Lair of Dreams

T. S. Woodhouse turned and squeezed his way through the throngs of smiling, optimistic people happy to have something to be happy about.

On the way across the muddy field, he was surprised to see Dr. Fitzgerald’s assistant, Jericho Jones. He vaguely remembered hearing some scuttlebutt that Will Fitzgerald and the inventor had been friends at one point, past tense. If he’d sent Jericho to mend fences, Marlowe’s comments about Diviners surely wouldn’t do anything to help.

At the edge of the park, white-capped nurses in starched uniforms passed out flyers to the people coming to hear Jake Marlowe paint a bright future for them. “Examinations today in the Fitter Family tent,” they called. “Free of charge.” A Negro couple walked in, but no one handed them a flyer. In fact, the nurse pretended not to see them at all, passing one to the white family behind them instead.

Woodhouse sneezed into his handkerchief again.

“Gesundheit,” said a pretty nurse.

Woodhouse smiled at her. “Gee, thanks. I feel cured already.”

“Here. Have one.” The nurse handed him a pamphlet:


Could you be an exceptional American? Do you exhibit unusual gifts? Have you ever had unexplained dreams of the future or the past? Have you or anyone in your family had a visitation from spirits from beyond? The Eugenics Society administers tests to likely candidates free of charge.



There was an address at the bottom.

Woodhouse knew he was anything but exceptional, unless there was a test for cleverness. Or survival.

“I’ll pass this along to any likely candidates,” he said, tipping his hat. He passed through the Fitter Family tent, smiling at a couple of siblings squawking over who got to go first until they saw the nurse holding the syringe, and then they fell quiet. He peeked through the crack of a curtain at a table where a pretty nurse asked a woman and her teenage daughter a series of questions. “… I see. And have you ever seen in your dreams an otherworldly being, a tall man in a stovepipe hat, perhaps accompanied by a host of crows?”

Woodhouse wrote it down on his pad, sneezed again, and moved out into the crowd. He bumped hard into a young man, knocking off his cap.

“Apologies,” Woodhouse said, brushing dirt from the brim as he handed it back.

“No trouble,” Arthur Brown said as he donned his cap once more. He leaned against the hot dog stand, watching Jake Marlowe move through the crowd clean as a newly made promise. His eyes scanned the whole of the fairgrounds, taking in everything.

“This exhibition’s gonna be the biggest thing to hit this city in a long time,” Woodhouse said, nodding briefly toward the adoring crowds before scribbling more notes on his pad. “Gonna make a big bang.”

Arthur nodded, then tipped his head and looked up at the wide, blue, American sky, where not a cloud could be seen. “It surely will,” he said.





At the appointed hour, Jericho waited for Jake Marlowe in his private tent bordering the fairgrounds, which were already bustling with industry, the air a symphony of hammering, shouting men—proof that the great Jake Marlowe intended to make good on his promise to erect the fair quickly. The inside of the tent had the feel of an officer’s quarters, as if the two of them had come to plot the next battle surge. A long table housing a diorama took up the center of the room. Jericho walked around the table, admiring the clean-lined perfection of the model’s buildings as he read the title cards beneath each one: HALL OF PROSPERITY. HALL OF AVIATION AND ROCKETRY. STANDARD OIL PAVILION. ATOMIC ENERGY PAVILION. EUGENICS EXHIBITION TENT. RADIO. MACHINES. MEDICINE. AGRICULTURE.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Marlowe entered the tent, wiping the dirt from his hands. “You’re getting a first look at what we’re building—the greatest exhibition of its kind dedicated to the advancement of American business, ingenuity, and ideals. A utopian vision of an American tomorrow.”

“Sounds like an advertisement.”

“I suppose it is,” Marlowe agreed, laughing. “But why not take pride in this country? It’s the envy of the world. A place where any man can realize his dream. We, the dreamers, built this nation.”

“The Indians and the slaves might disagree,” Jericho shot back.

“Did you come to lecture me about American history, Jericho? Or did you need this?” Marlowe held up a vial of blue serum.

If there was anything Jericho hated, it was this. He hated being at the mercy of a man he both admired and hated, someone who’d saved his life and enslaved it.

“Now, now, no need to look embarrassed. I’m glad you’re here. I was very pleased to get your letter. Here. Take a seat.” Marlowe offered Jericho a chair, settling into the one opposite him. Casually, he poured coffee from a silver pot and handed the cup to Jericho, who was grateful for the warm drink. “I heard about what happened to you up in Brethren.”