.

How would President Kennedy feel had he lived to see these days? he asks.

They all look down, except for Nuria. She stretches her arms.

We’ve let them all down, he concludes.

Nuria speaks up. We did. But we have peace. The UN has worked hard to resolve conflicts without war. Three generations of Americans now have never known its bitterness. I’m sure they’d appreciate that.

Except for New Yorkers. They had 9/11, Taper Fade mutters.

But at what price? Vincent asks, determined to answer her challenge. It feels odd to have her against him, though.

It starts raining. They get up, leaving a couple bills over the check.

They head toward Rigor, running for dry spots, finding shelter in places they would never have noticed otherwise. Nuria is still with them.

While crossing the street, Vincent turns to the others to continue explaining his last point of view. Suddenly, tires screech behind him. He turns. A speeding sedan misses him by a couple of inches and roars off, the driver giving him the finger. Jesus! Did you see that? Vincent asks.

You all right? the intern asks.

Yeah. That was close!

You were standing in the middle of the road, car territory, Taper Fade says.

Too bad they don’t fly yet, Nuria says, smiling.

They all chuckle.

Vincent smiles. Too bad.

They find shelter under the entrance arch of an electronics megastore. Vincent continues. I fear our society has become terminally ill, undermined by structural deficiencies.

You’ve lost me, says Madam Stern.

You’ve lost me too, Nuria says. That sounds awfully close to a dictator’s argument, and we know where that leads.

I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Vincent points at the store window filled with electronic gadgets and half-price promises. They all turn to look at it, except for Nuria. He explains. At the risk of oversimplifying a very complex matter, here’s how I see it. Nowadays, most if not all tech products are expected to provide swift and significant returns on investment. That’s the ticket for stellar quarterly reports, and it’s the way our society and economy work. That’s all corporate management and stakeholders aim for, stellar quarterly reports. Now take a space venture of any sort. What kind of money are we talking about?

NASA’s estimate, regarding returning to the moon, was over a hundred billion, the intern answers. I can’t imagine what it would cost to get to somewhere interesting.

What about the risk involved?

Uninsurable, Taper Fade says.

Development time? To get to somewhere interesting?

I don’t think I’d be alive to see it! Madam Stern says, giggling.

And what about profit? What kind of return for their gazillion dollar investment can they expect assuming they come and go safely and they’re still alive to see it?

Grey dust, Nuria says, smiling approvingly.

You may be asking too much from the private sector, Taper Fade says. Even Columbus needed the support of the crown. Space exploration has been a privilege limited to government-funded enterprises since the beginning for the reasons you’ve pointed out. The sort of innovation you speak of has been seen only after wars or ‘space races,’ when national pride is at stake.

Vincent raises his eyebrows. Nuria does too. Vincent concludes, Without long-term commitment from either governments or the private sector— He points at Taper Fade, giving him credit for this statement, —there can be no real novelties, no real progress. We’re in dire need of a global effort that can push us toward the future, Vincent says enthusiastically.

I believe I understand you. You mean someone should do something about it, says Madam Stern.

Vincent nods his head. It’s not exactly that, but close enough.

That’s exactly what he means! Nuria says, agreeing with her in a mocking tone. Vincent has been waiting for this high-concept technology champion for, like, twenty years now.

Vincent is glad she remembers that, but he’s still not sure, given her tone, of where she stands.

The intern says, I guess my generation is a little different from yours. I get a kick out of playing sci-fi games with flying cars, robots, and space travel, but I don’t see myself actually doing it.

What first started as shower is turning into torrential rain. Rigor is only a block away. Vincent checks the time and looks around for shelter. He finds one under an antique shop’s awning. Let’s go! he shouts.

They quickly arrive under it. An old piano, an Andy Warhol–inspired painting, and some aluminum foil pop-art pieces from the 1960s are on display in the window.

Vincent is dead set on testing his ideas and getting genuine responses from his workers. And he hopes the Nuria he once knew is still in there, under her new, serious, executive look.

Vincent turns to the intern. We went from propeller airplanes to putting a man on the moon in twenty-five years. The resulting momentum was overwhelming. Even art was significantly influenced by it. You can’t feel it because you weren’t around in those ambitious times. You might never truly understand this because it just isn’t in your bones.

Probably, the intern answers.

Nuria turns to the intern. Let me help you with that. You see, the mechanical jobs available to most of us today—

Like what? the intern asks.

Cubicles ring a bell? Nuria asks.

