Free A Century of Progress by Fred Saberhagen Page A

if things in the suburbs really weren’t any better they sure as hell couldn’t be any worse, and at least they ought to be somehow different.
    Another car was approaching him from behind, this one not coming very fast. No, judging from the sound of it, a small truck. Jerry turned, with automatically extended thumb and created smile. Clipping along toward him was a black panel truck, what looked to Jerry like about a ‘27 Dodge. The truck started to slow down. The sign painted on the side was poorly contrasting and hard to read, but Jerry made out RADIO SURVEY CORPORATION.
    Gratefully he grabbed at the sun-hot doorhandle as soon as the truck stopped. He yanked the door open and climbed aboard. The truck pulled back onto the narrow highway, a cooling breeze generated through its open windows as soon as it got moving.
    “Thanks,” said Jerry.
    The gray-haired driver nodded. He was compactly built and sort of intense-looking, one of those lively little old geezer types. The coat of his gray suit was draped over the back of his seat, and his tie was loosened as you’d expect on a day like this. Obviously a businessman of some kind; he was too well dressed to be simply making deliveries.
    “Welcome,” the driver replied, not wasting words. And that was all the old guy had to say for a little while, though he kept shooting glances over at Jerry every few seconds as he drove. Jerry soon got the feeling that he was being sized up with a more than casual interest, for what purpose he couldn’t tell.
    “How far you going?” the driver asked him at last.
    “All the way into the city. If you’re going that far.” And meanwhile Jerry’s attention had been captured by all the equipment that was racked in the body of the truck. “Radio survey, huh? I bet your tubes jar loose a lot.”
    “Not so often as you might think. We use special locking sockets in a rig like this. Know anything about radio?”
    “Not much. Hell, really nothing, I guess. My wife’s folks have one. I’d like to have one myself.”
    “What d’you do for a living? My name’s Alan Norlund, by the way.”
    “Jerry Rosen.” They shook hands, Norlund sparing one hand from the wheel for a quick grip. Jerry went on. “What do I do—I look for work. Today I been out around here, looking at golf courses, cemeteries, any place I could think of that might have work. Until my feet started giving out. A guy told me there might be jobs out this way, but . . . it’s the same as in the city. Not even any cooler. Farther from the lake, I guess.”
    Jerry leaned back in the high truck seat and closed his eyes.
    “You live with your wife’s folks, do you? I guess it saves a little bit financially if you can do that.”
    Jerry opened his eyes. He watched the alien suburban treetops pass between him and the sky, making the sun blink. “It don’t help. There’s just nothing else we can do. And now we got a kid. And . . . I dunno. My wife’s family’s Irish.” He glanced toward Norlund. “Not that I got anything against the Irish. Or anyone else. It’s just . . .”
    “And you’re Jewish? Rosen, you said?”
    “My family is.” Jerry’s tone added: If it’s any of your business. “I don’t work at being anything.”
    The old man drove on for a little while in silence. He appeared to be thinking. Then he asked: “Got a driver’s license?”
    Jerry looked over at him, blinking. “Yeah. I used to drive a delivery truck sometimes. Why?”
    “Want a job?”
    Jerry’s eyes popped wide open, even before, it seemed to him, his brain had had time to fully understand the words. In a moment he had completely forgotten his sweaty hike, his blistered feet. During the couple of seconds before he could answer, the old man glanced his way again, continuing the process of sizing him up.
    “You’re not kiddin’, are you mister?”
    “Hell no, I wouldn’t kid about a thing like a job. It starts right now. Thing is, my regular partner’s not available. I got