
James Patrick Kelly: Fruitcake Theory

                        Bjorn is trying to tell me that the rooster isnt dumb 
                        as a spoon. Obtuse, maybe. Nave, yes. Tedious, without 
                        a doubt. 
                        The rooster is sitting across the aisle and up two 
                        seats, paying no attention to us. Were just followers. 
                        Hes staring out the window of the van at the snow. 
                        "Hes Kuvat, Maggie," says Bjorn. "Aliens think 
                        differently than we do."
                        "Cranial capacity." I tap the side of my head. "Check 
                        that skull. Hes got room up there for half a cup of 
                        brains, tops."
                        "Maybe hes got some kind of distributed nervous 
                        system," Bjorn says. "How else could they have built the 
                        starship?" 
                        "The scarecrows built the starship," I say. "The 
                        roosters came along for the ride. You follow long enough 
                        and its obvious."
                        "Intellectual bifurcation is just a theory." 
                        Nevertheless, Bjorn slides down in his seat, defeated 
                        once again. "All we know is that theyre Kuvat, both 
                        roosters and scarecrows." He takes out his appetite 
                        pacifier and starts sucking at it. I dont mean to upset 
                        him. 
                        The rooster starts eeking to himself. 
                        "Eek eek eeeek, eek eek eeeek! "
                        He looks like a cauliflower the size of a washing 
                        machine -- with legs. They are bird legs, to be sure, 
                        with scaly shanks and clawed, three-toed feet. But his 
                        body is an enormous scoop of convoluted flesh. All he 
                        wears is the translator, a golden disk that hangs on a 
                        cord around his neck like the Noble Prize for Stupidity. 
                        His skin is as translucent as spilled milk. Beneath it 
                        are coils of muscle marbled with gray fat. He has 
                        spindly arms and his little head is mostly mouth. We 
                        cant see the upright ruddy flap, like a roosters comb, 
                        just behind his button eyes, because tonight hes 
                        wearing a Santas cap of red felt. 
                        Bjorn pops the appetite pacifier out of his mouth. "I 
                        think thats Jingle Bells, " he says excitedly. "The 
                        eeking." He makes a note of this. Bjorn is new to the 
                        following team. Hes twenty-four and takes everything 
                        too seriously, except himself. Hes fat and blond and 
                        sweet as a jelly donut. I really do like him; he just 
                        hasnt realized it yet. He brings out the mother in me.
                        I yawn. Im not a night person and Im riding in a van 
                        at two in the morning. Its the roosters fault, of 
                        course. Its December 22 and the rooster has got a bad 
                        case of holiday spirit, even though he doesnt know an 
                        elf from an elephant. He wants to do a little shopping. 
                        Its a security nightmare, but we accommodate him. We 
                        always do because were asking for the Kuvat 
                        encyclopedia for Christmas. Not that we know whats in 
                        it exactly, but these creatures come from a planet a 
                        hundred and thirty light years away. Theyre bound to 
                        have a grand unified theory, the secret of cool fusion, 
                        and a cure for cellulite. 
                        =Persons?= The rooster turns toward us. =This one has 
                        hunger.=
                        "Me too. I havent eaten since dinner." Bjorn is always 
                        happy to interact with our charge. "Wait until you see 
                        the food court at this mall. Its totally grade. Must be 
                        thirty different kinds of ethnic." Hes starting to 
                        bubble with enthusiasm; I give him a needle stare. 
                        "Well, maybe only twenty," he mutters. 
                        =This one has also thirst, persons.=
                        "This one is called Maggie." I touch my chest. 
                        "Mag-gie." The rooster cant tell humans apart. This 
                        continues to annoy me; Ive been following him for four 
                        months and he still doesnt know who I am. 
                        =Laughing all the way, person, ha, ha, ha.= 
                        There is some debate as to the accuracy of Kuvat 
                        translations. 
                        Im sick of this rooster. Ive asked to follow any other 
                        Kuvat, preferably a scarecrow, but Id even settle for 
                        another rooster. As far as we know, there are four 
                        besides this one. Roosters dont have names, dont ask 
                        me why. At first we gave them nicknames -- Dodo, Dopey, 
                        Dumbo, Ding-dong, and Dufus -- only when Balfour found 
                        out, she pitched a fit. Our job was to follow, observe, 
                        and protect the Kuvat, she said, not to make snide 
                        remarks. She doesnt even like us calling them roosters. 
