I’ve never met Harvey Jacobs. I don’t know anyone who’s ever met Harvey Jacobs. Mr. Jacobs, wherever he may be, does sadly dwell not in the land of prolificacy. For this we must all sorrow. Because Mr. Jacobs is a wonderful writer. His story is one of that rare species that when read by other members of the same persuasion is often referred to in the terms, “Gee, I wish I’d written that.” No higher praise can writers bestow on a colleague than emeraldine envy. There are some who might argue that this story is more in the nature of science-fiction than fantasy. It matters not, because it is not the subject of the tale that concerns us here so much as it is the telling of it. “The Egg of the Glak” is rambling and Rabelasian, writing chock-full of mental cholesterol, fattening and filling and altogether as hearty as thick gumbo on a cold winter’s night. It is not, indeed, a perfect story.

In some ways it is better than that. We readers in search of something beyond the mundane all have Harvey Jacobs to thank for hatching …

THE EGG OF THE GLAK

Harvey Jacobs

To the memory of Dr. David Hikhoff, Ph.D. May he rest in peace. Unless there is better.

A SPRING NIGHT. The campus quiet. The air soft breath. I stood at my post, balanced on stiff legs. The fountain, a gift of ‘08, tinkled under moonlight. Then he came, trumpeting like a mammoth, stomping, tilting, staggering, nearly sitting, straightening, roaring from the back of his mouth, a troublemaker.

“My diphthongs. They monophthongized my diphthongs. The frogs. The frogs.”

Echoes rattled the quadrangle.

I ran to grab him. It was like holding a bear. He nearly carried both of us to the ground.

“Poor kid. You poor kid,” he said, waving short arms. “Another victim of the great vowel shift. The Northumbrian sellout.”

He cried real tears, hundred proof, and blotted his jewels with a rep tie. Oh, this was no student drunk. This was faculty, an older man.

“Let us conjugate stone in a time-tarnished manner. Repeat after me. Repeat or I will beat you to a mush. Stan, stan, stanes, stane, stanas, stanas, stana, stanum.”

“Easy, sir,” I said.

“Up the Normans,” he shrieked. “They loused my language. Mercian, Kentish, West Saxon and Northumbrian sellouts. French ticklers. Tell your children, and their children’s children, unto the generations. Diphthongs have been monophthongized. Help.”

“I’m trying to help,” I said.

“Police.”

“I am police.”

“Victim,” he said, whispering now. “Sad slob.”

How many remember what happened a thousand years ago? If it were not for Hikhoff, I would know nothing of the vowel shift, though it altered my life and fiber. For it was this rotten shift that changed our English from growl to purr.

Look it up. Read how spit flew through the teeth of Angles, Saxons, and Jutes in the good old days. Get facts on how the French came, conquered, shoved our vowels to the left of the language, coated our tongues with velvet fur.

For Hikhoff, the shift of the vowels made history’s center. Before was a time for the hairy man, the man who ate from the bone. After came silk pants, phallic apology.

“From Teutonic to moronic,” Hikhoff told me. “Emasculation. Drought in the tonsil garden. No wonder so many strep throats in this town of clowns.”

Sounds. Hikhoff’s life was sounds. The sounds that make your insides wobble. Sounds of chalk screaming, of power saws cutting wood, of forks on glass, scrapings, buzzings, the garbage disposal chewing, jet wails, dentists drilling, pumps gurgling, drains sucking, tires screeching, ambulance sirens, giants breaking wind, booms, bangs, clangings, ripping and tearing, nails scratching silk.

Softer sounds too. Music and musical boxes, bells, chimes, bottle players on Ed Sullivan, all that, all noise, but mostly noises that make you squirm. His favorite: people sounds. Body sounds, sounds of talking, squishing, words, singing, cajoling, cursing, ordering, asking, telling, excusing, insisting. That is why the great vowel shift meant so much to him.

“What those concupiscent Gauls did to me,” he said. “They shriveled half my vocal cords. They denied me my voice.”

Hikhoff liked to rasp and sputter. His lungs were organ bellows for rolling R’s and CH’s that choked to the point of dribble. He listened to himself with much pleasure. He played himself back on a tape recorder, reading from Beowulf or Chaucer or the Prose Edda, which tells of the Wind Age and Wolf Age when the Sun swallows Earth.

“Aggchrrr, don’t talk from your nostrils. Nose talkers are bastards. Diaphragm. Lungs. The deepest tunnels. Use those. Form your words slowly. Shape them in your head. Let them out of the mouth like starved animals, hot smoke rings. Speak each sentence like a string of beautiful sausages. Show me a mumbler and I show you a turd. SPEAK OUT. SAY YOUR PIECE. YOU WILL NOT ONLY MAKE OUT BETTER BUT DO A SERVICE FOR THE ENTIRE HUMAN RACE.”

Hikhoff. We became friends. I don’t kid myself. At first he had motives, improper designs. All right, think what you think.

“A despondent, disappointed soul.” “A bitter person, a cynic.” “A lump of rage,” “A bad influence.” I have heard all that said, and worse. To me, Hikhoff was redeemer, beloved comrade. I close my eyes and there he is in full detail.

Hikhoff.

Body like a cantaloupe. Little head, big jaw. A wet mouth gated by purple lips. Heavy in the breathing. Short arms and legs. A funny machine, an engine liberated, huffing, puffing. Like the power cabs that pull trailers and sometimes go running without their loads. The amputated heart. They move on diesel oil, Hikhoff on food. Fueling always. Always belching gas. I loved him. I miss him.

“Cousin North,” he once said in a mellow, huff-puff voice when he finished panting and scratching after a chase around his coffee table. “I accept your repressive shyness. Lord, god king of fishes, you are too young to know what trouble a man’s genitals can give.” Then, pointing at the top of his paunch, “AND I HAVE NOT SET EYES ON MINE IN FORTY YEARS.”

Ah. I knew what trouble, since I was then twenty, not ten. But Hikhoff was making jolly. We had become friends when I carried him home that spring night. Now, later in the turning year, he invited me to dinner. A feast. A groaning board. While we digested, he tried to make me.

He wooed me. First, by throwing peels to the garbage disposal which he called Mr. Universe. They were swallowed, chopped to puree. Next, he wined me with Liebfraumilch. Then he chased me, the engine with legs, roaring pre-vowel shift verses about clash and calm, stimulated by, and frustrated by, my agility.

“I am sorry, sir,” I said in a moment of pause. “I do not go that way.”

“Alps fall on your callow head,” Hikhoff screamed so storm windows rattled. But we came to an agreement. Back to normal when his pressure dropped, we talked frankly.

“Sir, Dr. Hikhoff, even if I were interested in deviations, if that’s how to put it, I could just not with you, sir. You are a cathedral to me, full of stained light, symbolic content. The funny thing is that I love you, but not that way.”

“Distinctions,” Hikhoff said a little sadly. “If you have a change of heart some day, let me be the first to know. Wire me collect. For the meantime, we will continue to be friends. You have a good head. A good head is a rare and precious stone.”

We continued to be friends. I, who had taken a temporary job as campus cop to audit free courses, stayed on to become captain of the force. I kept taking courses, and would still be.

Once each week I went to see Hikhoff and we dined. He did not fail to steam a little after the mandarin oranges with Cointreau, but he never attacked me again. He was well controlled.

We talked of life and poetry. I was writing then. He read my works, sometimes translating them into Old English. He criticized. He had faith in me, encouraged me.

I wrote of life, courage, identity, time and death. These subjects delighted Hikhoff. He was a grand romantic, full of Eden, pro-Adam, pro-Eve, pro-Snake, pro-God, pro-Gabriel, anti-the whole scene. His self-image wore a cape and carried a sharp sword. He believed in battle bloody and reunion soft. To sum it up, Hikhoff had a kind of kill and kiss vision.

The important thing was to keep the winds stirred, the debris flying.

“Chum the emotions, but do not turn them to butter,” he said. “Not with drugs or booze or mushrooms that give a pastel mirage. Use life, Harold. Be a life addict. Generate your own chemicals, your own trance and dance. Hikhoff The Absolute has spoken.”

Our evenings were fine for me and I hope for him. I was like his son, he said so. He was better than my father, I say so. I could have gone on that way a hundred years. But the carpet was pulled, as it usually is.

One night when we were sealed by winter, I got a call. I was not sleeping when it came, but on the edge of a dream. The dream was forming in swirls of snow. The telephone bell was a noisy bug, and I fought to crush it. Finally I got up, naked and shivering in the cold room. I knew there was trouble.

The first thought was of fire. Or dormitory suicide. It was not the season for panty raids, and rape was obsolete up there.

“Hello, yes, hello?” “Harold North? Is this he?” “He. Yes.”

“This is Miss Linker at the Shepherd of the Knowing Heart Clinic. On Kipman Place.” “Yes.”

“A patient. Dr. Hikhoff, is asking for. …” The night was frozen. Ice gave a glitter, a gloss like the shine on photographs. I remember smoke coming from the sewers. It fogged the street. It was pleasure to hear the car skip and start, to think of spark plugs flaming.

By the car clock it was three. I keep my clock ahead by forty-five minutes. This is a silliness, having to do with sudden endings. I have a stupid idea that if destruction should come, I would have nearly an hour to go back and make ready.

They let me go right to his room. He was critical, a mound in the white bed with side bars pulled up. A nurse leaned over him, and he moved his tongue in and out, side to side, as if she were a canape. He was delirious, saving words in clusters, words melted together like candies left in the sun. They gave him oxygen. He took gallons, emptied tanks.

