Then he spied a representation of a man with his baby. The man's penis was flaccid; but even more remarkable, he had a well-developed bosom, and the baby was nursing.
Prior stood and stared at that for some time, his groin twinging nervously. Was this a sculptural joke? He had never heard of a man with full-blown breasts, except for the chosen castrates who claimed to have converted to women. Yet every man did have nipples, and before puberty the chests of boys and girls were pretty much alike, and in some cases boy-babies dribbled milk from those nipples. So the potential was there—and if man was not intended by nature to have it, why was he born with nipples? Only body chemistry in adolescence made the difference. Why not men with breasts and women with beards?
Could it, in fact, have been this way in the past? Less differentiation between the sexes? Perhaps at one time every adult human being had had beard and breasts, and penis and vagina. Maybe only in historic times, when prudery could be developed, perfected and spread like a vile disease, had the woman's member been reduced to the clitoris and the man's hole portioned between anus and urethra. Once man had fought his way to supremacy on Earth, he had no longer needed to have every part interchangeable, and so true sexuality had developed. A modern woman could be considered at least in part a castrated male; a modern man might be a debreasted female.
Prior shook his head, embarrassed by the turn his speculations had taken. Next thing, he would be wondering whether there had originally been any differentiation between man and sheep and horse and bird and griffin. The statues implied that there had not been; that all could revel together sexually; that evolution had altered only the forms, not the sexuality.
Well, maybe so—but what kind of offspring would spring from the merged loins of man and griffin? The heraldic beast was already a cross between an eagle and a lion! Even the man-sheep combination was complex enough; would that be a mashep? Sheepan? Meep? Shan?
He paused. Maybe a succubus, or—
Satyr.
Satyr! Of course! Forepart of a man, hindpart of a goat. Bipedal, but with horns. No doubt it all made sense, once the big picture was viewed and grasped.
There was a good deal to learn from such statues. Maybe someday he would return for the whole course of instruction.
Chapter Thirteen
At last he arrived at the outpost of the Egglayers. At this point Prior was ready for anything. But his buildup was only for a letdown.
It was a small conservative cabin. The road looped around it and stopped. There was nowhere else to go.
He marched up and knocked on the door. After a moment a middle-aged saggy-gutted balding man yanked it open. "This is the place," the inhabitant said abruptly, his whiskers quivering like those of some cartoon character. "I don't recognize you, though. Mighty small gut on you. You new?"
"I guess so," Prior admitted. "I was told to look for the Egglayers."
The man reassessed him, scratching his ponderous belly. "You ain't an Egger?"
"I guess not."
"Then whatinhell you doing here?" the man roared.
"I don't exactly know. I'm supposed to stay here for a few days until..." He trailed off, not wanting to be too specific.
The man let fly a sigh as though breaking wind. "Well, come in anyway. Maybe we can train you."
Prior entered. The interior was every bit as humble as the exterior had promised. There were cobwebs in the upper corners and roach droppings in the lower corners. But he was hungry and tired and his crotch hurt and he wasn't looking for trouble or for palatial accommodations. He wasn't much for mystery, either; if the man cared to explain what the Egglayers were, fine; if not, who cared?
There was bread on the dirty table—a monstrous brown loaf, partially sliced. Beside it was a frothy bucket of brew. Prior helped himself and eased into the chair. Almost with the first bite he felt the gases bubbling in his intestine; this was flatulent stuff! "Who told you about the Eggers?" the man demanded as though just thinking of it.
"Oubliette Emdee. You see, she—"
"Oubie! Whyinhell didn't you say so?" The man belched resoundingly, and a faint putrid vapor drifted from his mouth. "Anything that li'l pekkermender wants is just fine with us!"
"She told me to come here for a while so my preliminary operation can heal. Because she has other patients, and it gets crowded."
"She's busy, all right. But she's got plenty of space. Must've wanted you here... sure you didn't come to learn Egging?"
"I don't know anything about—"
"You'll find out!" He laughed with unseemly gusto. "Who's she got under the knife this time?"
"A sultan had his member damaged by a—"
"That camel-humping African? Haw, haw! He never learns! She must've warned him fifty times: stay clear of the camels, Sult; one fuck too many and they fuck you back. Specially the he-camels. But that old shitter, he—"
"And a homosexual with allergies to saliva and fecal matter."
"A fairy what don't like spit or shit on his horn! Cheese, Oubie really gets the cases! How's your maypole sliced?"
"I don't understand—"
"You don't see Oubie just 'cause your swinger don't stand, you know."
"Oh. I was deprived of my member, so she—"
The man crammed a slice of black bread into his big mouth. "Hmd y'oos yr motherfucking coch?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Who sawdoff yr stinkin' horseradish?"
Somehow the question didn't sound much better the second time around. Maybe it was the mouthful of food that made it sound messier than it was. "I was rolled," Prior said with simple dignity.
Black crumbs spewed violently out of the man's hairy mouth. "Prick-rolled? My bellowing asshole! You don't say! Ain't that a jock-popper!" And he chuckled roundly.
It seemed best to get this mirthful loudmouth onto something more productive. "Do you know anything about prosthetic members?"
"Dead stick sledders? Never tried it myself, but I hear Oubie's the best fuckin' cocklock in the business."
"You mean there's no sensation in the prosthetics? She implied—"
"You're farting through your yellow teeth, junior. Sensation? When Oubie sews 'em on, just pissing can jack up your bug juice."
"Especially underwater, I understand." But Prior took this as a favorable report. "What do you do here, really?"
"We lay the eggs." He pronounced it with a long e. "Didn't she tell you?"
"Not in sufficient detail."
The man perked up a hairy ear. "Clucker's comin' now. You just watch."
Sure enough, another magnificently bloat-bellied man barged in. "Well if it ain't Plymouth Rock!" the newcomer cried. "But who's yer mistress?"
"Oubie's threadin' his clapper to the rucksack," Plymouth explained. "What's your load, toad?"
"Gimme the nest, pest," Clucker responded.
Plymouth brought out a box filled with straw. It did look like a nest.
Clucker touched his soiled buckle and dropped his filthy trousers and shorts. He squatted over the nest, his huge meaty buttocks spreading impressively.
"Watch," Plymouth directed, pressing Prior's face down almost into contact with the straining brown-streaked rectum. "Now you'll see some real chickenshit!"
The hairy pink anus bulged. Gas leaked out, as though an old-fashioned bus were starting, and the aperture fluttered shut. Prior gagged from the stench, but couldn't get his head away. Then the flesh bowed again. It turned outward, blue veins showed, and the central cavity deepened. Something white appeared in the ugly depths.