                        When she overheard Jasper laughing about "Dopey" back in 
                        August, she pulled him from the following team and 
                        banished him to Waste Assessment, where he sifts through 
                        Kuvat garbage and samples their sewage. 
                        This rooster has been the most rambunctious tourist of 
                        the five. Since the Kuvat landed in May, hes been to 
                        the pyramids and the Taj Mahal and the Eiffel Tower. 
                        Hes crazy about zoos and disneys. He saw the third game 
                        of the 08 World Series and was a Special Guest at the 
                        Sixty-Sixth World Science Fiction Convention. He seems 
                        to be partnered with Kasaan, the scarecrow who is the 
                        leader of the Kuvat expedition. 
                        Bjorn has signed on to the theory that the roosters are 
                        scouting us and make detailed reports back to the 
                        scarecrows, who rarely leave the compound weve built 
                        around their starship. This theory is conveniently 
                        unverifiable, since were not allowed to follow roosters 
                        onto the starship. 
                        When we pull up to the entrance of the Live Night Mall, 
                        Balfour herself gets onto the van. She nods at the two 
                        of us and then approaches the rooster. 
                        "You will have an hour. Im afraid thats as much as we 
                        can do, one hour. These two will accompany you for one 
                        hour. Anything you want, these two will obtain for you. 
                        Do you understand everything? These two? One hour? "Even 
                        though she wont admit it, its obvious that Balfour, 
                        too, thinks that the rooster hasnt got the brains that 
                        God gave to spinach. 
                        =Kuvat pay? That is the habit.=
                        "No," said Balfour. "These two will pay for everything."
                        =Person, is there fruitcake? This one hears much of the 
                        information of fruitcake.=
                        "Fruitcake?" Balfour glances back at us, as if we have 
                        some idea what the rooster is talking about. Bjorn 
                        shrugs. "Im sure theres fruitcake somewhere at the 
                        mall," Balfour says.
                        =The fruitcake solves much hunger.=
                        As we get off the van, Balfour touches my arm. I let 
                        Bjorn go on ahead with the rooster. 
                        "Any trouble?" she says.
                        "Not so far." 
                        "Well, there is now. Kasaan is on her way here from the 
                        U.N."
                        "Here as in here? Why?"
                        She gives me an exasperated glare. "Maybe she realized 
                        there are only two more shopping days until Christmas." 
                        Balfour is as mystified by Kuvat behavior as the rest of 
                        us, but shes Undersecretary for Alien Affairs. When 
                        people have questions, shes expected to give answers. 
                        Sometimes that vein in her left temple pulses like a 
                        blue worm. 
                        "You want to pull our guest out?" This would be the 
                        first time a rooster and a scarecrow have met outside 
                        the starship compound. Its a chance to observe new 
                        behaviors -- but the mall is so public. 
                        "I dont think so. No."
                        "Tell him about Kasaan?"
                        She rubs her eyes and I realize that she probably 
                        dragged herself out of bed for this. "Maybe he already 
                        knows. Look, Ive seeded the mall with our people. Were 
                        going to let this happen, okay? Its the good old 
                        observe and protect. I just wanted to give you a heads 
                        up." She turns away but catches herself. "Hows Bjorn 
                        working out?"
                        "He should do more sit ups."
                        She sighs, but the vein subsides. "Its two-thirty in 
                        the morning, Maggie. Not even Hack Bumbledom is funny at 
                        two-thirty in the morning."
                        "Want me to pick you up some fruitcake? Its full of 
                        information."
                        "This could be big." She brushes snow off my shoulder. 
                        "Ill be in the security office."
                        Followers and their families are scattered strategically 
                        around the room. When we take roosters on field trips, 
                        we try to minimize their access to the mundane world. If 
                        we can, we clear a site completely; otherwise we drop by 
                        unannounced and late at night. Were in and out before 
                        the media and the Kuvat chasers and the oddjobs arrive. 
