Pesadilla número tres de Stephen Vincent Benet
Pesadilla número tres
Stephen Vincent Benet
Esperábamos todo, excepto una rebelión
Y casi me sorprendí cuando comenzaron a pensar…
Pero eso ya no tiene importancia.
Escuché a tipos que decían
Han debido planearlo desde hace años, y quizá lo hicieron.
Al mirar hacia atrás, es posible descubrir pequeños incidentes aquí y allá,
Como la mezcladora de concreto de Jersey que se tragó al peón,
O la prensa rotativa que imprimió: “¡Viva la libertad!”
En una hoja a tres colores sobre el senador Sloop,
Precisamente mientras pronunciaba un discurso. Lo raro en ese caso
Era, ¿cómo pudo subir las escaleras? Pero estaba arriba,
Murmurando y lanzando chasquidos en la Cámara del Senado.
Tuvieron que derribar la pared para sacarla
Y el grupo de demolición declaró que sonreía.
Eran sólo las mejores
Máquinas, por supuesto, las máquinas superhumanas,
Las que habíamos construido para que fueran mejor que la carne y los huesos,
Pero los automóviles participaban también, por supuesto…
y nos perseguían
Como a conejos a través de las calles atestadas de ese Lunes Sangriento.
Los autobuses de Madison Avenue dirigían el asalto.
Los autobuses eran bastante terribles, pero no olvidaré
El ruido de cristales rotos, cuando el Duesenberg abandonó el salón de exposiciones
Y tomó a tres corredores de bolsa en las escaleras del Club Racket
Ni el prolongado resonar de los cláxones cuando veían a algún hombre corriendo
Cuando los veían buscando agujeros en el suelo firme…
Supongo que estaban cansados de llevar a la gente
De ser detenidos y puestos en marcha por pigmeos con fines idiotas
De recibir cenizas de cigarrillos baratos y barras de chocolate de mala calidad
De coleccionar monedas y ondular cabellos color platino
Y de dejar que seis millones de personas vivieran en una ciudad.
Creo que fue eso, que se cansaron de nosotros
Y del olor de las manos humanas.
Pero fue sorprendente
El tener que trepar dieciséis tramos de escalera hasta la oficina de Art Zuckow
(Nadie tomaba los ascensores dos veces)
Y encontrarlo estrangulado en un nido de cables de teléfono,
Como tentáculos de pulpos agitándose sobre su cabeza,
Y una especie de zumbido suave que llenaba la habitación…
¿Comerán?… Había rojo… Pero no me quedé a observar.
Todavía no sé cómo pude llegar hasta el tejado a tiempo.
Y todo está solitario aquí arriba, en el tejado.
Durante cierto tiempo. Pensé que
Aquel limpiador de ventanas iba a salvarse, para hacerme compañía.
Pero lo cazaron, con su propia polea, en el piso dieciséis.
Y lo hicieron entrar, de un tirón.
En realidad, cooperan entre ellos. Bueno, nosotros se lo enseñamos
Y es bastante justo, supongo. Verán, nosotros las construimos.
Les enseñamos a pensar por sí solas
Era algo que debía ocurrir. ¿Comprenden que tenía que pasar?
Y no sería tan malo en el campo. Odiaba pensar
En las segadoras, corriendo salvajemente por los campos de Kansas.
Y los aviones de transporte como halcones en un corral de pollos,
Pero los caballos podrían ayudar. Podríamos hacer un trato con ellos.
Al menos, se tenían más probabilidades de salvarse allí afuera
Además, nos necesitaban también.
Tienen que comprender que en cuanto se calmen.
Necesitarán gasolina y repuestos y ajustes y afinaciones.
¿Esclavos? Bueno, en cierto modo, saben, ya éramos esclavos antes.
No habrá en verdad tanta diferencia; honestamente, no lo habrá
(Me agradaría no haber mirado al salón de belleza
Y no haber visto lo que ocurría allí.
