And now, well, it still was…if you happened to be a grunter. Those manic little orcs were having the time of their lives, laughing their distended creepy heads off. And the best thing, the very best thing, in the dusty old words of that toothless guy at Woodstock, was that now, thanks to the Change, it was “a free concert, man!” No admission price, no waiting in line—hell, no lines at all. Nobody here but us chickens… And Herman Goldman, who, for some reason that seemed considerably less like a good idea around about now, had thought to come here. Upon emerging topside and seeing the hyperkinetic little monsters all piled on the flying elephant ride (which, minus electricity, was even more going nowhere than when it had just moved in circles), Goldie backed himself up all the way to Main Street. Which was exactly like the Main Street Sinclair Lewis had described in his book of the same name, if the buildings were three-quarter scale and all the inhabitants were four feet tall with hypodermic teeth and ravenous, maggot-colored eyes.
