Free The Celestial Steam Locomotive (The Song of Earth) by Michael G. Coney Page A

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