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‘Snowman, oh Snowman,’ they're singing, less to him than to one another. To them his name is just two syllables. They don't know what a snowman is, they've never seen snow. It was one of Crake's rules that no name could be chosen for which a physical equivalent — even stuffed, even skeletal — could not be demonstrated. No unicorns, no griffins, no manticores or basilisks. But those rules no longer apply, and it's given Snowman a bitter pleasure to adopt this dubious label. The Abominable Snowman — existing and not existing, flickering at the edges of blizzards, apelike man or manlike ape, stealthy, elusive, known only through rumours and through its backward-pointing footprints. Mountain tribes were said to have chased it down and killed it when they had the chance. They were said to have boiled it, roasted it, held special feasts; all the more exciting, he supposes, for bordering on cannibalism. For present purposes he's shortened the name. He's only Snowman. He's kept the abominable to himself, his own secret hair shirt. After a few moments of hesitation the children squat down in a half-circle, boys and girls together. A couple of the younger ones are still munching on their breakfasts, the green juice running down their chins. It's discouraging how grubby everyone gets without mirrors. Still, they're amazingly attractive, these children — each one naked, each one perfect, each one a different skin colour — chocolate, rose, tea, butter, cream, honey — but each with green eyes. Crake's aesthetic.
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