The Celestial Steam Locomotive (The Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  “That’s a lot of questions.”

  “Once I thought I’d found something else... I met some gloomy people in a small cottage. They weren’t laughing or drinking, and just for a moment I thought they made sense. Then they began to do the most awful things to each other, and they wanted me to join in with the whipping and slashing and crying, and I knew they were just the same as the others, only the opposite, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean. Define your question.”

  “Tell me my future.” And if it will be like my past, thought the Girl, I’ll take a ride behind the Steam Locomotive, that’s what I’ll do!

  “You are aware that the Ifalong is not the same as the future. The future is a myth, because it is nothing until it happens, and then it is already the past. I cannot predict your future, but I can foretell your Ifalong. Will that suit you?”

  “Yes, thank you.” The Girl watched as the beautiful face shimmered and the waters bathed its surface more frequently, little streams spinning in countless directions yet never clashing, never splashing.

  At last the face cleared. “This is your Ifalong. The greatest probability is that you will find love, knowledge, fame, beauty and an identity.”

  “Is that all?” asked the Girl, after the Oracle had been silent for some moments. “I could have all that with a Bigwish.”

  “The Ifalong does not permit details. Only the general course of events can be foretold. That is all.” The face was gone, and the fountain became once more a slender column ascending to the sky.

  For a while the Girl watched it, disappointed. Then, as the attendants began to usher her back over the drawbridge, she said quietly to herself, Maybe there is nothing more. Maybe this is it, this is what it’s all about. And she small-wished, and found herself standing outside the Love Palace. Sometimes the Love Palace was a catharsis even for her.

  When Eulalie Came Down

  As she entered, the Girl was wondering just how she could persuade Burt to become Himself. It would take a Bigwish, and Burt was a very active person, forever smallwishing himself here, there and everywhere. The Girl lived with the constant fear that one day she would lose touch with Burt altogether. It had almost happened once, when Burt had been John and had Bigwished without her knowledge. It had taken her months of searching in the Andes, the Pacific, Nairobi, Nice, Pompeii and sundry planets before she’d finally found him in a later sector of history sitting with the Three Madmen of Munich and flinging Hate Bombs into the Greataway. Fortunately, the acts of the Dream People, though extravagant, have little effect on the real world—otherwise The Song of Earth would have had a different ending. Somehow the Girl had recognized her man even then, and just for one night, they had loved.

  “You are beautiful,” said a golden-haired youth softly, taking her hand and leading her down by the pool where a seven-headed monster thrashed and spat fire and clouds of steam arose. It was frightening, and was intended to be so, because many Dream People found fear an appetizer—which is how the Locomotive came into being.

  The golden youth whose name, he said, was Hermes, laid her down on a soft couch and made tender love. She found she was watching the mists swirling about the far-off ceiling, wondering how high it was and what kept it all from falling down, and what Burt was doing right now... She became aware that Hermes had finished. Although they were still coupled, he had rolled his chest away from her and lay with eyes closed, face set in a childish pout. She wondered how long the Pleasurers of the Love Palace lasted before they tired of the endless empty lovemaking and Bigwished themselves into Annes and Edwards. She wondered how long Hermes would last. She watched his dissatisfied face. It shimmered...

  Horrified, she disengaged herself roughly and stood. Hermes—or whatever he was becoming—rolled off the couch with a thud, out of sight on the other side.

  The Girl fled. She ran past satyrs and muses, naiads and graces. She ran past pools and fountains, stairways and doorways and finally collapsed before a great pit from which flames rose high, too breathless to run farther, lacking the psy to smallwish herself elsewhere.

  She found a stone seat and dragged herself onto it, gasping for breath. She considered for a while Hermes’ incredible rudeness in Bigwishing at such a time—then decided he wasn’t worth the bother. Was this the love the Oracle had referred to? She watched the pit, wondering what its purpose could be. It was thirty meters in diameter, and the walls, wherever they were not hidden by flames, were smooth and glossy. The flames burst upward with a great roaring like the roar of a dragon, rising fifty meters or more to a place where they were cut off abruptly—as though, having reached this height, they were no longer needed. There was no smoke. As the Girl watched the flames, drawing strength from their fearsome energy, a face appeared before her.

