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He drew near. He cleared his throat. How does one address an autofac?

“Uh—Your Fabricatorship?” he ventured.

Nothing.

“… Processor, Producer, Distributor, Maintainer,” he went on, a portion of the ritual now occuring to him, “Great Maker—Good on warranties, excluding labor and parts. I, a humble consumer, Pete Sands by name, beg leave to make representations before you.”

The lid of the autofac moved aside. A stalk rose from the uncovered shaft. It extended a bullhorn which turned in his direction.

“Which is it?” it bellowed. “The abortion or the lube?”

“Beg pardon?”

“You mean you haven’t made up your mind yet?” it roared. “I am going to electrocute you right now!”

“No! Wait! I—”

Pete felt a mild tingling in the soles of his feet. It lasted but a moment, and he began to back away then, noting the dark wisps of smoke that now emerged from the cavity, smelling of ozone and fried insulation.

“Not so fast!” came a roar. “What is that thing behind you?”

“Oh—my bike,” he replied.

“I see the problem. Bring it here.”

“There is no problem with the bike. I came to ask you about an inc named Tibor McMasters, and whether he had come to you—”

“The bicycle!” it shrieked. “The bicycle!”

With that, a long flexible grappel emerged from the pit and seized the vehicle’s frame just beneath the seat. It raised it from the ground and drew it toward the shaft. Pete caught at the handlebars as it passed by, digging in with his heels and pulling back on it.

“Let go of my bike! Damn it! I just want some information!”

It wrenched it away from him and drew it down into the opening.

“Customer to stand by for maintenance and repairs!” it shouted.

The arm emerged again and deposited a red-vinyl-and-tube-aluminum chair, a rack of Readers’ Digests, a stand ashtray, and a section of pale green partitioning on which was hung a Playboy calendar, a faded and fly-specked print of Crater Lake, and signs saying the CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT; SMILE; THINK; I DON’T GET ULCERS. I GIVE THEM; and ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT FOREST FIRES.

Sighing, Pete seated himself and began reading an article on the cure for cancer.

A humming noise arose from deep in the pit, rapidly growing into a roar, accompanied by an irregular banging and the screeches of tearing metal. Moments later he heard the lift grinding its way upward.

“Service with maximum efficiency!” the voice brayed. “Stand by to receive product!”

Pete rose and retreated from the shaft opening. Three arms were then extended in rapid succession. Each of them clutched a shiny tricycle.

“God damn it!” he cried. “You ruined my bike!” The arms hesitated, halted.

“The customer is not satisfied?” a soft, lethal voice inquired.

“Well—they are beautiful tricycles,” he said. “Real quality workmanship. Anyone can see that. It is just that I needed only one, full-size—and with two wheels, one front and one rear.”

“All right. Stand by for adjustment!”

“While you are about it,” Pete said, “could you tell me what occurred when Tibor McMasters came here?”

The tricycles were withdrawn and the noises began again. Above them, the voice roared out, “The little phoc left me an order and didn’t come back for it or the abortion. Here!” A carton of lube was expelled from the opening and landed near his feet. “That’s his order! Give it to him yourself if you want—and tell him I don’t need people like him for customers!”

Pete snatched up the carton and continued to back away, as the noises under the ground had grown to an ominous, thunderlike level, so that now the earth began to tremble from their vibration.

“Your order is now ready!” it rambled. “Stand By!” Pete turned and ran, crashing back through the thicket.

A shadow darkened the heavens, and he threw himself into the lea of a boulder and covered his head with his hands.

It began to rain pogo sticks.