Oh, okay.

These are a result of this lack of an entrepreneurial spirit. Opportunities we’ll never see in our day.

Like having a job in space? the intern asks, excited.

Like having a job in space, Vincent answers, smiling at Nuria. She doesn’t return the smile. She’s staring at the intern, probably feeling sorry for him.

I wouldn’t like to have a job in space, Madam Stern says.

Nuria finally smiles at Vincent. It’s more of a giggle. A feeling of warmth and joy invades his body. He had forgotten how it felt to have someone sync with him on such a deep level. Only Nuria could do it. She’s back.

Vincent watches Taper Fade and Madam Stern take their chances running toward Rigor’s entrance, joined halfway by the intern. He’s not sure he should read it as their being bored with him or their just being in a hurry to get ready for the CEO’s birthday party in the cafeteria. Vincent is alone with Nuria.

They’re not bored, if that’s what you’re thinking, she says.

She’s getting closer. Maybe.

You hardly ever come off as boring, she says with a giggle. All those arguments, all those ideas, they’re very insightful, Mr. De Marcos. He feels her gentle touch on his shoulder and wonders if she is just being supportive. But her touch feels nice. But you really should focus on the problems at hand, like keeping your job.

Vincent stares at Nuria. I know how this will end.

Moving her hand from his shoulder to her hip, she asks teasingly, And how will this end?

I may live a long, fruitful life, but once I reach the end of the line, while unwillingly leaking fluids into my deathbed, I’ll realize I don’t have a single celebratory memory to ease my passing.

Nuria takes a few steps back. Jesus, that’s melodramatic. That reminds me. Did you know another guy took his life at a mall? It’s like the third guy this year. All under twenty.

Yeah, Vincent mutters sadly.

The last two just jumped from the top of the central glass cupola. From the same spot. No suicide note, nothing.

A tragedy, Vincent says. Not surprising, though.

How can you say that?

What we’ve just discussed is not without consequence. Our most basic instincts drive us to explore new things. When the lack of opportunities forces us to repress that drive, we feel cornered. All this happens on a subconscious level. Chances are they themselves never got to clearly see the reason why they did it. Hence, no suicide note. Only silence.

Your boss must be working you pretty hard, Nuria says playfully.

Vincent nods.

I always thought you’d got to MIT or something and get an engineering degree, never business school. Now you’re what? Forty? A tad late, perhaps.

Vincent sighs. There’s so much I’ll never do and never see. So much I’ll never get to be.

Nuria looks a little frustrated. I have to split. She walks away but turns around. I almost forgot. Remember those two execs I told you about?

Yeah?

I’m meeting them at Davia next Friday.

Davia is the nightclub everybody wants to go to but most never get past the entrance.

You’re talking about the two DuPont guys?

DuPont, in Wilmington, Delaware, is one of few companies that made an actual difference in the world. Its achievements may have been unnoticed by most people, because unlike many popular corporations, its focus was never on getting electronic devices into the hands of end users but to take part in the greater stuff, even if only in part. It did so on innumerable occasions throughout the twentieth century. An American company that started out as a gunpowder mill in 1802 turned into the most influential chemical company ever.

In the 1920s, it was responsible for the development of neoprene, and, in 1935, nylon. Teflon followed a few years later. After World War II, it continued its emphasis on the development of new materials, including Mylar, Dacron, Orlon, Lycra, and Tyvek. Its materials were critical to the success of the Apollo space program.

It also played a major role in the Manhattan Project in the 1940s, designing, building, and operating the Hanford plutonium plant in Washington. In 1950, DuPont agreed to build the Savannah River Plant in South Carolina as part of the effort to create a hydrogen bomb. DuPont’s research on Kevlar in the 1960s led to the development of bullet-resistant vests.

DuPont is today a global science company that employs over 60,000 people worldwide with a diverse array of businesses: electronic and communication technologies, high-performance materials, coatings and color technologies, safety and protection, and agriculture and nutrition. To call DuPont a chemical company is a vast understatement.

You still here? she asks.

I’m sorry, Nuria. I zoned out for a second.

Perhaps these DuPont guys can be of some assistance to you, Vincent.

Maybe. But he didn’t sound very hopeful.

It may be the closest you can get to what you’re after.

Vincent thought that such an opportunity felt more like settling than a chance to actually achieve something. But she’s right. He nods in agreement.

