Julia

by Sandra Newman

The woman sang as she worked, and always the one song, a cloying ballad that had been playing on the radio everywhere that summer. The song went: It was only an ’opeless fancy It passed like an April day But a look and a word and the dreams they stirred They have stolen my ’eart away Its tune was hauntingly simple and fraught with mournful sentiment, even though, like all new songs, it had been written by machine. The song-writing device, known as a versificator, was the pride and joy of Truth’s Music Department; whenever one ran into the Music people, they would boast of how the new models could beat any human composer at his game. Indeed, this tune was uncannily potent. One began to imagine the versificator to be possessed of a wistful, yearning soul.

These days, technology can probably do this much better. It's a great time to be a dictator.

The sight of proles with guns gave Julia a peculiar feeling. It was almost like seeing a dog using a pen. There was a joy in it, but it was the joy of absurdity, and underneath was dread.