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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.