  The goddess Eulalie had come.

  Afterward the Girl was never able to say exactly whether Eulalie had appeared out of the flames or materialized before them. Whichever it was, the Girl immediately knew Eulalie for a goddess. She just appeared, the way a person would expect a goddess to appear.

  “What can I do for you, my dear?” asked the beautiful woman.

  The Dream Girl’s mouth was still hanging open. She closed it and gulped. “What do you mean?”

  “You can have anything you want.”

  Now, the gossip of the Dream People abounds with the sightings of gods. And almost inevitably, the gods of this gossip come making big promises; just as inevitably, there is a catch.

  “What’s the catch?” asked the Girl suspiciously.

  Eulalie smiled. Only a Girl-who-was-Herself would ask such a question. “Don’t be alarmed. I’d like you to wear this cap, that’s all. For a week you must put it on every night before you go to sleep. At the end of the week I’ll grant you a wish. Whatever wish you like, Big or small, without loss of psy. Does that seem fair?”

  On almost any other day the Girl might have had second thoughts, but this day she said, “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you’ll tell me what that wish will be, so that I can make the arrangements.”

  The Girl smiled like the morning. “I’ll wish for Burt to love me.”

  “Which Burt?”

  “You know, my Burt. If you’re a goddess you must know the Burt I love. Please make him love me back.”

  Eulalie nodded and vanished, leaving behind a machine.

  In the transient way of Dream Earth, the Girl became momentarily famous. Only one person other than herself had seen the goddess in the Love Palace, and that person was one Richard, a notorious liar. But there was no gainsaying the Cap of Knowledge. The Dream People gathered around and examined it, marveling at it. They placed it on their heads, but here they were disappointed because it did nothing for them. One strange power the Cap had that made it unlike any other thing on Dream Earth: It could not be wished away.

  It continued to exist regardless of the psy exercised against it: a cabinet with a helmet attached, almost identical in outward appearance to Manuel’s Simulator because both had been manufactured in an age of standardized packaging, millennia ago. The jealous ones hated the Cap because it belonged to the Girl and not them, and they wished so hard for it to go away that they exhausted their psy and had to stay in the Love Palace for weeks.

  The Girl wore it every night, as the goddess had bade her. The Dream People gathered around to watch her sleeping—Johns and Abrahams, Runas and Raccoonas. The playboys and playgirls lost interest by the second day, but the good folks stayed, as did Those-who-were-Themselves.

  Then, six days later, the goddess Eulalie appeared again.

  Legend says she came riding a dolphin, but legend lies. In point of fact she materialized in the bow of a Spanish galleon that was rounding Cape Horn in exceptionally fine weather, which Eulalie herself had arranged. The crew were bored. Someone had just suggested smallwishing to the Arctic, but nobody was about to summon up the psy; it was too much effort.

  When Burt saw the beau
tiful creature in the bow he nearly dropped his drink. She sat on the bowsprit, naked and golden in the sunlight, more lovely than any Dream Person on Dream Earth, because she willed it that way. She smiled at Burt and the smile seemed to spread itself around his body in electrical charges. He glanced around. The other Dream People were drinking in the cabins. He moved closer, smiling easily.

  “Hey there, beautiful. I reckon you’re worth any man’s smallwish.”

  And inside him the shy, real man cringed. Why was his Dream persona so damned obvious? The real man trapped inside was quite nice—which the Girl had sensed, of course. Which was why she loved him.

  But nobody on Dream Earth can fully control his Dream persona; the personality comes with the body. So Eulalie went to work on him. She was feeling faint and the motion of the boat didn’t help, so she had to move fast.

  “Maybe a real man’s smallwish,” she said. “I have no time for fakes. Bigwish yourself into something authentic.”

  “Aw, come on, baby.” Burt sidled closer with a smile like greasepaint. “They don’t come any more real than me.”

