CHAPTER 7

LEXINGTON AVENUE

And so they were off again in conversation and off on their journey as well.  Edward offered a taxi, but Franklin discerned that was not his usual practice and insisted on experiencing a typical journey first, alternatives later.

So it was that Edward guided him by the elbow, slowly down to the Lexington Avenue subway platform.  The escalator was both thorny obstacle and object of curiosity.  Edward wished he’d asked an attendant to show them the elevator for handicapped access.  After all, Franklin’s gallstones had by age eighty-three reduced him to a slow, painful trudge.

Franklin, resolute about understanding every new mechanism he encountered, paused by the foot of the elevator and Edward was swept a few steps beyond by the crush, causing Franklin to exclaim, “I say!”

“In Britain, it’s called a ‘moving stairway,’ if that gives you the idea,” he said, once he’d swum back to him.

“And I see that the stairtreads collapse on hinges, here at the foot of the stairway.  They must form a flat belt underneath, then swing out again at the top.”

“I am not sure,” said Edward, “I don’t really know how an escalator’s underside works, come to think of it.”

“Again I say, we could have built it!” exclaimed Franklin.

“Yes, but how would you power it?” Edward replied.

“Watt’s steam engine, of course!  You cannot deny that what we have here is nothing more than another mode of public transportation,” Franklin shot back.

“Perhaps we should allow the crowd to move us toward the train platform,” said Edward.

“Train?  But you called it a subway,” Franklin cried out above the din, looking downward to be sure of his footing as the crowd hurried them along, “I had imagined a moving sidewalk.”

“Such things exist, primarily at airports, but that would be too slow for the four miles from here to the tip of Manhattan.  ‘Subway’ simply refers to a city’s underground system of trains.”

On board, more than one rider stood to give Franklin a seat.  He thanked the one in front of him kindly, and the other stared back, together with another dozen pairs of eyes crammed into the surrounding square feet.

Edward thought of the pictures he’d seen in the London underground years ago, in which Lenin was portrayed descending on one of those distinctive escalators.  And yet, for all he knew, Lenin really was in London in the early years of the century and so the portrayal was realistic.

Edward leaned over and shouted, “They have been called ‘cattle cars.’

Franklin looked up, “Oh yes, you read my thoughts.  One is moved to ask why people would subject themselves to this.  I suppose it speeds their travel?”

“When it’s running properly.  When there are delays, and sometimes I’ve been stuck in one place underground for half an hour or more, the crowding is just as bad as always.  In my opinion, people do it because it’s the only practical way to reach their place of work, which, in turn, they regard as their only source of sustenance.”

“So many people, in this New York of the future, so many lives to sustain.  Has it really come to that, that they have no choice but to submit to this?”

“I believe the choice is still in their hands, though clearly they do not perceive it to be so.  And what’s more, here am I, who am nothing but another of them, following the same path every day.”

“Except that here am I too,” said Franklin.

“Yes, perhaps, from today, things will be different,” agreed Edward.

And in just another moment or two, the train jolted to a stop at Fulton Street, and wending their way through the rat’s warren of walking tunnels, they emerged into the side entrance corridor of Moody’s building, with the guard station twenty steps away, in front of the elevators.  No one greeted Edward as they made their way to the station, and it was hard to tell if they were getting stares.