                        There are a few civilians shopping at this ungodly hour, 
                        and of course the staff of all the stores are mundanes, 
                        but weve got good coverage. 
                        The Live Night Mall is "Y" shaped. Ribbons of light hang 
                        from its vaulted glass ceiling; they shiver in the warm 
                        breeze that blows from the ventilators. Each of the arms 
                        is lined with the usual assortment of shops selling 
                        games, infodumps, shoes, T-shirts, ties, hats, 
                        kitchenware, software, artware, candy, toys, candles, 
                        perfumes and pheromones. You can get a skin tint, a hair 
                        style, or walk-in liposuction. At the end of each of its 
                        arms is an anchor store, a Sears & Penny, a Food Chief, 
                        and a Home Depot. The three arms come together in a 
                        vast, garish, and noisy cluster of fast food 
                        storefronts. Bjorn might be right about the number of 
                        ethnics; I dont think Ive ever seen Icelandic in a 
                        mall before. At the hub of the mall there must be a 
                        couple of hundred round tables. The surfaces of each are 
                        screens tuned to themed cable stations. Even though the 
                        place is pretty much deserted, its still filled with 
                        the ghostly mutter of news and sitcoms and cartoons. Im 
                        expecting to spot the rooster here somewhere but all I 
                        can see is a handful of followers and a Santa nodding 
                        over a latte. Kevin Darcy pushes his sleeping 
                        four-year-old by me in a stroller and murmurs, "Sears 
                        and Penny."
                        So I pick my way through the maze of tables. As I pass 
                        Santa, he shoots out of his chair. 
                        "Where did you come from?" 
                        "Home," I say and try to get by.
                        "No, you didnt." He pushes in front of me. "Youre a 
                        stranger. Who are all these people?" 
                        "This the mall, friend. Were all strangers here."
                        "Not at my mall, youre not," he said.
                        "Listen, why dont you take the rest of the night off?" 
                        I flip open my wallet and give him a good look at the 
                        ID. "Ill bet youre tired. Ill clear it with your 
                        boss."
                        He glances at it, but I dont think he sees anything. 
                        "Its not him," he says uncertainly. "Its all the 
                        presents. I have to finish my list." Now Im just 
                        guessing at his story, but Im pretty sure Ive got it 
                        right. Hes old and broke and stuck in Social Security 
                        shock -- just trying to earn a few extra bucks over the 
                        holidays. Only he hasnt actually moved to a night 
                        schedule, so hes trying to tough this shift out with 
                        chemicals. Thats why hes just south of coherent and 
                        has cephadrine eyes. "If I go, theyll replace me with a 
                        Santabot." He lowers his voice. "They dont take 
                        bathroom breaks." 
                        "Excuse me." I sidestep him. "I have to see a rooster 
                        about a fruitcake." 
                        "Wait! Ill put you on my list." He clutches at me. 
                        "What do you want for Christmas?" 
                        "How about someone elses life?" He considers this and I 
                        slip by. 
                        "You can have mine!" he calls after me. "Hey!"
                        As I enter the Sears & Penny, I notice an odd, stinging, 
                        flowery smell, something like the scent of a rose, only 
                        with thorns. I follow it to the mens underwear section, 
                        where it is so strong my eyes water. A mundane sales 
                        clerk is tapping, "Silent Night,"on the keypad of his 
                        cashcard reader,
                        Bjorn and the rooster are sitting on the floor on a red 
                        and white checked plastic tablecloth, having a picnic. 
                        The roosters Santa cap is cocked at a rakish angle. He 
                        has opened a plastic bag containing three white Fruit of 
                        the Loom undershirts. 
                        He is eating them. 
                        Somehow he has also obtained a four pack of Murrays 
                        Chocolate Mint Wine, two of which are now empties. 
                        =Hungry?= He holds a wine-stained rag out to me. 
                        "No," I say, "thank you." I try to catch Bjorns eye but 
                        he is staring between his legs as if counting the red 
                        checks on the tablecloth. 
                        =One hundred percent cotton.= The rooster pulls a new 
                        undershirt from the bag and turns it this way and that, 
                        as if admiring it. =Tasty cellulose.= He opens another 
                        can of Murrays and pours some on it. =Not starchy like 
                        french fries.= He takes a bite. 
