Man is insignificant.

DINNER WITH K.

(c) Copyright 1992 by Franchot Lewis

"We are insignificant. God is irreverent."

--K.

Now, I shall tell you of my dinner alone with the
famous writer, novelist, and adventurer, K.

He is a tall blond one. He is always attached to a
communication device that constantly sends and receives
messages to and from the universal communications net. He
remains in touch with his various interests. As he sat at my
table a box on his lap buzzed and beeped and rang and chimed
and constantly demanded his attention. He begged me to excuse
the interruptions as he took and sent messages. I would have
been annoyed by any other guest who kept allowing a squawking
box to interrupt our dinner. K. is different. If you can get
him to sit still for a millisecond the quality of that moment
of his conversation is worth the inconvenience. K. has the
ability to get one to think, and to do more than think, to
get one to participate in life, to get off ones duff and live.
K. is one of the biggest brains and do-ers in the galaxy and
is probably worth two or three million interruptions.

I see that most of you are familiar with K. from his
many books and guest appearances on the nightly galaxy view
tele-wide screens. So, perhaps you think I am a long
suffering, short little one in a shadow, a friendly cuss,
always in search of a good conversation, who likes K. and
plays dumb to his animal behavior? Perhaps, you think I am a
joke? I know, I should have balked at having to stand second
to a talk box during that dinner I had with him at my home.
My wife thinks I worship him as if he is a god. When K. came
to our house to prepare the meal, my wife left to visit her
friends. She does not like him. She says he teaches me bad
habits. She thinks that like most artist K. has a picture of
himself which out shines the image others have of him. In his
own eyes he is a heroic cynic who is brave and bold, and
unafraid of challenging universal conventional notions. Well,
in my eyes he is a romantic. He is a hero, too, an aging one,
who sallies forth from his artistic fortress, into the wilds.
I have known him for fifteen years, and well for five. He has
played the part of friend and guru.

K.'s face was lit. His eyes shined. He looked delighted
as he declared, "I have a treat for you: fresh meat. Killed
it myself."

I may have moaned. I tried not to show how I felt. I
think I whispered, "They don't allow that much?"

"Only if you go out of the galaxy to the hinter worlds
for it," K. replied.

"They let you bring it back?"

"Yes."

"My Uncle Zowie was forced to dispose of the fresh meat
he had smuggled in," my voice may have sounded like a whine.

The shine in K. eyes was gone, he groaned,"Was your
Uncle Zowie part of the scandal in dead meat stock?"

A soft murmur escaped my lips, "My Uncle Zowie?"

K. began to lecture. The tone of dread and disgust was
in his voice."Vermin were scavenging the outer rim of the
hinter worlds for dead meat. They sold their hauls to local
vermin distributors. Their stock was bug infested, and it
infected some of the best guts on the home planet."

"Shucks," I mumbled, summoning up memories of how my
uncle suffered last summer through stomach wrenching pain. I
remembered how he howled and the way my aunt screamed at
him for abusing himself by eating the dangerous and rotten
filth.

"Some vermin were raiding zoos and even pet farms," K
continued to state his disgust.

"I heard of them, but not my Uncle Zowie," my voice
sounded almost like a lament.

"He was not involved?" K. raised an eye brow.

I shook my head.

"Just a thought," he nodded, and the shine in his eyes
returned. "This is fresh, wild game meat," he tipped his
head up. "I shall eat nothing but the best. This is for my
gut and yours."

He opened the package of meat. It was a huge piece,
enough to feed a dozen. He laid the meat out on the kitchen
table.

I stared and spoke down into it, "Looks different--"

"Sure!" K slapped me on the back. "You can buy meat in
the store - after that pore ol' soybean has had all sorts of
new finagled designer chemicals punched into it, and its been
mangled into bits, then re-arranged to be a pithy flesh-like
pulp and made the object of endless enzymes for hours at a
time. It's textured, flavored and tenderized, but it has no
taste. Not a smidgen of taste - the chemists' concoction is
far too much of a wimpy, heartless thing for any self-
respecting diner to try to approach. It is a sorry entity
onto itself that only the tasteless are fool enough to get
near."