  “If you come any closer, I’ll wish myself away.”

  “Hey, you wouldn’t do that now, would you?” He reached out to touch her.

  She shimmered.

  “Hold it!” Burt was alarmed. Eulalie steadied up. Burt considered. He did-n’t stand a chance, of course. His very make-up was geared to find an image like Eulalie irresistible. He argued, but quietly, so as not to bring the others out of the cabin. He pleaded...

  He surrendered. For her sake, he would become Himself.

  Eulalie hung on, feeling sick and tired but looking wonderful. Burt closed his eyes, concentrated all his psy, tensed his huge muscles and Bigwished. Eulalie saw his outline become blurred and quickly recalled herself to Reality through the Do-Portal.

  There was only one way to make this vapid Burt truly love the Girl, she’d decided, and that was to trick him into becoming Himself. Then he might have the sense to recognize her qualities. People-who-are-Themselves scream a lot, but some say it is worth it to be able to feel real emotions.

  Back in the Rainbow Room, Eulalie walked to the console, leaning heavily on a valet. Her heart was fluttering painfully and the floor heaved like an ocean.

  Now she had to introduce Burt and the Girl to each other, because otherwise the Girl would not recognize him...

  That was Eulalie’s last thought, as the agony exploded in her chest. The valet caught her, held her and gave the alarm.

  When the Dream Girl Bigwished

  On the ninth day the Girl awoke, threw the Cap of Knowledge across the room and burst into tears. Eulalie had failed her. The Oracle had lied. Burt had not come. And her mind was filled with strange words without a key to their meaning: Cirrus, Hate Bombs, Anticonsumerism, Gulf Stream, Inversion Layer. They kept interfering with her normal thoughts. They meant nothing to her. They were facts without a reason.

  She sat on the side of the bed with her head in her hands, staring at the pattern on the carpet, which made no more sense than her thoughts. Burt had not come.

  Ergo, Burt did not want to come. So all the powers of the goddess Eulalie had not prevailed upon Burt, because the hold that that soulless Dream Jackie had on him was too tenacious. And because the Girl herself was not pretty enough...

  She had waited two days beyond the appointed time. She had given the goddess a fair chance. Her throat was choked up with misery, her head ached, she was alone in a world of indifference, of empty heads, blank faces, hearty laughter and pointless adventure. So the thought came again into her head, as it came into every Dream Person’s head from time to time: There must be something better than this. Love, knowledge, fame, beauty, identity—where were they? Was even the Oracle phony? And the gods—were they Dreamers too?

  She took her hands away from her face. She walked over to the mirror and looked at herself. Her face was red and puffed from crying. In addition, her nose was too big and her eyes too small. Her hair was a mess, her ears stuck out, her chest was flat. Small wonder, she decided, that Burt couldn’t stand the sight of her. So she closed her eyes and concentrated. She’d almost forgotten how. She settled on the image she wanted, held her breath and thought: I wish...

  Back in the Rainbow Room, Cytherea saw a red star flash but thought nothing of it. It happened all the time. She didn’t really understand the Rainbow, and was just filling in until Zozula had recovered enough from the death of Eulalie to take over again.

  The Girl hung in limbo as Composite Reality adjusted. She saw ships and stars and yellow mists. She saw bleak devastated landscapes, puny attempts at cultivation, twisted plants. She saw the Dome without knowing what it was. She saw endless shelves filled with endless empty big children and a tired woman who spent forever trying to get those children to look right and breed right.

  In that instant when the Girl was Nowhere, she saw Everywhere and Everwhen. She saw the Planet-with-no-Name, which was destined to bear her name. She saw terrible sick areas of the Greataway, and caught a glimpse of a trapped Thing greater than anything imaginable. She saw Keepers tending stored minds. She saw the Invisible Spaceships and knew something of the creatures of the Red Planet, intelligent and cruel. She even flicked through the Greataway behind the Celestial Steam Locomotive...

  She saw millions of years in one instant. She saw what every Dream Person sees when they Bigwish. And like any other Bigwisher, she forgot it all, instantly...

