Stephen Leach

Not far from here, by a white sun, behind a green star, lived the Steelypips, illustrious, industrious, and they hadn't a care: no spats in their vats, no rules, no schools, no gloom, no evil influence of the moon, no trouble from matter or antimatter—for they had a machine, a dream of a machine, with springs and gears and perfect in every respect. And they lived with it, and on it, and under it, and inside it, for it was all they had—first they saved up all their atoms, then they put them all together, and if one didn't fit, why they chipped at it a bit, and everything was just fine. Each and every Steelypip has its own little socket and its own little plug, and each was completely on its own. They didn't own the machine, neither did the machine own them, everybody just pitched in. Some were mechanics, others mechanicians, still others mechanists: but all were mechanically minded.