I cried.

The nurse shook her head no. She reached a verdict. There was no hope except for the pinpoint dot of light that always flares. He had suffered a massive stroke, an eruption. Lava poured into his system and slowly filled him with black dust.

The nurse gave me two letters. They were marked FIRST and FINALLY. I put the envelopes in a pocket and stayed there by the bed. I heard a train whistle which meant five o’clock. The whistle was for Hikhoff. He opened his eyes, ripped off the oxygen mask, slammed the nurse away with his fists, sat up, saw me and said, “Touch. Touch.”

I took his head in my hands and held him. The round head was a basketball with frightened eyes. “I will write thick books,” he said. Then the eyes went away. Hikhoff was dead.

The white room filled with his escaping soul, cape, sword, all. The window was open a crack, and out the soul went into cold air.

Hikhoff’s body was cremated after a nice funeral. In his will he requested that his remains be scattered in campus ashtrays. They were not. Instead, they were sent to his family in a silver box.

They should have been used as fertilizer for a tree, an oak, something with a heavy head of leaves and thirsty plunging roots, a trunk for carving on, branches to hold tons of snow.

After the funeral I went into seclusion.

I wished for time to think of my friend and to shape him into a memory. He was easy to remember, not one of those who fades with the first season change. I could not only see him but hear him and feel the vibration of his ghost. I had him down pat.

When I was sure of keeping the memory, I read the letter marked FIRST. It was tempting to read FINALLY first and FIRST finally because I suspected Hikhoff of throwing me a curve. But I thought no, not with death in his mind. Hikhoff would do the obvious because the corrupted obvious is purified in the face of death.

Dear Harold,

When you read this I will be dead, which seems ridiculous. Know that I look forward to meeting you again in some other world. At such time I will continue the education of your shade. If there is corporeal immortality, I will persist in your seduction.

Be that as it may. There is a favor I request of you. Naturally it is an idiotic request and very demanding. You have, of course, the option to refuse, maybe even the absolute need to refuse.

In this noble hamlet, Crap-Off-The-Hudson, there lives a lady who runs a store called Poodleville. This lady, a combination of estrogen, the profit motive, and a green thumb for animals, has come into the possession of a fantastic find.

It is the egg of a Glak.

No such egg has been seen for years. It is quite probably the last and final Glak.

The egg was brought to her by a relative who served with a radar unit in Labrador. I saw it in her shop, when I went there with the thought of buying a parrot. Thank God, the egg was sitting near a radiator.

Harold, I believe that this egg is fertile.

I have since paid this lady to heat her egg. The hatch span of the Glak is seven years and four days. I sought information from our late Dr. Nagle, of Anthropology. He set a tentative date for the Glak birth in middle April of next year.

Harold, the Glak is officially EXTINCT; so you can imagine the importance of all this! (That is the first exclamation point I have used since Kaiser Wilhelm died.)

I do not anticipate anything happening to me before then. I never felt worse, which is a sign of excellent health. But should I be struck down by a flying manhole cover or a falling bowling ball or the creeping crud, and should you have the agonizing duty of opening and reading this letter, please do the following:

1.) Go to the Upstate Bank and Trust. You will find an account in both our names containing five thousand dollars.

2.) Contact the lady at Poodleville, a Miss Moonish. Pay her $2,500 for custody of the egg, per our agreement.

3.) Take the egg, suitably wrapped, and nurse it until the ides of April. Then you must transport the egg to the one place where the Glak is known to have thrived; i.e., upper Labrador.

4.) WARNING BELLS. While Dr. Nagle, of Anthropology, is deceased, I believe he told his son, John, of my find. I also believe, from certain twitchings of Nagle’s right ear, that the old man had dreams of glory, that he fantasied a lead article in American Scholar entitled “Nagle’s Glak.” The driving, vicious ambition of anthropologists is well known. What then of their sons? Beware of the young Nagle, Harold. I have a premonition.

5.) Due to this implicit Nagle threat, I urge you to act with dispatch.

Harold, ersatz son, I know this appears to be a strange request. Think carefully what you will do about an old fool’s last testament. If you cannot help me, shove the whole thing.

Take my money and spend it on pleasure. Throw my letters into the garbage disposal. Sip Polly Fusee while singing “Nearer My God To Thee.” Break champagne on your head and sail on. Do what you must do.

Harold, writing this and still to write FINALLY (to be opened only if by some miracle a Glak is born, and born healthy) has left me quivering. I feel as if I have swallowed a pound of lard. Thoughts of my own death fill me with sadness, nourishing sadness.

Goodbye, dear Harold. May the things that go clump in the night bless you.

Yours in affection, David Hikhoff

I put down FIRST, repocketed FINALLY, blew out the candles and sat there in the dark.

Hikhoff died in February, a month hardly wide enough to hold him.

That February was cold as a cube. It straddled Crap-Off-The-Hudson like an abominable snowman with icy armpits and a pale, waiting face. No wonder Hikhoff chose cremation, a last burst of heat. The only reminder that the world sometimes welcomes life came from struck matches, steam ghosts from pipes under our streets, the glow of cigarette tips. It was as if nobody smiled.

My decision to honor Hikhoff’s request took a frigid week. In that week I purchased a tiny glazed Hikhoff from a student sculptor who made it in memoriam. The little Hikhoff was a good likeness, orange and brown ceramic the size of a lemon. I carried it with me like a talisman. Morbid, I know, but it helped me make up my mind.

So, for a few hours, I owned five thousand dollars. There was an account at Upstate, and a vice-president there who expected my visit. If there was an account, there was probably an egg. And, very likely, a Nagle. Still, I was suspicious of Hikhoff, who had a great sense of humor, a capacity for the belly laugh, and the belly for the laugh.

There was also Harold North’s choice.

Hikhoff himself, Hikhoff the far-seeing, dangled the golden carrot. I could use the money for play. I, who lived like a hermit, had no grandiose ideals of frolic. But each bill could translate into time. I could go to Majorca; I could write until my fingers were stubs without a care.

Glak. Damn the Glak, Some of the finest creatures are extinct, have gained stature through oblivion, have won museum fame. Great green things with tails the size of buildings. Hairy fellows with pounds of chin and strong eyes. Flying dragons that dripped acid. Elephants with tusks that could spear dentists. Why not the Glak? Extinction is nature’s way. Did this world need a Glak? Who suffered by its disappearance? Is anyone, anywhere, Glak deprived? There was no real choice. I had to do Hikhoff’s post-mortem bidding. We had consumed too much together; I had taken so much for myself of every portion. Could I point my rump at his last request?

Yes, naturally I visited the library. Even before my trip to the bank I looked up the Glak. There was not much to be learned. A tall crane-like bird with a raucous croak resembling glak glak. Famed for its mating dance which involved a rapid twisting of the dorsal plume in a counter-clockwise direction. Habitat the subarctic regions of Eastern North America. Dwindling Glak population noted in the 1850’s. Classified extinct 1902.

Glak, glak. Hikhoff once said he thought maybe the vowels stayed there and we shifted. Glak, glak to tweet, tweet. Could I care less?

In the bank I looked at the five and three zeroes while patting my ceramic Hikhoff, which was stuffed in the left-hand pocket of my mackinaw. When I noticed the Upstate vice-president watching my patting hand, I took the Hikhoff and placed it on the table.

“It’s a Hikhoff,” I said.

“A Hikhoff?”

“The man who left me this money.”

“You carry it around?”

“On special occasions.”

“That’s a nice sentiment. It could start a trend.”

I had the money placed in a checking account.

The next thing I did was to find Poodleville in the, telephone book. I called and was answered by a voice which could have been a person or an unsold beast. The voice was thin and high, air deprived.

“I am Harold North. I believe a Mr. Hikhoff suggested. …”

“I’ve been expecting your call.”

“Can we meet?”

“Assuredly. The sooner the better.”

Poodleville caters to a genteel clientele, even for Crap-Off-The-Hudson. The shoppe (their spelling) is located in an ancient part of the city, a residential area, a nest of strong, well-built homes, each with some land, some trees, a gate. These are the houses of people with ancestors who settled that part of the land, and of those who came later and found luck smiling. The houses are impressive. Each is a fortress, guarding special privacy. Each has seen many bitter winters.

Through the large windows of these grandfather houses, I could see splendid toys like chandeliers of crystal, paintings in gold painted frames, pewter tankards, silver samovars, thick drapes, balconies with railings, curved staircases, wooden panels. Each house was an egg in itself with its own source of warmth, cracking out life now and then which ran for a car or a waiting cab.

Bits of movement, footprints not yet covered over by the new snow, smoke trails rising from chimneys animated the neighborhood in slow motion. Winter had the streets under siege. They had a cemetery quality. I could easily imagine Hikhoff waddling behind me, a spectre spy observing my movements, enjoying the tranquility of snowbound luxury.

Poodleville had been built out of the bottom floor of a brownstone. There was hardly a suggestion of commerce, much less of the usual cluster of dogs, birds, fishes, cats, hamsters, apes and even ants. No puppies solicited behind the glass. The window was tastefully decorated with a picture of a memorable poodle champion with the arrogant snout of one who is making his mark in stud. There was also a pink leash and a stone-covered collar.

When the door opened, a bell jingled. The animals sounded off. There was a jungle smell under airwick. But even inside, the mood was subdued.

