The lobsters clustered solemnly about McCulloch’s host and each lightly tapped its claws against those of the adjoining lobster in a sort of handshake, a process that seemed to take quite some time. McCulloch became aware also that a conversation was under way.
What they were talking about, he realized, was him.
“It is not painful to have a McCulloch within one,” his host was explaining. “It came upon me at molting time, and that gave me a moment of difficulty, molting being what it is. But it was only a moment. After that my only concern was for the McCulloch’s comfort.”
“And it is comfortable now?”
“It is becoming more comfortable.”
“When will you show it to us?”
“Ah, that cannot be done. It has no real existence, and therefore I cannot bring it forth.”
“What is it, then? A wanderer? A revenant?”
“A revenant, yes. So I think. And a wanderer. It says it is a human being.”
“And what is that? Is a human being a kind of McCulloch?”
“I think a McCulloch is a kind of human being.”
“Which is a revenant.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“This is an Omen!”
“Where is its world?”
“Its world is lost to it.”
“Yes, definitely an Omen.”
“It lived on dry land.”
“It breathed air.”
“It wore its shell within its body.”
“What a strange revenant!”
“What a strange world its world must have been.”
“It is the former world, would you not say?”
“So I surely believe. And therefore this is an Omen.”
“Ah, we shall Molt. We shall Molt.”
McCulloch was altogether lost. He was not even sure when his own host was the speaker.
“Is it the Time?”
“We have an Omen, do we not?”
“The McCulloch surely was sent as a herald.”
“There is no precedent.”
“Each Molting, though, is without precedent. We cannot conceive what came before. We cannot imagine what comes after. We learn by learning. The McCulloch is the herald. The McCulloch is the Omen.”
“I think not. I think it is unreal and unimportant.”
“Unreal, yes. But not unimportant.”
“The Time is not at hand. The Molting of the World is not yet due. The human is a wanderer and a revenant, but not a herald and certainly not an Omen.”
“It comes from the former world.”
“It says it does. Can we believe that?”
“It breathed air. In the former world, perhaps there were creatures that breathed air.”
“It says it breathed air. I think it is neither herald nor Omen, neither wanderer nor revenant. I think it is a myth and a fugue. I think it betokens nothing. It is an accident. It is an interruption.”
“That is an uncivil attitude. We have much to learn from the McCulloch. And if it is an Omen, we have immediate responsibilities that must be fulfilled.”
“But how can we be certain of what it is?”
May I speak? said McCulloch to his host.
—Of course.
—How can I make myself heard?
—Speak through me.
“The McCulloch wishes to be heard!”
“Hear it! Hear it!”
“Let it speak!”
McCulloch said, and the host spoke the words aloud for him, “I am a stranger here, and your guest, and so I ask you to forgive me if I give offense, for I have little understanding of your ways. Nor do I know if I am a herald or an Omen. But I tell you in all truth that I am a wanderer, and that I am sent from the former world, where there are many creatures of my kind, who breathe air and live upon the land and carry their—shells—inside their body.”
“An Omen, certainly,” said several of the lobsters at once. “A herald, beyond doubt.”