The Skeekit-Woogle Test by Carl Frederick

Where is the line between a disease and a gift?

Imagine,” said Kendrik, “a language that has the word skeekit and also the word woogle.” Standing in front of his boss’s desk, data-tablet in hand, he paused. He hoped the man would invite him to sit, but Victor merely stared with his usual mixture of boredom and condescension.

“Why should I imagine it?” Victor said. “Does this have anything even remotely to do with epidemiology?”

“I believe we’re on the verge of a pandemic.” Nervously, Kendrik cast his gaze around the trophy office before bringing them to rest on his data-tablet. “On the basis of epidemiological evidence”—Kendrik raised his head to meet the section chief’s eyes—”I believe we’re in the midst of an epidemic of synesthesia.”

“Of what?”

“Synesthesia. The most common form is “˜colored hearing.’ Music perceived as having colors, or a particular word having a particular shape. That sort of stuff. A cross-wiring of the senses.”

Victor leaned back in his plush executive’s chair, clasped his hands behind his neck, gazed up at the ceiling for a few seconds, then shook his head. “No. That’s a mental condition, not a disease.” He scowled. “Pandemic, indeed.”

“Jeffert’s Paranoia is caused by a virus,” said Kendrik. “This could be, too.”

“I doubt it.”

“The contagion model is a good fit.” Kendrik tapped his data-tablet. “And, in its early stages at least, it’s exceptionally common.”

Victor snapped upright. “Well, I don’t have it.”

“Maybe you do. Take the skeekit-woogle test and find out.”

“The what?”

“Just a simple question and answer.”

Victor let out a sigh and pointed to a chair. “All right, fine. But quickly, please.”

“Okay.” Kendrik sat. “Skeekit and woogle. One word means a hard-boiled egg, and the other means a shard of broken glass.” He slid forward on the chair. “The test is to tell me which word means what.”

“It’s obvious,” said Victor without pause. “A woogle is the egg and a—what is it?—a skeekit is the shard of glass.”

“Well, there you go, then.” Kendrik smiled. “You’ve passed the SW test. I’m afraid you’ve caught a case of synesthesia. You’re identifying the sound of a word with a shape.”

“I don’t buy it.” Victor shook his head. “Everyone would pass that test.”

“I didn’t.”

“Really?” Victor raised his eyebrows, then smiled. “You data miners just have no imagination.”

Kendrik bristled. “Which is good. I deal in facts.”

“All right, all right.” Victor crossed his hands on his desk. “Give me facts about this disease of yours.”

Kendrik didn’t think Victor was really interested, but was just trying to make amends for the “no imagination” comment. “Well, you’re right. Almost everyone has it in some form.” He activated the tablet. “I’ve run Deep Miner and it shows a rapidly growing incidence of synesthesia among the general population.” He read aloud some of the findings. “The condition in its severe manifestation correlates with dyslexia, left-handedness, enhanced imagination and creativity, superior memory, poor sense of direction, left-right confusion. It develops in the limbic system and the hippocampus, and it is a potentially fatal condition.”

“What was that?” Victor unclasped his fingers and jerked forward with an alert expression. “Did you say fatal?”

“That’s what Deep Miner yielded.”

“How long?” said Victor. “What’s the duration from onset to death?”

“Um.” Kendrik fidgeted, focusing on the data-tablet. “Well, DM projects, um, about 300 years.”

“What?” Victor raised his eyebrows. “Did you say 300 years?”

“That’s what DM says.”

“Would you mind telling me,” said Victor, clearly stifling a laugh, “why should we care about a disease that might kill us way after we’re already dead?”

“I don’t know.” Kendrik shrugged. “Aesthetics?”

“The federal government,” said Victor, archly, “is not paying us to study the aesthetics of disease.” He shook his head, his brow furrowed. “I can’t believe DM ranked this a disease,” he said, softly, almost to himself. He rubbed his chin then glared at Kendrik. “What was the confidence factor?”

“Fifty-three percent.”

Victor pounded a fist on the desk. “You’re basing this on a mere 53 percent?”

“And also on my interpretation of the data.”