"Oh?" I said softly.

"You should see the lack of blood cells that inflict
the asses who eat store-brought meat," K. belabored the
point.

"Yeah," I said softer.

"Gimme wild, game meat anytime. My stomach can no longer
handle soybeans," K. grinned.

"Yes," I nodded. "But, how do you cook it?"

K. gave me the recipe, repeating it as he prepared
the meal. He said: "Wash the meat and soak it overnight in
brown ale. Ryan V ale is best. Place the meat in a large pot.
Lay upon the meat sliced onions, bell peppers, Vox seeds
and salt. Roast on low heat with the lid on in a maxi-oven
for four minutes. Add some more ale and roast for another two
minutes. Now, for the sauce. Take a deep dish. Put in two
slices of the roasted game meat, a thin layer of Roguer's
mixture, a pinch of Toning celery, and pour in enough meat
stock to cover the meat. Place for fifteen milliseconds in
the maxi-oven to boil down the liquid. Remove the dish, let
it cool, then extract the juice. Return the dish to the maxi-
oven for another fifteen milliseconds. The meat stock should
now be a dark brown coating on the bottom of the dish. Scrap
this coating into chunks of bits. Pour clear Von soup into
the dish and stir until the brown bits are dissolved. Place
the dish in the maxi-oven at low heat for a few milliseconds
until it comes to a boil. Skim the soup of all undissolved
bits. Add parsley stems, dried Raffia leaves, cracked
peppers and brown onions. Let the dish simmer in the maxi-
oven for three milli-seconds. Let cool, then strain it
through an Yuan cheese cloth. Serve and enjoy."

The meal had been prepared. We were eating. K began to
tell a story. K is known as one who likes to tell stories.
Some of his yarns are rather long. He is known to make each
interesting by adding humor, or by telling them while serving
an exceptional cask of ale, or an extraordinarily unusual
slab of meat.

"On Guff are found the worst detention centers. I was
detained in one of them for twenty four hours in an air tight
cell with just enough air for one docile one, and I was given
the warning that the air was sufficient if one behaved, and
if one did not, one would suffocate and die."

"Oh," I shrieked, a scrap of meat was stuck between my
teeth.

"The air was bad, thin and it smelled," K. chatted on.

I took hold of my knife, my weapon of dissection, and
grunting, pried the meat splinter loose from my teeth, as K.
continued to narrate his adventure: "I laid on the bunk and
waited until the grinning, sadistic guards released me."

K. treated the meat as if each piece was a chewy morsel.
Using a knife and fork, he nipped little bits of meat at a
time loose from the slab and nimbly popped them into his
mouth. The meat snapped at me. I snipped at it with my knife,
sliced and speared it. The meat crackled back, fighting in my
mouth, attacking my jaws and leaving my gums irritatingly
tingling with pain. I had too spit it out.

"Does it smart?" K interrupted his tale.

"No," I lied.

"It is not sweet, confectionery, candy meat," K.
cracked. " It stings, unlike the lush, charming, juicy,
tender, luxurious crap that comes in those luscious looking
store-brought packages, the nicely nice stuff that will
shorten ones life."

I tried again. After several minutes I had been able only
to get down a few meat crumbs. My stomach was grumbling with
hunger. A great gaseous blob came bellowing up from my belly,
a cry, a yell, a roar, demanding that I feed. I scolded myself
and swore I would not allow this tough meat to break me. I
cut into it and shoved a large piece in my mouth. It pinched
me, but I was determined to tame it. My teeth would be like
scissors and presses. The meat was strong. It held fast, as
my teeth closed against it to squash, grind, pulverize it. I
mashed my teeth together, squeezing my jaws--

"You should relax," K. suggested. "You are dinning, not
fighting."

"Ugh?" I uttered with my mouth closed and filled.

"The meat is resilient," K. spoke in a low voice.
"Enjoy the challenge of eating real food. Ones who grow
sinew bones, powerful bodies, robust constitutions, the
hardy ones, the immovable males, feast on real meat. It will
make you solid."

