know what it is. I hope it wasn't before your time. Listen.” He played a different melody.
Moldenke said, “Air! This is air!”
“Wrong, son. Listen closely. I'll blow it again.”
92]
He had been standing in a downtown rain, waiting for an uptown k-bus. A boy rode by on a k-cycle, skidding in an oil puddle, falling on the sidewalk at Moldenke's feet. Moldenke crabbed backward, jelly on his shoe. A crowd gathered and someone mentioned jellyhead. It had been his first encounter.
93]
Dear Burny,
What do you know about the jellyheads?
Thank you in advance,
Moldenke
94]
Dear Semiscientist,
You expect me to dabble in answers to questions like that? Read the book.
Busily yours,
Burnheart
Moldenke opened the book and found all jellyhead references deleted, as they had been the first time he read the book, and all the following times.
95]
“Well, champ. I see you're experiencing a revibration. Welcome back.”
“This is air, Roquette.”
“And it makes you feel good.”
“I have new energies.”
“Good. The k-tractor waits.”
Moldenke said, “Wait-—I feel the pressure going down. I feel it.”
“Moldenke, the sensorium.”
Moldenke extended his hand. A drop of rain fell on it, drained through the fingers.
They looked up.
Roquette said, “Weather students playing, son. Ignore them.”
Gray flox clouds hung from wires attached to the ceiling.
96]
Mr. Featherfighter,
MEMO
You may regard this note as evidence of my intent to resign.
Moldenke,
Taster
97]
Dear Bufona,
MEMO
The road to Etcetera was paved with such intentions. I do not accept them as anything, much less resignation.
You may regard this note as proof of my authority.
Chief of Tasting
Health Truck Head
Mr. Feather, and so on
98]
He ate popcorn from a paper bag, looked past his own reflection in the glass, studied Roosevelt Teaset. He saw that something was wrong.
Teaset wore an old cotton suit, heavy shoulderpads, suspenders holding the pants too high, cracked black shoes on gnarled feet.
He put on the earphones and pressed the button, heard a false Teaset biography and a snatch of the genuine voice: “Yowsuh.” End of tape. He removed the earphones.
Cottonfield scenes were painted on the rear wall of the display, blackbirds flying in flawless skies, casting frightened earthward glances.
Roberta put her hand in the popcorn bag. “It's a tasteless display, Moldenke. I'm leaving. I don't like to look at it.”
He agreed they could have given the last one a whole sentence to say. “All he says is ‘yowsuh,' Cock. Something isn't right. I'm not sure what. I'll keep looking.”
Teaset's hand had been stiffly closed around the handle of a hoe, the head bowed, the knees bent.
Roberta took her hand from the popcorn bag and turned away. “I can't look. I'm sorry. I'll meet you at the elephant yard.” She left the Preservation building. Moldenke remained.
At a booth she rented a pigeon, bought a bag of mock nuts.
“Is it wound?” she asked the attendant.
“It is, ma’am,” he said, pretending to tip a hat he wasn't wearing. “Set'er down on the sidewalk, ma’am. She'll go fine.”
She found a bench, sat down, set the pigeon on the sidewalk. It remained, springs unwound, and it fell over.
Moldenke approached, blinking in the light, fixing on his goggles.
She told him the pigeon wouldn't work.
He cranked it, set it down. Gearwork clicked. Roberta smiled. He told her the simplest things would give her joy. She threw mock nuts down. The wings spread, tail feathers fanned out. Moldenke smiled. The beak pecked the sidewalk, the wings began working. Jellylike droppings squirted from the false cloaca. The wingbeats increased.
She said, “Stop the wings, Moldenke. It's too fast.”
He put his foot out to slow them. A wingbone snapped against his ankle. The wingbeats increased.
He tried to step on a wing and pin it to the sidewalk. His heel
Moldenke said, “Air! This is air!”
“Wrong, son. Listen closely. I'll blow it again.”
92]
He had been standing in a downtown rain, waiting for an uptown k-bus. A boy rode by on a k-cycle, skidding in an oil puddle, falling on the sidewalk at Moldenke's feet. Moldenke crabbed backward, jelly on his shoe. A crowd gathered and someone mentioned jellyhead. It had been his first encounter.
93]
Dear Burny,
What do you know about the jellyheads?
Thank you in advance,
Moldenke
94]
Dear Semiscientist,
You expect me to dabble in answers to questions like that? Read the book.
Busily yours,
Burnheart
Moldenke opened the book and found all jellyhead references deleted, as they had been the first time he read the book, and all the following times.
95]
“Well, champ. I see you're experiencing a revibration. Welcome back.”
“This is air, Roquette.”
“And it makes you feel good.”
“I have new energies.”
“Good. The k-tractor waits.”
Moldenke said, “Wait-—I feel the pressure going down. I feel it.”
“Moldenke, the sensorium.”
Moldenke extended his hand. A drop of rain fell on it, drained through the fingers.
They looked up.
Roquette said, “Weather students playing, son. Ignore them.”
Gray flox clouds hung from wires attached to the ceiling.
96]
Mr. Featherfighter,
MEMO
You may regard this note as evidence of my intent to resign.
Moldenke,
Taster
97]
Dear Bufona,
MEMO
The road to Etcetera was paved with such intentions. I do not accept them as anything, much less resignation.
You may regard this note as proof of my authority.
Chief of Tasting
Health Truck Head
Mr. Feather, and so on
98]
He ate popcorn from a paper bag, looked past his own reflection in the glass, studied Roosevelt Teaset. He saw that something was wrong.
Teaset wore an old cotton suit, heavy shoulderpads, suspenders holding the pants too high, cracked black shoes on gnarled feet.
He put on the earphones and pressed the button, heard a false Teaset biography and a snatch of the genuine voice: “Yowsuh.” End of tape. He removed the earphones.
Cottonfield scenes were painted on the rear wall of the display, blackbirds flying in flawless skies, casting frightened earthward glances.
Roberta put her hand in the popcorn bag. “It's a tasteless display, Moldenke. I'm leaving. I don't like to look at it.”
He agreed they could have given the last one a whole sentence to say. “All he says is ‘yowsuh,' Cock. Something isn't right. I'm not sure what. I'll keep looking.”
Teaset's hand had been stiffly closed around the handle of a hoe, the head bowed, the knees bent.
Roberta took her hand from the popcorn bag and turned away. “I can't look. I'm sorry. I'll meet you at the elephant yard.” She left the Preservation building. Moldenke remained.
At a booth she rented a pigeon, bought a bag of mock nuts.
“Is it wound?” she asked the attendant.
“It is, ma’am,” he said, pretending to tip a hat he wasn't wearing. “Set'er down on the sidewalk, ma’am. She'll go fine.”
She found a bench, sat down, set the pigeon on the sidewalk. It remained, springs unwound, and it fell over.
Moldenke approached, blinking in the light, fixing on his goggles.
She told him the pigeon wouldn't work.
He cranked it, set it down. Gearwork clicked. Roberta smiled. He told her the simplest things would give her joy. She threw mock nuts down. The wings spread, tail feathers fanned out. Moldenke smiled. The beak pecked the sidewalk, the wings began working. Jellylike droppings squirted from the false cloaca. The wingbeats increased.
She said, “Stop the wings, Moldenke. It's too fast.”
He put his foot out to slow them. A wingbone snapped against his ankle. The wingbeats increased.
He tried to step on a wing and pin it to the sidewalk. His heel
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