                        The smell is clearly coming from the rooster. This is 
                        new behavior; I have to know what caused it. "Uh, Bjorn, 
                        could I speak to you?"
                        He finally looks up, his eyes red and watery from 
                        rooster smell. "You think Im fat." He shivers like a 
                        barrel of Jell-O, then laughs out loud. 
                        "What?"
                        "Everybody thinks Im fat. I am fat!" He spreads his 
                        fingers across his waist. Sure, Bjorn could do a 
                        creditable Santa without padding but whats that got to 
                        do with following the Kuvat? And whats so funny?
                        I try to say, Thats not true, except the words swell in 
                        my throat like balloons. I cough and manage to choke 
                        out, "Whats going on here?" 
                        =He knows you bad or good,= The rooster says around a 
                        mouthful of undershirt. =so good good goodness sake.=
                        "Hes not stupid, Maggie." Bjorn giggles and reaches for 
                        the last can of wine. "He just doesnt know what he 
                        knows." He pops it open and drinks. 
                        "Bjorn!" I want to stop him but the rooster smell is 
                        blooming in my head. "What have you told him?" Im not 
                        sure whether my feet are touching the floor. 
                        =Kuvat not stupid.= The rooster chews with a sideways 
                        motion, like a horse. =This one sees. This one 
                        remembers. But only Kasaan knows.=
                        "Kasaan? What about Kasaan?" 
                        "Its the truth," Bjorn says. "Want some?" He offers me 
                        the Murrays chocolate wine and I snatch it away from 
                        him. 
                        =Cotton?= The rooster offers the bag of undershirts. 
                        "No." I wave him off absently. "Maybe later."
                        "Hes emitting some kind of euphoriant," says Bjorn. 
                        "Can you smell it, Maggie?" 
                        =Tidal of comfort and joy, comfort and joy.= 
                        "Yes." I sit down next to him. If I dont, somebody will 
                        have to pull me off the ceiling. "How did it start?" 
                        "He was talking about Kasaan. He says shes going to 
                        empty him, or something. Im pretty sure hes getting 
                        ready to turn in his report." He beams, pleased that 
                        hes finally won our argument. "I have a theory. He has 
                        to tell the truth, right? The smell makes him do it, 
                        feel great about it. And its working on us too. Tell me 
                        a lie, Maggie." 
                        =Lies stink.= The rooster spits out the undershirts 
                        polyester size tag.
                        "Oh god," I say. "Oh my god." I take a swig of Murrays 
                        and pass it back to Bjorn. "Kasaan is on her way over 
                        here." The chocolate weight in my gut helps me forget 
                        that Im breaking every rule of following there is. By 
                        this time tomorrow, Ill be helping Jasper centrifuge 
                        Kuvat sewage. 
                        =Person,= says the rooster. =You smell unhappy always.=
                        "I am unhappy," I say. "Ive got a right to be unhappy."
                        "Why is that?" Bjorn asks. 
                        "Because we have to follow this stupid rooster around, 
                        Bjorn! I dont know about you, but that makes me feel 
                        stupid. It should make everybody in the whole damn world 
                        feel stupid."
                        "Well, at least youre not fat." Bjorn laughs and hands 
                        me the Murrays. Just to be sociable, I take a drink. 
                        =Person is fat,= says the rooster. =Person feels 
                        stupid.= 
                        I hear running footsteps. Our backup is coming fast. 
                        When I think of how this is going to look to the rest of 
                        the following team, I start to giggle. "Were screwed," 
                        I say.
                        "Very." Bjorn thinks its funny too. 
                        Balfour herself is leading the charge. "Maggie!" When 
                        she spots us she pulls up. She stares as if she has just 
                        caught Santa shoplifting. 
                        I struggle to my knees and hold both hands out to warn 
                        them. "Get out of here, now! Its an airborne 
                        intoxicant." I realize Im waving a can of Murrays 
                        Chocolate Mint Wine at the Undersecretary for Alien 
                        Affairs. I set it discreetly on the plastic tablecloth. 
