A Century of Progress by Fred Saberhagen

standing in. No zip code, of course, but the cards did bear a phone number—he’d have to ask what that connected to. There was a New York driver’s license, looking new but old-fashioned, also made out to Norlund and dated nineteen thirty-three. He wondered why there was no Social Security card, and then he recalled that in the year he was supposedly visiting, no one in the world had yet seen one of those.
    Something made of cloth was folded up on the dresser beside the tray. It was an old-style money belt, the kind that you wrapped around your body under your clothes. Snapping open the belt’s pockets, Norlund discovered two thousand dollars more. God, if the unimaginable really happened, and he found himself living in the depths of the Depression, he’d be able to buy himself a house and a small farm and settle down . . .
    When he’d gotten the belt on, and his clothing readjusted, he inspected the modest handful of coins that the tray held. Holding up a quarter dollar, he saw that the coin was of real silver, its milled edges of the same brightness as the faces. The quarter was dated nineteen thirty-two, and it was hardly worn at all. Also mostly unworn were the Liberty-head silver dimes, the buffalo nickels, the bright copper wheat-wreathed pennies. There were no Indian cents in the assortment; to the best of Norlund’s recollection the early Thirties would be a little late for them to appear in common circulation.
    Dropping the coins into his left-hand pocket, Norlund absently ran a finger up his fly, checking that all the buttons were fastened. Old habits returned quickly. Now, fully dressed except for the hat that still waited on the dresser, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. The old clothes made him look older in some way . . . not like his father, no, he’d never looked much like him. But in another odd way he felt that he was younger, returning to the days of youth. Buddies again with Andy Burns . . . no, never again really that. Suddenly he wondered what Ginny Butler really thought of him, of old man Norlund.
    He tried on the fedora, which fit perfectly, and now the image in the mirror reminded him somewhat of his own grandfather. And reminded him also of how as a kid he’d always looked forward to being able to wear a grown-up hat.
    A leather traveling-bag was in the closet. Norlund put it on the bed and packed it with clothes from the closet and drawers—shirts, underwear, socks, a sweater, a couple of pairs of pants. He found and packed a new old-fashioned shaving kit and toothbrush. He reminded himself to get a haircut soon after arrival . . . God, but he was taking this thing seriously! He really thought that he was going to—
    Struck by a sudden idea, he got out his newly acquired driver’s license and looked at it again. The date of his birth was given as eighteen seventy-three, and, yes, there was a place where he was supposed to sign. Getting out the fountain pen that had been provided on the tray, he took care of that detail.
    He was all ready now, as far as he could tell. He stood for a moment looking at the modern bedside phone, then picked it up and punched out the number of the hospital. It was Sunday morning; he just might catch one of the first-team doctors making rounds.
    This time he got through directly to Sandy’s room, and it was Marge who answered. “Our girl is looking pretty fine this morning, Dad. Maybe that little setback is all in the past.” And Marge’s tone was even happier than her words.
    “Can I talk to her?” And he did. Sandy sounded chipper, very good indeed. Then he had Marge back on. “She sounds like she’s getting well,” said Norlund to his daughter. “Jeez, I hope so. Hey, I love you guys.”
    “Well then. Dad, I think you ought to hurry back to us. Where are you now? You didn’t really say.”
    Norlund cleared his throat. “I hope I’ll see you soon. Tomorrow I’ll be back in Chicago, I think. Maybe the day after that.”
    When he