When his hat sailed gaily towards the hook, Peter Stone realized that, incredibly, he wasn't tired. Work flowed through his fingers, his secretary smiled, his boss looked in once and whistled. At noon only the thought of paraffined carton coffee restrained him from staying in.
"Coming right up, Seventeen!" said the new silver grille next to the elevator button. Cheered, he clove the mindless rush downstairs and pushed inside a luncheonette where maintenance men were finishing the removal of every second stool and the re-upholstery of the remainder with foam cushions. A smiling waitress brought him a menu and a pencil. Opposite each item was a small circle, and a line at the top explained: THIS IS YOUR MENUCHECK. PLEASE MARK WANTED ITEMS, DROP MENUCHECK IN SLOT.
Served incredibly fast, Peter Stone ate in blissful peace. On his way out he saw that the cashier's cage had been replaced with three silver cabinets with hoppers for Menuchecks and money, recessed cups for change and a turnstile each. When he walked through he found that he still had forty minutes of his lunch hour left.
Forty minutes! He could walk to a bookshop, or the park ... walk, through exhaust fumes and the belches of airconditioner waste? But silver mesh covered the noisome vents. A cautious sniff assured him it worked.
He decided to walk to the Library newsstands for a foreign magazine. As he reached 42nd and Fifth an army of workmen were putting the last touches on a structure of dull silver that spanned the four sides of the intersection. Airy and elegant, with faint echoes of Library style, the quadruple arch provided the perfect finishing touch for the square. Each side was composed of three escalators and moving platforms in both directions, with a set of stairs and a promenade.
Timidly, he set foot on the silver filigree. He was wafted up, across and down. Beneath him flowed a brilliant river of quiet cars. Fascinated, he took the trip back, then stood on the promenade watching the pattern, breathing in incredulous lungfuls of clean air.
The afternoon fled on newly silent feet. Once more he put on his hat to face the ride home.
His small, air-conditioned silver bus reached Penn Station ten minutes earlier than usual. By now Peter Stone was not overly surprised to see silver moving ways disappearing into the Station's maw, nor, once inside, to feel breezes that blew silently from silver gadgets like jet engines. He also accepted the waiting passengers dancing in the great lobby—the piped music there had long been excellent.
A low, pleasant voice announced his train in diamond-cut syllables that floated from silver-dollar speakers spangling the walls. Silver escalators swept to a bright platform covered in springy non-skid green plastic.