“Where did you load this thing?” asked the clerk.

“New York.” The captain kept flipping papers. “And your route?”

“Tel Aviv, Alexandria, Madagascar, New York.”

“Find the destination of your thing yet?” The clerk looked up at the sky where the boom was, swaying a little now and all stiff and black against the white sky. Then the box showed.

“Just a minute,” said the captain and licked his finger. The box also looked black, because of the white sky. It was very large, and swayed.

“Where to?” the clerk asked again.

“New York. Un-”

The boom swung around now and the black load hung over the pier.

“New York is port of origin,” said the clerk. “You mentioned that earlier.”

“Just a minute-”

When the box was lowered the winch made a different sound once again, a give and then hold sound, a give then hold, a sagging feeling inside the intestines, thought the clerk as he watched the box come down. It grew bigger.

“New York,” said the captain.

“My dear captain. All I’ve asked…”

“Destination New York!” said the captain. “Here. Look at it!”

The clerk looked and said, “Queer, isn’t it. Port of origin, New York. Destination, New York.”

They both looked up at the box which swung very slowly.

“What’s in it?” asked the clerk.

“What’s in it. One moment now. Ah: PERISHABLES. NOTE: IMPERATIVE, KEEP VENTILATED.”

The clerk made a sound in his throat, somewhat like the captain’s rumble, though it did not rumble when the clerk made the sound but was more like a polite knock on a private door.

“That’s a very queer entry, captain. They do have regulations over there, you know, about proper entries.”