sole witness of the event, afterward described it as 'the foaming of a sea of diamonds, the crackle of God's knuckles.'
By the millions and tens of millions, the loaves coasted down into the starving Ukraine. Shaken by a week of humor that threatened to invade even its own grim precincts, the Kremlin made a sudden about-face. A new policy was instituted of communal ownership of the produce of communal farms, and teams of hunger-fighters and caravans of trucks loaded with pumpernickel were dispatched into the Ukraine.
World distribution was given to a series of photographs showing peasants queueing up to trade scavenged Puffyloaves for traditional black bread, recently aerated itself but still extra solid by comparison, the rate of exchange demanded by the Moscow teams being twenty Puffyloaves to one of pumpernickel.
Another series of photographs, picturing chubby workers' children being blown to bits by booby-trapped bread, was quietly destroyed.
Congratulatory notes were exchanged by various national governments and world organizations, including the Brotherhood of Free Business Machines. The great bread flight was over, though for several weeks afterward scattered falls of loaves occurred, giving rise to a new folklore of manna among lonely Arabian tribesmen, and in one well-authenticated instance in Tibet, sustaining life in a party of mountaineers cut off by a snow slide.
Back in NewNew York, the managerial board of Puffy Products slumped in utter collapse around the conference table, the long crisis session at last ended. Empty coffee cartons were scattered around the chairs of the three humans, dead batteries around those of the two machines. For a while, there was no movement whatsoever. Then Roger Snedden reached out wearily for the earphones where Megera Winterly had hurled them down, adjusted them to his head, pushed a button and listened apathetically.
After a bit, his gaze brightened. He pushed more buttons and listened more eagerly. Soon he was sitting tensely upright on his stool, eyes bright and lower face all a-smile, muttering terse comments and questions into the lapel mike torn from Meg's fair neck.
The others, reviving, watched him, at first dully, then with quickening interest, especially when he jerked off the earphones with a happy shout and sprang to his feet.
'Listen to this!' he cried in a ringing voice. 'As a result of the worldwide publicity, Puffyloaves are outselling Fairy Bread three to one-and that's just the old carbon-dioxide stock from our freezers! It's almost exhausted, but the government, now that the Ukrainian crisis is over, has taken the ban off helium and will also sell us stockpiled wheat if we need it. We can have our walking mills burrowing into the wheat caves in a matter of hours!
'But that isn't all! The far greater demand everywhere is for Puffyloaves that will actually float. Public Relations, Child Liaison Division, reports that the kiddies are making their mothers' lives miserable about it. If only we can figure out some way to make hydrogen non-explosive or the helium loaf float just a little-'
'I'm sure we can take care of that quite handily,' Tin Philosopher interrupted briskly. 'Puffyloaf has kept it a corporation secret-even you've never been told about it-but just before he went crazy, Everett Whitehead discovered a way to make bread using only half as much flour as we do in the present loaf. Using this secret technique, which we've been saving for just such an emergency, it will be possible to bake a helium loaf as buoyant in every respect as the hydrogen loaf.'
'Good!' Roger cried. 'We'll tether 'em on strings and sell 'em like balloons. No mother-child shopping team will leave the store without a cluster. Buying bread balloons will be the big event of the day for kiddies. It'll make the carry-home shopping load lighter too! I'll issue orders at once-'
He broke off, looking at Phineas T. Gryce, said with quiet assurance, 'Excuse me, sir, if I seem to be taking too much upon myself.'
'Not at all, son; go straight ahead,' the great manager said approvingly. 'You're'-he laughed in anticipation of getting off a memorable remark-'rising to the challenging situation like a genuine Puffyloaf.'
Megera Winterly looked from the older man to the younger. Then in a single leap she was upon Roger, her arms wrapped tightly around him.
'My sweet little ever-victorious, self-propelled monkey wrench!' she crooned in his ear. Roger looked fatuously over her soft shoulder at Tin Philosopher who, as if moved by some similar feeling, reached over and touched claws with Rose Thinker.
This, however, was what he telegraphed silently to his fellow machine across the circuit so completed:
'Good-o, Rosie! That makes another victory for robot-engineered world unity, though you almost gave us away at the start with that 'bread overhead' jingle. We've struck another blow against the next world war, in which-as we know only too well! — we machines would suffer the most. Now if we can only arrange, say, a fur- famine in Alaska and a migration of long-haired Siberian lemmings across Behring Straits… we'd have to swing the Japanese Current up there so it'd be warm enough for the little fellows…. Anyhow, Rosie, with a spot of help from the Brotherhood, those humans will paint themselves into the peace corner yet.'
Meanwhile, he and Rose Thinker quietly watched the Blonde Icicle melt.