  So Marilyn stood in the floodlights outside the huge, bright building, remembering nothing of the past, thinking only of the present. Lights burned in all the windows and couples could be seen on balconies, romancing. Music came from within, and the sound of laughter. All around were lawns and shrubs, dark pools, and illuminated fountains, rose-pink and sky-blue. People sat on the benches, talking quietly, kissing, drinking. Beautiful people, dressed in ermine and silk, sapphires and rubies.

  Marilyn wore a simple white dress with an ordinary pearl necklace, a plain diamond tiara in her blonde hair. She was as beautiful as any woman there.

  Aglow with happiness, she climbed the white marble steps, and the scarlet-

  uniformed doorman threw the door open with a flourish.

  “Marilyn!” he announced to the crowded ballroom.

  The music paused, people clapped; then the dance resumed. A dark man, tall and broad, stepped up to Marilyn. “Would you like to dance?” he asked. He was a Burt. He was wonderful, thought Marilyn. They danced, and it couldn’t have been better, not even if she’d smallwished the whole thing herself.

  A tiny voice said within her: He isn’t the one.

  But he is, he is, thought Marilyn.

  The music ceased. Burt wanted to take her out on the terrace, but she demurred and made for the ladies’ room. She had a suspicion that her lipstick might be slightly smudged. And she wanted to look at herself again. The ladies’ room was crowded, but she managed to find a place in front of a long mirror. She dabbed at her lips while others jostled about.

  The image in the mirror applied mascara.

  Startled, she looked around, then laughed. She had mistaken her neighbor’s reflection for her own. She tended to her appearance, then went back to the ballroom. Another Burt asked her to dance. She noticed that Burts and Marilyns were very popular this season, which was comforting. It was good to be among her own kind of people. She half-remembered being lonely, once.

  The tiny voice whispered: He’s not the one, either!

  Burt swirled her about the floor and it was marvelous. Everything was marvelous. The music paused and the doorman bawled “Marilyn!” and that was marvelous too—the more the merrier, birds of a feather. The domed ceiling was decorated like a birthday cake, hung with glittering revolving spheres. Every so often a shower of vivid balloons descended and Marilyn used her sharp heel to pop them.

  She danced all night.

  The next day she lay about on the grounds in the sun with Burt and danced all the next night
. It was difficult to imagine anything better than this. The band was perfect, indefatigable, all dressed in crimson and gold, blowing gold trumpets, silver saxophones. Then the band paused...

  It was the funniest thing; people often laughed about it afterward. There was silence while this comic little man came in among the dancers. He was bald and short and fat, and his clothes hung about him like broken wings. He walked around peering into peoples’ faces, moving on, peering. He looked dirty, he stank and he was totally incongruous in this company. That was what was so funny, the incongruity. Everybody laughed and laughed.

  The little man peered into Marilyn’s face, and she recoiled a little because there was something desperate in his eyes that wasn’t funny at all. She laughed loudly to make him go away and to drown out that irritating small voice inside, which was spoiling her fun. He performed for a little while longer, making them all laugh, then he made for the door and they never saw him again. The band struck up and Burt whirled Marilyn along in his strong arms, smiling at her with even white teeth.

  “Oooooh, look!” somebody cried.

  Blue rain was falling through the ceiling, slanting among the dancers in a sparkling azure mist. The Dream People exclaimed in delight. It was so pretty, and nobody was getting wet.

  Reincorporation

  The Rainbow was malfunctioning in other ways, too. Recently the images had been sporadically washed over with an unpleasant green color, and the movements of the Dream People had become jerky, occasionally freezing for a few seconds.

  “Somewhere in there,” said Juni grimly, “is a girl who knows how to operate the special effects. You’d better find her soon, Zozula. It’ll take ages to train someone else, and heaven knows what damage will have been done by then. We must keep Reality within reasonable bounds, otherwise the Dream People will begin to believe a spiral moon is the norm. And how does that fit them for normal life Outside?”