Fourteen

Tibor watched the evening change clothes about him, saw the landscape divide and depart, up and down, dark. How did it go, that desolate little poem? It was Rilke’s “Abend”:

Der Abend wechselt langsam die Gewander, die ihm Rand von alien Baumen halt; du schaust: und von dir scheiden sich die Lander, ein himmelfahrendes und eins, das fallt;
und lassen dich, zu keinem ganz gehorend, nicht ganz so dunkel wie das Haus, das schweigt, nicht ganz so sicher Ewiges beschworend wie das, was Stern wird jede Nacht und steigt;
und lassen die (unsaglich zu entwirrn) dein Leben, bang und riesenhaft und reifend, so dasz es, bald begrenzt und bald begreifend, abwechselnd Stern in dir wird und Gestirn.

He knows how I feel, he decided, to none belonging, not so surely promised to eternity as all this, confused, alone, afraid. If I could turn to stone and stars now, I would. The God of Wrath gave me legs and arms. He took them back again. Did that really happen? Yes, it did. I’m sure of it. Why did he give me limbs if I couldn’t keep them? Just to hold anything and feel it for a time would be so fine. I thought it was sadistic, but the Christian version is a masochist now that I think of it, a turning upon, oneself of all bad things, which is just as bad in its own way. He loves everybody, democratically, in fact relentlessly. But he created people so that they could not go through life without hurting him. He wanted something painful to love. They’re both of them sick. They have to be. How horrible I feel, how worthless. But I still don’t want to die. I am afraid to use the bullhorn again, though. Now that it is dark. No telling what might hear it and come now.

Tibor began to weep. The night sounds—chirps, buzzes, the dry rasping of twigs on bark—were smothered by his sobs.

There came a jolt and a creak, as an extra weight was added to his cart. Oh god! What’s that? he thought. I am totally helpless. I will have to lie here and let it eat me. It is too dark to see where I could even direct the extensor to defend myself. It’s somewhere behind me, advancing now—

He felt a cold, moist touch upon his neck, then fur. It came up beside him. It licked his cheek.

“Toby! Toby…”

It was the dog the lizards had given him. It had run off earlier, and he had assumed it was on its way back to its former owners. Now he saw the muzzle outlined against the sky, tongue rolling, teeth white, approximating a smile.

“You’ve stayed with me after all,” he said. “I don’t have anything to feed you. I hope you found something yourself. Stay with me. Curl up and sleep here beside me. Please. I’ll keep talking to you, Toby. Good dog, good dog… Sorry I can’t pet you. In this light, I might misjudge and crush your skull. Stay, though. Stay.

If I make it through the night, he thought… if I make it it’ll be because of you.

“I’ll reward you someday,” he promised the dog, who stirred at the emphatic tone of his voice. “I will save your life. If you save mine, if I am alive when help comes—I promise! If I am still living when you yourself are ever in danger, you will hear a roaring and a rushing, and a rolling, and the brush will churn! Leaves and dust will fly up, and you will know I am on my way, from wherever I am, to aid you! The thunder and violent rolling of my salvation of you will terrify anyone. I will protect you, cherish you, exactly as you are getting me through this night tonight. That is my sacred solemn promise before God Himself.”

The dog thumped his tail.

Pete Sands, walking under the moon, across the nighted plain, hiking between the tracks of the cow cart, pausing periodically to assure himself they remain: Shouldn’t be abroad after dark. Should find some sheltered place and bed down. Want more distance between me and that schizy autofac, though. Guess I’ve probably come far enough. But now I feel vulnerable, exposed. Flat, empty, this place. But there were trees in the distance when the light went away. This still seems the proper direction. That right track is getting wobbly. Without the lube, that tire could go. Is he all right? My hip is sore. Lost my hat, too. Now my head will turn red and peel. Then red again. Then peel again. It never tans over… How is Tibor faring? How strong are those manual grippers? I wonder. Could he protect himself? My knee hurts, too. There’s one problem he’ll never have. Life would be so much simpler if Lufteufel had had the decency to die back when he should have and everybody knew it. Now, though… What will I do if he really turns up? Supposing he pets dogs and gives candy to children these days? Supposing he has a wife and ten kids who love him? Supposing… Hell! Too much supposing. What would Lurine say? I don’t know what Lurine would say… Where’d that damn track go?