“Interpretation?” Victor pounded the other fist. “Look. If I wanted interpretation, I’d have hired a … a…” Victor made soft grunting noises.

“A Tarot card reader?” said Kendrik, hoping that by finishing the sentence, he could calm his boss.

Victor cast a fleeting glance to the ceiling, then let out a long breath. “A year out of college,” he said. “Young and eager. I admire your zeal, but—”

Kendrik stood. “Look. I know you don’t believe any of this. And DM says that’s one of the symptoms—denial: thinking everything’s fine.”

Victor looked up at him. “Are you saying one of the symptoms is denying there’s a symptom?”

“Well, yeah.” Kendrik pawed a shoe against the plush carpet. “Maybe it’s a survival trait of the bacterium that causes the disease.”

“So, it’s a bacterium, now.”

“Or a virus. Or a prion, maybe.”

“I don’t buy it.” Victor gave a sharp snort. “Hard to debate the issue when the mere fact that I’m arguing proves your point.” He stood. “Look, Kendrik. I can’t do anything without evidence, not even open a watch-file. You’ll have to provide me with an example—a pod of advanced cases, a disease vector.” He walked Kendrik toward the door. “That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I guess.” Kendrik noticed Victor’s bright, vibrant, new-car smell—a popular deodorant scent of late. But “vibrant” was hardly the word he’d use to describe his boss. Kendrik considered Victor the least imaginative man he’d ever encountered. And if I’m dull compared to Victor, it’s a wonder I can even get a phone to give me a dial tone.

In his office, Kendrik glowered at the control monitor as he initiated Deep Miner, had it search for a concentration of the synesthesia disease, and set a trigger for a vector he could drive to. He had an ulterior motive.

While he waited for DM to do its work, he fumed. He hated to admit it, but Victor’s “no imagination” comment galled. And, even though he liked to pretend to the contrary, it was probably on the mark; he was, simply, unimaginative. His mother had been an artist, a painter. But despite her prodding, and his being given paint sets on almost every birthday, her creative imagination had not been passed down to him. He couldn’t paint a stroke.

But now, maybe he could do something about it. People with synesthesia were generally imaginative and creative. And Kendrik believed it was causal; synesthesia engendered imagination. All those people out there who could instinctively tell a woogle from a skeekit: they were creative—and just because they were lucky enough to contract synesthesia. Kendrik was determined to contract it as well. He knew he was a likely candidate: left-handed, lousy sense of direction, and even dyslectic.

“Geez,” he said aloud. “I hunt diseases. You’d think I’d be able to catch one.”

His computer beeped. Deep Miner had completed its “Inductive Reasoning” search of the nation’s newspapers, newsgroups, and data networks. Kendrik peered at the LCD data-wall.

“Yes!” DM had found a pod of heavy synesthesiacs. Better still, the site was nearby—less than an hour drive away. Kendrik downloaded the driving instructions to his car and then did a simple net search for information about the pod—The Canvas Cooperative.

The coop, he discovered, was a residential facility for artists—mainly painters of large works. As he scanned the search results, one entry all but leapt out at him. He whistled, scarcely able to believe his luck; the Canvas Cooperative had biweekly open-house parties, and there was one this very evening.

Kendrik leaned back, put his feet on his desk, and planned: To have the best shot at contracting synesthesia, he’d have to spend as much time there as he could. Maybe he could pose as an art connoisseur—a buyer for a museum, perhaps. He smiled. Even though he didn’t have an artist’s creativity, he could tell a Delacroix from a Gericault at twenty paces. His mother had seen to that.

He thunked his feet back to the floor. It was ridiculous, really—going to an artist colony in hopes of contracting creativity.

Still…

“Imagine a language that has the word skeekit and also the word woogle.”

“I’m not programmed to imagine,” said the car.

“Just as well, maybe.” Kendrik sat in the nominal driver’s seat, watching out the window as his car drove him to the cooperative. It would be rather demoralizing to find that even my car has more imagination than I do.

“We’re at your destination,” said the car, slowing down. “Please assume manual mode for parking.”