Here was my first glimpse of Elsie Moonish. She stood near the tropical fish looking at an x-ray by bluish light from the tanks. A canary sang on a shelf above her head. Three or four dogs banged their heads against bars painted in candy stripes. A myna bird slept, and near it a single monkey swung around on its perch, squeaking like a mouse.

Miss Moonish never turned. She kept looking at the negative. I assumed it was a poodle spleen or parakeet kidney that held her.

She was not what I expected from the curdsy voice, but an attractive, plumpish, fortyish lady with her hair, black with grey rivers, in a Prince Valiant cut, a desirable lady, though her legs were on the heavy side.

I wondered if she heard me come in. She must have if she had eardrums, since the warning bell rang and the animals reacted. I waited, keeping my distance. I made no sound except for a wheeze when I breathed, since I was coming down with a cold.

One wheeze got to Miss Moonish. It was a tremendous snort that sounded like it came from Hitler’s sinus. I think she was waiting for it as an excuse to register sudden surprise. Even the beasts shut up, not recognizing that mating call.

“My pancreas,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“I was concerned about my pancreas. But it seems to be in fine fettle. Care for a look?”

“Not before dinner,” I said.

“They say I am a hypochondriac, which is to say I fear death, which I do. I love x-rays. What a shame radioactivity is harmful.”

“Always complications,” I said. “I’m Harold North.”

“Ah. Not the other.”

“The other?”

“The Nagle person.”

Her myna bird woke, blinked, and said person person person.

“You have spoken with the Nagle person?”

“Not too long ago. Your competitor. Poor Dr. Hikhoff. I read about his demise. What was it, a cerebral artery? Beautiful man. Such a tragedy.”

I noticed why Elsie Moonish spoke thinly. It was because she hardly ever inhaled. She took air in gasps and kept it for long periods. By the end of a breath her voice nearly vanished. How hard it must have been for Hikhoff to deal with her.

“All this fuss over an egg,” she said. “Remarkable.”

“Speaking of the egg, may I see it?”

“At these prices I would scramble it for you, Mr. North.”

First Miss Moonish locked the front door of the shop, though it did not exactly seem as if the store would be swamped with customers. Then she led me back past animal accessories, foods, a barbering table covered with curly hair, to a little door. Behind the door was a staircase leading up.

Over Poodleville, on the first floor of the brownstone, the Moonish apartment had elegance, but with the feeling of leftovers. The room had high ceilings, stained glass windows, columned archways and plush furniture, all a bit frazzled. There was a rancid dignity. I was directed to a blue tubby chair with the arms of a little club fighter. I sat and waited.

She went into another room, the bedroom as it turned out, and came back with a cardboard box. It was the kind of box you get from the grocer if you ask for a carton to pack for the painters. Written in red (by lipstick) on the top it said FRAGILE. KEEP WARM. I expected more, a glass case or ebony, but there it was, an old tomato carton.

Elsie Moonish took out a pound of old newspaper, then a ball wrapped in velvet. Carefully, but not too carefully, she unwrapped the egg and there it was. Just an egg, a few inches bigger than a chicken’s, dotted with violet splotches.

To make it sound as if I were in on this from the start, I said, “Uh-huh. There it is all right.”

She gave me the egg and I examined it. It was warm and seemed to be in good condition. As soon as possible, I put it back in the velvet nest.

“Dr. Hikhoff sat where you are sitting,” she said, “for hour after hour. He called the egg his family. He was quite involved.”

“He was.”

” There are chills in this room, drafts, he would say. A very protective man.”

“Definitely.”

“Mr. North, perhaps it’s time to talk business, a crass thing in face of the occasion. But life goes on.”

“Business,” I said. “Per Dr. Hikhoff’s instructions, I have in my pocket a checkbook, and I am prepared to give you a draft for $2,500.”

“Mr. North,” she said, “that’s sweet,” fitting the egg back into its box.

“Think nothing of it.”

“Mr. North, let me say that I feel like the queen of bitches, forgive the expression. But the Nagle person called this morning with an offer of $4,500, all his money in the world, and for the very same egg.”

“But you promised Dr. Hikhoff. …”

“Mr. North, what is money to me? Time? Health? It’s only that hypochondria is dreadfully costly. Doctors charge outrageous fees; it’s a disgrace. Let me show you something.”

She took the egg back to her bedroom and returned with a large book, an album.

“Browse this. My x-rays. Five years of x-rays and some of friends and family. There. My uterus. Fifty dollars. My coccyx. Fifteen or twenty, as I recall. Heart, lungs, the lower tract. Do you have any idea of the cost?”

Looking at her insides was embarrassing for some reason, on so short an acquaintance. If medical magazines had centerfolds, she would have done well. Her organs were neat and well cared for. After finishing a flip of the pages, I actually felt as if I had known her for years.

“Miss Moonish,” I said, “I will level with you, cards on the table, face up. Dr. Hikhoff left me with a certain amount of cash. Enough to pay you, live a little, and get the Glak back home.”

“The Nagle person was so insistent,” she said. “Willing to risk all.”

“I’ll match his offer,” I said, “though it will mean hardship. Plus one dollar.”

“Marvelous. I’m so relieved. It’s thrilling when two grown men meet in conflict. Especially the moment, Mr. North, when their bids are equal, when they have exhausted material resources. Then they are thrown back on primitive reserves. Spiritual and physical qualities. The plus, as you said. The plus-plus.”

“You lose me.”

“Your money, Mr. North, or Mr. Nagle’s money. They add up to the same thing. So the bids erase each other. Two men yearn for my egg. Each has offered gold. Now other factors creep into the picture. The plus-plus. You know, I hesitate to give up this situation. I lead a dull life, Mr. North.”

“What you said about other factors. What other factors?”

“The city is frozen. Everything strains under tons of snow. I will tend my shop, care for my pets, cut poodle hair, and so forth. I will eat, sleep, wait out the dull months. Despite my x-rays, I feel hollow inside at this time of year. Like an empty jug. An empty jug yearning for, how shall I put it, honey. I want honey, Mr. North, the honey plus-plus. Memory.”

“Are you suggesting. Miss Moonish, to a total stranger, anything in any way directly or indirectly involving the possibility of what the students call ‘body contact’?”

“You have a quick mind, Mr. North. You have a frankness. Being around nature, I, too, am a to-the-point person.”

“Miss Moonish, I work as a campus cop. I write poems. I read a lot. I hardly have a social life. I am not exactly a bulldozer. In fact I am a sexual camel. I can go for miles without. My sex is my work. I sublimate. And I don’t know you well enough.”

“I find you charming, Mr. North.”

“And then there is the Nagle person. A terrible amoral fellow from what I gather. Suppose, for the sake of discussion, you find the Nagle ‘spins-plus more charming.”

Elsie Moonish stood up and did a slow turn, stretching.

“It’s my Glak. I’m in the catbird seat. The Glakbird seat. The Glak-egg seat. I’m absolutely enraptured by the entire chain of events.”

“All right, five thousand, though now I am including my own small reserve, retirement money. Five thousand dollars.”

“Are you offering an additional four hundred ninety-nine dollars not to make love to me?”

“Yes. Yes and no. It’s nothing personal.”

“It feels personal. Or is it just the price of your own dear insecurity. You don’t want this little competition to be decided on the basis of your … ability?”

“It’s not that.”

“It is that.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Find courage.”

“Something is chirping downstairs. Miss Moonish. Maybe a prowler. …”

“You are the prowler. Prowl.”

Damn Hikhoff. What is my debt to you? First a vow. Now, if you take things seriously, my most precious possession. For a Glak?

“I like involvement,” I said.

“Who doesn’t? Who among us doesn’t? But there is a lot to be said in months with-R in them for love without possession. The most painful kind of human contact. Transients welcome. Exciting, infuriating. The ultimate act, but without the owning. It teaches a lesson, Mr. North. It renews the lesson of separation. It reminds one of the magic of flesh in winter. Fusion and non-fission. It builds immunities against the terrible desires of SPRING.”

All that on one exhale, and I thought she would burst from decompression.

“I’m no philosopher,” I said.

“Philosophy is in the tip of the tongue,” she said, “the small of the back, behind the ears, where the legs meet the trunk, inside the thighs, behind the knees, on the mountain peaks, in the valley. The demilitarized zones.”

“I fear my own rust,” I said. “Lust. A Freudian slip. I’m not calm.”

“Come,” said Miss Moonish.

Naked, Elsie Moonish was very nice, though I had a tendency to see past her skin to the insides. We stayed together for hours fusing and non-fusing, loving without possessing, beating the winter odds and strengthening the blood against spring. Our music came from the animals downstairs, and her bed could have been grass. We were in the country. Elsie was wet and ready again and again. I was a fountain of youth to my amazement. It had been so long.

“How long, Harold?”

“Two years.”

“Who?”

“A coed doing a paper on police brutality.” “I hate her.”

Then too soon, she said, “Now. I have reached the point where I want you to stay. So go.”

“Once more.”

“No.”

“Plus-plus.”

“Go.”

We took a shower together. She soaped me and said she liked my body. I told her, soaping her, that the feeling was mutual. She said, while I dressed, that I should telephone tomorrow.

I went out into the cold shaking like gelatin, blowing steam. I would have gone back, but she locked the shoppe behind me.

Back home I saw that I had been broken and entered, ransacked.

The room was upside down. The only thing taken was the letter FIRST. Luckily I had FINALLY with me. I called Elsie Moonish right away, but got only a buzz.