My jaw muscles worked themselves into an awful state of
painful rigidness. Stiff pieces of the meat were stuck in my
aching gums, but I would be firm, and tough enough like K. I
closed my eyes and worked my jaws, harder, up and down. I
ignore the sharp pain the hard and fast chewing of the meat
had brought to my jaws. I would devour the food, consume its
essence, chew it to its core, annihilate its gristle. K.
now nodded approval of my ferocious effort and continued his
tale. After three minutes more, I finally had the gunk of
meat into manageable shreds and on their way down toward my
hungry stomach.

"I was aboard the maiden voyage of the Dasas II, the
first ship into hyper space," K. began to recount another
chapter of his well-known adventures.

"I know."

I attacked the meat slab again and took a larger portion
on my knife. K. indicated approval, and continued the tale.
"The additional speed at the time was not worth the
inconvenience."

"The Dasas was a pioneer ship," I mumbled behind a full
and chewing mouth.

K. replied, "Was very cramped, not very clean, very sour.
The ship's captain was a bore. He leaned a bit too much to
exaggeration. I quote him : I am authorized to tell you that
this the most important trip of your lives is the most
important trip in history."

"Wasn't it?" I asked, my voice muffled through food.

K. put a sour look on his face and answered sharply, as
if his wit had curdled at the thought of my question. His
acetic tongue wagged, "Of his life, maybe, but not of mine.
And, who can speak for history?" K. sighed, instantly no hint
of the tart look remained.

He was well into an amusing description of what life was
like for him when he was an eighteen year old conscript in
the army of the Canting warlord Mucks II. I had been
laughing along with his comic mimic of his drill sergeant,
when I shook and cursed as a glob of the meat scrap got
caught in my throat.

He stopped the tale, transfixed an intense gaze upon
me, who was squirming with embarrassment while coughing and
spitting to keep from choking on the chunky glob of meat
scrap that for the horrendous moment was unmovable in my
throat.

"What did you say?" he demanded to know.

I said nothing, just coughed violently, in a tremendous
effort to expel the glob caught in my throat.

"I am a collector of expletives. I know tens of
thousands cuss words from thousands of worlds." K. eyes bore
into mine, as he talked, all but ignoring my loud coughing
and barking, as I tried to force out, to even barf up the
meat chunk. K. questioned me about the cuss word I had
shouted at the moment the chunk got stuck in my throat.

"I rather avoid domestic cuss words altogether," he
said, "and refer to the exotic ones I acquire during my
travels. You chose to use the word, 'Senna'. I've never
heard it used that way. I suppose it is a fine word choice if
you are referring to an object that is the mother of a minor
irritation, but a major cause of pain merits a much grander
epitaph. I use often a word that I picked up from the natives
during a Terran hunting excursion. The word, Hell."

My eyes had become red. I was in deep distress, snot
was running down my nose, and I was hacking loudly, trying to
expectorate the irritant from my throat. I whimpered,
"Aren't you going to help me?"

K. rose from the table, walked behind me and whopped the
flat side of his open hand against my neck. Out of my mouth
came spittle and the gunk and a sudden wail of pain. "That
hurts!" I complained.

"Are you choking?" he retorted.

"Hell," I replied.

He laughed. "Novice diners on good meat always choke
at first," his eyes twinkled.

"Why didn't you warn me?" I pouted.

"Would you have listened? A one of adventure like
yourself?"

"I am not a one of adventure."

"Not yet? Right?"

I pointed out to him that in my book, I was very
religious. I had faith. I believed everything. Tell me any
thing and I will trust you.

His eyes twinkled again. "Really?"

"I believed what I am told, I listen."

"There is much of my younger self in you," he grinned.
Next, he turned the word, belief, around on his tongue, and
he took off gossiping about his beliefs during his childhood.
He concluded this recollection by saying, "My parents always
observed the holy high holidays. They were conventionally,
moderately orthodox. During the most important religious
holidays my whole family went to the temple dressed in our
best clothes. Going to pray was an important social occasion--"

"You're not an atheist now?" I asked.