Kendrik disengaged “automatic,” feeling the slight lurch as he took control, and eased the car into a curbside parking spot only a half block from the coop. He was surprised at how easy it was to find parking, especially since it was already eight o’clock—the announced start time for the party. But then again, artists weren’t generally known for their promptness. He’d learned that often enough from his mother.

Kendrik said goodbye to his car and walked toward the door of the old brownstone. He wasn’t wearing a tie. He felt naked without a tie.

At the door, Kendrik knocked and was admitted by an energetic man who looked to be in his early thirties.

“Welcome to the Canvas Cooperative.” The man spoke in a heavy southern accent. “My name’s Jacques.” He shepherded Kendrik inside.

“Jacques?”

Jacques laughed. “Yes. From Tennessee, not Paris,” he said, giving the French pronunciation to Paris. “I’m afraid my father’s a francophile.”

Walking into a cavernous, well-lit studio, Kendrik inhaled the layered, richly colored aroma of oil paints so familiar to him from his childhood.

A couple of large, incomplete paintings hung from the walls at a height low enough that they could be worked on in place. In the center of the studio, a table held little snacks, bottles of wine, and a decanter of a purplish liquid that was far too opaque to be wine. Kendrik would have thought they’d have genteel crystal stemware, but instead there were only mug-like drinking glasses. Kendrik smiled. Either the coop members were unconcerned about appearances, were extraordinarily clumsy, didn’t have much money, or they all drank like fish.

Only six or seven people graced the room which could have easily accommodated thirty. Jacques explained that the stated eight o’clock start was a code; it was an absolute prohibition against arriving any earlier and an indication that anyone arriving in the first hour might be called upon to move furniture.

At the food table, Jacques offered a glass.

“Thanks,” said Kendrik, noticing that Jacques was left-handed, “but I don’t drink wine.” He was embarrassed to tell the man that he didn’t drink anything alcoholic.

“Do try it.” Jacques forced the tumbler into Kendrik’s hand. “The Riesling is exceptionally good. And you’ll find it makes the canapÃ©s taste almost edible.”

Kendrik chuckled, then pointed to the decanter. “That’s a strange-looking wine.”

“Borscht.” Jacques nodded toward a distant canvas—an angular abstract rendered in bright colors. In front of the painting, a swarthy man stood contemplating it, his hands in the back pockets of his pants. Standing next to him was a slender woman with Asian features.

“Vladdy will drink nothing else,” said Jacques. He pointed. “Vladimir Mussorgsky. That’s him standing there admiring his painting. He’s just come here from St. Petersburg—that’s Russia, not Florida.”

Kendrik reached for the decanter. “I’ll try the borscht, then.”

“A brave soul.”

“And the young woman?” said Kendrik as he poured the dull purple liquid.

“Suki. She, Vladimir, and I are the resident managers here.” Jacques waited until Kendrik had filled his glass. “Come. I’ll introduce you.” He clapped Kendrik softly on the shoulder. “Vladdy will be glad to see another borscht lover. By the way, do you paint?”

“My mother was a painter.” Kendrik thought it better not to add that she hated abstracts. “But I don’t.” He took a swig of the borscht. “The creativity gene must have somehow not been passed down to me.”

Jacques uttered a snort. “Creativity is a disease!”

“No, it’s not,” said Kendrik as they walked toward the huge canvas. “Synesthesia is the disease.”

Jacques froze for an instant, like a teacher might do when struck in the back of the neck with a spitball. “Indeed,” he said.

In front of the painting, Jacques made introductions, but he seemed distracted.

“Ah,” said Vladimir, taking a hand from his pocket and extending it. “You drink borscht. Good! Wine is terrible!”

Laughing, Kendrik shook the proffered hand. “The drink of choice of the beet generation.”

“Is true,” Vladimir insisted. “Wine not even fit for cleaning brushes.”

Kendrik nodded toward the painting. “Very nice,” he said. “Somewhat reminiscent of a Kandinsky landscape.”

“You really think so? Thank you.” Vladimir glanced up at his work. “I call it “˜Great Gate at Kiev.’”