A Nagle who would rob is a desperate Nagle, I thought. How would he deal with the owner of the egg? I worried for Elsie. Then for myself. He might deal very well. I never had seen the Nagle. Maybe he was a football type, a walking penis.

I sat worrying about the Nagle’s secondary sexual characteristics, and would have stayed in that trance of doubt, had it not been for my cop brain which saved me. Here I was, following the rules, waiting to hear if I won the egg, while an unleashed Nagle of no principle was running loose. What a passive idiot I was. By the time I bolted into the snow, Elsie Moonish could already be inside a camp trunk on her way by American Express.

I caught a cab to Poodleville, and none too soon.

As we pulled in front of the shoppe, I saw a man hurrying along down the street. He was carrying a large parcel, too small for a camp trunk but large enough. While I paid the driver, not before, it came to me that it was the Glak box.

That very moment a window flew open upstairs from Poodleville. I saw Elsie, wrapped in a wrap, lean out, look from side to side and shout, “Glak snatcher.”

I flew after the fleeing Nagle, my shoes skimming on glossy pavement. The Nagle ran, holding the Glak box before him and would have gotten away but for fate. The old part of town is as hilly as Rome. From nowhere a fat child on a sled came swooshing down the street and caught the Nagle at his ankles. His legs opened like a scissor. The egg box soared through the air. The sledder went crashing; the Nagle collapsed in a lump.

I intercepted the box in midair. Then I fell, tail down, box up, on top of the skidding sled and went with it down the Poodleville hill .‘The sidewalk was frozen glass. The sled broke Olympic records. The world blurred. I caught a glimpse of Miss Moonish as I went by, then saw the branches of trees and grey sky. Down and down I went, and heard the twing twing of bullets around me.

The Nagle was firing and getting close. Fortunately, the sled jumped the sidewalk and hustled along in the gutter. There was no traffic, and clear sailing. I felt a hot flash. I was hit but not dead.

Down I went, about a thousand miles an hour, toward the railroad tracks. I heard whistle and clang up ahead. The traffic blinker turned red. The zebra-striped bar that stops cars came down. I headed right for the crossing, shot under the roadblock, hit the track, saw the front of the freight, a smoky Cyclops, locked my arms on the box, left the sled, turned upside down, and came down in a snowbank with the train between my and my enemy.

Forgetting pain, I grabbed my box and climbed into an empty car.

So this is it, I thought. My body will lie here and roam the United States, a mournful cargo. I bawled. There was so much work still undone. Here I was cut at the budding.

A brakeman found me in the Utica yards. I was in the General Hospital when I woke.

“Do you have Medicare?”

“Ummm.”

“You are here mostly for exposure and shock. But not entirely. To state it unemotionally and simply, Mr. North, you have been perfectly circumcised by a 22 calibre bullet. Are you sure this was not some kind of muffed suicide attempt?”

“Hikhoff,” I raged aloud. “If the Nagle were a more accurate shot, I would have collected your ashes, reassembled you and kicked you in the ass. I have always been intact from cuticles to appendix, and now this. What trauma you have caused.”

They tranquilized me.

Soon I learned that when they brought me to the hospital, they brought my egg too. It was in a hot closet near my bed. What damage the excitement might have done to the Glak I could not know.

Poor Glak, I said in a whisper. What if you are born slightly bent? Forget it. Let the world know you have endured hard knocks. All survivors should carry scars, if only in the eyes. Be of good cheer, Glak.

Hikhoff would have enjoyed the sounds of the hospital. Pain sounds, fearsome in the deep darkness. Baby sounds full of good rage and wanting. For those sounds, my companions in the night, the vowels have not shifted. And the sounds of the loudspeaker calling Dr. this and Dr. that, and Dr. Mortimer Post when they do a dissection, and the sounds of the trays and televisions, the visitors, the wheeling carts, all these sounds would interest Hikhoff for there is the honesty of a white wall about them. Hikhoff, but not me.

Joyfully, I left the hospital an ounce or two lighter, none the worse. I carried my box with new enthusiasm. The Nagle’s bullets motivated me. I had a stake in this adventure now, a small but sincere investment.

There were six weeks to endure (it was March) before the egg would pop, assuming it would pop at all, and Labrador to reach on a limited budget. And a Nagle to watch for, a fanatic Nagle who would surely pursue us. Clearly, the first order of business was to find a hideout, an obscure off-the-track place where a man and his egg would be left alone.

I searched the classifieds. Two ads caught my eye. One of them was addressed directly to it:

H.N. KNOW YOU ARE IN UTICA. ALL FORGIVEN. CAN WE TALK? AGREEMENT CAN BE REACHED PROJECT G. RIDICULOUS TO CONTINUE HOSTILE. DANGEROUS TO WAIT.

Dangerous to wait. So the Nagle had traced the destination of the train. Smart man, and a compromiser. If there had been no shooting, no tampering with my equipment, however slight, I would have answered his P.O. box. And why not? He was his father’s son, acting on correct impulses. Hikhoff was not even a blood relation.

But, with soreness when I walked, I was in no mood to negotiate.

The second ad was for a room in a nice, clean, well-heated house with a good view, kitchen privileges, housekeeping, good family on a tree-lined street near transportation and churches of all denominations. The price was right. I called the number and, yes, the room was vacant.

The house was welcoming. There was a small garden where a snowman stood and even an evergreen. I rang the doorbell, self-conscious over my package, which I held in my arms since the steps looked cold. I tried to take the attitude that this was a pregnancy and that I was blooming and entitled.

The box made no difference to Mrs. Fonkle who owned the property. Probably there was a buyers’ market for rooms up there.

I told her I was a scientist, but not the kind who makes bombs. I was dependable, safe, well-mannered, a person who asked only tidbits from existence, not noisy, good-natured, involved in breeding a new kind of chicken big enough to feed multitudes. Mrs. Fonkle liked, but worried over, the idea of big chickens.

“How big?” she said, and I held out my hands three feet apart.

“Some chicken,” she said, laughing herself into a red face.

The first night she invited me to dinner. The Fonkles were a mixed grill. Mrs. Fonkle had been married once to a pencil of a man, a man who lacked pigmentation. He was dead now but left a daughter behind, a girl in her mid-twenties who was pretty, all angles, intense and full of gestures.

Mrs. Fonkle’s present husband, a plumber, was a side of beef, medium well. Her daughter by him was a dark, soft affair, just nineteen, filled with inner springs that pushed out.

At dinner, there were comments about science and the mushroom cloud and how the world was better before. The daughter of Husband One, Myrna by name, said, “People are beginning to realize that war accomplishes nothing.”

“So how come everybody is fighting,” Cynthia said. “Two things can stop wars,” I said. “First is discovering life from another part of the sky with a big appetite for all kinds of people, regardless. Second is the hope implicit in the fact that nations good at sex are bad at marching.”

“Tell me, are you a married man?” Mrs. Fonkle said, handing me seconds.

“No. I have no family. I am married to my work.” “She’s getting personal,” Mr. Fonkle said. “In a house where doors are left open,” Mrs. Fonkle said, “I’m entitled to a few questions.”

Mrs. Fonkle’s house was truly a house where doors are left open. Even me, a paranoid now, watching for shadows of the Nagle, took to leaving my bolt unclicked. The first week went well. You could say an intimacy grew between me and the family. I had never lived so close to people.

I spent my days writing. At night I checked the egg and took walks. My Hikhoff sat on a dresser, on top of a doily, and he too seemed serene. But problems arose.

One evening, an ordinary evening, I came in from my dinner. As always, I examined the egg. It was trembling, shivering, moving. I thought earthquake, catastrophe. But nothing was shaking the egg. It was the egg itself moving around, rolling a little.

I put the box closer to the radiator, and the jumping slowed.

Then I did what I knew from the beginning I would have to do.

I sat on the egg.

I put it on a pillow, put the pillow on a chair, stripped to my underwear and gently sat on the egg, holding most of my weight with my arms.

The jumping, squiggling, shivering stopped completely. So there was a Glak in there. And it was chilly, protesting. It wanted its due, namely body heat, and who could blame it?

Look at me now, I said to my Hikhoff, a full-grown man warming eggs with his rear. Look what you did to me. Is it for this that you fed me and pissed and moaned about our feminized century? Finally you have put me into hatching position. Hikhoff, barrage balloon, how you must be laughing.

Falling in with the folksy quality of Mrs. Fonkle’s, I had left my door half open. In thin PJ’s, holding a turkish towel, her hair covered with a cloth to hide curlers, her feet bare, wearing no makeup on her dear bony face, Myrna came to check my health.

“Are you OK, Harold?”

“Fine,” I said. “A little over-exposed. I’m sorry. I should have closed my door.”

“Oh,” Myrna said. She threw me her towel. I covered my kneecaps. “I could swear you made a sound, a kind of clucking.”

“Chicken thoughts,” I said. “I was thinking out loud.”

Her entrance and my surprise must have dropped my pressure and temperature because the egg began again, jumping under me. It had a lot of energy. I had to hold tight to keep myself in the chair.

“You’re catching cold,” Myrna said, coming into the room.

“No, I’m fine.”

The egg gave a bump. I flew up a little and could have squooshed it then and there except for a last-second flip.

“Give me your pulse,” Myrna said. I gave her.

“A hundred fifteen beats a minute?”

“Normal for me. Normal.”