Pero son máquinas femeninas y bastante nerviosas.)
Oh, ya nos pondremos de acuerdo. Lo arreglaremos. Llegaremos a un compromiso.
No tendría sentido acabar con toda la raza humana.
Porque, apuesto que si fuera hasta mi viejo Plymouth ahora
(Por supuesto, hay que hacerlo con tacto)
Y le dijera: “Escucha, ¿quién te compró el hermoso claxon francés?”
No me entregaría a esos automóviles de la policía;
Al menos, no creo que lo haría.
Oh, llegaremos a un acuerdo.
No será muy grande la diferencia, de veras, no lo será.
Voy a bajar dentro de un minuto, para ver qué me ocurre…
Soy un buen estadounidense y siempre los amé…
Excepto por un pequeño detalle que me molesta
Y es la proposición de los alimentos. Porque, vean,
La mezcladora de concreto pudo cometer un error
Y parece ser simplemente una broma pesada
Pero, si llega a gustarles el sabor…, pues…
Nightmare Number Three
Stephen Vincent Benet
We had expected everything but revolt
And I kind of wonder myself when they started thinking--
But there’s no dice in that now.
I’ve heard fellow say
They must have planned it for years and maybe they did.
Looking back, you can find little incidents here and there,
Like the concrete-mixer in Jersey eating the wop
Or the roto press that printed 'Fiddle-dee-dee!'
In a three-color process all over Senator Sloop,
Just as he was making a speech. The thing about that
Was, how could it walk upstairs? But it was upstairs,
Clicking and mumbling in the Senate Chamber.
They had to knock out the wall to take it away
And the wrecking-crew said it grinned.
It was only the best
Machines, of course, the superhuman machines,
The ones we’d built to be better than flesh and bone,
But the cars were in it, of course . . .
and they hunted us
Like rabbits through the cramped streets on that Bloody Monday,
The Madison Avenue busses leading the charge.
The busses were pretty bad--but I’ll not forget
The smash of glass when the Duesenberg left the show-room
And pinned three brokers to the Racquet Club steps
Or the long howl of the horns when they saw men run,
When they saw them looking for holes in the solid ground . . .
I guess they were tired of being ridden in
And stopped and started by pygmies for silly ends,
Of wrapping cheap cigarettes and bad chocolate bars
Collecting nickels and waving platinum hair
And letting six million people live in a town.
I guess it was tha, I guess they got tired of us
And the whole smell of human hands.
But it was a shock
To climb sixteen flights of stairs to Art Zuckow’s office
(Noboby took the elevators twice)
And find him strangled to death in a nest of telephones,
The octopus-tendrils waving over his head,
And a sort of quiet humming filling the air. . . .
Do they eat? . . . There was red . . . But I did not stop to look.
I don’t know yet how I got to the roof in time
And it’s lonely, here on the roof.
For a while, I thought
That window-cleaner would make it, and keep me company.
But they got him with his own hoist at the sixteenth floor
And dragged him in, with a squeal.
You see, they coöperate. Well, we taught them that
And it’s fair enough, I suppose. You see, we built them.
We taught them to think for themselves.
It was bound to come. You can see it was bound to come.
And it won’t be so bad, in the country. I hate to think
Of the reapers, running wild in the Kansas fields,
And the transport planes like hawks on a chickenyard,
But the horses might help. We might make a deal with the horses.
At least, you’ve more chance, out there.
And they need us, too.
They’re bound to realize that when they once calm down.
They’ll need oil and spare parts and adjustments and tuning up.
Slaves? Well, in a way, you know, we were slaves before.
There won’t be so much real difference--honest, there won’t.
(I wish I hadn’t looked into the beauty-parlor
And seen what was happening there.
But those are female machines and a bit high-strung.)
Oh, we’ll settle down. We’ll arrange it. We’ll compromise.
It won’t make sense to wipe out the whole human race.
