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Chapter 11 — The Mooncalf Pastures
Butthistimewesawnothing.ItriedtowhispertoCavorthatIcouldhardlygowithoutfoodmuchlonger,butmymouthhadbecometoodryforwhispering.
“Cavor,”Isaid,“Imusthavefood.”
Heturnedafacefullofdismaytowardsme.“It’sacaseforholdingout,”hesaid.
“ButImust,”Isaid,“andlookatmylips!”
“I’vebeenthirstysometime.”
“Ifonlysomeofthatsnowhadremained!”
“It’scleangone!We’redrivingfromarctictotropicalattherateofadegreeaminute....”
Ignawedmyhand.
“Thesphere!”hesaid.“Thereisnothingforitbutthesphere.”
Werousedourselvestoanotherspurtofcrawling.Mymindranentirelyonediblethings,onthehissingprofundityofsummerdrinks,moreparticularlyIcravedforbeer.IwashauntedbythememoryofasixteengalloncaskthathadswaggeredinmyLympnecellar.Ithoughtoftheadjacentlarder,andespeciallyofsteakandkidneypie—tendersteakandplentyofkidney,andrich,thickgravybetween.EverandagainIwasseizedwithfitsofhungryyawning.Wecametoflatplacesovergrownwithfleshyredthings,monstrouscorallinegrowths;aswepushedagainstthemtheysnappedandbroke.Inotedthequalityofthebrokensurfaces.Theconfoundedstuffcertainlylookedofabiteabletexture.Thenitseemedtomethatitsmeltratherwell.
Ipickedupafragmentandsniffedatit.
“Cavor,”Isaidinahoarseundertone.
Heglancedatmewithhisfacescrewedup.“Don’t,”hesaid.Iputdownthefragment,andwecrawledonthroughthistemptingfleshinessforaspace.