“I see it,” said Kendrik. “Close to full scale. Impressive.” He took a deep draft of his borscht. “The painting has something of a skeekit flavor about it.”

“Skeekit? Shto eta, skeekit?” said Vladimir, lapsing into what was probably Russian.

“As opposed to a woogle, that is.”

“Ah. I see what you mean.”

Kendrik looked down at his glass. “What is in this borscht?”

“Is simple. Just crushed beets, sour cream, and vodka.” Vladimir shrugged. “And maybe little secret ingredient.”

“Did you say vodka?”

“Da,” said Vladimir. “Much vodka.”

“Kendrik has just told me,” said Jacques in a quiet voice, “that synesthesia is a disease.”

Vladimir started visibly. “He knows of synesthesia?”

Kendrik felt something was going on. But then again, maybe it was just the borscht. Good borscht. Very good borscht. Kendrik felt himself begin to sweat.

Suki stared at him with an intense yet undecipherable expression. “Are you a painter?” she asked.

“No. I’m an epidemiologist with the Bureau of Disease Control.” Inwardly, he winced. The sight of an attractive woman, and he completely forgot his cover story. “But my mother painted—oil and acrylic. Representational art.”

“Representational art,” said Vladimir with a scowl. “Oxymoron! That’s what cameras are for.”

Just then, a dog, a large shaggy Otterhound, padded in from an adjoining room.

“No, Oxy.” Jacques pointed back the way the dog had come. “Go!”

A man appeared in the doorway. He called for the dog, and the Otterhound bounded back to the other room.

Kendrik smiled at Suki. “Are you a painter?” he asked.

“I paint with words.” She smiled back. “The raw materials are much cheaper. Or so goes the saying.”

“She is poet,” said Vladimir.

“Epidemiologist,” said Suki, thoughtfully. “It sounds like the middle line of a haiku.”

“Synesthesia is disease?” said Vladimir, abruptly. He glowered at Kendrik. “Why you say that?”

“Maybe,” said Jacques, “it’s just that to an ax, everything is a tree.”

“I don’t understand,” said Kendrik, conscious that he was slurring his words. He cleared his mouth with another dose of borscht.

“To a pen,” said Suki, “everything looks like paper.”

“No,” said Jacques, a hint of harshness in his voice. “To a pen, everything looks like a pig.”

“Please?” said Kendrik.

“They mean,” said Vladimir, “that to epidemiologist, everything looks like disease.” He made a fist. “Why you interested in synesthesia?”

“A haiku,” said Suki. She looked away, a dreamy expression in her eyes. “Sneezing in the wind, epidemiologist, propagates his quest.”

“Who sent you?” said Jacques.

“What? Nobody sent me.”

“Of course they didn’t,” said Suki. She turned to Jacques. “Let’s not badger our guest.” Then, smiling at Kendrik, she said, “Your glass is empty. Why not have some more of Vladdy’s borscht—and mingle. Enjoy the art?”

“Yesh,” said Kendrik. “Good idea.”

Over the next few hours, Kendrik did enjoy the art. But he drank more than he mingled.

At the refreshment table, Kendrik felt his eyes go watery. “I wish I were creative,” he said, grabbing on to the tablecloth for support. “It isn’t fair. Why can’t I have imagination?”

“I’m sure you’re imaginative,” said Suki. “Only an imaginative person would ever entertain the notion that he’s unimaginative.”

“You’re creative, Suki.” He pulled the tablecloth to steady himself, and an empty crystal cookie plate slipped off the table and bounced to the floor. “Whoopsie.” His knees turned rubbery and again he grabbed at the tablecloth. Another plate became airborne. The second platter landed on the first, and shattered. Splintery shards of glass flew outward, showering the carpet with gemlike slivers of brightness.

As Kendrik looked down, admiring the shining rivulets against the sandy carpet, he began to fall. Hands caught him—Suki’s and Jacques’ hands.

“Careful,” said Kendrik. “Don’t step on the little woogles.”

“Yes, yes,” said Jacques. “We’ll be careful.”

Kendrik waved at everyone as he felt himself being carried out to another room.

He was conscious of being conscious—but of little else—as Jacques deposited him into a plush chair.

