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Chapter 11 — The Mooncalf Pastures

           “Cavor,”Iasked,“whynot?”

           “Poison,”Iheardhimsay,buthedidnotlookround.

           WecrawledsomewaybeforeIdecided.

           “I’llchanceit,”saidI.

           Hemadeabelatedgesturetopreventme.Istuffedmymouthfull.Hecrouchedwatchingmyface,hisowntwistedintotheoddestexpression.“It’sgood,”Isaid.

           “OLord!”hecried.

           Hewatchedmemunch,hisfacewrinkledbetweendesireanddisapproval,thensuddenlysuccumbedtoappetiteandbegantotearoffhugemouthfuls.Foratimewedidnothingbuteat.

           Thestuffwasnotunlikeaterrestrialmushroom,onlyitwasmuchlaxerintexture,and,asoneswallowedit,itwarmedthethroat.Atfirstweexperiencedameremechanicalsatisfactionineating;thenourbloodbegantorunwarmer,andwetingledatthelipsandfingers,andthennewandslightlyirrelevantideascamebubblingupinourminds.

           “It’sgood,”saidI.“Infernallygood!Whatahomeforoursurpluspopulation!Ourpoorsurpluspopulation,”andIbrokeoffanotherlargeportion.Itfilledmewithacuriouslybenevolentsatisfactionthattherewassuchgoodfoodinthemoon.Thedepressionofmyhungergavewaytoanirrationalexhilaration.ThedreadanddiscomfortinwhichIhadbeenlivingvanishedentirely.IperceivedthemoonnolongerasaplanetfromwhichImostearnestlydesiredthemeansofescape,butasapossiblerefugefromhumandestitution.IthinkIforgottheSelenites,themooncalves,thelid,andthenoisescompletelysosoonasIhadeatenthatfungus.

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