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The
men
laughed
.
"
Don
’
t
,
"
said
Leo
Auffmann
.
"
How
have
we
used
machines
so
far
,
to
make
people
cry
?
Yes
!
Every
time
man
and
the
machine
look
like
they
will
get
on
all
right
—
boom
!
Someone
adds
a
cog
,
airplanes
drop
bombs
on
us
,
cars
run
us
off
cliffs
.
So
is
the
boy
wrong
to
ask
?
No
!
No
.
.
.
"
His
voice
faded
as
Leo
Auffmann
moved
to
the
curb
to
touch
his
bicycle
as
if
it
were
an
animal
.
"
What
can
I
lose
?
"
he
murmured
.
"
A
little
skin
off
my
fingers
,
a
few
pounds
of
metal
,
some
sleep
?
I
’
ll
do
it
,
so
help
me
!
"
"
Lee
,
"
said
Grandfather
,
"
we
didn
’
t
mean
—
"
But
Leo
Auffmann
was
gone
,
pedaling
off
through
the
warm
summer
evening
,
his
voice
drifting
back
.
"
.
.
.
I
’
ll
do
it
.
.
.
"
"
You
know
,
"
said
Tom
,
in
awe
,
"
I
bet
he
will
.
"
Watching
him
cycle
the
brick
streets
of
evening
,
you
could
see
that
Leo
Auffmann
was
a
man
who
coasted
along
,
enjoying
the
way
the
thistles
ticked
in
the
hot
grass
when
the
wind
blew
like
a
furnace
,
or
the
way
the
electric
power
lines
sizzled
on
the
rain
-
wet
poles
.
He
was
a
man
who
did
not
suffer
but
pleasured
in
sleepless
nights
of
brooding
on
the
great
clock
of
the
universe
running
down
or
winding
itself
up
,
who
could
tell
?
But
many
nights
,
listening
,
he
decided
first
one
way
and
then
the
other
.
.
.
The
shocks
of
life
,
he
thought
,
biking
along
,
what
were
they
?
Getting
born
,
growing
up
,
growing
old
,
dying
.
Not
much
to
do
about
the
first
.
But
—
the
other
three
?
The
wheels
of
his
Happiness
Machine
spun
whirling
golden
light
spokes
along
the
ceiling
of
his
head
.
A
machine
,
now
,
to
help
boys
change
from
peach
fuzz
to
briar
bramble
,
girls
from
toadstool
to
nectarine
.
And
in
the
years
when
your
shadow
leaned
clear
across
the
land
as
you
lay
abed
nights
with
your
heartbeat
mounting
to
the
billions
,
his
invention
must
let
a
man
drowse
easy
in
the
falling
leaves
like
the
boys
in
autumn
who
,
comfortably
strewn
in
the
dry
stacks
,
are
content
to
be
a
part
of
the
death
of
the
world
.
.
.