Why, I bet if I went to my old Plymouth now
(Of course you’d have to do it the tactful way)
And said, 'Look here! Who got you the swell French horn?'
He wouldn’t turn me over to those police cars;
At least I don’t think he would.
Oh, it’s going to be jake.
There won’t be so much real difference--honest, there won’t--
And I’d go down in a minute and take my chance--
I’m a good American and I always liked them--
Except for one small detail that bothers me
And that’s the food proposition. Because, you see,
The concrete-mixer may have made a mistake,
And it looks like just high spirits.
But, if it’s got so they like the flavor . . . well . . .
And I kind of wonder myself when they started thinking--
But there’s no dice in that now.
I’ve heard fellow say
They must have planned it for years and maybe they did.
Looking back, you can find little incidents here and there,
Like the concrete-mixer in Jersey eating the wop
Or the roto press that printed 'Fiddle-dee-dee!'
In a three-color process all over Senator Sloop,
Just as he was making a speech. The thing about that
Was, how could it walk upstairs? But it was upstairs,
Clicking and mumbling in the Senate Chamber.
They had to knock out the wall to take it away
And the wrecking-crew said it grinned.
It was only the best
Machines, of course, the superhuman machines,
The ones we’d built to be better than flesh and bone,
But the cars were in it, of course . . .
and they hunted us
Like rabbits through the cramped streets on that Bloody Monday,
The Madison Avenue busses leading the charge.
The busses were pretty bad--but I’ll not forget
The smash of glass when the Duesenberg left the show-room
And pinned three brokers to the Racquet Club steps
Or the long howl of the horns when they saw men run,
When they saw them looking for holes in the solid ground . . .
I guess they were tired of being ridden in
And stopped and started by pygmies for silly ends,
Of wrapping cheap cigarettes and bad chocolate bars
Collecting nickels and waving platinum hair
And letting six million people live in a town.
I guess it was tha, I guess they got tired of us
And the whole smell of human hands.
But it was a shock
To climb sixteen flights of stairs to Art Zuckow’s office
(Noboby took the elevators twice)
And find him strangled to death in a nest of telephones,
The octopus-tendrils waving over his head,
And a sort of quiet humming filling the air. . . .
Do they eat? . . . There was red . . . But I did not stop to look.
I don’t know yet how I got to the roof in time
And it’s lonely, here on the roof.
For a while, I thought
That window-cleaner would make it, and keep me company.
But they got him with his own hoist at the sixteenth floor
And dragged him in, with a squeal.
You see, they coöperate. Well, we taught them that
And it’s fair enough, I suppose. You see, we built them.
We taught them to think for themselves.
It was bound to come. You can see it was bound to come.
And it won’t be so bad, in the country. I hate to think
Of the reapers, running wild in the Kansas fields,
And the transport planes like hawks on a chickenyard,
But the horses might help. We might make a deal with the horses.
At least, you’ve more chance, out there.
And they need us, too.
They’re bound to realize that when they once calm down.
They’ll need oil and spare parts and adjustments and tuning up.
Slaves? Well, in a way, you know, we were slaves before.
There won’t be so much real difference--honest, there won’t.
(I wish I hadn’t looked into the beauty-parlor
And seen what was happening there.
But those are female machines and a bit high-strung.)
Oh, we’ll settle down. We’ll arrange it. We’ll compromise.
It won’t make sense to wipe out the whole human race.
Why, I bet if I went to my old Plymouth now
(Of course you’d have to do it the tactful way)
And said, 'Look here! Who got you the swell French horn?'
He wouldn’t turn me over to those police cars;
At least I don’t think he would.
Oh, it’s going to be jake.
There won’t be so much real difference--honest, there won’t--
And I’d go down in a minute and take my chance--
I’m a good American and I always liked them--
Except for one small detail that bothers me
And that’s the food proposition. Because, you see,
The concrete-mixer may have made a mistake,
And it looks like just high spirits.
But, if it’s got so they like the flavor . . . well . . .
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Luis