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.

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.

A white turd? Prior marveled. Did the man have a liver-bile blockage? He had heard that bile was what made fecal matter possess its normal rich brown. When the bile duct got constipated, the stuff backed up in the liver and had to run through the blood, finally making the urine brown instead.

The pale lump pushed out. It was rounded and smooth, and its surface glistened. On an oily film it eased out of the heaving bowel. It was about the size and shape of a hen's egg.

An egg! Something halfway registered in Prior's mind. They did call themselves egglayers!

The egg dropped into the nest. Plymouth picked it up and studied it closely. "Good shape, good heft, Clucker. You sure can hold 'em."

"Incubate it," Clucker grunted. "Sometimes the end one gets cold."

Plymouth carried it carefully to a glassed-in nest and set it inside. Clucker strained over his own receptacle again. As Prior watched, another egg emerged. This too was incubated. Then a third and a fourth.

Clucker stood up and hitched aloft his trousers.

"You go to all that trouble just to carry a few eggs?" Prior inquired.

"Eegs," Clucker said. "E-E-G."

"They look like plain old chicken eggs to me."

"Takes some chicken to lay an eeg," Clucker said amiably.

"The first time, that is," Plymouth said. "Our layings don't count; that's just transport."

"I don't understand. Why don't you just carry them in a basket, or a regular box of a dozen?"

Plymouth burst into laughter, his belly shaking St. Nick fashion. "Shitfaced inspector'd just love that start, fart!"

"Also, it's cold on the pass," Clucker said. He finished his mug of brew, burped, hauled the nest around and dropped his pants again.