Robert Silverberg - Invaders From Earth

Joyland covered forty sprawling acres on the Floating Island in the Sound—built at the turn of the century for the Peace Fair of 2000-2001. The island did not float now, of course; it was solidly anchored to the floor of the Sound. Once it had floated, though, at the time of the Fair, and the only way to get there was to take a ferry that would chase the island as it moved rapidly around the Sound on its peregrinations. But the upkeep of the giant engines that powered the island had been too great; thirty years ago they had been ripped out and the island anchored a mile off shore, but the old name still clung.

The bridge to the island was a shimmering thread painfully bright in the noonday sun. Kennedy paused at the toll bridge and watched the hundreds of cars creeping one after the other across the span. The under-level of the bridge was empty; by nightfall it would be packed with returning cars. He dropped his dollar in the tollkeep’s hands and spurred the car ahead, onto the bridge.

Crossing took fifteen minutes; parking the car, another fifteen. Finally he was free of routine, with a parking check in his pocket and a fun-hat on his head. Marge wore one too: a huge orange thing with myriad quivering paper snakes that gave her a Medusa-like appearance. His was more somber, a black and gray mortician’s topper. Elsewhere he saw Roman helmets and horned Viking domes. The place was crowded with fun-seekers in various degrees of nudity; custom prevented any indecencies, but in their attempts to evade the heat most people had stripped down to a minimum, except for those few bundled-up unfortunates who still feared overexposure to the sun.

A girl in her twenties wandered by, hatless, disheveled, wearing only a pair of briefs; she clutched her halter in one hand, a drink flask in the other. Marge pointed to her and Kennedy nodded. She started to reel forward; a moment later she would have fallen and perhaps been trampled underfoot, but a smiling guard in Joyland’s green uniform appeared from nowhere to catch her and gently drag her away into the shade. This is World Holiday, Kennedy thought. When we step outside ourselves and leave our ulcers home.

“Where do we begin?” Marge asked. It was the old problem: there was much to see, so many things to do. A gleaming sign advertised the next firing of the big rocket. There was a barren area on the west shore of the island where passenger rockets were fired; they traveled sixty or seventy miles up, gave the passengers a good squint at the spinning orb of Earth, and plunged back down to make a neat landing on the field. There hadn’t been a major accident since 2039, when a hundred people died through a slight miscalculation and cast a shadow over a gay Sunday afternoon. Price was ten dollars a head, but Kennedy had no desire to ride the rocket.

Elsewhere there were roller coasters, drink parlors, fun houses, side shows, a swimming pool, a waxworks. One building in the center of the gaming area specialized in a more private sort of fun; for three dollars a pleasure-seeker and his companion could rent a small air-conditioned room with a bed for an hour. For three dollars more, a girl could sometimes be supplied. This was World Holiday, and fun was unlimited.

They bought tickets for the roller coaster and strapped themselves in tight. The car was jet-powered; it took off with a lurching thrust and kept going down the track, up and around, nightmarishly twisting and plunging. There was always the added uncertainty of catching up with the car before yours; there was a shield, but it wasn’t very substantial, and you might just get a jet-blast from the preceding car. It didn’t happen often, of course.

At the end of the ride, dizzy, exhausted, they clung to each other and laughed. Arm in arm, they staggered across to a drink parlor and ordered double Scotches at the outside window. In the dimness within, Kennedy saw a man in his fifties plunging wildly around in an alcoholic dance; he leaped up in a final frenzy, started to fall toward the floor, and an ever-present Joyland guard appeared and scooped him up in mid-fall. Kennedy sipped his drink and smiled at Marge. She smiled back with what seemed like sincere warmth. He wondered.

They headed down the main concourse, past the cheap booths that in other years they had always ignored. But this time Marge stopped and tugged at his arm.

“Look at that one!”

“Come on, Marge—you know these things are all rigged. I want to go to the fun house.”

“No—hold it, Ted. Look.”

He looked. There was a new booth, one that he had never seen before. The flashy sign winked at them: Send A Letter To Ganymede.

A toothy, bare-chested carny man leaned forward over the counter, smiling jovially and inviting trade. Next to him a woman in yellow briefs and bandeau frowned in concentration as she filled out what seemed to be a telegram form.

“Come on, friends! Send your best wishes to the brave folks on Ganymede! Only one dollar for a ten-word message! Let them know how you feel about their valiant work!”

“See it, Ted?”

Kennedy nodded. “Let’s go over. I want to find out a few things.”

The carny man grinned at them. “Care to send a letter to Ganymede, friends? Only a dollar.” He shoved a yellow blank and a pencil at them.

The woman finished her message and handed it back. Kennedy caught only the heading at the top. It was addressed to Mrs. Helen Davenant, the appendicitis victim. A get-well message, he thought.

Quietly he said, “This is a new booth, isn’t it?”

“The newest in the place! Just put it up last week. And doing very well, too. Would you like—”

“Just a minute,” Kennedy said. “Whose idea was it? Do you know a Mr. Watsinski? Or Poggioli?”

“What are you, a detective? Come on, there are people waiting. Step right up, friends! Don’t go away, lady—the brave pioneers on Ganymede want to hear from you!”

At his left a fat, middle-aged woman was writing a letter that began, Dear Dr. Hornsfall —

“Let’s go, Ted,” Marge said suddenly.

“No. Just a second.” He yanked a dollar out of his wallet, slapped it down, and picked up a pencil. With quick sloppy strokes he wrote: Dear Director Brookman, Hope all is well with colony; too bad you’re just a publicity man’s soap bubble. Sincerely, Jasper Greeblefizz.

He handed over the filled-in sheet and said, “Here, make sure this gets delivered. Come on away from here, Marge.”

As he stepped out onto the main concourse again he heard the booth-tender’s raucous voice: “Hey, mister, you got too many words in this message! You only allowed ten words and you got fifteen!”

Kennedy ignored him. He grasped Marge tightly by the hand and walked on at a rapid clip.

“You think my letter will get there?” he asked tightly. “You think Director Brookman will answer it?”

She looked at him strangely. Sweat was running down her face and shoulders. “I don’t know why you’re so upset, Ted. It’s all part of the general picture, isn’t it? This is a very clever gimmick.”

“Yeah,” he said. He looked back and saw a line of people waiting to send letters to the brave pioneers on Ganymede. A very clever gimmick. Very clever.

A woman in her late thirties came running by, face frozen in a horrified smile. She wore bright blue lipstick that was smeared all over her face, and she was clutching her tattered halter together with one hand.

In hot pursuit came a much younger man with the bright fierce eyes of a satyr. He was yelling, “Come back, Libby, we still got half an hour paid for!”

Kennedy smiled crookedly. World Holiday. Step outside yourself and leave your ulcers behind. Girls who were the epitome of prudishness thought nothing of whipping off their halters and letting the breeze cool their breasts until the park police intervened. Sober second-level men could ease their tensions in a frenzied alcoholic jig.