stjorthotic Chapter 334 Trip to Chicago
Chapter 334 Trip to Chicago
Chapter 334 Trip to Chicago
Friday, January 6th.
At 8 a.m., Larry and Matthew boarded the Pullman luxury train, the Lake Shore Express, from Grand Central Terminal in New York City to Russell Street Station in Chicago.
The journey takes a total of 26 hours. Of course, due to the increased likelihood of unforeseen events during long-distance passenger transport, the train may experience delays of several hours.
The sleeper cars on the Pullman luxury train are very luxurious. Larry booked a two-person compartment, which was spacious and comfortable.
Because both of them were dressed very elegantly this time, even the black waiters at Pullman's restaurant treated them with exceptional respect, completely unlike their previous instances where they had harbored subtle contempt.
The train left the Manhattan Peninsula, crossed the Hudson River, and began speeding across the plains.
The train will enter the Pennsylvania mountains around noon, arrive in Ohio near dusk, and then travel through the Indiana Plains at night.
On the way, Larry and Matthew kept talking about the new weapons in the car. Matthew mentioned a disagreement between him and his brother, John Browning, who preferred large-caliber rifles and pistols, while Matthew preferred pistols with smaller calibers.
Larry nodded in agreement. He knew that later generations of handguns mostly used 9mm caliber bullets, but the United States always used 11mm.
The .45mm caliber bullet. Such a debate is not surprising, given the United States' tendency to act independently.
Larry said to Matthew, "Matthew, I think you're right! Smaller caliber bullets can hold more and are better for accurate shooting. But larger caliber pistols are more prone to missing their targets—"
Matthew hesitated for a moment after hearing Larry's words, but he still said, "Uh, well—actually, the accuracy of a pistol mainly depends on the grip and the original mechanical design. Large caliber does not affect shooting accuracy, because it is only after the bullet is fired that large caliber ammunition can affect the accuracy of subsequent shots—even though you agree with me, I still have to point this out."
Larry smiled and nodded. "I see! Actually, I think it would be good to make the pistol in two calibers—since John likes the large caliber, let him make another model; it won't be difficult for him."
"The key is the bullet. Without custom-made bullets, if you produce a new caliber, it won't be accepted by the public." As Matthew spoke, he took out a metal box from his pocket and then took out a pistol bullet from it.
This is a pointed pistol bullet, Colt's famous .38-inch long cartridge.
"My brother said the bullet's stopping power is terrible—he thinks this thing has no future," Matthew concluded.
Larry took the bullet, examined it in his hand, and said with a smile, "This bullet is older than me. I bet it's made of black powder."
"Yes, it is. It's black powder!" Matthew twisted the bullet head off with force, pouring out all the gunpowder inside.
Larry looked at the pile of black gunpowder and said with a smile, "You see, the main problem is that the bullet manufacturing process hasn't improved much yet. The stopping power of bullets is mainly due to the inadequacy of the gunpowder formula—smokeless gunpowder is needed."
Matthew nodded. "Yes, what was that Swede's name again? Alfred Nobel, the dynamite he invented was excellent."
Larry suddenly asked, "Mr. Nobel? Oh, he shouldn't have one yet—by the way, Matthew, what do you think of Mr. Nobel?"
That's what he said, but what Larry is actually thinking about now is taking a trip to Europe sometime. He wants to see these real historical figures in person.
Matthew paused for a moment before saying, "I heard a story. Five or six years ago, Nobel's brother died, but the local Swedish newspaper thought it was him who had died. So they wrote on the front page, 'The merchant who sells death has finally died!' Mr. Nobel was very disappointed when he saw the newspaper. He didn't expect that he was seen that way by others."
Larry hadn't heard this story before. He paused for a moment, then said, "Every advancement in science is like this. Technology itself may be neither right nor wrong. But the destructive power of technology naturally carries a moral dimension—"
Matthew nodded, saying with a self-deprecating smile, "I empathize with Nobel's experience because I particularly love guns, but the thought of the killings they bring makes me very uneasy—"
Larry felt the topic was getting a bit heavy, so he turned to look out the window at the endless greenery. Suddenly, he slapped his forehead. "Oh dear! I forgot all about it. I promised William Boeing I'd take him across America. I completely forgot."
