The flesh in the furnace

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    September
        
        The idiot and the puppeteer rode in the cab of the truck, staring ahead at the darkness and the steadily unrolling gray of the ancient road they followed. The idiot's name was Sebastian, an unfortunate one for him. In one sense, such a name implied a weightiness of personality and a richness of detail. The idiot, however, was devoid of idiosyncrasy. On the other hand, a Sebastian might be expected to exhibit a cheerfulness, a certain Alan. But the idiot was most often somber with the press of insoluble irrelevancies, his black eyes staring from beneath the shelf of bone that was his forehead, his too-full lips somewhat loose and his pale hands limp upon his massive thighs.
        The puppeteer, though, was equal to his appellation. His mother had called him Pertos, after the star legend of Pertos of Arima who had charmed a world with smiles and warm eyes. His father had contributed the surname of Godelhausser before abandoning mother and child, but few used that, the first name being so accurate. Even now, Pertos smiled as he watched the concrete rush under the blades of the air cushion system, illuminated for a brief moment by the yellow lances of the headlamps. It was not that Pertos Godelhausser was a man of humorous disposition. Indeed, he found little to be gay about these days, as old age approached and fortune fled. It was just that, in repose, his face took on the pattern of a smile.
        "Tell be 'bout it," Sebastian said, scrunched so far down in the seat that only his head remained above the dash.
        "About what?" Godelhausser asked. The idiot had been overly pensive the last few hours, which meant he was wrestling with some problem or other.
        "The city," Sebastian said.
        It was not the thing that bothered the brute. Pertos could see that. But he did not mind talking to Sebastian, even when it was a one-sided conversation. "I've told you a hundred times, I think.
        "Again?"
        The puppeteer sighed and leaned back against the cool black plastic of the seat, stretching his neck and shoulders. Once more, he considered the blessing it would be if the idiot could drive. Having given Sebastian the wheel once before, he hastily rejected any notion of repeating that disastrous experiment. "Very well," he said. In truth, he was anxious to hear himself talk, anything to break the dreary hum of the rotars whirling beneath them, to shatter the monotonous pessimism of his private thoughts.
        "Slowly," Sebastian warned.
        "Surely. So… The city is called Springsun, but wasn't always. Ages ago, before the Emigration from Earth, it was called Boston. It was dirtier then. Shabbier."
        "I like Springsun more," Sebastian said, shaking his head in agreement with himself.
        "I would think so," Pertos said. "I find it too sweet, myself."
        "What?"
        "Never mind. You're not interested in my opinions. Only in the story."
        "Tell me."
        "Four hundred years ago, just before Emigration, when Earth was the only world and the stars were cold and distant, Boston was a piece of Hell. You know about Hell. Ugly clouds of smoke, noxious fumes, filthy drinking water. Homes were insulated against the tremendous noise of an overpopulated world. Nature collapsed and so did society. Everywhere, small groups with their own interests did subtle-and later not so subtle-battle with one another"
        "Who was the hero?" Sebastian asked.
        "No hero. Champions exist only in fairy tales, and the story of Springsun is true." Pertos did not pretend that the idiot understood all these fine points, though he continued. "Instead of one saviour there was an agglomerate hero, many men working together. They opened the way to the stars, and. tens of millions followed them. The wonders of the universe were irresistible, as was the untainted air of untouched worlds. In time, only a few remained. But those few were stubborn, and they scrubbed the atmosphere and purified the water until everything was as it is today, all within a century and a half."
        "Where are the people?" Sebastian asked.
        "Never returned. The air was clean, the water pure, and the cities had been rebuilt into splendor and mystery. But no one wanted Earth. To shrug off the old image, the cities were renamed and advertising campaigns were launched. But only a few thousand have ever trickled homeward."
        "You did," Sebastian