Chapter 57: Who Would’ve Thought It Was Really That Fred
“Professor, what I want to ask is about Kennedy and Nixon. Who do you think will win?”
Lin Ran didn’t really want to ask the other party this question; it was just to add some persuasiveness for convincing John Morgan to switch to Kennedy later.
“Them? I don’t care who becomes president. Why, do you care who sits in the White House?” Professor Horkheimer asked puzzledly.
He was also well aware of what Lin Ran wanted to do, and even more aware of the close relationship between aerospace and politics.
After Lin Ran roughly explained his cooperation with John Morgan and the whole story, Professor Horkheimer advised:
“Randolph, honestly, I really don’t understand why you always want to get involved in aerospace. You are already one of the world’s most famous mathematicians.
I believe you have similar talent in philosophy too; you could become one of the top scholars of this era.
Material things, fame, sense of achievement, even the higher sense of achievement from pursuing truth—you lack none of them.
Why do you have to get involved in politics?”
He continued: “At first, I did think of letting you join NASA to see if you could fight those NAZI guys. As long as they don’t have NASA’s protection, they won’t have a good end.
But that was before, and now is now. Your ability in the field of mathematics is clearly greater than in aerospace.
If you don’t want to, I’ll help you turn down Morgan.”
Professor Horkheimer advised.
Lin Ran pointed to the sky above his head: “Professor, because space is right there.
You’re right; I lack nothing.
But for me, only space can bring me a sense of achievement from realizing my self-worth. I hope that in our lifetime we can go beyond this small planet.
Professor, the development of productivity brings geographical expansion, geographical expansion brings changes in social forms, and changes in social forms extend to the constant evolution of philosophical trends. Aren’t you curious what philosophical trends in the interstellar era will be like?
I’m not only curious about the evolution of philosophical trends in the interstellar era; I’m also curious where humanity will take the whole society.”
Professor Horkheimer nodded silently, and after a moment said: “I understand, but I still hold that viewpoint: Nixon and Kennedy are no different.
It makes no difference who of the two takes office.
You don’t need to worry about the rest. As long as your proposal can gain recognition in NASA’s bidding, even if Kennedy firmly disagrees with NASA cooperating with General Aerospace after taking office, I will find a way to let you join NASA and gain some dominant rights.
If Nixon wins, then you can rely on General Aerospace and Morgan.
So you don’t need to do anything.”
Lin Ran asked: “Professor, are you really so sure?”
Professor Horkheimer’s completely bald head shone brightly under the sunlight, radiating wisdom not from his eyes, but from his bald head: “The Jewish community all supports Kennedy.
More than 87% of Jewish people voted for Kennedy in the polls.
He will give us this face.
Plus, you yourself have the ability.
Also, don’t forget that those of Irish descent don’t like Germans either.”
Lin Ran never expected that he hadn’t even made a decision yet and was already sitting on the fence; no matter how he chose, he wouldn’t lose. For a moment, he had already begun looking forward to the evening banquet.
“Also don’t forget, the paradox of critical theory itself is that when it tries to intervene in reality with philosophy, it must bear the possibility of becoming a new form of domination.
When rationality tries to transcend limitations, it always carries the seed of self-destruction.
Is there any way to let critical theory avoid such destiny?”
Just as Lin Ran was about to leave, Professor Horkheimer’s words came from behind him. Lin Ran turned his head and saw the other’s wise eyes, even having the illusion that the other could traverse the river of time and see critical theory taking root, sprouting, and growing in America in 2020, causing tears and chaos.
“Got it, Professor.”
“Is there a restaurant here too?”
John Morgan, as during the day, drove his Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud II to pick up Lin Ran and stopped at the door of 37 East 38th Street in Manhattan.
After Lin Ran got out of the car, he looked left and right but didn’t see any sign indicating a restaurant here.
He had passed by here several times in New York 60 years later, and he clearly remembered in his mind that the exterior walls and decoration here hadn’t changed in sixty years.
Likewise limestone facade, with rough stone masonry on the ground floor and smooth stone surface on the upper floors. The central entrance has a portico supported by four Ionic columns, with a pediment above the columns, and carved reliefs on the pediment, including an eagle with spread wings and two female statues.
Sixty years later, it was the same as now—no guests received, no visitors.
He and Li Xiaoman had even guessed that Li Xiaoman thought this might be a gathering place for a secret club.
John Morgan followed closely, getting out of the car:
“Of course, the Union League Club moved here in 1901, designed by architectural master Whitney Warren—New York Central Station was also designed by him—blending classical Greek, Roman, Renaissance, and Baroque elements in the Paris School of Fine Arts architectural style.
The Elephant Party’s first meeting in New York was held at the Union League Club. If I remember correctly, it dates back to the 1850s.
This place is absolutely private, absolutely secure, with no accidents; both guests and hosts can fully let loose.”
Lin Ran and John Morgan arrived neither too early nor too late.
Some of the guests who arrived first were surprised to see a yellow-skinned person in this setting.
“Randolph, Randolph Lin, mathematics professor at Columbia University, my business partner.”
With John Morgan’s introduction, plus Lin Ran’s face often appearing on the front pages of major newspapers.
This group of white men all seemed very polite.
The old white men in dark suits, neat ties, and popular slicked-back hairstyles were just being polite.
Instead, a white man who looked strikingly like the White House owner in 2020 was somewhat enthusiastic. When he introduced himself, it turned out he really was that Fred.
Fred T
John Morgan whispered an explanation to Lin Ran: “Just a parvenu. I don’t know why Robert Finch invited him to the fundraising dinner.”
Lin Ran turned his head to look at the white man, who friendly waved to him.
Lin Ran felt a tightness in his heart: if John Morgan saw Fred as a parvenu, then what did he see himself as? A tool minion?
But fortunately, he also just saw Morgan as an object to use; it was mutual.
The banquet opened with a cocktail party, guests holding martini or whiskey glasses, conversing in low voices accompanied by gentle jazz music. Waiters shuttled through the crowd, trays holding exquisite appetizers.
John Morgan had already gone to socialize, but Lin Ran felt somewhat lonely in the crowd; none of the previously polite old white men paid him any attention.
Similarly ignored Fred came over.