                        "Gas masks in the van," Balfour says to the team as she 
                        covers her mouth and nose with her hand. "Clear the 
                        store. No, clear the mall. Seal everything." A handful 
                        of them peel off, running. The other followers goggle at 
                        us, then back away uncertainly. "Kasaan is looking for 
                        him," she says. "Are you okay?"
                        "Sure," says Bjorn. "Tidal of comfort and joy."
                        "I think were all right," I say. "But were not 
                        observing anymore. Were part of it, Balfour. Now move, 
                        before its too late." 
                        They leave, dragging the giggling menswear clerk after 
                        them. The rooster stands and brushes a few white threads 
                        off. =Person, is there fruitcake?=
                        We find fruitcake at the North Pole, a seasonal kiosk 
                        halfway down the Home Depot arm of the mall. The North 
                        Pole also sells ten different flavors of candy canes, 
                        boxes of assorted chocolates and Christmas cookies in 
                        green foil wrap, marshmallow elves, and fudge 
                        tannenbaums. Gene Autrey sings "Rudolph the Red-Nosed 
                        Reindeer" from hidden speakers as an animated Santa and 
                        his full complement of reindeer cavort around the 
                        circular base of the kiosk. I know its the rooster 
                        smell which continues to float up my nose, but I find 
                        myself humming along with Gene. 
                        The fruitcake is stacked five high in round red tins 
                        decorated with scenes of cherry-faced kids building 
                        snowmen and wrapped in cellophane. Bjorn takes one off 
                        the top and gives it to the rooster. 
                        "This is fruitcake," he says.
                        The rooster takes it, turns it over several times, holds 
                        it up to the light and then taps a finger against the 
                        lid of the tin. =Is hard.=
                        "Its inside." I shake my head, laughing. "You have to 
                        open it first." 
                        The rooster glances up and down the deserted mall. 
                        =There is no pay person.=
                        Bjorn is unwrapping a white chocolate snowman. "Dont 
                        worry. Well take care of it."
                        =This one pays. That is the habit.= He sets the 
                        fruitcake, unopened, back on the counter. =Christmas is. 
                        The Kuvat pay.=
                        "No, really...," says Bjorn, but I nudge him in the back 
                        just as the rooster begins to eek. 
                        "Eeeeeek, eek, eek, eek. Eeeek! " Beneath his 
                        translucent skin, the flesh appears to seethe. We can 
                        hear a sloshing, like a mop in a bucket of water. The 
                        rooster claps a hand to his chest and I see a viscous 
                        ooze between stubby fingers. He brings the hand to his 
                        mouth and blows on it, once, twice, then opens it and 
                        shows us.
                        =Pay.= he says. Bjorn drops his chocolate snowman. 
                        Clicking softly on his smooth palm are four green 
                        pearls. 
                        "What are they?" says Bjorn.
                        =The end of fat,= says the rooster. He offers them to 
                        Bjorn. =Person eats?=
                        Of course, I am immediately suspicious of the green 
                        pearls. What is the end of fat anyway? What will these 
                        things do to the human digestive system? 
                        "How many?" Bjorns face is as soft as cookie dough. 
                        "Wait a minute!" Im stunned, but I cant bring myself 
                        to stop it. 
                        =The one.=
                        "What was it you said, Maggie?" He smiles at me. "Were 
                        not observing anymore. Were part of things now." He 
                        accepts a pearl from the rooster. "Thank you. Do I 
                        chew?"
                        =Swallow hurry.=
                        "Bjorn!"
                        He pops it into his mouth and its over. I wait for him 
                        to keel over and writhe or throw up or maybe even 
                        explode, but he just watches me with that goofy smile, 
                        which I absolutely understand. Whatever happens is all 
                        right, is true, is good. Well both accept it because 
                        the world smells so sweet tonight. 
                        Bjorn raises his hands over his head like a Sugar Plum 
                        Fairy and does a pirouette. 
                        When the rooster offers me the green pearls, Im not at 
                        all tempted. "Thanks." I sweep them onto my hand and 
                        pocket them. "But I think Ill save these for 
                        breakfast." 
                        The roosters eyes glitter for a moment and go dim. 
