The Golden Globe

It was Uncle Ed.

Sparky never understood how he knew this, but he knew. He hadn't seen his uncle in over twenty years, had not known him well then. The thing wallowing in the water below him at first presented nothing resembling a face. But he knew. Then the thing rolled slightly and at one end, on one side, was a clench of flesh that slowly resolved itself into eyes, nose, and a mouth. There was nothing you could really call a head, and certainly nothing resembling a neck. Just endless, tightly packed folds and rolls of flesh that quivered and undulated with the slow rhythms of the water. One single feature was left of the matinee idol that had been Ed Ventura: his nose. It had defined a profile that graced a million movie posters, and there it sat, surrounded, almost overwhelmed. The lips were now fat and sensuous. The chin? Well, Sparky supposed you could call any of several dozen folds below the mouth a chin, if it pleased you. His cheeks were fat. His forehead was fat; if eyebrows remained, they were buried deep. The eyes were at the bottom of puckered pits, but they were alert and alive.

"Hello, Sparky," the thing said. And there was the source of the blubbery sound he had heard over the intercom. Uncle Ed could barely speak without making a raspberry.

"Hi... Uncle Ed?"

"Somewhat changed, but still the same jolly old fellow inside," Ed confirmed. "Wait a moment."

There was a momentary splashing, and Sparky caught a glimpse of what might have been a hand, or a flipper. If it was co

The mouth smiled. It was bigger than Sparky had realized. Well, of course it would have to be big to eat enough to... Sparky turned away from that thought. And from the problem of how all that food being prepared in the banquet room was to get from the tables into the maw of this floating creature.

As a matter of fact, Uncle Ed presented several logistical problems to the curious mind, such as breathing, and elimination, and sex... Sparky had never felt less curious in his life.

"Sit down, boy," Ed commanded. "I can't look up at you."

"What's that?"

"No neck, Sparky." His uncle chuckled. "I haven't had much of a neck for ten years now."

Sparky sat, at first crossing his legs beneath him, then deciding he might as well dangle his feet in the water. It was warm and soothing; Sparky had been on the move for almost six hours. He needed a rest.

"Was that a bandage on your leg?"

"Yes."

"And you seem fairly battered in other places."

"I fell down a staircase."

"Of course you did. I must say, you did not show any trace of disgust when first I hove into view."

"I'm an actor."

There was a pause, then Ed laughed.

"And a hell of a good one, nephew! Much better than I ever was. Of course, I never wanted to be an actor, but I had little choice in the matter. Neither did you."

"It's all I ever wanted to be," Sparky said.

"It's all you were ever allowed to want to be, which is a slightly different thing. But you had the talent, and you did well, so no harm done, eh? Except for the occasional near-death experience in the bathtub, I shouldn't wonder."

Sparky was too shocked to reply.

"Well of course I know about that, boy. Not from having witnessed John doing it to you. From having it done to me by my father. Given John's personality, and his designs on you, it was a certainty he would use Father's methods in your education."

"Do you have children?" Sparky asked, a little chagrined that he had never thought to find out.

"I did not. I didn't want to find out if I would use Father's methods. They say it runs in families, you know. Child abuse. Something you might wish to consider when the question of child rearing comes up."

Sparky didn't know why he had asked that question. He was feeling lightheaded, not at all well. The smells of cooking from the room behind him were overwhelming, and not as pleasant as they had been.

"You didn't want to be an actor," Sparky said. For some reason, that bit of information had stuck in his head.

"Didn't want to be, and never really became one. I was a star, and I'm sure your father told you the difference. I wanted to be a chef. Our father had other ideas, and one did not cross our father, any more than you cross yours. Though it looks as if you might have done so today."

"Did you see... I mean, has it been on—"

"The news? There is no news in here, Sparky. And before you launch into your story, let me assure you I don't want to hear it. What he did to you, what you did to him, I don't want to know. I can never be called to testify to something I don't know anything about. You fell down a staircase. Right?"

"...right."

"And I'm a ballet dancer. Of course, I'm free to deduce things. You want to get off Luna. You seem unable to simply walk up to the ticket counter and buy passage. Ergo, you are being hunted. You had an argument with this staircase. You seem to have lost."

"You haven't seen the staircase."

"Hah!" Uncle Ed was delighted. "Maybe you gave as good as you got! No, no, don't tell me any details, let me make them up in my own mind. It should provide me with no end of source material for months of quiet contemplation. That's what we mostly do here, if you were curious. Float, and contemplate."

"And eat," Sparky suggested.

Uncle Ed squinted dubiously. With all that fat around his eyes, it was a squint to remember.

"I wasn't—" Sparky began.

"Making fun of me. Of course not. Obviously we eat. I forbade you contempt, disgust. Curiosity I will allow you. Within limits. I'd venture to guess you're wondering how much I weigh."

Like the starlet insulted when asked her measurements, Sparky suspected the lady doth protest too much. Ed wanted to talk, he realized. Within limits. He'd have to be careful not to show too much nor too little interest.

"Three thousand two hundred and seven pounds, at last weighing. Probably a few more by today. A ton and a half of contentment."

Sparky hadn't known humans could get that large. He doubted it was possible without some modifications. Extra hearts, possibly, or mechanical ones. Or elephant hearts. He also suspected that if he asked about that, he could be there for hours.

"I believe I'm the third largest human who has ever lived. Numbers one and two are somewhere in the water below me."

"Are you shooting for first place?"

"Not in any determined way. I wouldn't mind, of course."

"You said 'we.' Who are you? I mean, a cult of some sort?"

"Just retirees who like to eat. People who find the modern world a bit too frantic, who have socialized too much. People on retreat. Who are seeking a lower level of consciousness. Who admire lizards basking on rocks, jellyfish drifting on warm currents. Who are happy to exist, but not eager to struggle, physically or mentally. We have no organization other than regular meals, six times a day, and no name for ourselves. The few outsiders who are aware of us—and that is very few, since we never go out—call us chubbies."

Sparky was reminded of a story of a hermit, isolated and silent for thirty years. Once his silence was broken he couldn't stop talking. Sparky couldn't recall the punch line.

But he could see some sort of forklift trucks congregating down at the far end of the pool. Cargo nets hung from manipulator arms, and there seemed to be a commotion in the water. Good God, it must be feeding time, he realized. He would rather not witness that.