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Berke took a final wheat-germ sandwich and pushed the remaining pile along the bench to Hejar. A fourth person came into the living room from the kitchen— the Man in the Black Flannel Suit. He moved with the sick jerkiness and had the slack putty-gray features of a figure of the imagination that hasnt been fully developed. (There was a fifth person in the house, but even Gott didnt know about him yet.) The Man in the Black Flannel Suit made a stiff gesture at Gott and gaped his mouth to talk to him, but the latter silently writhed his lips in a "Not yet, you fool!" and nodded curtly toward the sofa opposite his easy chair. The calliope stopped its atonal caterwauling just before Quincannon reached the ferry landing. He took advantage of the respite to ring for the closemouthed ferryman and then board the scow, which was still moored on this bank. While he and the bay were being winched across, the calliope started up again. He could tell from mid-slough where the music, such as it was, was coming from— an old, weather-beaten steamer moored at the town wharf. Doubtless Gus Burgades store boat, theIsland Star. I guess the same thing is or will soon be happening to me. Now that its definite, I don’t want it to happen. "It has suction cups," Jay said. Oh, absolutely, the secretary assured him. I see to that myself. No one disturbs him. He thought hed have more time, but New York is very eager to have him return immediately, and he’s having to work twice as hard. It’s a great event in his life, of course. But he’s very happy you’re here. He’s often spoken of you to me. You knew him when he was still doing figurative work, I believe. Yes, Mr. Sarfatti enjoys talking about his artistic beginnings,” the secretary chatted on. “Apparently one of his works is in the collection of the American Folklore Museum, in Brooklyn. A statue called Big Bill Sugar.’ “ A cold wind blew over the fence of Heinies space road and the stars wavered and then fled before it like diamond leaves. Hes my property, he said. "Product of the home spiral. Been around since the fifties." We live in the egg,We have covered the inside wallof the shell with dirty drawingsand the Christian names of our enemies.We are being hatched.Whoever is hatching usis hatching our pencils as well.Set free from the egg one dayat once we shall draw a pictureof whoever is hatching us.We assume that were being hatchedWe imagine some good-natured fowland write school essaysabout the colour and breedof the hen that is hatching us.When shall we break the shell?Our prophets inside the eggfor a middling salary argueabout the period of incubation.They posit a day called X.Out of boredom and genuine needwe have invented incubators.We are much concerned about our offspring inside the egg.We should be glad to recommend our patentto her who looks after us.But we have a roof over our heads.Senile chicks,polyglot embryoschatter all dayand even discuss their dreams.And what if were not being hatched?If this shell will never break?If our horizon is only thatof our scribbles, and always will be?We hope that we're being hatched.Even if we only talk of hatchingthere remains the fear that someoneoutside our shell will feel hungryand crack us into the frying pan with a pinch of salt.—What shall we do then, my brethren inside the egg? J. G. looked at his thumb and asked what it was opposed to. "And now Ill doyou a favour, Con. Change the name." The two men sat on their front-porch steps in the dark. The secretary, Walters. He was eliminated? Solemnity transformed into hilarity, he would explode into bubbling, effervescent, good-humored laughter:Of course I could not serve the capitalists. My little Anastasia would not let me..