                        =One,= he says. =Share.= He turns to the North Pole and 
                        retrieves his fruitcake. 
                        The rooster wants to eat the cellophane wrapping but we 
                        talk him out of it. When we pry the top off the tin, he 
                        eeks and drops it. =Not Christmas!= The cake is still in 
                        the bottom half of the tin; it rolls toward the Playbot 
                        store.
                        =Fruitcake stinks!= He starts hopping up and down on one 
                        foot. =Stinks like a lie.=
                        "Im sorry," says Bjorn. "Maybe that one was bad. I can 
                        get you another."
                        =Take it away!= the rooster says. =Bury it!=
                        "His hour is almost up." I say, "Lets get him out of 
                        here."
                        But we dont get the chance because striding toward us 
                        from the food court is Kasaan. A dozen gas-masked 
                        followers trot behind. 
                        The Kuvat scarecrows have no more in common with our 
                        scarecrows than the roosters have with gallus 
                        domesticus. We call them scarecrows because theyre so 
                        gangly and because they wear loud, loose clothes that 
                        cover most of their bodies. But nobody who meets a 
                        scarecrow ever remembers her wardrobe. What you remember 
                        is the impossible head. It looks something like a prize 
                        pumpkin, only pumpkins arent rust red or as wrinkled as 
                        walnuts. The eyes are like bloodshot eggs and the mouth 
                        is full of nightmare teeth, long and curved and pointed. 
                        If the scarecrows werent so shy, so polite, so 
                        intelligent -- everything that the roosters are not -- 
                        they wouldve frightened the bejesus out of us. 
                        At the sight of Kasaan, the rooster forgets all about 
                        the fruitcake and begins to eek furiously. Instinctively 
                        Bjorn and I step back. The scarecrow is swooping down on 
                        the rooster; Ive never seen one move so fast. The 
                        followers are left scrambling behind. The rooster 
                        tenses. He looks as if he wants to run in five 
                        directions at once, but cant decide which one. 
                        "Eek, eeek, eeeek, eeeeek, eeeeeek! "
                        Just before it happens, I realize what Im seeing. This 
                        isnt any meeting. Its an attack: a lion charging a 
                        wildebeest, a wolf taking a hare. 
                        "Uh-oh," I say, but its good. Its true. The smell has 
                        changed everything.
                        Kasaan slams into the rooster, knocking him down. The 
                        rooster bounces, rolls and lies, shivering, on his back. 
                        His legs pump weakly as Kasaan looms over him. The 
                        scarecrow bends to nuzzle the roosters shoulder. He 
                        closes his eyes. His eeking is low and wet. The 
                        breathless followers catch up. 
                        "What is this?" I recognize Balfour. "Oh my god, whats 
                        she doing?"
                        Kasaans nubbly pink tongue licks between bared teeth at 
                        the roosters shoulder. It makes a sound like someone 
                        washing hands. 
                        "Observe," I say. "But dont protect. Not this time."
                        The licking goes on for several moments. Suddenly the 
                        teeth pierce the skin and sink deep. The rooster 
                        stiffens, but makes no sound. With a quick jerk to one 
                        side, Kasaan tears an apple-sized chunk of the roosters 
                        flesh away. Her jaws close on the meat -- once, twice, 
                        three times -- and then she tilts her head back and 
                        swallows. The wound brims with purple blood; Kasaan 
                        licks it clean. When the bleeding stops, the scarecrow 
                        steps away and stretches luxuriantly. 
                        "What tasty information!" She offers a hand to the 
                        rooster, who struggles to his feet. "You have seen most 
                        deliciously."
                        "I have a theory," whispers Bjorn, "about how these 
                        reports are made..." But he doesnt get to elaborate 
                        because Kasaan comes up to him. 
                        "What that one gave you," the scarecrow says, "is the 
                        egg of a vuot, a worm that will grow over the years in 
                        your intestines." 
                        Bjorn turns the color of eggnog. 
                        "How do you know about that?" I say.
                        "I ate those memories," says Kasaan. "Now the vuot is a 
                        beneficial parasite that all Kuvat share. It will filter 
                        toxins and regulate your metabolism and prolong your 
                        life. You need not worry about side effects. Indeed, I 
                        believe you will be most happy with your relationship 
                        with the vuot over the coming centuries." 