Vincent sits alone on a bench in Nemours Mansion and Gardens. Its lavish green grounds and the one-acre pool are not doing a good job of taking his mind off things. He recalls his constant arguments with his boss, with his father, and Nuria’s words. He sobs. Time to grow up. Tears roll down his cheeks. The future’s dead. Imaginary jobs indeed. Time for pathetic me to settle for whatever’s out there.

On Friday, wearing casual-chic clothes, Vincent and Nuria are in the middle of a long line of people trying to get into Davia. They’re not far from the entrance and three bulky doormen. While checking the line’s unusual length, Vincent mutters, Damn. This’ not looking good. Woman, I really hope you have this.

Relax. I got this. We’re here to have a good time, remember?

Sure.

An hour later, it’s their turn. Nuria addresses the doorman. We’re Alex’s friends.

The doorman avoids eye contact. Please make room for the guests. A small group in tuxedos and evening gowns enters. Vincent realizes they may be underdressed.

Nuria insists. Look, we’re friends with Alex. He’s a regular.

The doorman tells her to wait. Vincent is worried. The doorman pushes Nuria gently aside so the others can enter. That’s not a good sign.

He knows Nuria’s tired after a hard day at her job, so it’s no surprise when she loses patience. Hey, tomorrow I start working at seven. I work for a living. Remember how that felt? Damn. Let me in!

No, says the doorman.

But I’m a friend of Alex’s!

We just want to meet some friends who are already inside, Vincent gently adds.

The doorman yells, Out! If I have to say it again, I won’t say it alone!

You really can tell the quality of the joint by the quality of its staff! Nuria says.

The doorman bellows, Go away or I’ll show you just how bad the staff really is!

Three bulky bouncers walk out, looking all but ready to jump on them. The doorman had somehow summoned them. Vincent takes a few steps back and waves his arms. No need for violence, guys. He walks away. A very annoyed Nuria follows him.

Vincent walks with Nuria while trying to spot a cab. She walks barefoot. Her shoes are in her overstuffed purse. He says in ironic tone, You really had it. We almost had it!

Do you think they would really have hit me?

Those guys? Yeah! I don’t think they’ve learned genders yet.

They chuckle.

It would have been fun, though. Nuria’s a tournament-hardened black belt in taekwondo and aikido. She just aces any physical sport she gets into. An outstanding she-geek-jock. Vincent wouldn’t shy away from such a confrontation, but he would rather try to walk out of it using his wits and diplomacy. He believes the best way to avoid a punch is not being there. Sensei Miyagi taught him that in Karate Kid 2. It has worked so far.

What a stupid way to miss an opportunity that could have changed your life, Vincent. Meeting those DuPont guys could have solved all your problems.

Vincent knows she was only trying to help him. Nah! Just forget about it. It’s time.

Time for what?

It’s that time again. Trip time!

Shouldn’t you be saving a little considering your job issues?

Don’t you remember? When I reach a certain point of saturation, if I don’t go somewhere, somewhere far, I start feeling like I’m going to burst. But actually, I only get really depressed.

I kind of hoped you’d outgrown that, she says with a disapproving frown.

Can’t you see the dark clouds forming over my head?

She sighs. "All right. Just don’t go jumping off the top ledge of mall for the love of San Juditas. I think you should save some money. Besides, you’ve been everywhere."

That’s true, but there’s always someplace different.

On Monday, making the best of his lunch break, Vincent sits in front of his travel agent, who is going through the computer for suitable travel destinations.

Long time no see! she had told him when he came in. He had nodded in agreement.

Vincent is old fashioned when it comes to traveling. He values human contact over online booking. Though it’s more expensive, he’d rather have an agent take care of the arrangements.

You never go for, like, globalized destinations, right?

I like to stay away from multinational food chains and the like. The more real you can get them, the better.

How about Moscow? It’s pretty real.

They’re right in the middle of being globalized, he says.

Yeah, and there’s, like, political unrest over there. How about the Great Wall? I’ve never been, but they say it’s incredible. For two weeks, you’d get—

I’m sure it’s wonderful, but I saw a lot of monuments on my last trip.

Ah, wait. She looks around for something. Where’s that pamphlet? Here it is. The Antarctic. An Antarctic cruise departing from Ushuaia, Argentina.

Too cold. I need the sun.

Yeah, but you shouldn’t dismiss it that quickly. A friend of mine, she went there—

Vincent is distracted by a Caribbean beach poster that reads, Leave footprints only.

She said the sights, you know, like, all that immaculate white. It was like she was on another planet.