“Something is bothering you, Harold.” Myrna sat down on my bed. “Talk to me. I’m a good listener.”

“Nothing,” I said. “Besides, Myrna, if your mother walks by and sees you sitting there in your sleepies, what will she think? What?”

Myrna got up with her serious face and closed the door. She came back to the bed and stretched herself, her chin propped on elbows. She made herself at home.

“You are suffering,” Myrna said. “Don’t deny it.”

“Better you should go,” I said.

Myrna was very attractive in those PJ’s. They were sad cotton PJ’s with no class, covered with blue flowers, a thing little girls wear. When she moved they tightened around her breasts, small volcanos. They held her bottom nicely, too. For a slender lady she was well built. That long, lazy body was a winding road.

“Is it your stomach, Harold?” she said.

“No. Yours.”

“Don’t be a glib. Come sit here and talk to me.”

“I can’t move.”

“Why?”

“Don’t be alarmed. Don’t shout. Myrna, I’m sitting on an egg. You might as well know. I’m sitting on a large egg.”

“Harold?”

Like a fool I told her everything. Everything. Everything. The dam broke. I was amazed by my own need to confide. Always a loner, I dropped my guard with a thud. That is the danger of human contact. It breeds humanity.

When I finished the tale of the Glak, Myrna cried.

“I can’t speak,” she said. “In some ways, this is the most wonderful story I have heard since Rapunzel. Harold, dear Harold, my impulse is to cherish you, to hold you and give you back heat. I know it’s wrong. I know that. I know your work is its own reward, and the thing you are doing for Dr. Hikhoff is beautiful and contained in itself. But I have the impulse to take you to me, to be naked with you, to recharge you with all the sun I stored up on Lake Winnapokie last summer. Bring the egg here. Let me give.”

Am I made of aluminum? Myrna, Glak and Harold fell together and again the winter was kept outside.

Even the egg was radiant. If you have never seen a contented, happy, and secure egg, let me tell you it is a fine experience. Dear Myrna, half rib-cage, half air, generated fire like a coil. Her nerves practically left her skin. She gave like a sparkler.

Before going to her own room, Myrna promised to come regularly, on a schedule, and to help me with my egg and my own thawing. I felt marvelous. I had a friend, a lover, a bed partner interested only in nourishing.

The next morning, I woke rested, nicely sore as after a ball game, restored and ready for anything. I sat on the side of the bed and the egg came toward me. First, it thumped, then jiggled, did a half turn, then rolled right up to my thigh.

“Look,” I said, “enough is enough. Hear me, Glak, I will do my part and take good care, but this rolling stuff has got to stop. I need time for my own pursuits.”

I made a nest for the egg, using the pillow again, and put it under the blanket. Then I went to wash my face, shave, and brush my teeth.

Bright as a penny, tingling with menthol, on the way back to my room, I heard what sounded like the Great Sneeze.

It was Cynthia who stood, blowing into a handkerchief, in my room, at my bed, holding my blanket, looking at my egg. She was wearing a quilted housecoat over her nightgown, her long hair tumbled down, her dark face darker than usual.

“Harold,” she said, “we have something to talk about.”

“What are you doing home?” I said.

“I have a cold.”

“Where’s your mother? It’s drafty in here.”

“Harold, why is there an egg in your bed?”

“I didn’t lay it, if that’s what you think.”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Look, Cyn, your father is a plumber, he’s got a plunger. I’m in science. I have an egg. There’s a perfectly logical explanation.”

Hearing my voice the egg began to turn circles. That’s one smart, responsive Glak, I thought, but the incident shook Cynthia, she so young, and she cried like her sister, only wetter.

“Oh, don’t weep,” I said. “Please.”

“A man shouldn’t sleep with an egg.”

“There’s a quote from the Old Testament. Who are you to judge me?”

“It’s perverse. When ma hears about what’s going on in this house. …”

“Cyn, why, oh why should ma or pa or any lady be involved. Cyn, older people get nervous about such things. They think right away suppose it hatches and is some kind of nutty meat-eater. Cyn, please, this whole episode demands silence. If you’ve ever kept your cool, keep it now.”

“It’s wrong for a man to sleep with a big egg.”

Standing there, she manufactured commandments. It was informative to watch her, though. She breathed in heaves. Clouds practically formed over her head. Her toes nearly smoked. So totally involved, so passionate, she was different by more than chromosomes from Myrna. Plumber blood shot through her pipes. Her valves hissed. You could see needles rise on gauges and warning lights flash.

I had to tell her something. You owe it to your audience. Myrna had the whole truth. It seemed somehow disloyal to tell Cynthia the same story.

“Cyn, this egg is my responsibility. A lot of lives depend on what happens in this room. Because this egg is no ordinary egg. It is an egg found in the wreckage of a strange and unidentified crashed aircraft, a UFO.”

“Harold, stop.”

“Cyn, on my heart. Probably the whole thing is nothing, a hoax. Maybe there really is a big chicken in there. I may even be a control.”

“Control?”

“There are 42 agents like myself in 42 rooms with 42 eggs like this. None of us knows if he has the space-egg. To throw off the competition, Cyn. Standard procedure. The point is, this egg may just be the one. The thing.”

“The thing?”

“Cyn, you have got to keep this to yourself.”

“A thing in our house?”

“A nice thing. A vegetarian. We know that much by tests. Lettuce, carrots, parsley, like that. By computer calculations, a furry, sweet kind of beast like a rabbit. A bunny. Nice.”

“Beast? Why did you use the word beast?”

“Well, a furry bunny is a beast, Cyn. It’s still a beast.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing. Go about your business.”

“How come our house?”

“IBM selected. Strictly impersonal from a juggle of IBM cards with punched classified ads. Out of the way. Small city. Quiet. Unlikely discovery. IBM didn’t figure on you, Cyn. I mean, it’s obvious if this got out there could be panic.”

“Harold, I do not believe you. And to me what matters is what I know, which is that you personally are sleeping with a lousy egg while youth flies.”

“Where does youth come in? And what do you know about youth? You’re too young to know beans about youth.”

“Look at me. Do you see the bags under each eye? Do you know how sleepless I have been for a month because of you in this house?”

“Me?”

“Yes. And now you tell me about lettuce-eaters from the movies. I don’t want to know anything, Harold. I hate you and I hate your thing.”

The egg rolled again. Cynthia could not contain herself. She grabbed a dust pan and began to swing. I got my hand under the flat part just in time. She would have splattered my Glak all over the neighborhood.

We struggled and it was not all violence. We tangled as people do, and it came to pass that Cyn ended up with her back to me, my arms around her front, and she threw back her head so I drowned in perfumed black hair. She was a buttery girl, a pillow, who gave where squeezed but popped right back to shape. Now she stopped the battle and cried again. I turned her and comforted her. What could I do? Send her out yelling?

As we fell together onto the sturdy bed (it was maple), Cynthia tried to crunch the egg with a leg this time. I thwarted her, then put the Glak on the floor where it jumped like a madman.

Love was made that morning.

“Harold,” she said near noon, at which time her mother was expected from the supermarket, “I don’t care who or what you are. All I care about is that I come first and not some turkey from Mars.”

“OK, Cyn, my honor. And the egg business is between us.”

“Don’t say between us. I’ll break the bastard if you ever so much as pat it in my presence.”

“I didn’t mean between us, I meant between-us. Hush-a-bye. Our business.”

“Hush-a-bye yourself. Make me sleepy again.”

Within an hour I had swollen glands. They were heaven’s gift. I would have preferred measles or mumps, but the glands would do. I needed time and Cynthia’s cold, a splendid virus that made me sweat, chill and shake, gave me time.

With Myrna offering fire, with Cynthia openly hostile, competing for egg-time, and me being only one human being, I needed time, time, time.

I refused to recover. But my illness did not protect me. The sisters were stirred by helplessness. The nights were much. First Myrna would come and soon fall asleep. I pulled blankets over her. Cynthia liked the bed’s far side. She blew fire in my ear. One Fonkle slept; another awoke until the weest hours. I was destroyed.

I had nothing left for the Glak. I was spent, an icicle, so cold and uncaring I could have sunk the Titanic. The Glak [lept] in deprivation and threw covers on the floor.

“Harold,” Mrs. Fonkle said to me one gray morning soon after, “something is going on.”

“What?” I said weakly, coughing a lot.

“A woman with daughters is a woman with all eyes. And such daughters. I think they like you, Harold.”

“Fine ladies,” I said. “Cute as buttons.” I put a thermometer in my mouth, which was not even oral, to prevent further speech.

“And my intuition tells me, Harold, you like them. But them is not Myrna and them is not Cynthia. You follow my mind? Harold, your blanket is shaking. Are you all right?”

“Mmmm.” I tried to hold down the egg with my hand.

“What is life but decisions,” Mrs. Fonkle said. “A time for fun and games, a time for decisions.”

I was expecting this inevitable confrontation and prepared. With the thermometer still plugged in, I dived, without warning, under the pillow. I howled. There, in readiness, was a can of Foamy. I squirted the Foamy around my whole head, mouth, face, eyes, and hair. To cancel the whoosh of the lather, I yelled like an owl. Then up I came like a sub, from the depths of the Sea of Despair. Mrs. Fonkle was torpedoed.

My wet white face, waving arms, kicking feet, jumping quilt, had a fine effect. A cargo ship by nature, hit on her water line, Mrs. Fonkle slid slowly under waves without time for an SOS.

