THINKING of those still in the plight of the family stew, with their many flesh burdens and tortures, sometimes I get so happy with my steel condition—I laugh. I clap out beats with my big steel hands and I thump and stamp with my heavy new-metal feet until, tired, I go to throw a long steel log on the fire in some massive new-metal fireplace of my mind. And then I sit in my hip-snuggie chair and draw on recorded tapes of contentment for hap-thinking. . . .
But it has not always been so easy nor so fine. NO! Let me tell you . . . I remember one stark and tragic time in Olderan before I was “replaced.” The rotations and revolutions had gone once more according to the Track, the orbiting had all styled in as fine and fixed as anyone could ask, and so once more it was all blue and gold and green of days—and spring. I walked, walking a pet beige bulldog, into a gentle liquid wind that was sowing the air with seed floats, petals, old husks of leaf buds and, of course, perfume. And grimly, yes, grimly, I was on time for a chance meeting. YES! One minute either way, ONE! and the fount of the Old Earth’s agonies would have stayed emptier by two big heartfuls. One minute out of all the eternities of the seconds, sixty of them were our need. But some jokesmith god of love denied us our need.
So I went on into the encounter at the street cross. And life cross. And suddenly there’s my pet beige bulldog growling and groaning and clawing the general ground in a very tall excitement. Yes, we’ve come to the Meeting, but I’m still yonder, thinking as usual on Universal Deep Problems, Questions of the World. I have my gleam ships all lofted in the liquid wind, routed on runs to star-tracked Marsoplan, and all the White Galaxies of heaven are joining a union of Suns. I’m manning all the Ramparts of Light with new sun scopes for some final smash on Dark—ah, dreaming. But there’s my real and solid, though quite impractical now, old beige bulldog grunting and groaning and whining at the ground in a high-fever state of a very tall excitement. Well, on the groundward end of a purple-jeweled dog lead there is this small French dog, hair carved to a poodle do, neck all beribboned and body all perfumed, thus explaining in full the whole intent of my bulldog’s grunts and groans. For yes, yes, she’s a fine big girl for a dog. YES! On the heavenward end of this purple-flashing dog strap, slanted up to hands so small pale and fine—all ringless on the left—well, what’s to say? Just say, there holding a small French dog by an amethyst-studded tether stood the blue-gold goddess of all tall-heaven dreaming, face pointed athwart the liquid wind and me. And there stood I, dazed and dream-vulnerable, holding the slack chain lead of a huge old Boston bulldog who has just collapsed in a kind of ecstasy and is even then sprawling on the sidewalk, breathing hard, lapping his tongue about (you could almost see those dog brains go) thinking of that little French poodle dog.
But how did I—so long ago in Olderan, flesh-encumbered, dream-burdened, fuzzy-brained and woolly-minded—make out with the heavenward end of that purple-jeweled dog strap? Sometimes I’m tempted to tell you how it was, how the sky fell down in great blue diamond pieces that day of the tragic beautiful instant, how a whirlwind blew three rages through the mind there in the soft liquid air with the seed floats, and how a million sunburst voices spoke of greatest GREATEST Joy. At other times I’m tempted to rattle my steel-ball eyeballs at you, pump up and down on my new-metal all-weather knee joints, juggle a hundred new-metal bubble globes all at once with my new-metal hands, stick out my plate tongue at you each and everyone and press the phfluggee-phflaggee button on my talker at you one and all—BLAAHHH!!!
But just say there was this blue-eyed instant. Say there was this place made out of that one instant, and in it was the all-that-matters world. For it was spring and there stood I, young and dream-vulnerable. And there stood she, all ringless on the left, pushing blue and gold and white, outdoing the very flowers with her own expensive color tones and scents.
After that, just say all the legions were committed, all the ships sailed and the skies were filled with airplanes. We kept back nothing in the grim encounters that our love was, for remember we were flesh that year, all dream-bothered flesh; we moved in to destroy each other with more than usual fervor, for our passion was great and most unique in Olderan that season. Or so at least we thought it. But there were no winners. Are there ever?
Came the time, far down the days of agony of our trial by love, when I had sickened. The long months of pursuit, the heart palpitations, the doubts, the searing hopes, the prizes thrust out to dangle and then be denied by littles—that whole grim business—had worn me thin. We both saw how it was. She for pity married a business man who owned five factories, a private road, ten cars and a railroad train. And I, seeing my chances and sensing the way the winds of progress were listing, set sail with all remaining energy and fastest possible speed to join the Bangs to fight the world wars that were just then forming up. After the great loss at Landry and the end of our world as we knew it I came out of the bomb smear, the havoc far and everywhere, to have myself done over right down to a minimum of flesh-strip holding me in shape. I not only got rid of all the love-befuddled tissue, I went much further and had healthy flesh snipped out for “replacement” until finally, testing out at almost ninety-two and one-half per cent good new-metal steel, I knew I was SOLID!
She and the factory owner have been dead many many years, let me say. Even their flesh ways of living have mostly been bypassed by progress now, and their land has been invaded and transformed by steadily growing, massively encroaching, Great New Processes Land. His factories have been converted to warehouses; they store parts for men now. I, in on the ground floor by being a New Processes Early, have climbed a mountain of greatness I never thought I’d approach. I am respected and powerful. My blasters, armed with the latest in megatons, are ready to flip their volcanoes around this world and any nearby others in times of war. In times of peace I may sit in a hip-snuggie beach loafing chair beside a pool of clear colorless oil, the paddling and wading-sports place of the New Processes new-metal man whose status is good.
Butch is my new-metal dog now. Sometimes I activate him and he’s ready then to chew the world down to comfortable dog-size pieces. But most times I just leave him hunched up by the wall, as cold and dead then as a turned-off launch site, a memento of the past.
And love? We have no trouble with love in Great New Processes Land and never use it except as a diversionary time in Joys. And if a Joy grows tedious we know what to do with Joy; we give it to the torches; we turn the life switches to OFF on the gleaming New Processes maidens, the chic and capable mistresses with the lustrous string-metal hair. And if a form still haunts us, if a steel smile yet seems sweet and troublesome and stuff for dreams to hurt on, we fill the air with flame throwers; we cut them down like enemies, press on the phfluggee-phflaggee buttons, pump up and down on our new-metal all-weather knee joints and laugh and laugh . . . while they burn. And sometimes, as I said, I get so happy . . . with my steel condition . . .YES!