70
Capital D, Dear, capital L, Love, comma,
Indent, capital T, The, capital T, Trop, capital G, Garden flowers were so almost colored, comma, and the poem so close to feeling, period. Capital Y, You get better, comma, capital I, I get worse, period.
Capital W, With punctuated love, comma,
Capital R, Roberta
71
Dear Moldenke,
The Trop Garden couldn't last forever, just as Roosevelt Teaset can't. Can you see this? Can you reason it? It's a terrible loss, but nothing to get excited about. Don't rush to give it all up. Think about it. Believe me, it might be worse. Keep the eye on the sky. You only thought bananas were gone. No, wrong. Eagleman has one on the drawing table. Remember the rubber tomato? To doubt Eagleman is to build a cistern on the desert. In both cases you'll soon find yourself wanting.
Yours,
Burnheart
P.S. I forgot: We'll find you another job. Be loose.
72
Dr. Burnheart
Dept. of Overscience
T-City U.
T-City
Dear Doc,
About the job? I've been living on the street vehicles. If I fall asleep the vehicle becomes a giant, clattering insect on a track. If I stay awake it bores me. I've looked at the same fake crepe myrtles along the esplanade too many times. Yes, find me an honest job. I need the chits.
Your dependent,
Moldenke
73
Moldenke,
At your next convenience, bring yourself to a Mr. Featherfighter on the Health Truck. Check a public schedule for the stops. He'll put you to work. Bon appetit.
Your employment agents,
B & E Ltd.
74
Roquette chalked up, dipped his fingers in the talcum box. Moldenke leaned on his cue, a junk band playing on the ballroom floor, folks dancing, balloons floating up to the ceiling beams.
"This is an impressive place, Roquette." Roquette agreed and took his turn at the red balls. The port lookouts framed five full moons. Waiters would pass the table and Moldenke would take stonepicked olives from their trays and suck out the pimento jelly, chewing the stonepicks. He sipped a cherry bubble. He saw one waiter go into a corner and cough jelly into a handkerchief, then tighten his ear valve.
One of his minor hearts fluttered.
"Your shot, champ."
"No wonder we didn't see anyone on deck," Moldenke said. "They're all at the dance."
"Take the shot, son."
"I'm having a heart flutter. Excuse me."
"Play the lay. Moldenke, the time hog. Play it, son. Play it."
"The balls are moving. How can I shoot?" Moldenke shot the cue at a moving ball, missed. "The balls, Roquette."
Roquette approached the table. "We're moving. The boat is moving. End of game."
Moldenke asked if there was a radio around, "To get a weather report." Roquette said he wasn't certain, but that the boat was underway and the weather made no difference.
Moldenke's sore hand began a steady tremble. He put it in his pocket. Roquette said, "Hard to keep things still with all those hearts beating in there, isn't it?" Moldenke confessed his health, that one heart was fluttering badly and that others were running roughly, the timing off. He remembered single-hearted days, a predictable beat, quiet sleeps. "Things are getting worse," he said to Roquette. "No matter how many views I take of it." Roquette said he would introduce him to one of the folk Doctors. "Maybe he can jam a muffler in there and quiet you down some."
"No mufflers, Roquette. I'm restricted to the limit as it is."
"Nonsense, son. They pay for themselves in silence alone. You'll sleep again."
"They took a lung out to make room for the hearts. Luckily it was already collapsed. They would have taken a good one."
"It's an old maxim, champ. A tooth for an eye. You must have heard it. We could all afford to spare a lobe or two of the liver, couldn't we? Take a muffler, Dink. No sense in rattling around like a sack of automatic frogs, is there?"
75
Featherfighter swiveled and faced Moldenke. "Toss if I mind you a few works before we question you to put. .?"
Moldenke waited for the correction. A drop of jelly bled from Featherfighter's wrist valve. "Mind if I toss you a few questions before we put you to work? Ten apologies, Mr. Bufona."
"Moldenke is the name. Burnheart and Eagleman arranged this. I got on at the last stop."
"This was arranged by whom? And whom?"
"Doctor Burnheart and Doctor Eagleman."
"It doesn't make much sense to me, Mr. Bufona. That combo escapes me. Wait, didn't Eagleheart promote a moon once?"
"Once, yes," Moldenke said. "The name is Moldenke."
"Shake hands." Moldenke shook the hand, a rubber glove filled with jelly.
The Health Truck hit a chuckhole; Featherfighter sloshed.
"Someone else arranged this, Mr. Bufona. Burnman and Eagleheart had nothing to do with it."
Moldenke said he was surprised, although he would take the job anyway, whatever it was, if it was available.
"Sit down, Bufona. A few questions, please." Moldenke sat in a cup-chair.
"Let me ask you if you use a calendar?"
Moldenke said he didn't bother. He took out a cigar.
Featherfighter said, "No flames, please." He put the cigar back and chewed his lip. "You don't use a calendar, you say. I can sympathize there, Mr. Bufona. Six technical months in a single day sometimes. It gets confusing. Do you watch the weather then?"
"I listen to the reports."
"You listen to the reports. . try this." He gave Moldenke a dried weevil cake. Moldenke swallowed a bite and said he liked it. Featherfighter said, "You will be a good employee, Bufona. I can already see that. If you can swallow a weevil cake, you can swallow almost anything."
The room widened at the top and became circular, although the floor was square, accommodating Featherfighter's desk and Moldenke's chair, nothing more. He followed the walls up, looking for the transition from square to circle, but missed it.
Featherfighter opened a drawer. "May I read you something from the book, Mr. Bufona?"
"Moldenke. Yes, read it. I know the book myself."
"In 1856 Claude Bernard noted the appearance of cloudy lymph in the duodenum. . No, that isn't the page. ."
If he leaned over Featherfighter's desk, his face reflected in its top. If he drew back, the reflection remained in the polish.
Featherfighter said, "Here it is: As a boy I often walked the graveways. Once I kicked open a rotted tomb and bees swarmed out. Until then, in my youthful ignorance, I had thought them dead in the winter. It was an important juncture in my career. I soon began to think in terms of human honey, and it wasn't long before. ." Featherfighter stopped, looked at Moldenke.
Moldenke said, "And so on. I know the passage. Burnheart is exploring his youth for scientific indicators."
"Who is?"
"Doctor Burnheart. The author."
"The author?"
"Yes, what's the point of the passage?"
"The point is Insecta, Bufo. The class lnsecta. Let me read from another section: Spread the wings of two or three flutterbys over a slice of pinebread, pass under the grille, top with honey if available, a basic recipe that even a. . (deleted). . could accomplish."
Moldenke said, "Etcetera. I've read the book. I see you have a deleted edition."
Featherfighter ignored him, continued reading: "As a child I was kept in a crumbling house. I would gather earwigs among the fallen bricks and make a tea. My father taught me to make an ant-trap. My mother taught me the piano. As a student under Professor. . (deleted)… I read the book."