Fat Girl’s Folly is Endemic Among the Tribe’s Comedians
“Gentlemen,
the disease is hereditary. Outside of
instituting almost universal mandatory breeding standards and… outright euthanasia,
I don’t see how we can control it.” Dr.
Murkum spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. He had seen an actor on a TV show do the
same a couple of weeks before and been practicing it since. It had come in handy, he now felt.
Hilde started
to respond, but Judge Insanders interrupted.
“Why do you say ‘almost universal’ standards?” he demanded. He was a tall, plank-like figure, painted
like a refrigerator’s idea of what a policeman looks like, only definitely
suited up for jungle adventure. He had
sashes and loops and straps all over him.
At least, that’s what we said when we studied the recording later.
“Well,” Dr.
Murkum drawled, dragging his downward sweeping gaze over the polished length of
the conference table. “The rice are
always going to find a way to beat the rules.”
“I’m tired of
hearing about the ‘rules’,” Pat Cherry
sneered, his moustache a Tunguska of silver birch, each denuded trunk of which
flaked an uncountable, unnamable library of illustrated pages in its papery
bark. If only we could get in there and
capture a fifth of that trove before it is consumed by mites!, I thought as the
various aspects of the recording were explored.
“It would be a cartoonist’s universe,” I commented.
“Someone
would have to edit it,” Heath pointed out, uselessly, as it happened. The concrete value of some degree of conservatism
was impressed upon me as we left the observation chamber and found ourselves
facing the legacy of the disease.
“Thank god
for property taxes,” Heath sighed. The
barrier had come down; we were as safe as that cellar full of coal we wish to
do away with.
“Your words
betray your fear,” the Wise One turned from an off-screen distraction and
looked into our eyes. “As pitiable as
the transient’s dragon,” she remarked, laughing and leaking joy.