Matthew snapped out of his thoughts and smiled, saying, "Yes, that's true. But don't worry about breaking the contract. A month ago when I was in Boston, I heard that his family had already arranged for him to study in Europe—"
"Huh? He didn't escape this fate after all?" Larry remembered William Boeing, who had secretly gone to work at a securities firm because he didn't want to go to Europe.
"So—you're not going back on your word, you just need to wait until he comes back next time before taking him across America," Matthew said with a smile.
Larry nodded, Boeing's smile appearing before his eyes. He suddenly realized that in a few years, when William Boeing returned to America, the plane should have already appeared—
That night, as the train was traveling across the Indiana Plains, it suddenly began to shake violently and then came to a stop.
The terrified passengers frantically inquired about what had happened. Pullman's waiter quickly reassured them that the train had struck a herd of cattle that had stopped on the tracks.
Fortunately, the train did not overturn, but this incident slowed the train down by three hours.
The train didn't arrive in Chicago until nearly 11 a.m. the next day. Chicago is located in Illinois and is one of the two most important industrial cities in the northern United States; the other is Detroit, Michigan.
Since the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, the city's reconstruction process has been intertwined with a diverse blend of cultures brought by immigrants from Italy, Germany, Poland, and other countries.
The food produced here includes Blue Ribbon beer, Wrigley's chewing gum, Kellogg's cereal, and amber popcorn.
These are all important culinary inventions that changed modern American food culture.
Larry and Matthew got off the train, covered in coal dust, but still very excited. The train didn't have air conditioning, and the sweltering June morning felt terrible.
They had arrived in the famous Windy City of Chicago, and both of them felt great with their feet firmly planted on solid ground.
"Should we find a hotel first, or go eat first?" Matthew turned to Larry and asked.
"Let's eat first! It's too hot. I couldn't stand it on the train just now—" Larry said with a smile.
The two reached an agreement and bought two cigars from a newsboy on the roadside, then asked him for directions to the best restaurant nearby.
Located in the pastoral region of the American Midwest, steak is still the most popular dish here. The two ordered two grilled steaks, two cups of ice cream, and two glasses of refreshing German beer, and then began to enjoy their meal.
After the meal, when Larry was paying the bill, he noticed that the cashier was using a strange-looking cash register.
Larry patted Matthew on the shoulder, gesturing for him to look at the cash register. Matthew nodded.
After leaving the hotel, the two discussed the manual cash register they had just seen while searching for a hotel. They felt that the machine was actually quite good considering the existing conditions, and that their own cash register wouldn't be as luxurious and multifunctional as it was if it weren't for being electric.
Matthew, a smile playing on his lips, joked, "Oh, this place is only a few hundred miles from the headquarters of the National Cash Register in Dayton, Ohio. If President Patterson knew we two stole his business, he'd definitely send assassins after us!"
Larry laughed too, "What a pity, we could have made a detour to visit them on our way back."
As they turned a corner and walked along the intersection of South Dearborn Street and Jackson Avenue in Chicago, their eyes were immediately drawn to a building.
This is a 13-story office building, constructed entirely of red brick, with a simple yet imposing facade. It lacks Greek white plaster columns, Roman-style domes, and the ostentatious decorations that imitate European palaces.
The windows are arranged very neatly, with nine windows aligned vertically on each floor, creating a strong sense of vertical lines. The narrow and high parapet between the windows accentuates the building's dynamic upward extension.
The most striking feature is the terracotta paneling on the exterior wall, a pair of abstract vines, like leaves and geometric patterns, embedded between the arched eaves and window lintels, their color warm and lustrous. Under the summer sun, it gleams with a reddish-brown sheen.
The building looks both modern and dignified, industrial yet imbued with a human touch. Larry was struck by its trendiness and modernity; Matthew was equally impressed because such architecture is rare elsewhere, but quite common in Chicago.
An artist was painting the building from the street. Seeing the two staring at it in a daze, he smiled and shook his head. "Is this the first time you two have seen the Marquette Building?"
Larry nodded in acknowledgment. "Who designed it?"
"Sullivan!" the painter said respectfully. "Louis Sullivan. This is a work by Adler & Sullivan. It was just topped out this year; it's not fully completed yet."