After carrying her to her room and leaving her on her bed with a wet rag on her forehead, I went back to my own room. My thermometer was on the floor, its arrow touching the silver line at normal. I quick-lit a Pall Mall and heated the mercury drop. At 104.6 I was happy and left it in a prominent place, wiped myself clean, got back in the bed and awaited commotion.

Should all the air raid sirens and dystrophy ads and cancer warnings we go through be wasted, a total loss? How much has society spent to keep you alert, Harold North, pumping adrenalin, listening for vampires? Use your training. Deal with challenge. I lay there waiting for my next idea.

Coma. A beautiful word, and my answer. Coma.

When I heard Mrs. Fonkle rise finally, I put myself into a coma. In a self-created and lovely blue funk I lay there, smiling like Mona Lisa, stroking my egg.

Naturally enough, she called the doctor.

“And the blanket was jumping during all this?”

“Like a handball. …”

I heard them in the hall. Mrs. Fonkle came with him to my room. I stayed in my coma while the doctor stuck pins, took blood, gave needles, checked pressure.

Later, in a miserable mood, Mrs. Fonkle stormed back alone, pulled at my blanket while I pulled back, and she said I was a cheat, a malingerer, a fraud, a leecher.

“Dr. Zipper says nothing is wrong with you. Not even athlete’s foot.”

I never would have given Zipper the credit. He actually found me out.

“So, Mr. North, name the game.”

“Darling,” I said, “darling, darling and darling.” I planted a kiss on Mrs. Fonkle’s thyroid. “I hope you are on the pill,” I said. “I hope at least you took precautions.” I looked lovingly at her while her eyes rolled, a slot machine making jackpots.

“You never did,” she said.

“I didn’t. We did.”

“It never happened.”

“Old speedy,” I said. “When again? Tell me. Come on. Tell.”

“It never happened.”

“They’re not kidding when they say like mama used to make,” I said.

“Pig,” she said. “An unconscious lady.”

How I hated myself. If I could, I would lay down on spikes, I thought. Well, maybe something in her will be flattered. Maybe she will feel good that a young man was inspired to do her some mayhem. Let her think of me as a crumb, a nibble, a K ration on the road to social security.

It was Myrna who brought supper on a tray.

“Harold,” she said. “I have thought you over. In your present weakened condition this egg business is too much for you. Psychologically, I mean. You have got to think of keeping for yourself, not of giving. Darling, we are all so worried. Even mama is in a state of distraction. She served daddy three portions of liver tonight. You have got to get well. Let me take the egg. I will keep it cozy while you recuperate. Let me take it to my room, at least for the nights. Harold, please say yes.”

Why not? If Myrna, who had embers to waste, said she would care for the Glak, she would care for it. This was a trustworthy lady. And my blanket would no longer bounce.

“I agree,” I said. “Thank you, dear one. Thank you.”

Myrna beamed. Then and there she took the box, put back the angry egg, and carried it to her bedroom. Transporting the bundle she hummed a lullabye.

“Now,” she said, removing my empty tray, “use all your energies to heal. Save everything like a miser until you are better.”

“I will save,” I said, nearly crying from good feeling.

To do her duty, Myrna retired early, even eagerly. I think for the first time in her life she locked her door. When the house settled down, Myrna asleep, the Fonkles watching television, Cynthia came with dessert.

“Hello, Jello,” she said.

“Hello jello to you, angel.”

“Harold, I have had some second thoughts.”

“At this late date?”

“Harold, that stinking egg has got to go. It’s draining your strength. Government or not, I am going to bust it to pieces. I never liked it, but I lived with it. But when the time comes, that the egg hurts you and keeps you from total recovery, then it’s time for a change. I want your permission to smash that egg because permission or not here I come.”

“Let me think on it.”

“Think fast. You know me. The first minute I catch you with your eyes closed�splat.”

“I’ll think fast. I must weigh personal gain against my sworn. …”

“I have stated my intention, Harold.”

I thought fast. Not bad. Why not let Cynthia eliminate the egg, at least, some egg. It would remove her desperation, apprehension and combativeness. Not to mention her curiosity if she ever discovered that the Glak was already gone. After doing with my jello what I have always done, that is, slicing around the cup and putting the saucer over it and turning the whole thing upside down so that the jello comes out like a ruby hill, Cynthia removed the dishes.

“I am going to the movies,” she said. “Have your mind made up, Harold, by the time I get back. And by the way, you eat jello in the most-disgusting sensual manner. I’m dying to be with you.”

I kissed her nose.

What a marvelous family. Even Mr. Fonkle was roaring with laughter downstairs, so happy with the “Beverly Hillbillies.”

The TV which occupied Mr. and Mrs. Fonkle with slices of flickering life was in the living room. The living room was removed by a dining room from the kitchen.

On the balls of my feet, I went down and slipped into the control center of the house. There I opened the fridge and removed three eggs. Why three? Cynthia knew the egg of the Glak was big. In fact, by then it had swelled to the size of a small football. Big eggs make big splashes.

I tiptoed upstairs walking in my own footprints. In the room I took scotch tape strips from the dresser drawers where they held paper to the wood. With what glue was left I pasted two eggs together. Praise be, there was only enough tape for a pair. I cut my pinky with a blade and speckled the pasted eggs with A-positive. There was enough left, before clotting, to dot the third too.

I waited with my egg bomb under the blanket in the Glak’s former place. The third egg went under my pillow on an impulse.

The arrival of the specialist surprised me. Mr. Fonkle showed him in.

“Harold,” Mr. Fonkle said, “this is Doctor Bim. Doctor Zipper called him in for consultation. It seems you are a puzzling case, a phenomenon to medicine.”

Dr. Bim nodded. I replied in kind. If Zipper was sure I was faking, why this? Playing safe against malpractice, I thought, and I looked to my Hikhoff for confirmation.

“Feel well, Harold,” Mr. Fonkle said. “We’re in the middle of a hot drama. Excuse me.”

Dr. Bim went to wash his hands, then came back and closed the door. After drying, he put on white cotton gloves.

“I never saw a doctor do that,” I said.

“We all have our ways,” he said. “Now to work.”

Dr. Bim pounded me with hands like hammers.

“Now, close your eyes and open your mouth,” he said.

I closed hard and opened wide.

“When I tell you, Harold, then look. Not before. Depress the tongue. Hooey, what a coat.”

“Aghh.”

“Keep the eyes closed.”

“Broop.”

“Now bite hard.”

My mouth shut on the barrel of a gun. My eyes popped open.

“No noise,” he said, and kept the gun close.

“Nagle, I presume. How did you track my spoor?”

“By checking room-for-rents in the papers on the days after you left us, Harold. By asking around. From the ZIP code on a certain letter to a certain lady who sells poodles.”

“You are nobody’s fool. Nobody’s.”

“Thank you,” the Nagle said, appreciating my large heart. “It’s a shame we couldn’t come to a more civilized agreement. I hope, Harold, that you comprehend my motivation. Take my father, a man who spent his whole life contributing bits and pieces. Imagine, fifty years of droppings, footnotes in American Scholar, a few ibid’s and some op cit’s. Nothing to make headlines, never once. Then one day in comes your fat friend Hikhoff carrying a genuine, fertile Glak egg. ‘Tell me. Dr. Nagle,’ he growls in that meretricious voice of his, ‘what do I have here?’ Harold, at that moment, in the fading evening of my father’s life, the sun rose. On the brink of shadow, my father saw blinding rays. Understand?”

“Yes. It’s not hard to understand.”

“Do you have any concept of what a fertile Glak egg means to an aged anthropologist?”

“A small grasp.”

“Immortality. For the first time, my father begged. For what? For halfies. No more. Not fifty-one percent, just fifty. The Hikhoff-Nagle Discovery is how he put it. Hikhoff laughed at him.”

“The egg was full of meaning for Dr. Hikhoff,” I said.

“I swore at the funeral, Harold, that my father’s memory would be based on more than just mummy swatches from the graves of second-string Egyptians. Now I fulfill my vow.”

“Nagle,” I said, “are you in this for your father or for your own need to up the ante on your ancestors?”

“How would you like a loose scalp?”

“Sorry. But I am vow fulfilling, too. You read the letter marked FIRST.”

“And tonight I will read FINALLY.”

“Impossible,” I said, “that letter was lost. When I woke up in the hospital after you. …”

The Nagle scratched his ear. “It could be,” he said. “Does it matter? What can FINALLY be except more of Hikhoff’s Old English ravings. Virility of the vocal chords, which was the only place he had it.”

“Have some taste,” I said. “The man is among the dead.”

“Let FINALLY blow along the Utica-Mohawk tracks. The egg is what matters.”

“We could go partners,” I said.

“Ha. You are a gutsy one, Harold. Too late for partners. Now give me the Nagle Discovery. Any hesitation, reluctance or even a bad breath and you join Hikhoff for choir practice.”

He was a nice fellow, the Nagle, with a face like Don Ameche, not the killer type, but you never know.

“The egg is here under my pillow,” I said.

My luck held. The Nagle had never seen the egg before. He lit up when I showed him that pink-splotched pullet, balancing it in his palm.

“Slow and easy,” I said, with wild eyes.

“It’s been a pleasure,” he said, tucking the egg in a towel and putting it into his medical bag. “Maybe when this is over and done with, you and I can sit and play chess.”

“I would like nothing. …”

Pong. I was hit so hard on the head I flew half off the bed. I saw ferns wheels turning at different speeds. I tumbled too, spinning like a bobbin. Then later, there was another crash. A gooshy sound, a wetness. I woke.

