The College President volunteers to bury the Comedian. He had said thing to her just before the duel, whispered under his breath, that were - even from the mouth of a comedian - exceptionally disturbing and sexist.Then, at the end, he stopped to thank me for instituting a college initiative to encourage the cultivation free-range, organic chicken, she says, shoveling dirt over the Comedian's bloodless face. What a terrible person, she murmurs. Pepple smokes.
Pepple leaves and the Compasssmith arrives. He arrives carrying a small contraption. It's a box upon which sits the bronze statue of a large rodent. Though the contraption changes direction, the statue corrects itself, always reclaiming its previous position.
This is my invention, says the Compasssmith: a non-magnetic compass. Whichever way you turn it, he demonstrates, the marmot always points its paw south.
The College President examines the invention. It includes highly detailed, hand-worked brass friezes along the sides of the square base. To the north is carved a tortoise standing on the back of a snake, to the east a laughing dragon, to the south a stylized cuttlefish, to the west the depiction of men at work in a steel foundry, apropos of the Detroit murals by Diego Rivera.
Exceptional craftsmanship, she notes.
It came to me in a flash one day. I suddenly thought: where would I be if, for some reason, the earth became demagnetized. I'd be out of a job. This threw me into a deep depression. I couldn't sleep for days. Finally, in a dream, I realized that with the right combination of gears and a pre-established south, you don't need magnetism at all. The next day I started on the project. Thirty years, hundreds of thousands of dollars, and three wives later, here I am: proud inventor of The South Pointing Marmot.
It's impressive, but I don't think you're the first to invent this, she says.
Oh, I am, he says sincerely. Don't let the charm of its simplicity throw you in doubt: however useless now, I'm the first human in history with this idea.
The College President sighs. The Compasssmith fidgets. But - then who? he asks.
The College President explains.
The Compasssmith is, to say the least, crestfallen.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
