He simply stared at her in open-mouthed wonder.
The elevator had reached the car pool. Edith spoke into a screen, ordering a two-seater. Within moments it sped up to where they stood.
“I’ll drive,” she said. “I know all the coordinates.”
They got in and she deftly dialed their destination.
“Where are we going?” he asked as the automated car took off. He still wasn’t used to seeing the driver with hands not on the wheel.
“Our semi-permanent home is in what you used to call Maryland. A small town called Hopewell.”
“Semi-permanent?” he repeated. “Then you don’t own it?”
The car blended into the underground traffic, moving into the inner and fastest line.
She shook her head. “Nobody owns their homes now, Jule. It doesn’t make sense.”
“In my time, most of us—those who could afford to own them—took pride in our homes.”
“We take pride in them too as long as we remain in residence. That is, we beautify them, keep them as comfortable and attractive as we can. But we don’t tie ourselves down to one house, as a rule. Oh, some people do. Some live in the same dwelling all their lives. Certainly, there is no one to say them nay. But usually we rent our homes until some reason comes up that makes it practical to move.”
“Such as?”
“Well, look. Here you are a single man. It would seem unlikely that you would want a large house. Although housework is almost completely automated, there are still things that must be done. You rent a smallish house, or an apartment, in an area that is desirable to you, say in the mountains. Very well, after a time you meet a girl and form a permanent or semi-permanent arrangement with her. Obviously, a somewhat larger house is called for. Lo and behold, the following year she has a baby. A larger house is called for. Besides that, you’re getting tired of the mountains and move down to Florida for the beach and the fishing. It turns out she loves children and since you’re both genetically ideal, you are given the go-ahead to have another child. You decide you could use another room. So it goes for a few years and the first baby grows up and goes off on his own. Shortly the other child matures and leaves as well. There are just two of you now. You decide you’ve had enough of Florida anyway, and move down to one of the picturesque old Spanish Colonial towns in what was called Mexico before it was amalgamated into United America. By this time, your girlfriend is getting sick and tired of you and leaves. You are now single again, and a one-person house is in order. Doesn’t it make sense?”
“I suppose so,” he said. “Actually, in my time, too, we had a lot of people who were continually moving. But look, to get back to rebuilding the pyramid and all the Seven Wonders. If they’re destroyed, how can you recreate them?”
“It’s a problem, all right. Scholars are digging up every bit of information they can find. There are illustrations, some written descriptions. For instance, the lighthouse at Pharos was built back in Ptolemy’s day, before Christ, but it lasted until the 14th Century A.D. Many times it was depicted on pottery, on Egyptian tomb walls, on papyrus. We’ve got a pretty good idea of what the lighthouse looked like, and the Colossus of Rhodes which, by the way, didn’t straddle the harbor as it is sometimes illustrated. We’re having more trouble, actually, with the Roman Forum, which wasn’t one of the Seven Wonders, but we’re going to redo it anyway.”
“The Roman Forum! It must have covered several square miles, including the Colosseum. I’ve seen it.”
“Yes, of course. You see, it lasted for well over a thousand years. Now, do we reconstruct it as it was in the days of Lars Porsenna and the Etruscan reges, or as it looked during the time of Caesar and Augustus? In Nero’s day, or that of Marcus Aurelius when it was probably at the height of its beauty?”
“Next you’ll be telling me you’ve got a project for damming up the Mississippi River so it’ll flow backward over the Rocky Mountains,” he protested.
She just smiled. The car began to edge over to the slower lanes. Finally, it darted off onto a smaller road and shortly began to ascend a ramp. A red light flickered on the dash and Edith took over the controls. They emerged into the countryside. “You mean we’re here already?” Julian asked.
“We were doing about three hundred kilometers,” Edith said. “But we’re not quite there yet. However, this part of Maryland is so beautiful I thought you’d probably rather see the countryside than continue any longer in the underground. Frankly, I hate the darn things. It’s as though you’re in suspended animation. But, of course, if speed is the thing, they give it to you.”
“Three hundred kilometers? That’s about one hundred eighty miles an hour, isn’t it?”
“Something like that. It’s been so long since I’ve converted miles to kilometers that I’d have to think about it. Anyway, at that speed, with no stops, no hills, no turns, you can cross the whole country in a little more than ten hours.”
He had only twice before driven through the countryside sinee he had been brought out of hibernation. Once again it took him back to his youth, when his parents or some other relative had sometimes driven him through upper New England in the autumn.
The road was not even paved and the traffic so slight that he felt half-inclined to wave at another car when they passed. He estimated that at least nine-tenths of the traffic of this day was underground. He had already had it explained to him and he supposed it made sense. Unless you were out for some reason such as picnicking, fishing, or just a drive through the countryside, you took to the ultra-highways below ground and got to your destination in a fraction of the time. This road was more suited to a stately forty miles an hour, rather than one hundred eighty.
It was a beautiful day. After the ultra-efficiency high-rise building at the university city, the drive in the country was relaxing. From time to time they would pass a farm house, invariably so put together as to resemble a Hollywood set. Once or twice there were people on the porch or in the yard. Someone waved and Edith and Julian both waved back.
He said, “I thought you didn’t have small farms any more.”
“We don’t. Except for people who make it their hobby.”
“You mean none of these places puts in crops?”
“Some do. I’ve been considering taking a place like one of these after I’ve retired, or been bumped from my job. They grow their own things, receive pleasure from raising, canning, and drying their own products. Largely, they’re older people who remember and liked the old way of life. But some are younger folk who have simply taken it up as a hobby.”
“I thought almost everybody lived in high-rise apartment buildings like those at University City.”
“Oh, no, very few do. It’s a rather sterile way of life, really. The advantage of it in an institution as large as Julian West University City is that it enables a very large number of students to be in a comparatively small area. If they were spread out in individual homes the school area would have to cover several square miles of land and you’d waste all sorts of time getting from one place to another. Well, here we are.”
Julian looked about him. “I thought you lived in a town. Hopewell, or whatever you call it.”
“This is Hopewell.”
“Are you joking?” He looked out over the rolling hills with their numerous trees and other vegetation. But then, to his surprise, he could make out an occasional glint, as of sun on a window, and realized that a good deal of the vegetation was too neat to be simply virgin countryside such as they had been driving through for the past half hour.
Edith, really amused now, turned down a narrow side road, went around a hill, and drove into a small garage.
“Home again,” she said, getting out.