"It's Sullivan again—" Larry muttered to himself.
The painter looked at his canvas, but continued, "Mainstream architects criticize him for betraying the classics, but I love it. I feel that every inch of this building is functional and aesthetically pleasing."
Larry looked down at the painter's painting; it was alright, but the real thing was clearly better.
"Your drawing is truly excellent!" Larry exclaimed.
The painter shook his head, pointed at the building, and said with a smile, "Actually, the real thing is even better! The whole building is like a poem written with red bricks, iron, and light—it's incredibly beautiful!"
Larry nodded, thinking he should hurry up and meet the other person. This series of coincidences felt like a preordained destiny.
So the two quickly booked two hotels and, after asking around, arrived at 127 South Clark Street—an inconspicuous red brick building.
A red copper sign hangs above the entrance to the building—Adler & Sullivan Architects.
Larry took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The space here is not wide; the office is long and cluttered. The walls are covered with sketches, the desk is piled with rolled-up drawings, and coffee is brewing on the stove in the corner.
A tall, thin man with his back to the door was bending over to revise an architectural design drawing.
He was in his early forties, with slightly curly black hair and a neatly trimmed beard, and charcoal ash stuck to his cuffs.
Hearing someone enter, the person glanced back and asked, "Do you have an appointment?"
"A reservation? Oh no! No, we're just here on short notice." Larry took off his hat.
"No appointment, no service. Sorry, we're too busy." The tall, thin man's tone was still very polite, but his refusal was cold.
Matthew stepped forward and asked, "Sir, may I ask who you are?"
"Louis Sullivan. If it's about the electricity bill, please wait a moment. My partner and boss, Adler, is not here right now." After saying a few words, the other person turned back to his work on his drawings.
Matthew frowned as he was not welcomed.
Just as the air grew heavy, Larry suddenly stepped forward, a smile playing on his lips. "Even without an appointment, we are Bostonians."
The man suddenly looked up at Larry, a smile playing on his lips. "Alright! Which brother told you that? Pretty clever, using that trick to get closer to him."
Larry glanced at Matthew's questioning gaze, smiled, and explained, "I've heard you're also from Boston. It's an honor to meet you in Chicago."
The tall, thin Sullivan smiled and put down his pencil. "Alright! Since you want to chat, I'll take a break—young man from Boston, what brings you here?"
"I just stood in front of the Marquette Building for a good half hour —" Larry said calmly.
"Oh, what did you see?"
"It's not pillars, nor arches. What I see is a vertical rhythm. Those 13 floors are not stacked boxes, but a tree growing upwards. Every window is a vein, every decoration is a vine, as if breathing, as if dancing."
Sullivan narrowed his eyes, even though he knew the other person was flattering him. And to flatter someone so well was quite rare.
"Are you an architect?" Sullivan asked.
"You can think of me as a real estate businessman," Larry replied with a smile, thinking to himself that he himself didn't know how to position himself. He continued, "I bought a piece of land in Back Bay and want to build a housing complex—not for the aristocracy, but for engineers, teachers, and doctors. They deserve better apartments."
"You really don't look like it, okay, even if you do, what does that have to do with me?" Sullivan asked.
"I want to create a Chicago-style building that belongs to Boston. To create a courtyard where ordinary people can look up at the light. Natural light will be introduced into the central atrium, and cast iron vines will be used in the stairwell to spiral upwards."
Sullivan raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by some of Larry's statements.
"And then?" Sullivan pressed.
"Then I felt that you were the only one in the entire United States who could create a new type of high-end apartment. We didn't want thick load-bearing walls; we maximized the living space needs of the residents."
"No load-bearing walls? How are we supposed to build a house then?" Sullivan was stunned.
"High-rise residential buildings made of reinforced concrete," Larry said with a smile. "Current construction techniques are still not good enough. If we're building some high-end housing for the middle class to relax in, I would prefer the latest materials, the latest designs, and the best craftsmanship."
Sullivan frowned and thought for a long time, but he still couldn't figure out what a building made of steel bars and concrete would look like.
"It's a different style, a new type of housing that will be all the rage in the next century," Larry replied with a laugh.
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