The Book of Strange New Things(126)

‘Chickadees.’

‘Duckaboos.’

‘How about fatsos?’

‘Woglets.’

‘Xenomammals.’

‘Flabbits.’

‘Lunch!’

There was a flurry of laughter but someone immediately hollered: ‘Forget it, Powell.’

‘Couldn’t we try just one?’ protested Powell.

‘They may be highly intelligent.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘They may be considered sacred. By the natives.’

‘Who says they’re edible?’ called a woman’s voice. ‘They could be poisonous as hell.’

‘They’re headed in the direction of Freaktown,’ Stanko pointed out. ‘If they’re edible and if it’s OK to eat them, we’ll probably get some eventually. Like, given to us. And it’ll be kosher.’

‘What do you mean, kosher?’

‘I didn’t mean . . . I meant, nothing sneaky about it. Just part of the regular deal.’

‘You’re all being disgusting,’ another woman’s voice remarked. ‘How could anyone even think of eating these? They’re so adorable.’

‘Adorable as a vegetable. Look at those eyes. Three brain cells, max.’

‘Maybe they bite.’

And so they stood there, bantering, happy as children, while the exotic procession shuffled past.

‘Hey, Peter! How’s tricks, bro?’ It was BG. He was in a jovial mood, if somewhat in need of a washcloth. This outing had evidently interrupted him in the middle of eating or drinking something white and frothy, judging from the creamy moustache haloing his upper lip.

‘I’m fine, BG,’ said Peter. ‘A bit tired. And you?’

‘On top of it, man, on top of it. Ain’t these guys great?’ He indicated the horde of animals, whose hundred hefty backsides swayed in formation as they shuffled by.

‘A real thrill to see,’ Peter agreed. ‘I’m glad I didn’t miss them. Nobody told me.’

‘It was on the PA system, bro. Loud and clear.’

‘Not in my room.’

‘Ah, they must’ve switched it off for you, man. Out of respect. You got your private spiritual stuff to concentrate on. You don’t want somebody naggin’ in your ear fifty times a day, “Could So-And-So come to Room 25, please”, “Could all available personnel report to the loading bay”, “Haircuts available in one hour in Room 9”, “Hey everybody, get your asses out of the East Wing entrance, ’cause there’s a huge posse of funny-lookin’ little motherf*ckers headed this way!”’

Peter smiled, but the news of his exclusion from the public address system bothered him. He was disconnected enough from the lives of the USIC personnel as it was. ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘I would hate to have missed this.’

‘But you didn’t, bro,’ beamed BG. ‘You didn’t.’ He wiggled his eyebrows upwards at the heavens. ‘You must’ve got a tip-off, am I right?’

‘Maybe I did.’ Peter was exhausted all of a sudden, weighed down by his sweat-sodden clothing and his undischarged sense of inadequacy. God’s enigmatic instruction about the need for further study and making full proof of his ministry rematerialised in his mind.

BG got down to business: the reason he’d pushed through his colleagues to reach Peter. ‘So, what would you call ’em?’

‘Call them?’

‘Our cute little pals there,’ said BG, waving his hand at the retreating army.

Peter thought for a moment. ‘The Oasans must have a word for them.’

‘No use to us, bro.’ BG contorted his face and flapped his tongue idiotically in and out of his lips, emitting a blubbering sound. A second later, with the aplomb of a professional comedian, he composed his features into a mask of dignity. ‘With Tartaglione gone,’ he said, ‘there ain’t nobody here can understand the noises those guys make. You heard the old story of the kangaroo, Peter?’

‘No, BG: tell me the old story of the kangaroo.’

The animal horde was fully past now, making incremental headway towards their destination. Some of the USIC staff stood peering at the dwindling swarm of bodies, but most started ambling back towards the base. BG laid an arm around Peter’s shoulder, indicating that they should walk together. ‘There was this explorer guy,’ he said, ‘way back in the day, called Captain Cook. His specialty was landing on brand new pieces of real estate across the ocean, and swiping them off of the black folks that lived there. Anyway, he went all the way down to Australia. You know where that is?’

Peter nodded.

‘A lot of folks here get kinda hazy on geography,’ said BG. ‘Specially if they never been there. Anyway, Captain Cook landed in Australia and he saw these amaaazing animals jumpin’ around. Big furry motherf*ckers with gigantic rabbit legs and a pouch on their stomach and standin’ upright and shit. And he asked the black folks, “What do you guys call this creature?”, and the black folks said “Kangaroo”.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Peter, sensing that some sort of punchline was coming.

‘Years later, some dude studied the black folks’ language, and guess what? “Kangaroo” meant “What you sayin’, bro?”’