Her swing is all that counts. Her ability to rock and roll sets the whole world in motion. She's the one living soul behind the machinery. Whenever she stops, out of tiredness or boredom, or because she has to use the bathroom, the engines stops too, leaving the world with a mere 10-minute supply of energy. A warning message is issued all around the planet. It flares along the wires, pulses on the waves, flashes red on the CRTs. Workers step down and pray for her to get back on the swing, something she never fails to do, when she's refreshed and feels like it. Actually, she's a goddess to them. Icons of her can be found in every home, office or shop, smiling above little swinging shrines where candles never cease burning. They send her presents, food, books, games, music to keep her interested and awake. Even though she's new on the job, having been on the swing for only a couple of years, she spends most of her time reading and answering fan mail.

Every six minutes, she gently sways her hips, giving the swing a new impulse, and takes a 120-second nap, where she dreams of the firm ground, of her unremarkable past, and of her bright future, fifteen years from now, when she retires in full glory, before she cannot walk anymore, to live the rest of her life as a national living treasure. A shrill whistle from her current pacemaker, a bald skinny man in uniform, wakes her up. She ritually winks at him, watches the daily count, and goes on. On Sundays, she says hello to one of her several replacements, a girl who would immediately take her seat if she was to fall down by accident, as it has happened before with previous swingers. Herself was a replacement for five years before she got the position. Competition was hard. Lots of girls applied. They bought videotapes, trained themselves on homemade swings that