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"
No
,
Happiness
Machine
,
"
said
Douglas
,
and
was
sad
to
see
it
burning
there
.
He
had
been
counting
on
Leo
Auffmann
to
keep
things
in
order
,
keep
everybody
smiling
,
keep
the
small
gyroscope
he
often
felt
inside
himself
tilting
toward
the
sun
every
time
the
earth
tilted
toward
outer
space
and
darkness
.
But
no
,
there
was
Auffmann
’
s
folly
,
ashes
and
cinders
.
Bang
!
Bang
!
Douglas
struck
.
"
Look
,
there
’
s
the
green
electric
runabout
!
Miss
Fern
!
Miss
Roberta
!
"
said
Tom
.
"
Honk
,
Honk
!
"
Bang
!
They
all
laughed
.
"
There
’
s
your
life
-
strings
,
Doug
,
running
along
in
knots
.
Too
many
sour
apples
.
Pickles
at
bedtime
!
"
"
Which
one
,
where
?
"
cried
Douglas
,
peering
.
"
This
one
,
one
year
from
now
,
this
one
,
two
years
from
now
,
and
this
one
,
three
,
four
,
five
years
from
now
!
"
Bang
!
The
wire
beater
hissed
like
a
snake
in
the
blind
sky
.
"
And
one
to
grow
on
!
"
said
Tom
.
He
hit
the
rug
so
hard
all
the
dust
of
five
thousand
centuries
jumped
from
the
shocked
texture
,
paused
on
the
air
a
terrible
moment
,
and
even
as
Douglas
stood
,
eyes
squinted
to
see
the
warp
,
the
woof
,
the
shivering
pattern
,
the
Armenian
avalanche
of
dust
roared
soundless
upon
,
over
,
down
and
around
,
burying
him
forever
before
their
eyes
.
.
.
How
it
began
with
the
children
,
old
Mrs
.
Bentley
never
knew
.
She
often
saw
them
,
like
moths
and
monkeys
,
at
the
grocer
’
s
,
among
the
cabbages
and
hung
bananas
,
and
she
smiled
at
them
and
they
smiled
back
.
Mrs
.
Bentley
watched
them
making
footprints
in
winter
snow
,
filling
their
lungs
with
autumn
smoke
,
shaking
down
blizzards
of
spring
apple
-
blossoms
,
but
felt
no
fear
of
them
.
As
for
herself
,
her
house
was
in
extreme
good
order
,
everything
set
to
its
station
,
the
floors
briskly
swept
,
the
foods
neatly
tinned
,
the
hatpins
thrust
through
cushions
,
and
the
drawers
of
her
bedroom
bureaus
crisply
filled
with
the
paraphernalia
of
years
.
