Stolen Centuries

Bleary-eyed and unkempt, with a three days' growth of beard covering his
lean jowls, his threadbare suit unpressed and baggy, Fred "Fly" Jorgeson
shuffled to the park bench, sat down heavily, and sighed dejectedly.

Jorgeson had seen better days--much better. For years he had made a
splendid living with his "Human Fly" act, climbing the sides of
skyscrapers as an advertising stunt while crowds gaped, watching for him
to fall.

He had never fallen, but others of his profession had, and finally the
authorities everywhere had prohibited such exhibitions. No more Human
Fly acts would be permitted. Ergo, Fly Jorgeson, as he was called
everywhere, was suddenly without the highly paid jobs and the adulation
of the crowds which had been the breath of life to him.

He had never saved his money, had learned no other trade or profession,
and with millions of trained men jobless, he found it impossible to get
work. He soon found himself flat broke. He then took to panhandling,
usually getting enough nickels and dimes in a day for his food and a
cheap flop. His last dime was now gone. Soon he must leave the languid
comfort of the park bench and resume his panhandling, in order to obtain
the food and the flophouse bunk that would see him through the night.

A discarded newspaper lay on the bench beside him, and picking it up, he
glanced idly through the "Help Wanted" columns of the classified
section. Suddenly, a small ad caught and held his attention: WANTED:
Experienced mountain climber. Easy work. Excellent pay. Applicants call
in person, 1332 Poinsetta Drive, and ask for Professor Hartwell.

Jorgeson frowned and considered. That address would be at least a five
mile walk from where he sat. But didn't he walk a good fifteen to twenty
miles a day, anyway? And the panhandling might even be better out
Poinsetta way, whether he landed the job or not.

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Stolen Centuries