He shook his head, "Never."

"That's good," I nodded mine.

He added, "Naturally, my childhood beliefs did not add
up. I could see that religious celebration was more important
as a social event, and that the sacred meaning of religion
had been lost. For example, we pray in an ancient tongue
that few understand. We learned our prayers by rote and
constant recital. I have prayed without understanding a
single word, or having to-"

He said that he doesn't go the temple, although society
throws a fit, and levies the heavy no-going-to-temple tax on
him, but that won't force him to pray publicly.

"I think I am as religious as anybody," he affirmed my
faith in him, " but I can't take praying in public at the
temple, repeating words that mean nothing. I seek answers
as to the meaning of life, and other ways to be in
communion with the Creator."

"Good, good," I all but applauded him. I told him that
his spiritual search sounded like a similar experience of
mine. I told him I had read his book on spirituality,
including the banned one.

"Smart Ass?" he grinned. "Thought I knew everything
when I wrote that one."

"Who hasn't thought that?" I asked.

He answered, "In all seriousness, personally, I believe
The Creator is in each of us, and all of us are of The
Creator."

I began to squirm again in my seat with my mouth open,
but this time my eyes danced around in my head like a school
child's. My voice sputtered out in quick ejaculations. "Would
you mind a new, novice on your spiritual sojourns to Kyats?"
I leaned forward, pressing him eagerly for an answer.

"You?" his eye brows lifted up an inch.

"Yes," my head bobbed up and down like an excited young
male one asking a favorite uncle for a favor.

"You're a quiet one, more likely suitable for a day trip
to Joaquin than a safari," K had a serious look on his face.

"I-" I sighed.

He spoke critically."I've placed you in the quiet portion
of my mind." I groaned signaling my disappointment. Then, he
smiled, "One who might occasionally slip out to watch the
exotic females of Ra sna V." I returned the smile. He
finished the comment, "A gentle one who never makes
trouble."

"Making trouble, how can --" I pressed him further.

"The authorities think that no-gooders like me who seek
the fulfillment of life are trouble makers."

"How can the spiritual hunts for food and the
fulfillment of life cause trouble?"

He threw his hands up in the air and shook his head.

"I have asked that of the authorities!" he exclaimed.

"I don't make trouble," I said. "I have a phobia for
pain."

"Brother, welcome aboard!" he shouted. "I shall take
you on."

"Good." I was happy. I leaped a bit from my seat. I was
so happy.

"Our first stop will be to sign in with the brotherhood
of the hunt on Margo ta's Place on the Reis Sphere. If you
prefer the quiet section of the clan --"

"No, adventure."

"I should explain: there is no quiet section, only a
quieter section. Just a few brothers belong. The quiet ones,
the high adventurers, the true gamblers, the big game
hunters."

"They're quiet?"

"And serious. In the other sections are the loudmouths,
the braggarts, the drunks and the hot shots. The ones there
for the show."

"The quiet section are for the ones in the know?"

"Exactly."

"What about the inner sanctum on Raffia VII?"

"Raffia was the entrance point for new recruits when it
was secluded. Now, it is semi-secluded, the front door to
every want-a-be."

"I see."

"The truly-ares and will-be-es have left."

"You are going to take me on a get-together for the hunt?
And on to a real hunt?"

"Forget what you think, I shall show you the right
way," said K. "You have heard of the get-togethers for the
hunt? The get-together has become some strange kind of game,
where all sorts of ones mingle freely. You're in dangerous
territory at one of them."

"Uh?"

"Raffia is where fools mingle freely with correct
behavior cops."

"Cops?"

"Rocked heads, the strident nannies who have arrested
minds, the stick and foils of the authorities. Raffia is a
little thick, but if it suits you, go ahead and go. One of
the rocked heads will approach you and take you for all you
have in a minute: your time and your freedom."

"Oh, I didn't know," I moaned.

"Don't feel bad. I never knew what went on at a get-
together either until I crashed at a few, so I am not
surprised by your ignorance."

