The press fell with a loud thump that shook the cubicle. Odors of a high protein bake brought out the Watcher’s family-7. Val studied the assortment of polarized females—all ages and sizes. They wore their vented, meld robes with belted waists.
“Calories for the meld tonite,” said Watcher, clapping his hands loudly and shooing them back into the living quarters. “Flavored calories.”
The press lifted. Steam rose. Val began scooping the nutmeg-colored wafers into his bag. He paused to blow on a hot finger. Watcher used a long-handled spatula to pile his tithe on an ornamental meld platter.
“Care to share our evening meld, brother?” asked the Watcher.
Val declined. All that mucous membrane took the edge off his appetite. As he left he heard the wet, smacking sounds of their evening meld/meal. Pressed rat was quite a delicacy. Flavors were good for the soul in the meld.
Leaving his ratting gear in his quarters he took the pressed rat down to Walter’s. Female Bitter met him at the door and began to fondle the heavy bag of protein. He frowned her away.
“Where’s Walter?”
“Dabbing,” she said, nodding toward the fat old man’s private cubicle. Val glanced around the spacious thirty-foot living room… advantages of a family-5.
Fat Walter beamed as he waved Val into his little dirty ten-foot cubicle. An inch of dry soil covered the floor. In one corner stood a simple clay pot with a clump of thick crabgrass. Adobe bricks were stacked against one wall like hoarded gold.
“You’re a Dabber?” asked Val.
Walter nodded, smiling. He wore sandals on his dusty feet. His tunic was so matted and brown Val was sure it must be stored, folded, under the clay pot when not being worn.
“Dirt, adobe and bamboo—DAB,” said Walter. He offered Val a seat in the room’s only chair—woven bamboo. It creaked as it accepted his weight.
“You are just in time for the ceremony,” wheezed Walter, taking off his sandals.
“Ceremony?”
“The Changing of the Dirt,” said Walter, sweeping the dry dirt into a bamboo scoop. When the floor looked reasonably clean he wiped his hands on his tunic and reverently tipped over the big clay pot. Gobs of sticky black earth rolled out. He spread it around with his toes.
“Purified dirt,” he said, picking up two earthworms and a sow bug. The clump of crabgrass was moistened and examined carefully. Other bugs and worms could be seen crawling and squirming about the tangle of roots. Walter smiled, dumped the old dry dirt in the pot, moistened it and replaced the sod.
“Want to walk in my dirt?” invited Walter. “Protect you from IA. The old house dust mite can’t get you as long as you are surrounded by Nature’s bags and worms.”
Val smiled weakly. “No. No. I just came over to leave you some pressed rat. It was a good Hunt.”
Walter patted the bag-o-rat and became serious. “Really Val, you ought to try DAB. You’ve been pretty tense lately. Nothing gets rid of the old anxiety quicker than a bucket of mud.”
Val held up a hand cynically. “The occult doesn’t move me.”
Walter watched his little sod creatures for a moment.
“When they flourish I know everything is all right in my cubicle. Did you know that one of my Dabber brothers detected a radiation leak near his cubicle after his dirt creatures failed to reproduce? And there was a case of heavy metal residue on level nineteen. Soil organisms can be a good index of—”
Val laughed, “But what about the food you eat? The air you breathe? The water? You are in contact with so much of the hive—this cubicle is just an insignificant part of your…”
“At least I know one place where I’m safe.”
Val silently offered old Walter a protein wafer. He popped it into his mouth and chewed carefully around the stiff mesh of bone, skin and tail.
“The most important thing…” continued Walter, “DAB protects you from is suicide. That is the number one killer. Inappropriate Activity—old IA. Without DAB your ectodermal debris sensitizes you. All your skin scales, hair and skin oils get into the house dust and feed the mite, Dermatophagoides. The mite acquires ectodermal protein antigens. As you live with the mite and breath in dust—mite fragments—you build up antibodies against them. Antibodies against your own ectodermal antigens. When the titre gets high enough the antibody cross reacts with your own neuroectoderm—your brain. Hence the logarithmic correlation between crowding and IA. Between house dust sensitivity and suicide. Humans who nest with rugs, drapes and stuffed furniture have the highest suicide rate. Humans who live with dirt, adobe and bamboo have the lowest.” Walter moved the tasty mesh around in his mouth savoring the salty fluids, tangy viscera and iron-rich rusty muscle and blood. Forming the residue into a ball he spat it into the crabgrass.
“A treat for my little soil friends,” he said.
Bitter stuck her head in the door.
“Meld time,” she smiled. Her body glowed from her long hot soak in the refresher. Even her finger nails had softened. Her vented robe hung in loose folds without its belt. Umbilicus and areola peeked out.
“Join us,” invited Walter, nodding with three chins.
Val started to shake his head—no.
Bitter hooked her hand under his arm and pressed him with a bony knee. “Certainly you’ll stay. You brought the pressed rat. We’ll sauce up the wafers and pour a little liqueur—might even pass around a little Molecular Reward. It will be a real warm meld.”
Walter took his other arm and the two of them swept a protesting Val into their living room. Neutral Arthur, nude sans genitals, was busy setting up ornate platters and tall goblets. The soft meld pad was unrolled on the floor beside the eating utensils. Jo Jo, young, thin and preoccupied, studied a small amount of sweet aromatic liquid in his glass. Busch, a slightly older, more rough-mannered male, stood against a wall. Val hadn’t noticed Arthur’s neutral body, but when old fat Walter began to struggle out of his muddy tunic his redundant folds of flesh were impossible to ignore. Although Walter was a polarized male, it was impossible to tell; for a fatty apron of meat hung from his belly to his knees—the panniculus. He looked more like an unfinished clay statue than a human.
“Walter, you should never take off your clothes,” said Val insultingly.
“Just relaxing,” shrugged Walter. “Good for the soul.” He plopped down on the floor and pulled his feet up under his panniculus.
Female Bitter laid out the first course—watery soup. She stood back and slipped out of her robe. She was slim. Her puberty-plusnine years gave her one horizontal belly wrinkle and shrunk her breasts.
“Do you think I should leave my clothes on too?” she asked cloyingly.
Val thought that another well-placed insult might get him out of what he considered to be a dull evening. “I’m afraid I’ve seen more attractive bodies on neuters.”
Undaunted, she gave him a ritual hug: “Neuters aren’t capable of a sexual flush and myotonia.”
Val frowned. “A nipple on a rib is still ugly.”
Fat Walter smiled placidly and picked up his tunic.
“If Val feels more comfortable dressed—” he said pulling on the tent-like garment, “we can have a nice first-stage hand-holding meld.”
The other four naked bodies were already thoroughly wrapped up in each other. Val frowned at Walter: “I guess I’ve just never seen five people in love before.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Walter, nudging the tangle of extremities with his toe, “you’re our guest. We’ll go at your speed.”
Bitter gave the meld a parting squeeze and stood up. They pulled on their garments and seated themselves again.
“Want to see heaven?” asked Bitter, offering a dose of Molecular Reward.