“Bye, bye. Poor thing,” Cynthia was saying, lifting my blanket, observing the destruction.

“What, what, what?”

“Harold, it had to be this way. Even that specialist said all you needed was complete rest. Better the egg should never see light, even in the free world, than you should die in your prime.”

Cynthia never noticed the Scotch tape in the goo. She was so self-satisfied.

The next days passed smoothly.

Myrna had my Glak. Cynthia had her pleasure unshared. The Nagle was accounted for, squatting on his chicken. Mrs. Fonkle avoided me like doom. Mr. Fonkle, served like Farouk by his wife, brought cards to my room and we played.

Out of respect for her promise and a sense of my need for quiet, Myrna came gently only to report on the Glak. It was hopping all the time now, making tiny sounds. She described the sounds as like chalk on the blackboard, and I knew how happy Hikhoff would be if he could hear, as maybe he could.

While Myrna warmed Glak, Cynthia warmed Harold. Her vision of recovery was not based on abstention.

My only discomfort came from Mrs. Fonkle, and it was mild. Out of suspicion, she fed her daughters garlic and Ox Tails and other odiferous, glutenous foods that made their lips stick or filled them with protective cramps. I kept [Tums] and Clorets at bedside.

March went like the best kind of lamb. The windows unfroze. A bird sang on the telephone line. I had to move again and make plans again.

How did Chaucer say it? APPPRRRILLE WITHE HER SHOWERRRS SOUGHT THE DRAUGHT UFF MARS HATH PIERCED TO THE RUCHT. Like that. Up I came like a crocus.

Now it came time for partings and farewells. Cynthia was easy to leave, so easy it hurt. When the month turned, she met a podiatrist of good family. Her prospects improved. When we had our confrontation, she brought knitting along. In the tense air she knitted like a factory. A sweater for him.

“I am called back to D.C.,” I said. “And will be punished.”

“Punished, hen?”

“Forget it. Nothing painful. Chastised is more the word.”

The thought of my punishment made it easier for Cynthia to say goodbye. Really, she had never been the same since the breaking of the egg. I think she thought less of me for not breaking it myself. Who can fathom a woman’s heart? While we talked, she compared me to her podiatrist, and found him better. The mystique of new weather.

“No reason to prolong this suffering,” I said. “I will always remember you and what we had together and how you sustained me.”

Cynthia dropped a stitch, but caught it. Her reflexes had gained from our acquaintanceship.

It was harder to leave lanky Myrna.

“I know you must go,” she said, “I know and I won’t make scenes. Do you plan to return?”

“My life is a question mark,” I said honestly. “What can I say?”

“It won’t be the same without you two.”

“Or for me. Ever.”

“Send an announcement if it hatches. Nothing too fancy. A simple card.”

Mrs. Fonkle, who had taken to charitable activities, said a swift goodbye. She was full of dignity and adorable poise. Such an ego.

The air was balmy on the day I left the Fonkle home. I had a new suitcase, the pudgy executive type, and in it my Glak had room enough. The egg was practically a bowling ball now, straining to pop.

The Fonkles stood in a family group when I entered the cab. I waved and wished them well. I was full of emotion, with watering eyes. They did so well by me and mine.

We live in a time of shortening distances, except between people. How easy it is to reach the most remote comers of the imagination. A person like myself can go from Utica, New York, to Labrador for $120.35 by bus and by plane. The facts made me swoon. Utica to Labrador. We are only hours from the place where the world ends.

To reach Labrador you go first to a travel agent. You tell him you wish to visit Labrador. He does not flinch.

“Where,” he says, “Goose Bay?”

“No,” you say, having studied maps and folders. “Maybe the Mealy Mountains.”

“We have a special on the Mealy’s,” he says.

“Or Lake Melville,” you go on, “Fish Cove Point, White Bear, Misery Point, Mary’s Harbor, Chidley on Ungave Bay, Petissikapan Lake, Nipishish, Tunungayluk or perhaps Gready. I haven’t made up my mind.”

“Go to Goose Bay,” the agent says. “From there you can go any place.”

“Can I jump off to Kangalakksiorvik Fiord?”

“In the Tomgat region?” he says. “Naturally.”

By intuition I had already chosen Kangalakksiorvik Fiord as the place where my Glak would be born. Not that Canadian citizenship could not be gotten closer, but Kangalakksiorvik felt right.

“The scenic route,” the agent said, stamping tickets. “By Greyhound from Utica to Syracuse leaves 10:50 AM, arrives Syracuse 12:05 PM. Leaves Syracuse 2:30 PM, arrives Montreal 10:20 PM. You have a bite, see a picture. At 4:00 AM, Air Canada flies out, and at 7:20 AM you are in Goose Bay for a total cost, including economy air fare, of $120.35 plus a little tax.”

“Then?”

“Then in Goose Bay ask around, hire a charter, and zoom you are in Kangalakksiorvik. The Tomgats are lovely this time of year.”

From the agent’s convenient uncle I bought $10,000 in travel insurance. My policies were divided between Myrna and Cynthia, deserving souls.

At long last, with my Hikhoff snug in a pocket and my Glak bag in my hand, I headed for the terminal. On the downhill slope of responsibility, time is sweet.

For me a bus ride is only slightly removed from sexual intercourse. Since a child, I am prone to vibrations, put to sleep, handed the same dream. In the dream I drift in a washtub on a silver pond. This pond is populated by stunning things, all color and light, who knock themselves out for my amusement. I look forward to this dream like a friend.

My bus dream began and expanded to include my Glak. Each time the bus bumped or took a hard curve, the pond produced a three-headed lizard who nuzzled my nose. His triple grin woke me. I reached to see if the egg was intact, then, assured, slept again.

The bus went smoothly, as did my transfer to Air Canada.

There was some worry about how my Glak would like flying, especially under someone else’s power, but there was no problem. The egg did not jiggle, except for takeoff. Since there were empty seats, I belted the Glak beside me and reclined my chair. The silver pond is strictly an automotive fantasy. In planes I dream of crashing.

Here in the clouds over eastern Canada, I was allowed no repose. Behind me sat a couple who were touring the world. I had seen their luggage, a mass of labels, in the terminal. Now, on the way to Labrador, I deduced from their talk that they were running out of places. After Saskatchewan, there was nothing left.

“See there, in small print,” the man said, showing a guide book. “See there, a fellow named Bjami discovered Labrador in 986. Imagine. Bjami the son of Herjulf. See there, he sold his boat to Leif Ericson, who later used the identical craft in his explorations.”

“How do they know?”

“See there, it’s in the guide. Helluland, land of stones.”

“Where?”

“Fish and fur are the two major industries.”

“Oh.”

Labrador did not sound bad. There were trees, according to the guide, conifers, birch, poplars, spruce, lichens, moss, red azaleas, blue gentians, even white orchids. And they had chickadees, geese, ducks, lemmings, lynx, wolves, ermines, martins, otters, foxes, seals, bears, owls, red gulls, and Patagonian terns. There were some Eskimos, the ones not shot by fishermen, Algonkins, Nascapees, Englishmen and Scotch. Not bad for a bird. Activities, company, a little conflict. A nice subarctic community.

It was a foggy morning. Helluland, land of stones, fish, furs, etc., lay like a lump. Our plane began its descent. I could -see no ermines or white orchids, only patches of smoke and the lights of the Goose Bay Airport. No wonder Bjami unloaded the ship.

“Are you sure we haven’t been here?” the lady said.

“See there,” said the man, “it does look familiar.”

Familiar it looks, like your own subconscious laid out to dry.

Goose Bay may be a fine place. I don’t know. I checked my egg in the airport men’s room. There was a crack in the shell, the tiniest fissure, not the kind that swallows grandmothers in Sicilian earthquake stories, more like a hairline. But it was there. If I were a first time mother, a primagravid as they say, with a broken bag of water, I could have acted no worse.

I collared the first Lab I saw and screamed at him about renting a plane to Kangalakksiorvik.

“Matter of fact, there’s a plane leaving now. Pilot is by the name of Le Granf. He currently drinks coffee in the coffee place. You will know him to see him by his enormity. Also, he has one arm.”

I found Le Granf in the coffee place, and there was no missing him. In a red and black mackinaw, he looked like a science fiction checkerboard. Built in blocks, head, chest, middle, legs, he was made from squares. His one arm held a pail of coffee, black.

“Mr. Le Grant?” I said.

“Yas,” he said, a Frenchman monophthongizing his diphthongs, “who are you, Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre Dame?”

“I am Harold North,” I said.

“Beeg news. Vive Quebec libre.”

You basically insecure vowel shifter, I thought. You son of a bitch. It’s your plane.

“I understand that you pilot a plane up to Kangalakksiorvik.”

“The world’s puke.”

“I’ve got to get up there.”

“Why? You have a yen to bug seals?”

“Why is my business.”

“True. How come this rush on Kangalakksiorvik? I got passenger for there. OK. We fit you in for a hundred dollars.”

“Done.”

“I swallow this sweat, we go.”

Le Granf gulped the coffee and we went. We walked to a hangar in front of which sat something which must have been an airplane.

“Meet Clarette, the old whore,” said Le Granf. “My saggy express. The snatch of the wild blue. You change your mind to go?”

“No.”

“Stupid. My passenger is not here yet. Get in and we wait for him.”