"Gee."

"Don't worry, good old Uncle K will get you to a hunt.
With a little trusting magic I shall get you thinking like a
hunter."

The meal was finished. The dishes were cleared from the
table. We went into the den to finish off the cask of ale.

"You have mumbled something along those lines," K. said.

"Huh?" I shook my head.

"Of course, much planning must go into a successful
hunt. What you have in mind is some sort of combination, party
and hunt, I think. I never know what you are actually
thinking."

"Me?"

"It's difficult to figure out ones thoughts. They must
come out in the statements one makes." He tensed, "Now, you
are thinking about what?"

"The hunt I want to go on," I insisted I was a serious
candidate for the hunt. He frowned. I grinned to try to roll
back the frown from his face. "K., you use to say you could
read my mind?"

"Not accurately. Everybody is different, nobody is the
same. I actually do not know what anyone is going to do until
they do it."

"Do you think you will take me on a hunt like the one
you wrote about in your last book?"

"It depends on where we go and who comes along."

"Who should we take?"

"Make a list and see who will be free at the time."

"Let me see," I started to consider a list.

"Shush," he said abruptly. "I just had a thought that
you might be serious."

"Yes?"

"Then, why do you want to take a mob?"

"Huh?"

"The hunt is a spiritual search; that what you hunt for
is not the prey, the object of the hunt is self. One hunts
to discover ones self."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"If you are serious I shall take you with me to Terra."

"Terra?" I asked. He glared. I mumbled, "I mean,
Terra -- I will have to take a week off from work."

"What?" he asked in a low, quiet voice. He sighed. "If
we were arranging a quick get-together, I would answer: why
not make it a closer destination? Terra is on the farthest
rim of the outer spiral. A trip there wouldn't be cheap in
time or credits. Just from thinking of a list of those whom I
think might be interested in coming, I believe they could not
afford such a long journey. I would suggest that we consult a
chart of the hinter worlds, and find something closer. My
guess would be the northern sector, or maybe even closer
north than that."

I mumbled, "If you prefer Terra."

He replied, his voice thick with the syrup of sarcasm,
"You don't think that's a good idea?"

"Life is short," I said. "One must live now."

"Yes," he answered.

"Blasted, let's go Terra then."

He smiled, relaxed. "I have just come from there," he
said, "I had a nice time."

"Just nice?"

"You read my books?"

"Yes, nice."

"I bagged a cellar full of good meat," he smiled. "We
had some tonight."

"It was nice," I said, and remembering what K. had
written on the ritual that is the hunt, I quoted him. "The
hunt is for finding ourselves, meeting the challenge of the
hardships of hunting in the wilds, and it is a hunt for
food."

His smile broaden.

"You brought back the best meat of the hunt," I said.

He nodded, "The very best."

I nodded.

He began to tell me his secret of hunting. "To get good
meat," he said. "You must chase it, and you have to let the
meat know you are chasing it. The secret of good meat has
something to do with the natives' glandular system. When they
get frighten and run their glands secrete adrenalin--"

"Huh?"

"Adrenalin, it's some thing found in them; and the more
adrenalin in the meat, the tougher, chewer and the better
the the meat is for the masculine appetite."

"I see, " I said.

"That slab we had tonight came from one of two natives
of Terra, two no more than fifteen of their years. Good
tough, young males. I chased that meat for two miles through
a field, over a gully, and when the pair had crossed the
gully, I let them think they were free. I pulled back. Their
adrenal glands must have been pumping. I saw them pant for
breath. Then, I came on them again--zip. I was right on them.
Suddenly, I was right on them and they were horrified. I
yelled, screamed at them. Shoo! They ran. I didn't let them
both get too far. I shot one of them, stunned him. He went
down, screaming. The other native glanced back, saw that his
companion was down and panicked. I pulled back and waited.
The native went back for his fallen companion and began to
try to carry him. I waited, knowing that the meat was getting
better as they were pumping more and more adrenalin. Ah, God.
Hmmm."

"Great," I said.

He sighed, "Yes."