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important fact, why. I know you totally. I don't want much from you, Dink. All is what I want, the whole Moldenke. Take off that trenchcoat and get back in the chair. Quit fiddling.”
    “No, Bunce. I'm ignoring you.”
    “How can you? Test me. Ask me anything about yourself. Try me...pick a hard one.”
    “All right, Bunce. Several years ago I was in the crowd along a boulevard watching a parade. Someone tapped my shoulder and I turned to see. It was Cock Roberta. The crowd pushed us close. I felt my crank harden against her leg. She put something into my hand. A wave went through the crowd and we were separated. What did she leave in my hand?”
    “A little polished acorn opening on copper hinges, warm with her perspiration. Warm with her perspiration,    Moldenke! What do you think of that detail? Little Cock is a hot handed woman, isn't she?”
    “All right, Bunce. When I opened the acorn, what was inside?”
    “The crowd was all around you, pushing at your elbows. You waited until you got home, back to your room. You turned on the lamp and opened the acorn over a saucer and a tightly folded paper fell out. You carefully unfolded it and read it.”
    “I assume you know what it said.”
    “Ah, the Moldenke assumptions. Yes, I know what it said. It said, 'Capital M, My dear, capital M, Moldenke, comma, paragraph, indent, capital T, They say that I'm beginning to punctuate and that I'll have to seclude myself and rest, period Capital T, They say I shouldn't be looking at the sky when the moons are up, period.' And she signed it, 'capital C, Cock.'
    “I don't care what you know, Bunce. I still intend to ignore you.”
    “Suit yourself. I tried to help you. You once had a wart on the quick of your thumb. You habitually chewed on it and over the years it shrank and went away, leaving a small oval scar. As a boy you stashed coins and licorice in your cuffs. Nothing escapes me, Moldenke. Nothing.” 
    Moldenke hung up.
     
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    He sat on the seawall, chewing stonepicks, and watched the first artificial sun break apart and burn out. A slow, dry rain of white ash persisted through summerfall. By winter a second sun was up, blinding to look at and almost warm enough.
     
    32]
     
    The moons were nearly down. He would read a final Burnheart letter and then make for the bottoms.
     
    Dear Moldenke,
    How many wonders has mother science put to sleep?
    As ever,
    Your country friend,
    Burnheart
     
    He remembered writing back:
     
    Dear Doctor,
    I don't know. I wonder. And it keeps me awake. Apologetically yours,
    Moldenke
     
    He saw the last flash of moon through the lookout. He went to the door, listened, put his hand on the doorknob. Inflations, deflations. He would have to forget the jelly. He waited, went back to the chair, tried to get his mind to wander off to the acre of weed and pollen. He chewed a stonepick, tied on a gauze pad. He went back to the door, listened. A labored inflation, an extended deflation, and a lull. The feet shuffled back and forth at the door. His major heart thundered, the others ticked rapidly. He imagined himself a bloated fish, dead on a beach. The jelly, still there. He imagined himself a tripodero, racing along the hedgerows. No, still the jelly. He would have to hurt himself. He went to the refrigerator, placed his hand on the door seal and closed the door. The pain was immediate, completely distracting. He wrapped gauze around his swelling hand, left the room. The hallway was empty. He found himself on the street.
     
    33]
     
    She followed the lines in his face with a geographical eye and an imaginary pen, giving each line a name, as though they were discovered rivers.
    He arranged a bed of peat bags and they chewed stonepicks. Sounds feathered and nested in silence. She took off the Indian dress and draped it over an elephant plant.
    He parted labia with his thumbs.
    She said, “What are you doing?” She laughed, peat chips caught in her hair.
    He said, “The little man in the