That last sentence grabs Vincent’s attention. You think?

Look. Take the pamphlet and go to this thing. It’s about the continent’s history, a presentation, I believe. If you don’t like it, just remember to come back.

Vincent takes the pamphlet. The picture on it shows a dark-blue lake by a blinding white Antarctic flat. It looks dry yet oddly inviting. And the presentation was just a few days away. Seems like something interesting to do with Sarah. Along with perhaps some cuddling afterward. All right. I’ll check it out.

Chapter 3

DISTANT LAND

The next Thursday night, after dinner at Nemours Mall, Vincent walks with Sarah toward the Chase Center. Sarah is a beautiful, tall brunette, just like an advertising model. She’s twenty-nine and starting a journalism major. She’s the type who requires excitement in her life but believes others should provide it for her. Surprisingly, she’s usually one of the sharpest tools in whatever shed she’s in.

I’m really in need of some cuddling, he says.

He feels her arms go around him. She whispers, You haven’t told me why.

I feel like the world has beaten me.

We can start right here if you like, she suggests playfully.

Now that we’re here, let’s just get through this. It’s only an hour long.

It’s so much better when you’re in the mood, baby, she whispers.

At the entrance, Vincent finds the light coming out the door warmly inviting. He checks the time. They’re five minutes late.

The couple enters the amphitheater. This place smells brand new. A picture of Antarctic flats fills the big screen. The place seats up to 1,200, but there are fewer than 50 people there.

This is not a good sign, he says.

Let’s just sit, she says, sounding bored already.

The host points to a slide showing a map of the Antarctic coast with several arrows, yellow and green, going up and down next to shore. What’s this?

I really hope this is interesting. Most of the stuff you bring me to is just plain boring. The last time it was that sad drive down the—

Be quiet. You wouldn’t find it so boring if you listened. He takes a closer look at the host onstage. "Check out that guy. I thought I was pale."

They chuckle, but Vincent pays attention.

The host is enthusiastic. The existence of a German community in the Antarctic, more precisely in New Swabia, during World War II, has long been a big question mark in history. These photos show the activity of the German fleet in the area. He’s having trouble handling his laptop. The slides go back when they should be advancing. Continuing, as soon as the Nazi regime realized the outcome of the war might not favor them, the best German scientists joined the elite minds already in the Antarctic. Only the so-called ‘lesser minds’ were left in Germany after 1944.

The host, who looks around forty, is thin, tall, and blond besides unusually pale. He’s dressed in casual attire and has a classic haircut. He has blue eyes and a mild German accent. He sounds like a classic James Bond villain.

What about the sights?

The pale man continues. For some reason, near the end of the war, there was a conflict. It is my theory that it derived from the knowledge of Hitler’s ‘final solution’ by this … Antarctica Nation. The scientists, they all had family in Germany. Some even in Poland.

That’s interesting, but what about the scenic locations? Vincent whispers.

He’s so pale. He’s going to drop dead any moment now, Sarah whispers.

The host continues. "So they decided to stop developing weapons for the Germans. Hitler didn’t take it well. Even as the Allies were leveling Berlin, the bulk of the Kriegsmarine, the German navy, was bombing secluded locations in Antarctica."

If this had happened yesterday, it may have been news, Sarah says.

Vincent shrugs while checking the time.

Then again, in 1947, suspecting the existence of a Nazi colony on the South Pole, the United States launched operation High Jump, an alleged scientific expedition" comprised of an aircraft carrier, the USS Philippine Sea, two destroyers, the USS Brownson and the USS Henderson, a submarine, the USS Sennet, and several support vessels, ice-breakers, and tankers. After this initial and rather unsuccessful strike led by General Byrd, the Antarctic ended up becoming the nuclear testing site of choice during the fifties."

Vincent notices Sarah is checking her Facebook page on the phone, which is making beeping noises. Heads turn their way. He asks her to tuck it away.

The host has stopped talking and has crossed his arms.

Sarah flashes her pearly whites at those who are staring at her.

The host returns an indulgent smile. The Antarctica remains till this day and by far the single most bombarded location on earth. It is where the most nuclear weapons were deployed and detonated.

Vincent’s back is beginning to hurt. He can’t get comfortable. He stands. Interesting, but I have cable.

Sarah exhales. Boring stories about dead people from back in the day.

They walk out of the auditorium.

The host says, "General Byrd’s logs have quite interesting details. They speak of an aircraft that crossed the skies so fast the soldiers couldn’t make