Pesquant was a glorious singer, voice of a gift from God. His talents, however, weren’t enough to convince him to lead a life of indolence. He was jealous of the town’s busy engineers, how they built cars and bridges, ships and gadgets. These machine men…they were the ones who helped the Earth. And they were the only ones who would get us to Mars, extend our lives. What did Pesquant’s songs do for the people but distract them from their worries? Entertain the doldrums away? He was as superfluous as a pack of cards. Better to apply oneself; better to be a man.
Ten years later, to the surprise of everyone, Pesquant came back to the concert scene. “One night only! The return of The Great Pesquant!” Of course the auditorium rescheduled all its shows. Of course the seats sold out. And of course the aisles were full of the eager and the curious.
But when Pesquant’s machine boy made its way on stage, everyone was puzzled. And when the boy opened its mouth and played a recording, everybody booed. The electric sound made a once honeyed voice sound flat and third-rate.
Of hundreds present, only Pesquant cried happy tears. He was in awe with his work, bursting with joy he had traded God for himself.
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