“He’s as drunk as a moonshiner’s dog,” said Jacques, stepping back and looking at the man.

“But perhaps,” said Suki, “in borscht, veritas.”

“Maybe. But I doubt that we’ll get anything coherent out of him while he’s in this condition.”

Suki shook her head. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible he’d get to this state. I bet it’s the first time he’s had anything more alcoholic than a fruitcake.”

“Not to mention Vladdy’s secret psychedelic.” Jacques let out a long sigh. “Better let him sleep it off here. We can talk with him in the morning.”

“What if he wakes in the night and decides to go home?”

“I don’t think we should let him,” said Jacques.

“Do you mean, hold him captive?”

“Legally, in fact, we’re obligated not to let him drive home in his condition.” Jacques smiled. “As is the case with well-fitting briefs, the law will support us.”

“Legal briefs?” said Suki, smiling. “But I take your point. And I shall take the first watch.”

Kendrik became gradually aware of his face being licked. He opened his eyes and then clamped them shut; the frenetic motion of Oxy licking his face and the shafts of morning sunlight jabbing into the room were more than he could stand. He inhaled sharply, got a lungful of dog breath, and waited until the searing splinters of color went dark. He pushed Oxy back and then gingerly eased open his eyes.

Tentatively and in slow motion, he got to his feet. He found a bathroom and then, hearing sounds of human activity, he walked down a short corridor, found a door slightly ajar, knocked, and came into a kitchen.

“Ah, the sleeper wakes.” Jacques, measuring coffee into a pot, looked at him with a worried smile. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Vladimir, sitting with Suki at a small, utilitarian table, beckoned Kendrik to join them.

“So, my friend,” said Vladimir without preamble as Kendrik pulled up a chair, “who sent you here to Canvas Cooperative?”

“What? I told you.” Kendrik rubbed a hand across his forehead. “At least, I think I told you. Gosh, what a party.” He shook his head to clear it. “Nobody sent me.”

Vladimir pounded a fist. “I think government sent you.”

“Don’t worry about Vlad,” said Jacques. “For historical reasons, he doesn’t have good feelings about government.” He turned up the flame under the coffeepot and ambled over. “Sounds sort of like a good coop-bad coop routine, doesn’t it?”

Kendrik thought hard, trying through his haze to remember if he’d made some awful gaffe the previous night. “What’s going on?” he asked. “What are you all upset about?”

“Why did you come to the party?” said Jacques in a pleasant, conversational tone.

“I was looking for a group of people with synesthesia.”

Jacques and Suki exchanged quick glances, while Vladimir glared at him.

“What?” said Kendrik. “I didn’t think it was a secret or anything.”

“It really isn’t,” said Jacques, “but we don’t exactly shout it from the minarets.”

“As for being upset,” said Suki, “you did give us some very disquieting news last night.”

“Oh?” Kendrik found he couldn’t remember very much from the night before.

“The news,” said Jacques, “that the Bureau of Disease Control has determined that synesthesia is an infectious disease.”

“No.” Kendrik waved him quiet. “It’s only my idea. My boss thinks I’m nuts.”

“I not believe you,” said Vladimir.

“It’s not clear.” Suki glanced at Vladimir. “His deportment last night did not suggest an official visit.”

“In any case,” said Jacques, gazing at Kendrik with narrowed eyes, “I am curious why you believe synesthesia’s a disease.” He gave a wan smile, clearly forced. “I rather like to think only our enthusiasm is infectious.”

“And I wonder,” said Kendrik, after glancing from face to face, “why are all of you so anxious about this disease idea?”

Jacques slid a teaspoon to the center of the table. “As long as they think we’re just wacky artists, they’ll leave us alone.” He tapped the spoon. “But if they realized we were truly different…” He drew a circle around the spoon with a forefinger. “If they called synesthesia a disease, they could quarantine us—keep us under observation.”

“No,” Kendrik protested. “Why would anyone do that?”

“People with no imagination,” said Jacques, “often are afraid of those who have lots of it.”

