The Great Operation
I Forgave Everything
The Collision of Trains
Saved！ At the very last moment， when it seemed that there was nothing to hold on to， that it was the end！...
It was as if you already ascended the steps toward the threatening machine of the Well-Doer， or as if the great glass Bell with a heavy thud had already covered you， and for the last time in life you looked at the blue sky to devour it with your eyes ...when suddenly， it was only a dream！ The sun is pink and cheerful and the wall ...What happiness to be able to touch the cold wall！ And the pillow！ To delight endlessly in the little cavity formed by your own head in the white pillow！ ...This is approximately what I felt， when I read the State Journal this morning. It has all been a terrible dream， and the dream is over. And I was so feeble， so unfaithful， that I thought of selfish， voluntary death！ I am ashamed now to reread yesterday"s last lines. But let them remain as a memory of that incredible what-might-have-happened， which will not happen！ On the front page of the State Journal the following gleamed：
REJOICE！
For from now on we are perfect！
Until today your own creation， engines， were more perfect than you.
WHY？
For every spark from a dynamo is a spark of pure reason； each motion of a piston， a pure syllogism. Is it not true that the same faultless reason is within you？
The philosophy of the cranes， presses， and pumps is complete and clear like a circle. But is your philosophy less circular？ The beauty of a mechanism lies in its immutable， precise rhythm， like that of a pendulum. But have you not become as precise as a pendulum， you who are brought up on the system of Taylor？
Yes， but there is one difference：
MECHANISMS HAVE NO FANCY.
Did you ever notice a pump cylinder with a wide， dis— tant， sensuously dreaming smile upon its face while it was working？ Did you ever hear cranes that were restless， tossing about and sighing at night during the hours de— signed for rest？
NO！
Yet on your faces （you may well blush with shame！） the Guardians have more and more frequently seen those smiles， and they have heard your sighs， And （you should hide your eyes for shame！） the historians of the United State have all tendered their resignations so as to be relieved from having to record such shameful occurrences.
It is not your fault； you are ill. And the name of your illness is：
FANCY.
It is a worm that gnaws black wrinkles on one"s forehead. It is a fever that drives one to run further and further， even though "further" may begin where happiness ends. It is the last barricade on our road to happiness.
Rejoice！ This Barricade Has Been Blasted at Last！ The Road Is Open！
The latest discovery of our State science is that there is a center for fancy—a miserable little nervous knot in the lower region of the frontal lobe of the brain. A triple treatment of this knot with X-rays will cure you of fancy，
Forever！
You are perfect； you are mechanized； the road to one-hundred-percent happiness is open！ Hasten then all of you， young and old， hasten to undergo the Great Operation！ Hasten to the auditoriums where the Great Operation is being performed！ Long live the Great Operation！ Long live the United State！ Long live the Well-Doer！
You， had you not read all this in my records—which look like an ancient， strange novel—had you， like me， held in your trembling hands the newspaper， smelling of typographic ink...if you knew， as I do， that all this is a most certain reality—if not the reality of today， then that of tomorrow—would you not feel the very things I feel？ Would your head not whirl as mine does？ Would there not run over your back and arms those strange， sweet， icy needles？ Would you not feel that you were a giant， an Atlas？—that if you only stood up and straightened out you would reach the ceiling with your head？
I snatched the telephone receiver.
"I-330. Yes...Yes. Yes...330！" And then， swallowing my own words， I shouted， "Are you at home？ Yes？ Have you read？ You are reading now？ Isn"t it， isn"t it stupendous？
"Yes..."A long， dark silence. The wires buzzed almost imperceptibly. She was thinking.
"I must see you today without fail. Yes， in my room， after sixteen， without fail！"
Dear...she is such a dear！..."Without fail！" I was smiling，， and I could not stop！ I felt I would carry that smile with me into the street like a light above my head.
Outside the wind ran over me， whirling， whistling， whipping， but I felt even more cheerful. "All night， go on， go on moaning and groaning！ The Walls cannot be torn down." Flying leaden clouds broke over my head...well， let them！ They could not eclipse the sun！ We chained it to the zenith like so many Joshuas， sons of Nun！
At the corner a group of such Joshuas， sons of Nun， were standing with their foreheads pasted to the glass of the wall. Inside， on a dazzling white table， a Number already lay. You could see two naked soles emerging from under the sheet in ayellow angle ...White medics bent over his head—a white hand， a stretched-out hand holding a syringe filled with something....
"And you， what are you waiting for？" I asked nobody in particular， or rather all of them.
"And you？" Someone"s round head turned to me.
"I？ Oh， afterward！ I must first ..." Somewhat confused， I left the place. I really had to see I-330 first. But why first？ I could not explain to myself ...
The docks. The Integral， bluish like ice， was glisten— ing and sparkling. The engine was caressingly grumbling， repeating some one word， as if it were my word， a familiar one. I bent down and stroked the long， cold tube of the motor. "Dear！ What a dear tube！ Tomorrow it will come to life， tomorrow for the first time it will tremble with burning， flaming streams in its bowels."
With what eyes would I have looked at the glass monster had everything remained as it was yesterday？ If I knew that tomorrow at twelve I should betray it， yes， betray ....Someone behind cautiously touched my elbow. I turned around. The plate-like， fiat face of the Second Builder.
"Do you know already？" he asked.
"What？ About the Operation？ Yes. How everything， everything... suddenly..."