The Egg At The End Of Existence

Liza noticed that time had become increasingly dog-like. The minutes and hours were furry and wet-nosed, yapping and barking at her, with a worried tinge to their noises. She knew that it would be a while before she managed to get to the egg at the end of existence. She could hear anguished yelps and growls whenever she so much as thought about it.

The egg at the end of existence, she felt, held clues to everything. It could potentially solve every mystery and question that there had ever been. How to get there, though? She could hold on until the universe either contracted to a white hot pinprick or expanded to a lardy size, but she would probably be dust before that happened. Maybe she could wrap herself up in calendar-static jelly. It was certainly an idea.

And once she got to that egg, how to break it open? It would require an immense amount of effort and strength, both psychic and physical. Psychic, as so to destabilize the molecular structure and to fool the shell into letting down its defences. Physical, to pound away jackhammer-like at the thing until it gave up its secrets — indeed, all secrets ever. It would be difficult, but it would be worth it.

Just imagine what could be solved. The data transmissions of the giant pulsing hearts of San Francisco could finally be understood. The Primitive Robots Of The Andes could be tamed and put to work manufacturing mechanical telephone-answering bears. The movements of the Digital Sperm of Purple Dimension would reveal themselves.

And then an uncertainty gripped her. Would it really be a good thing to break open that egg of secrets and spill its cosmic yolk all over the place? If there were no secrets, if there were no mysteries left to solve, would life really be worth living? Frankly, no. The universe would be a big long joyless seen-it-all. People would lie on their backs, yawning. “How dull it all is,” they would say. “How dull.”

So, regretfully, she abandoned her plans. The infernal communications of San Francisco’s giant hearts would not be deciphered. Those telephone-answering bears would not be produced, in any manner. Sometimes it was better not to reveal everything. A magician requires tricks, and their tricks require a veil.

Time, all wet-nosed and waggy-tailed, seemed to relax and snuggle up in her soul. The little dog-like minutes and hours and years piled up in front of a warm fireplace and said to her, “Well done there! Well done.