Chapter 58: Turns Out He Really Is That Fred

“Professor, I’d like to ask—who do you think will win between Kennedy and Nixon?”

Lin Ran wasn’t truly asking this question—he merely wanted to strengthen his case for convincing John Morgan to switch allegiance to Kennedy.

“Them? I don’t care who becomes president. Are you that interested in who sits in the White House?” Horkheimer asked, puzzled.

He understood perfectly well what Lin Ran intended, and he was acutely aware of the close ties between aerospace and politics.

After Lin Ran had explained in detail his collaboration with John Morgan and the full context of the matter, Horkheimer advised:

“Randolph, frankly, I don’t understand why you insist on meddling in aerospace. You’re already one of the world’s most renowned mathematicians.

I believe you have comparable talent in philosophy—you could become one of the foremost scholars of this era.

You lack nothing in material wealth, fame, accomplishment, or even the higher fulfillment that comes from pursuing truth.

Why involve yourself in politics?”

He continued: “At first, I truly hoped you’d join NASA, to see if you could stand up to those Nazi bastards—without NASA’s protection, they’d never survive.

But that was then; this is now. Your abilities in mathematics clearly surpass those in aerospace.

If you don’t want to, I’ll help you decline Morgan’s offer.”

Horkheimer advised.

Lin Ran pointed to the sky above: “Professor, because space is right there.

You’re right—I lack nothing.

But for me, only space can give me the sense of self-actualization I crave. I hope that before we die, we won’t be confined to this tiny planet.

Professor, the advancement of productive forces leads to geographic expansion; geographic expansion triggers social transformation; social transformation gives rise to the continuous evolution of philosophical thought. Aren’t you curious what the philosophical currents of the interstellar age will be like?

I’m not just curious about how interstellar philosophy will evolve—I’m curious about where humanity will steer society as a whole.”

Horkheimer nodded silently, then said: “I understand. But I still hold the same view: Kennedy and Nixon make no difference.

It doesn’t matter which one takes office.

You don’t need to worry about anything else. As long as your proposal gains approval in NASA’s tender, even if Kennedy refuses to let NASA partner with General Aerospace, I’ll find a way to get you into NASA with real authority.

If Nixon wins, you rely on General Aerospace and Morgan.

So you don’t need to do anything at all.”

Lin Ran asked: “Professor, are you really that certain?”

Horkheimer’s bald head gleamed under the sunlight—not his eyes, but his scalp radiated wisdom: “The Jewish community all support Kennedy.

Over 87 percent of Jews voted for Kennedy in the polls.

He’ll honor our expectations.

And you yourself have the ability.

Also, don’t forget the Irish-Americans despise the Germans.”

Lin Ran never expected that before he’d even decided, he was already on the winning side—no matter his choice, he couldn’t lose. He was already looking forward to the evening banquet.

“Also, don’t forget: the paradox of critical theory lies in the fact that when it attempts to intervene in reality through philosophy, it must accept the possibility of becoming a new form of domination.

When reason seeks to transcend its limits, it always carries within it the seed of self-destruction.

Is there any way critical theory can avoid this fate?”

Just as Lin Ran was about to leave, Horkheimer’s voice came from behind him. Lin Ran turned and saw the professor’s piercing gaze—he almost felt as if the man could see across time, witnessing how critical theory would take root, grow, and tear apart American society in 2020.

“Understood, Professor.”

“Is there a restaurant here too?”

John Morgan, as usual, arrived in his Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud II to pick up Lin Ran, stopping at 38 East 37th Street in Manhattan.

After stepping out, Lin Ran looked left and right but saw no sign indicating a restaurant.

He had passed by this place several times in his memory of New York sixty years later, and he clearly recalled that the exterior and interior had remained unchanged for six decades.

Same limestone façade, rough-hewn stone at the base, polished stone above. A portico supported by four Ionic columns, crowned by a pediment adorned with carved reliefs: an eagle with outstretched wings and two female statues.

Sixty years later, just as now, it refused guests, had no visitors.

He and Li Xiaoman had once speculated—Li Xiaoman thought it might be a secret club’s meeting place.

John Morgan stepped out right behind him:

“Of course. The Union League Club moved here in 1901, designed by the architect Whitney Warren—who also designed New York Central Station. It blends classical Greek, Roman, Renaissance, and Baroque elements in the Beaux-Arts style.

The first meeting of the Party of the Elephant was held here—I believe it dates back to the 1750s, if I recall correctly.

This place is utterly secret, utterly secure, no accidents possible. Guests and hosts alike can let loose completely.”

Lin Ran and John Morgan arrived neither early nor late.

The early guests were surprised to see an East Asian face here.

“Randolph, Randolph Lin, mathematics professor at Columbia University, my partner.”

With John Morgan introducing him, and Lin Ran’s face frequently appearing on newspaper front pages,

these white men were polite.

The older white men, dressed in dark suits, neat ties, hair slicked back in the fashionable style, were merely polite.

But one white man, whose appearance closely resembled the future 2020 White House owner, was unusually warm—he introduced himself, and lo and behold, it really was that Fred.

Fred T.

John Morgan whispered to Lin Ran: “Just a nouveau riche. I can’t fathom why Robert Finch invited him to this fundraising dinner.”

Lin Ran turned to look at the white man, who waved at him cheerfully.

Lin Ran’s heart tightened—John Morgan saw Fred as a nouveau riche. Then what did he see Lin Ran as? A tool, a little yellow man?

But fortunately, Lin Ran only saw Morgan as an instrument too—everyone was using everyone else.

The banquet opened with a cocktail reception. Guests held martinis or whiskey glasses, chatting softly beneath gentle jazz. Waiters moved through the crowd, trays laden with delicate appetizers.

John Morgan had already drifted off to socialize, but Lin Ran felt lonely in the crowd—none of the previously polite white men spoke to him.

Fortunately, Fred, who was also ignored, came over to him.