Norman Spinrad - Age Of Invention

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NORMAN SPINRAD

The Age of Invention

Norman Spinrad is a West Coast writer with a pyrotechnic style. He has produced a number of

memorable novels and stories, including Bug Jack Barron, The Men in the Jungle, and the

controversial The Iron Dream. But Spinrad is even better when working with the short story form,

witness his "The Big Flash," "No Direction Home," and the unforgettable "The Last Hurrah of the

Golden Horde." This collection begins with one of his best and most ambitious tales, a macrocosmic

and hilarious overview of the dawn of business civilization.

One morning, having nothing better to do, I went to visit my cousin Roach. Roach lived in one of

those lizard-infested caves on the East Side of the mountain. Roach did not hunt bears. Roach did

not grow grain. Roach spent his daylight hours throwing globs of bearfat, bison chips and old

rotten plants against the walls of his cave.

Roach said that he was an Artist. He said it with a capital "A." (Even though writing has not yet

been invented.)

Unlikely as it may seem, Roach had a woman. She was, however, the ugliest female on the mountain.

She spent her daylight hours lying on the dirty floor of Roach's cave and staring at the smears of

old bearfat, moldy bison chips and rotten plants on the wall. She used to say that this was

Roach's Soul. She would also say that Roach had a very big soul.

Very big and very smelly.

As I approached the mouth of Roach's cave, I smelled pungent smoke. In fact, the cave was filled

with this smoke. In the middle of the cave sat Roach and his woman. They were burning a big pile

of weeds and inhaling the smoke.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Turning on, baby," said Roach. "I've just invented it."

"What does `turning on' mean?"

"Well, you get this weed, dig? You burn it, and then you honk the smoke. "

I scratched my head, inadvertently killing several of my favorite fleas.

"Why do that?" I asked.

"It like gets you high."

"You don't seem any farther off the ground than I am," I observed. "And you're still kinda runty."

Roach snorted in disgust. "Forget it, man," he said. "It's only for Artists, Philosophers and

Metaphysicians, anyway. (Even though Philosophy and Metaphysics have not yet been invented.) Dig

my latest!"

On the nearest wall of the cave, there was this big blob of bearfat. In the middle of it was this

small piece of bison chip. Red and green and brown plant stains surrounded this. It smelled as

good as it looked.

"Uh . . . interesting, . . ." I said.

"Like a masterpiece, baby," Roach said proudly. "I call it The Soul of Man."

"Uh . . . The Sole of Man? Er . . . it does sort of look like a foot. "

"No, no, man! Soul, not sole!"

"But, Roach, spelling hasn't been invented yet."

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Norman Spinrad - Age Of Invention

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