We climbed into Clarette’s belly. There were four seats, two at the controls, two just behind.

“Clarette has a terrible cough,” said Le Granf. “I worry for her tubes.”

He pressed a button and the propeller turned. Puffs of smoke shot from the nose. The cough began, a hack.

“Phew. Not good.”

I stopped noticing because Le Grant’s other passenger arrived. It was the Nagle carrying a duffle bag. We saw each other head-on, and both of us made the sound of old doors closing.

“Acquaintances,” said Le Grant “Then we have stimulating conversation of the past.”

I was sitting next to Le Granf, but when the Nagle came aboard, I did the prudent thing and shifted next to him in back. He put his duffle bag in the storage space and saw my executive suitcase.

“Are you armed?” I said.

“Don’t make nasty personal jokes,” said Le Granf.

“I was talking to my friend,” I said.

“Ah.”

“No, of course not,” said the Nagle. “What are you doing here, Harold?”

“Same as you. Same as you.”

“But I have the egg.”

“You have the chicken.”

“I get it,” the Nagle said. “The goal-line stand. I admire your persistence, Harold.”

“You have a chicken, Nagle.”

“Sure, Harold. I have a chicken.”

“Where is this chicken?” said Le Granf. “Include me in the discussion.”

“Go ahead, tell him,” I said.

Le Granf informed the tower that we were ready for takeoff by yelling out the window. Then Clarette fought her bronchitis, and slowly we were moving.

“She will rise,” Le Granf said. “We will have our jollies.”

She rose, after a fashion, and the Nagle told Le Granf his story of the Glak. I must admit, he presented his case objectively, as he saw it, keeping all things in proportion.

“So, well, then one has a chicken and one a Glak?” said Le Granf, after I explained the complications. “Marvelous.”

I began to feel oddly ill. I got violent cramps. I had flashes. My stomach swelled. In a flash of insight, the kind Hikhoff taught me, I knew I was feeling the symptoms of labor. This condition is not unusual in emotional kinds like myself, but still it is embarrassing.

“So,” said Le Granf, “tell me. Which of you poppas is the real father, that I want to know. What kind of educated man would fornicate with a feathered friend?”

“Nobody fornicated with a feathered friend,” I said.

“Love is love,” Le Granf said. “But a bird.”

“Fly the plane,” I said, doubled over with pain.

Le Granf found a bottle of brandy and passed it around.

“I have heard tell many strange tales under the Northern Lights, you bet,” said Le Granf, “but two men infatuated with the same pigeon, oh boy!”

“Ignore him,” said the Nagle.

“Tell me,” I said, “what made you pick Kangalakksiorvik?”

“The galakk, I suppose, which sounds like Glak.” . “I never noticed that.”

“And you followed me all the way up here with nothing but the chicken story, Harold? I keep expecting you to play a trump card. Are you waiting until we land to hit me on the back of the neck?”

“Follow you? Why should I follow you? What you have there in the sack is a rooster, maybe a hen, but no Glak.”

“Harold,” said the Nagle, “I hope I find a friend someday as loyal to me as you are to Hikhoff.”

Bouncing like an elevator, Clarette flew us to the dead heart of winter, over fields of blue ice.

The Nagle and I fell into bemused silence. Under my pains, I had thoughts of Hikhoff, out of place, out of time, out of focus, tossing vowels like darts at the passing parade. Was Hikhoff himself involved in a pregnancy, kindled by food? Could it be that he felt himself with child, some kind of child? Were Hikhoff’s bellows labor pains too, for an invisible offspring? The Glak. Some son. Some daughter. Some product, at least, of Hikhoff’s perpetual pregnancy.

Le Granf sang dirty songs about caribou and snowshoe rabbits. They helped pass the journey.

“There it blows,” said Le Granf. “Look down. Nothing, eh?”

Clarette lost altitude, such as there was, as Le Granf searched for a landing place. He flew us off to the left of what seemed to be a settlement, circled, dipped, banked.

The Nagle and I grabbed for our luggage. We both had red faces, flamed by the moment of truth.

“Nagle,” I said, “I feel sorry for you. You will soon stand chin deep in snow and discover at the moment of triumph that you have carried a fryer to practically the North Pole.”

“Really, Harold. Do you plan to hit me?”

“No violence from me,” I said. “The violence is done.”

Le Granf found a spot, a clearing in the woods. Clarette settled into it as if it were a four poster, a remarkable landing, one-point.

The deal with Le Granf was for him to wait.

The Nagle’s egg was as ready as the Glak’s. Neither of us anticipated more than a few minutes. Outside in the absolute cold, the Nagle and I wrapped scarves around our faces. We lugged our burdens toward a place near trees.

“This is it,” I said.

Like duelists, we stood back to back. We bent to our bags. Out came the Glak egg, hopping to my hands. It was hot as a muffin. More fissures lined the shell and more showed all the time. The egg was more like a web.

Le Granf stood near the plane out of decency. He could see how serious we were and hummed the wedding march.

The egg broke in my hands.

I was holding a blinking, stringy thing with stubs for wings and fat.

“Hi, Glak,” I said.

“Hi, Glak,” the Nagle said to his chicken.

You would think my warm hands and the furnace of my affection would have meaning to a Glak barely sixty seconds old. No. Already, it strained for escape, looking at me as if I were a Nazi.

I put it gently on the frozen turf. It did what it was supposed to. It waddled, fell, slipped, staggered, stopped, stretched and said glak in a raucous manner.

Cheep, said the Nagle’s chicken, and he said, “Did you hear that?”

I paid him no attention. My Glak, the Glak I should say, was examining the world. It took a step toward the forest, but hesitated.

“Come here, Glak,” I said to the wasteland.

Glak. Cheep.

The Glak did not come back. It took a baby step toward the woods, then another.

I moved after it, but stopped. There, in the land of stones, I heard Elsie Moonish’s dictum on love without possession, the act without the owning.

I without Glak, Glak without me. We were both our own men. Poor Glak. Already it speared looks here and there in a jerky search for its own kind. Were there any others?

Would it find them? Did we do this frazzled thing a favor or the worst injustice?

“Goodbye, my Glak,” the Nagle was saying. His chicken had taken a stroll, too. The Nagle began snapping pictures of it for the record. I had no use for the record, and Hikhoff had written nothing of Polaroids.

“Glak,” said my Glak, more raucous than before. And there it was, Hikhoff’s croak, pre-vowel shift as they come.

The Nagle snapped away at his impostor, a yellow tuft.

Then the newborns met. The Glak and the chicken felt each other out, shrugged, shivered, took a look at Labrador and walked off together into the primeval forest.

“A Glak and a chicken,” I said to the Nagle, who rolled film. “Some team. Chickens, at least, are not extinct. Glaks do not yield their drumsticks so willingly. Maybe hope blooms here in the snow.”

Off went the birds. What could I say? Could I give wisdom? Could I say, “Call Fridays?” Could I say, “Read The Snow Goose by Gallico and drop in to show gratitude on Christmas?” There was nothing I could say. With a bird, just-born is the equivalent of a human adolescent. There is a definite loss of communication.

“Come on, crazies,” said Le Granf. “Clarette is oozing oil.”

Polite at the end, the Nagle and I offered firsts at the door. We were subdued. Le Granf started his rubber band motor.

“Wait,” I said, climbing out, running back to the nursery where two shells lay open like broken worlds. “Moron. Come on,” said Le Granf.

I put my Hikhoff on the ground, facing the trees.

At Goose Bay I said to Le Granf, “Monsieur, you are a reindeer’s udder.” Nothing.

I said, “Sir, you are an abortion.” Puzzlement. I said, “Pierre, your missing arm should goose the devil.” Double take.

I said, “Laval, you are a lousy pilot with a greasy plane.”

He hit me on the head. I hated to use Le Granf that way, but I needed the jolt. I felt better, much better, purged. It was the Nagle who picked me up.

“Nagle, what do you plan to do now?” I said. “Myself, I plan to go some place where a pineapple can grow. Someplace where the sun is the size of a dinner plate. I am going to get salt water in my mouth.”

Still reeling, I thought, who needs me most? E. MOONISH SYRACUSE, NEW YORK OFFER PLUS-PLUS IN SALUBRIOUS CLIMATE STOP ALL EXPENSES STOP PLENTY HONEY STOP PLEASE REPLY COLLECT STOP LOVE STOP HAROLD NORTH After cabling, I went with the Nagle for a drink. While the drinks were being brewed, I excused myself, left for the John and read FINALLY under an open bulb.

Dear Harold,

Bless you and keep you. Also, thank you. Harold, enclosed is a check for $1000. Write poems. Also, here is my recipe for a grand roast Glak:

Take Glak, place in pan, cover with butter and garlic salt. Add paprika, and pepper. Line pan with roasting potatoes and tender onions. Place in preheated range 450 degrees. Cook 30 minutes per pound. Serve hot. Suggest lively Gumpolskierchner ‘59 for a sparkle.

Best regards, David Hikhoff

“It was delicious, delicious,” I yelled to Hikhoff. “Boy, you have some weird sense of humor.”

Hikhoff, roller of RRR’s, chamber of guts, juggler of opposites, galloping ghost, A.E.I.O.U. now sleep well.

So it was that I entered my puerperium, which is gynecological for the time of recovery after delivering, the time of post-partum elation. Of life after birth.

—«»—«»—«»—

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From “Smart Dragons, Foolish Elves” edited by Alan Dean Foster

2003.07.04

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