Melba considered. Like most people, in the course of her life she had come into contact with an astronaut, but only briefly, in a controlled setting, and she had no idea where he might be now. Of all people, astronauts can be in the most places — anywhere on earth, but also anywhere not on earth — and so it is especially difficult to guess their location. Melba tried to summon a picture of the astronaut as she had seen him in the auditorium and later the cafeteria of Dan Elementary. It was so long ago! Had he worn a powder blue tunic and white boots? She thought that he had.
In the auditorium, he had stood before the gathered students with Principal Benjamin. After the cheering died away, Principal Benjamin had spoken, not into a microphone, but into an intercom, so that his voice boomed from above, both in the auditorium and in the empty classrooms, perhaps for the benefit of the terrariums. Melba remembered that he had spoken on the topic of color — color, according to certain professionals, is not a part of things, not even things known chiefly for their colors, flowers and tropical birds and the most delicious of the cartoon-themed boxed cereals, but rather color gets attached to their surfaces later on, and Principal Benjamin must have had plenty to say about when and how the colors are attached, and Melba felt certain she had asked perspicacious questions about methods used to detach the colors and whether or not the detached colors could be stored, and if they were scented or had particular tastes, which seemed likely based on everyone’s experience, for example, of red — but as she devoted more energy to remembering and began to hear the voice transmitting over the intercom, she discovered that the words did not bear out her initial thought that Principal Benjamin had spoken about color, unless of course he had spoken in code, which was not impossible. No, the more Melba thought, the more she remembered that he had not spoken on the topic of color. She could hear his voice as he spoke on another topic altogether:
“Force and motion, my buckaroos, there’s no escape,” boomed Principal Benjamin. “Surrender your illusions. No one floats, not even in space. Astronauts are falling! Does this make you sad? It shouldn’t. Are you cowboys or tintypes? Wake up! Die on the ground, with your boots on. Do you have goldfish?”
“Yes!” called Melba. She was sitting in the front row and Principal Benjamin pointed a finger at her, nodding gravely, before going on.
“Is the bowl spotless, suffused with radiant energy? Is there a light shining in the castle window? Do you change the water? Do you keep fewer than two-inches of fish per gallon?”
“The fish don’t stay still,” said Melba. “I think—”
“Or is there slime on the bowl?” said Principal Benjamin. “Are the castle walls over-grown? Is there everywhere darkness and filth? Are there sheets of living tissue in the water? What if you purchased an algae-eating fish? Have you considered it?”
“Yes,” whispered Melba.
“Yes!” crowed Principal Benjamin. “Of course you have. Who hasn’t? Imagine this algae-eater. You’re holding it up in a small plastic bag. It’s skinny. It’s hungry. Now let it go. Drop it in the bowl. Let it feast. Let it begin by devouring the proteinaceous film on the surface of the water. Let it move on to the slime on the walls. Below, every rock has a beard. So much shag, so much sludge. What a smorgasbord! Do you think your algae-eater can swallow all that muck, all that gunk, all that fuzz? Do the hairs tickle its throat? Does it gag?”
Melba held her breath. She felt, in her own throat, a tickle. She shook her head. Her eyes watered. Principal Benjamin’s eyes were watering too.
“No!” he cried. “It explodes! It explodes into bits and every bit needs to eat. Every bit eats until it explodes. Don’t you see? There are infinite bits exploding infinite times until there’s nothing else left to eat. The biosphere is all bits eating bits! We’re all done. We’re all ooze. I’m sure our guest, Mr. Gray, would tell you as much, if I hadn’t exhausted the subject. And now let us adjourn to the cafeteria. Thank you.”
Melba had joined the flow of children out of the auditorium and through a tiled corridor where she waited in line to scrub her hands at a long trough before walking on, filing with the others through the cafeteria doors, each child pausing before Nurse Nathan to receive a spoonful of dark paste doled from a colossal jar. Melba swallowed her paste, scanning the cafeteria tables. The astronaut, she saw, was in the middle of the room, seated across from Principal Benjamin at Principal Benjamin’s desk, which Lester Crane, the custodian, had carried into the cafeteria for the occasion. Melba hovered near the desk anxiously, but Principal Benjamin and Mr. Gray were studying their trays and did not acknowledge her. She stepped closer to Mr. Gray and noted that his tunic smelled of ozone. She opened her mouth to speak. Suddenly, she felt a hand clap down on the back of her neck and she was steered away from the desk, reprimanded harshly, and sent to the Principal’s office, where she cried a little, cross-legged on one of the clean squares of linoleum formerly concealed by Principal Benjamin’s desk.
Try as she might, Melba could not recall what happened next. When she attempted to reconstruct the sequence, her mind jumped from the image of the barren office to an image of the area below her kitchen sink, dark and cluttered with pipes, pale bottles, and a tall, dented box, one corner savaged and spilling blue powder. Principal Benjamin’s office and the area below her kitchen sink, envisioned one after the other, did make a kind of sequence, but not the sequence Melba wanted. That is, they didn’t make a linear sequence, but rather an associative sequence, which perhaps told her something about her consciousness but told her less than nothing about the order in which the events in her life unfolded. But was there an order? And if so, was that order chronological? And if so, chronological in which direction? Melba knew these weren’t fit questions for a landlord, but could they be considered fit questions for an astronaut?
Well, thought Melba, no use wondering. Only Principal Benjamin might have had some insight into Mr. Gray’s whereabouts, and Principal Benjamin had disappeared. Melba had no way to contact an astronaut on her own.
“I do not have the telephone number for any astronaut,” replied Melba, primly.
“I do not have the telephone number for any astronaut,” mimicked Gigi Zuzzo. “So Mark Rand must receive every telephone call intended for a person whose number you do not have? How many telephone numbers don’t you have? Why it’s an unconceivable amount. Boggling. Do you see what kind of burden you place on Mark Rand? Even a landlord of his caliber couldn’t bear up under it, and that’s supposing you were his only tenant, which you are not.”
“I didn’t mean,” began Melba, but Gigi Zuzzo cut her off.
“Of course, you didn’t mean,” said Gigi Zuzzo. “You never mean anything. You never anticipate, Melba. You don’t understand the concept of the future. What’s the future? Tell me.”
“What if I don’t tell you?” asked Melba desperately. “Will it just happen?”
Gigi Zuzzo growled long and low, and Melba clung to the phone, sweat breaking out along her brow.
“Does the future have something to do with snow?” she asked. “How it doesn’t fall from the sky all at once, crushing everything below?”
“You’re just like your father,” said Gigi Zuzzo bitterly. “You always think things are so much rosier than they really are. Let me tell you, the future never kept anyone from getting crushed! I’ve noticed that you never buy depilatory creams, Melba. Your arms are fuzzy, don’t deny it, matted with little hairs, like tennis balls. Now listen to this. One day you’re going to see something startling and not in a good way. You’ll see a piece of straw driven like a skewer through a man’s neck by gale force winds. How awful! Who wants to see such a thing? Not you! You’ll throw your arm across your eyes and those little hairs will act like Velcro on your eyeballs. You’ll rip out your eyeballs. They’ll be stuck to your arm! That’s the future, Melba. That’s what not meaning gets you, eyeballs on your arm. Why won’t you buy depilatory creams? They smell wonderful, like scorched lemons. They’re cheap! You never shop, Melba. It’s killing you, not just in the future, right now.”