                        I pat my pocket to make sure the pearls -- vuot eggs -- 
                        are still there. Kasaan notices this and bows 
                        apologetically. "What has happened, is and is for the 
                        good. But there is something that has not yet happened, 
                        which I must unfortunately prevent from happening."
                        I can guess whats coming. "We bought them from him," I 
                        say. "We paid."
                        "Maggie, a fruitcake is not the price of immortality," 
                        says Kasaan gently. 
                        =Fruitcake stinks.= says the rooster. =Person lies.= His 
                        wound has already healed. 
                        "Im afraid I must insist." The scarecrow lays a hand on 
                        my shoulder. 
                        =Better not cry. Tell me why.=
                        I know she means me no harm. So does the rooster, Bjorn, 
                        Balfour, and all the followers. Im going to give her 
                        the eggs. Maybe later well find out what the right 
                        price for them is. As far as Im concerned, the 
                        situation is under control. But its not my mall.
                        "Get your hands off her!" 
                        It happens so fast. Santa comes from somewhere behind 
                        the followers. No one sees him until he goes airborne. 
                        Hes spry for an old man, clipping Kasaan at the waist 
                        and spinning him around. The eggs go flying out of my 
                        hand and splatter on the floor. Santa and the scarecrow 
                        fall in a heap. 
                        "Monster!" screams Santa. "Get out of my mall!" Hes got 
                        his hands around the scarecrows neck. We swarm over to 
                        pull them apart but were a millisecond too late.
                        Kasaan bites down hard on Santas bicep. She tears off a 
                        mouthful of muscle and some red felt rags. Perhaps its 
                        instinct that makes her swallow.
                        "Ahhh!" Blood spurts. Santa faints. 
                        The scarecrow picks herself up slowly, licking the blood 
                        off her lips. 
                        "Kasaan, I am so sorry," says Balfour, her voice muffled 
                        by the gas mask. "I thought we had secured the area." 
                        Kasaan stares thoughtfully at her. "He is a senior."
                        "Old, yes," she says. "Poor thing probably doesnt know 
                        what hes doing."
                        "This is how you treat your elders?"
                        "What do you mean?"
                        "We have made a terrible mistake," says Kasaan. "I wish 
                        to return to the ship immediately."
                        =And a happy New Year,= says the rooster, as he follows 
                        the scarecrow out. 
                        Three days later, the Kuvat starship takes off. They 
                        have yet to return.
                        Barbara Balfour, Undersecretary of Alien Affairs, 
                        resigns in February, after taking a merciless pounding 
                        in the media and both houses of Congress. In March she 
                        signs a contract to write Who Lost the Kuvat?, which 
                        presents her side of what happened. Although sales are 
                        disappointing, the vein in her temple stops throbbing.
                        Bjorn Lipponen loses one hundred and fifty pounds in six 
                        months. Two years after The Incident, as it comes to be 
                        called, he is named one of the twenty-first centurys 
                        Hundred Most Sexy Men. Later, he becomes a noted 
                        futurist. His book, The Road to Eternity, is in its 
                        eighteenth printing. 
                        Nobody knows quite what to do with Lester Rand, the 
                        demented Santa. There is considerable sentiment for 
                        charging him in the World Court with crimes against 
                        humanity. But who can say what will happen if the Kuvat 
                        come back and find out that we punished the messenger 
                        instead of accepting the message? In his later years, he 
                        writes a childrens book, Reindeer in the Mall, which is 
                        optioned by Fox and made into a full length computer 
                        animated cartoon. 
                        I am never going to write a book. Im not going to live 
                        forever
                        There are a lot of theories about what caused The 
                        Incident. Some want to blame me for insulting the 
                        rooster, even though what I said was only the truth. 
                        Others say that it is humanitys fault for mistreating 
                        the Lester Rands of the world. Many former Kuvat chasers 
                        maintain that when Kasaan digested the information he 
                        bit off Rand, he saw into the dark soul of Homo sapiens 
                        sapiens and was repelled. I guess everyone has a theory. 
                        Heres mine.
                        It was the fruitcake.
