Arthur's first priority was to get out of the small, flower-papered room. A plan was forming in his 38-year-old mind, a clear, step-by-step list. The first item on that list was to meet the lawyer, Elias Thorne. He could not do that in his pajamas.
He looked in the dark wood wardrobe. Inside hung a few items of clothing that must have belonged to his 18-year-old self. They were simple: two pairs of trousers, a few shirts, and a heavy wool coat. They were the clothes of a young man with very little money.
On the dresser, next to the letter, was a thin leather wallet. He opened it. Inside was three dollars and some change. It was enough.
He dressed quickly. The clothes felt strange. The wool was heavy and rough against his skin, nothing like the light, synthetic blends of 2025. He put on the coat, checked that he had the lawyer's letter and the wallet, and opened the door to his room.
He stepped out into the hallway of a simple boarding house. The air smelled of boiled cabbage and dust. He walked down a narrow flight of stairs and onto the street.
The cold hit him first. It was a wet, biting January cold that felt different from the climate-controlled world he knew. But the cold was not the most shocking thing.
The sound was.
The world of 2025 was a constant, low hum of electronics, air conditioners, and distant, rubber-tired traffic.
The world of 1940 was loud, sharp, and mechanical.
A streetcar screeched on its metal tracks, sending up a shower of sparks. A horse-drawn cart, loaded with milk bottles, clattered over the cobblestone street. Men shouted, their voices clear in the air, not lost in a digital hum. A car horn blared, not a polite beep-beep but a loud, barking aoo-gah.
And the smell. The air was thick with the scent of coal smoke from a thousand chimneys. It was a heavy, mineral smell that coated the back of his throat. It mixed with the smell of horses, roasting peanuts from a street vendor, and damp wool from the coats of the people rushing past him.
Arthur stood on the sidewalk for a full minute, just breathing it in. He was a data processor, and this was a flood of new, raw data.
He looked at the people. No one was looking down.
In his time, every person on a sidewalk was in their own private, digital world, staring at the small, glowing phone in their hand.
Here, people looked at each other. They read newspapers while they walked. They looked in shop windows. Men in dark suits and fedora hats rushed by, carrying briefcases. Women wore hats with small veils and heavy coats. The world was in a hurry, but it felt… slower. More real.
This is my new world, he thought. It was not a museum. It was real. He was breathing its air.
He needed to look the part. The lawyer's letter was in his pocket. It was his key to a new life. He could not walk into that office looking like a poor boy from a boarding house. He needed a suit.
He found a men's clothing store a few blocks away. A bell tinkled when he opened the door. A middle-aged man in a crisp shirt and tie looked up.
"Can I help you, son?" the man asked.
Arthur felt the strange gap between his mind and his voice. "Yes," he said, his voice steady. He kept his tone polite and formal. "I need a suit. A business suit. Something conservative. Dark blue or charcoal."
The shopkeeper seemed surprised. Most 18-year-olds were not so direct. "An important day?"
"Something like that," Arthur said simply. "I am meeting my new lawyer."
The man's attitude changed. He saw a young man about to come into money. "Right this way. I have just the thing."
Arthur bought a dark charcoal wool suit, a white shirt, a simple striped tie, and a pair of polished black leather shoes. The total cost was a fraction of what he expected, but it used up almost all the money in his wallet. It did not matter.
He changed in the back of the shop. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a different person. The cheap clothes had made him look like a boy. The suit made him look like a serious young man. It was a uniform. It was armor.
He left the shop and walked toward the address on the envelope. He was no longer just observing. He was analyzing.
He passed a newsstand. The man was shouting the same thing he had heard from his window. "War in Europe! Nazis on the march!"
Arthur stopped. He bought a copy of The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. He found a small diner, the windows steamed up from the inside. He went in and sat in a booth at the back.
A waitress came over. "What'll it be, mister?"
"Just a coffee, please," Arthur said.
"Five cents."
He handed her a coin and she returned with a thick, white mug filled with black, steaming coffee. It was bitter, but it was hot.
He opened the newspapers.
The headlines were full of fear. The war in Europe, which had started just a few months ago in September 1939, was the only thing anyone was talking about. Germany had taken Poland. Britain and France were at war. Russia had invaded Finland.
The stock market news was full of uncertainty. The market was low. Investors were scared. They were selling stocks and buying government bonds, the "safe" investment. The country was still healing from the Great Depression. No one wanted to take a risk.
Arthur read the headlines about the war. He read the fearful articles about the economy.
He did not see a crisis. He did not see fear.
He saw the single greatest business opportunity in the history of the world.
His mind, the 38-year-old analyst's mind, began to work at high speed. He knew what was going to happen.
The newspapers were asking, "Will America join the war?"
Arthur knew the answer. Yes. Not yet, but soon. December 1941. Less than two years away.
When America joined the war, the entire country would become one giant factory. The government would spend billions of dollars. They would need ships, planes, tanks, guns, steel, rubber, oil, aluminum, and food.
After the war, America would be the only major country left standing. Its factories would be new. Its economy would boom for thirty years.
He looked at the stock pages. Companies he knew from the future were there, but they were small, weak.
Boeing. They had a new bomber, the B-17, but the company was low on money. IBM. They made time clocks and punch-card machines. Haloid Company. A tiny company in Rochester that would one day, using a technology not yet invented, become Xerox.
He could buy them. He could buy all of them.
With five million dollars... He could buy control.
A cold fire burned inside him. In 2025, he was just a cog in the machine. Here, he could build the machine. He would not just invest. He would create a financial empire. He would fund the companies that would win the war, and then he would fund the companies that would build the post-war world.
His goals were not for next week, or next year. His goals were generational. He had to be patient. Methodical.
He finished his coffee. The excitement was there, but he pushed it down. He locked it in the same box where he had put his grief. He needed to be calm.
He left the diner, the newspapers folded under his arm. He felt the new suit, heavy and serious on his shoulders. He was ready.
Then, he passed a building with a large glass window. He saw his reflection.
He stopped.
The world saw an 18-year-old boy.
A kid.
This was his real problem. He had the knowledge of a 38-year-old expert. He had the capital of a 1940s millionaire. But he had the face of a high school student.
If he walked into that lawyer's office and said, "Hello, I would like to use my $5 million to buy small aviation and technology companies," they would laugh. They would call him a fool. They would try to "protect" his money from him. They would lock it away in safe, slow government bonds until he was 25. By then, the greatest opportunity would be over.
He could not be an 18-year-old kid.
He had to be something else. He had to be a prodigy. He had to be quiet, serious, and strangely intelligent. He had to be the calmest, most serious person in every room. He had to make them forget he was 18.
He stood up straight, adjusting his tie. He was not a boy. He was Arthur Vance. He knew the future.
He hailed a taxi. The car, a big, black boxy vehicle, pulled over.
"Where to, bud?" the driver asked.
Arthur leaned forward, his voice low and clear. "Downtown. The corner of Wall and Broad."
The driver looked at the serious young man in the suit. "Yes, sir."
The cab pulled into traffic. Arthur Vance, 18 years old on the outside, 38 years old on the inside, watched the old world of 1940 pass by. He was on his way to collect his money. The game was about to begin.