Vladimir swiveled the spoon and pushed it toward Kendrik. “But you not explain,” he said, “why you look for people with synesthesia.”

Kendrik shrugged. “Just research.”

Suki gazed thoughtfully at Kendrik. “There is more, isn’t there?” she said in a cadenced voice. “Not without cause does an office-dweller break through his window and become a bird of paradise, radiant against the Sun … so to speak.”

Jacques and Vladimir exchanged looks of shared suffering.

Kendrik drummed his fingers on the table. “More like a turkey or a dodo,” he said. “I’m a flightless bird.”

Suki covered his hand with hers, calming the drumming. “No. You must not think that.” She withdrew her hand. “You must kill that turkey. Kill the dodo. Then you can soar.”

“The point is…” Kendrik toyed with the teaspoon, “I’ve found a correlation between synesthesia and imagination.” He looked down at the table. “I think it’s causal. Synesthesia yields imagination.”

“And?” said Suki.

“All right,” said Kendrik. “If you must know, I want to contract this synesthesia disease. There! Now you can laugh.”

“To become infected with imagination?” Suki laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Anyone can see you have a rich imagination. You’ve been brainwashed and it’s damaged you.”

“I guess nobody bothered to read the care instructions before brainwashing.”

“I’m serious,” said Suki.

“So am I,” said Kendrik. “I don’t have a creative imagination.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because of how I did on the skeekit-woogle test.”

Jacques looked up. “The what?”

Kendrik described the test, and concluded with, “So which word means a shard of glass, and which word means an egg?”

“Is it shelled?” said Jacques.

“The egg? Yeah.”

“All right,” said Jacques. “Woogle is the egg and skeekit is the glass.”

“That’s what pretty much everyone says.”

“But not you?” Jacques gave Kendrik a quizzical look.

“No.”

“Odd,” said Suki. “How do you see it?”

“Well.” Kendrik put his elbows on the table and rested his head against his hands, his palms covering his eyes. “If I think in black and white, with smell off, I get Jacques’s answers. But imagining normally…” He spread his fingers and looked out at Suki. “Woogle has a flowing, liquid feel—like water. And glass has the color of water. Also, neither water nor glass smells—so woogle means glass.”

“And skeekit?” said Jacques.

“Skeekit is bright, brilliant like the disk of the Sun, and sharply pungent. It’s like the sulfurous smell of a brilliant white egg on a tickly-smelling fresh-cut lawn under bright sunlight. Skeekit is round, bright, and smelly. It’s the egg.”

Jacques, Vladimir, and Suki exchanged wide-eyed stares. “Imaginative, yes?” said Jacques.

Kendrik, seizing the momentary pause, leaned back, and took a deep breath. “Ah,” he said, his nose raised and pointed toward the coffeepot, “the sweet brown aroma of freshly brewed coffee—dark amber with flecks of silver in a herringbone pattern.”

Again, the three exchanged glances.

Jacques leaned in over the table and stared intently at Kendrik. “So you came here to catch a case of imagination.”

Kendrik couldn’t help smiling; it sounded so silly. He let out a breath. “Yes,” he said. “A creative imagination. I want it so much that I can taste it.”

“And smell it?” said Jacques.

“What?”

“You smell in color and shapes, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said Kendrik. “Everyone does that.”

“No, they don’t,” said Vladimir.

“I knew it!” Jacques slapped the table. “For Vlad here,” he said, “it’s all color—cool colors, loud colors. Literally. He hears and feels colors, but he doesn’t smell them. And Suki tastes words.” He glanced over at Suki. “You don’t smell them, do you?”

She shook her head.

Jacques chuckled. “Welcome to the club, Kendrik,” he said. “You’ve probably had synesthesia your entire life—not that you’ve lived very much of it yet. Odd you never noticed it.”

Kendrik scrunched up his nose. “Really?”

“Da, my friend,” said Vladimir. “I was wrong. You not from government.” He gave Kendrik a bear-like pat on the back. “You appreciate “˜Great Gate at Kiev.’ You have taste.”

“Thank you,” Kendrik gasped. He struggled to recover from the pat.

