BENDING LIGHT INTO VERSE
The pilot had finished his tube food. His life was very trite, though he looked fancy in his silver-lined space suit and the gold-gleaming helmet. He had one of the bots take a photograph of
him
standing
in front
of
his
banana-shaped ship.
Headquarters required regular proof of existence and, more importantly, proper composure. He picked up his knapsack and smelled the leather. A robot asked him what he was doing: they were always trying to learn without knowing that they were, like children. He’d admitted it to himself long ago: he preferred the company of machines to the company of men. I don’t feel like explaining, he said to the bot, don’t make me. I can’t make you do anything, said the robot, it’s not in my nature. The pilot shrugged and the machine didn’t insist but devoted itself to clearing a patch of ground for the IDEA OF CIVILIZATION, which was deployed wherever the space man landed. When it got to work, it hummed the melody of NEW YORK, NEW YORK. The pilot took a book from his knapsack and opened it on his knees. He read aloud: “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music he hears, however measured or far away.” Perry closed the book, put it away, took off his white boots and began, eyes closed, to dance to the drums in his head. He felt how Tara joined him, her brown hair flying, and his friend Tom, too. 77