Motorman Read Online Free PDF Page B

the room, yellowing the walls. He could see. He stood up and fell forward on elbows and a knee. Someone with a hammer could have driven a nail in his back. His feelings were gone. He was stung. He would have tried to move his legs had he been able even to imagine them. He thought of Burnheart. He imagined Burnheart. He pulled himself along the rug and up the bedside, turning his face to the lookout, to the suns. He sat on the bed, opened his shirts, gave his hairless chest to the light. He pressed the abdomen, formed fists and beat pain into his legs. A rush of blood, circulation, a stirring of deep nerves, feeling.
    A greenbird flew to the lip of the lookout, grappled for footing, stunned, flapping off feathers, fell backward, down, streetward.
    A city chicken cockled.
    He would keep busy. He would find his lighter, the flints, the bottle of k-fuel. He would drag his kitty-file closer to the chair. He would exercise. He would write Burnheart a letter. Generally, he would move. He wouldn't remain seated any longer.
    He sat on the water dump and wrote:
     
    Dear Burny,
    I'm not sure you can help me out of this unless you know me better than you do. How well do you actually know me? You sometimes refer to me as Dink, or Dinky, my school name, which is a nice, familiar thing to do. But what does it amount to when you consider all the other things about me you don't know? I realize it seems insignificant.
    But it only seems that way. It really isn't. It is. It is significant. You can be assured that Bunce knows more than my school name. Burnheart, you should be more aware of me. You should know every lonely detail, everything, the whole Moldenke. For example: What did I do when I wandered away from the gauze mill? Did I take a job shrimping? If not, why so? Do you know that? You should. Bunce does. He could account for every moment. He has tapes, and I wouldn't be surprised if he also had films. Burnheart, please don't take this letter as an attempt at criticism, which is the most distant thing from my mind these days. No, it isn't that at all. It must be something else. Unfortunately, I don't know what. I enjoyed seeing you on your trip to the city and I look forward to being with you and Eagleman in the country. I've kept a picture of you on the wall. I've always looked up to you. If you ever came to me and said, “Rub something,” I'd rub it without a second thought. I've copied your signature too many times. I've read the letters thin. You send me your throwaway coats and I manage to need them.
    I consider it an honor to wear them. How many of your test tubes have I washed? Ten thousand? How many solutions have I cooked on your k-flame?
    I've used you as a laxative and a lubricant both. Still, I see you as a stranger. Burnheart, help me.
    I'm getting along badly. Send me a woman. I need a woman. This morning the last scab peeled off the crank. I'm ready; although I'm afraid I have no feeling.
    Yours,
    I surrender,
    Moldenke
     
    He balled the letter and threw it in the water dump.
    The suns had gone above the building. The room dimmed. Had there been water he would have bathed. He opened the spigot, testing, got sour air and pipe vibes. He wouldn't bathe and go to bed. He hadn't dumped.
    He closed the dead refrigerator door. It opened again, back on its hinges. He had startled something. It flew past his shoulder, tipping his ear, fluttering into the bed springs.
    He would pass time reading Burnheart letters. He found the lighter, loaded in a new flint, filled the tank with k-fuel, sparked it, and read by its light.
     
    Dear Moldenke,
    You remind me of the tripodero. You know the tripodero? A small creature of the Newer England woods? I'm not certain whether it has met extinction or not as yet. But that doesn't matter. We have records of him, specimens. He'd race along the  hedgerows, churning up the turf, always sensitive to danger on the other side. If he ever suspected it, why, he'd rise up on those three telescoping