By M.C Feng

There are few things I enjoy more than telling guests that the gooey stuff coming out of Space Egg is what the scientists call ‘Space Smegma’. Of course, this isn’t true. But I have to entertain myself somehow. Surprisingly being the “Head of Public Viewing and Extra Terrestrial Engagement” can get boring sometimes. 

I said my favourite line yesterday to a timid looking boy who had just reached the front of the viewing line — my viewing line. The boy had stared at the Space Egg, mouth agape, clutching at his mother’s arm. I’d heard the boy asking his mother what that “sap stuff” coming from the Space Egg was, and had resolved to enlighten him. 

“Space smmmmmeggma. Space smegma,” the boy had repeated to himself in an expressionless whisper. The boy’s mother pulled him closer to herself, and had shot me an icy look. 

“Put your phone away, Simon. You don’t need to look that word up,” she’d said, still leering at me. But it was too late. The boy had stared at his phone with an expression of confusion and disgust. I hid my laughter by covering my mouth with my open hand. 

***

A few days before, the Space Egg had emitted a low, reverberating groan, not unlike the sounds heard ad-nauseum on documentaries about blue whales. The people in the viewing line jumped back, and some people even ran out of the facility. 

“All good, people. All good. Space Egg is just trying to talk to us. It means no harm,” I had yelled to the crowd. There was one group that seemed entirely undeterred though. At the front of the line was this rotund, red-faced man who was trying — without much success — to fit all seven of his snot-nosed children into frame with Space Egg. I’m sure it would’ve been a lovely photo. 

“Alright, time’s up. On you go. Vamos. We’ve still got 500 more VIPs to go,” I had said, raising my hand to signify that their time was up. 

“Come on, Man. We paid a thousand bucks for this. One more minute,” he huffed. 

“Seccccc-uuuuuuurity,” I said in a rising voice. 

“Little shit,” the father muttered as he steered his little platoon towards the exit.  

He’s right. I am a little shit — an entirely undeserving little shit. Here I am, the drop-kick son of a distinguished scientist finally making something of himself. “Head of Public Viewing and Extra Terrestrial Engagement” at the newly formed Extra-Terrestrial Department, thank you very much. And I damn-well let people know about it. Yeah — my Dad is the ‘go to’ in this whole thing — the Robert Oppenheimer of Extra-Terrestrial studies. Yeah — no one was gonna say no his choice. Yeah — nepotism… blah, blah, blah. But that doesn’t bother me. For the first time in my life, I’m somebody. And I’m making my old man proud. And all of the people from my town who had made fun of me, called me a ‘loser’, are pretty silent now.

About the Author