To Cordwainer Bird…

May he fly high and strike terror in the hearts of the unjust.

“American ingenuity licked the pollution problem;” said Bernard Finger, glowingly. “And the energy arms too, by damn.”

Tamed and golden in his new Vitaform Process body, Finger was impeccably dressed in the latest neo Victorian style Bengal Lancer business suit, complete with epaulets and an authentic brigadier’s insignia. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his sumptuous, spacious office and gazed fondly out at the lovely pink clouds that blanketed the San Fernando Valley.

The late morning tan blazed out of a perfect blue sky. As far as me eye could see, the entire Greater Los Angeles area—from sparkling sea to the San Berdoo Mountains—was swathed in, perfumed, tinted clouds. Except for a few hilltops poking up tam and there, it all looked like one enormous dollop of pink cotton candy.

“American ingenuity,” Bernard Mugger repeated. “And American know-how! That’s how we beat those Arabs and those bleeding heart conservationists.”

Bill Oxnard watched Finger with some astonishment from his utterly comfortable position, sunk deep into a warmly plush waterchair. Surrounded by pleasantly yielding artificial hides, his loafers all but invisible in the thick pile of the office’s carpet, he still kept his attention on Finger.

It was uncanny. Oxnard had met the man eighteen months earlier, before he had gone in for the Vitaform Process. Then he had been a short, pudgy, bald, cigar. chewing loudmouth approaching sixty years of age. Now he looked like Cary Grant in costume for Gunga Din. But he still sounded like a short, pudgy, bald, cigar-chewing loudmouth.

The lovely pink clouds that Finger was admiring were smog, of course. Oxnard had driven from his lab in the Malibu Hills through thirty miles of the gunk to get to Finger’s lofty office. Sure, the smog was tinted and even perfumed, but you still needed noseplugs to survive fifty yards of the stuff and the price of them had gone up to eighteen-fifty a set. They only lasted a couple of weeks, at most. The cost of breathing keeps going up, he told himself.