Jacques looked away at the coffeepot, which was now bubbling. “Coffee’s ready.” He stood and walked to the stove. “We believe, by the way, that synesthesia might well be the next stage in human evolution.”

“What?” Kendrik struggled to keep up.

“I’m not sure we should be talking about this,” said Suki.

“Why not?” said Jacques. “He’s in our camp, now.” He turned to Kendrik. “You are in our camp, aren’t you?”

“So that’s what this has all been about,” said Kendrik, more to himself than to Jacques. He nodded. “Yes, I think I am in your camp.”

“Splendid,” said Suki. “Now though, we’ll have to find a creative outlet for you—to keep you putatively sane.”

“He’s a technical type,” said Jacques. “How about flavor chemistry?”

Kendrik chuckled, softly so as not to aggravate what he assumed was a hangover. “Perhaps I could paint scent canvases.”

“Da. Khorosho!” said Vladimir. “Very good! I like idea. Maybe we collaborate.”

“I’d enjoy that.” Kendrik rubbed his chin in thought. “It does seem strange though,” he said, “that a bacterium or virus could guide changes in our evolution.”

“It not germ,” said Vladimir. “It gift!”

“Doubtless,” said Jacques. “And I don’t wish to be the dentist of the horse bearing it.” He brought the pot to the table. “But I suppose a bug might possibly be the agent of evolution.” Pouring the coffee into the waiting mugs, he added, “Interesting thought—a bacterium aiding in brain rewiring. A bug turning us into a new species.” He sat, picked up a mug, and cradled it in his hands. “An advance not in intelligence, but in creativity.”

“Good thing,” said Vladimir. “Mankind probably intelligent enough.”

“Maybe,” said Jacques. “Maybe the combination is required for wisdom.” He smiled at Suki. “You always say that imagination is the food for our dreams—but then again, you taste words.”

“Speaking of food…” Suki turned to Kendrik. “Will you join us for breakfast? Fresh scones and marmalade.”

“Thank you, but no. I need to go home and maybe be sick.”

“I understand.”

“But,” said Jacques, “I’m not sure you should be driving quite yet.”

Kendrik laughed. “My car has automatic. With my sense of direction, I need it. And I have an assigned spot, so the car can autopark.” He gulped down his coffee and stood. “I’ll be back though, if I may.”

“Any time.” Jacques nodded. “I rather assume you feel like an outsider most places. I can assure you, you won’t be an outsider here.”

“Thank you.”

Jacques accompanied Kendrik to the door. “We’ll wait until your next visit to sign you up—when your hands are more steady. You do want to join, I imagine.”

“Definitely—now that I know that I imagine as well.”

“Good,” said Jacques. “We’d appreciate it, by the way, if you didn’t advertise the goings-on here.”

“Understood.”

Kendrik bid his farewells and went to his car. He got in, engaged automatic, reclined the seat, and threw his head back against the neck rest.

“Are you all right?” said the car.

“I’ve been better.” Inwardly, Kendrik winced. What an inane thing to say—even if only to a car.

“My air sensor suggests a hangover.”

“Do you think dogs smell in color?” said Kendrik, idly. “Can animals have synesthesia?”

“I do not have data on that,” said the car.

Unaccountably irked by the car’s answer, Kendrik glared at the speaker grill. “I’ve never noticed this before,” he said, “but your voice sounds rather the way the smell of green should feel.”

“The cabin alcohol level and your behavior suggest that I take you to a hospital.”

Kendrik moved his seat back to upright. “No. Just give me a few minutes.” He flipped the control back to manual.

Sitting there, collecting his thoughts, Kendrik mused on how everything in his life had seemed so ordinary and dull; and now, voluntarily, he was going back to it—the life of a turkey and a dodo. He realized it now; he’d been imagination-starved. And, come to think of it, he felt starved in the conventional sense as well. Kendrik got out of the car and, thinking he might kill two birds with one scone, headed back to the coop for breakfast. Jacques was right; he didn’t feel like an outsider at the coop. And it would be fun spending time exchanging ideas with the man. Jacques was very imaginative and very bright … very skeekit.

(c)Copyright 2006 by Carl Frederick