By now, Lüttmoorsiel Town Hall had the tense atmosphere of a building where everyone was expecting either a war or a burst water pipe at any moment.
Mayor Henning Clausen stood with both hands braced against his desk, looking as though he had personally been put in charge of Germany.
Meanwhile, John McDoven calmly polished his glasses, as if the whole situation were only mildly concerning.
Outside, the wind lashed against the old windowpanes. Somewhere in the hallway, a bucket rattled.
The door opened and District Administrator Friedrich Thomsen entered the office.
Behind him came his personal adviser and secretary, Achim Blöcker, a pale little man carrying a briefcase, with nervous eyes and the expression of someone who hadn’t slept properly in at least four days.
Thomsen was tall and gray-haired and wore the coat of a man who normally dealt exclusively with budgets, potholes, and government grants.
Today, however, he looked like someone who had just been informed that Russia had invaded East Frisia.
“Mr. Mayor,” Thomsen said without bothering with a greeting. “The situation is escalating.”
Clausen swallowed.
“That bad?”
“The Ministry of Agriculture in Hanover contacted me an hour ago.”
McDoven raised his eyebrows slightly.
“How remarkable.”
Thomsen ran a hand through his hair.
“And the minister, in turn, has already received a call from the Federal Ministry of the Interior.”
For a brief moment, there was absolute silence in the room.
Even McDoven stopped in mid-motion.
“The Ministry of the Interior?” Clausen repeated tonelessly.
Thomsen nodded gravely.
“And the Federal Minister of Agriculture as well.”
Achim Blöcker reached for the waiting coffee cup with slightly trembling fingers. His eyes looked glassy.
“Would you happen to have anything to put in the coffee?” he murmured quietly toward McDoven.
The Englishman looked first at the cup.
Then at Blöcker’s slightly puffy face.
“There is milk and sugar on the table.”
Blöcker nodded in disappointment and dropped three sugar cubes into his coffee.
Meanwhile, District Administrator Thomsen began pacing restlessly around the office.
“They expect us to stop this madness before it gets completely out of control.”
“The chickens are healthy,” Clausen interjected hastily. “Dr. Wepper just called. No epidemic. No bird flu. No virus.”
Thomsen stopped abruptly.
“But prices are still rising!”
He gestured wildly with both hands.
“People in Hanover are already paying almost four euros for organic eggs! The first supermarkets have started rationing them!”
Clausen turned pale.
McDoven made a small note.
“A remarkably dynamic development.”
Thomsen resumed pacing.
“What if that woman…” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “What was her name?”
“Anke Lorenz,” Clausen supplied immediately.
“Yes, exactly. What if Mrs. Lorenz is actually an extremist?”
Clausen blinked.
“A what?”
“A terrorist!”
Thomsen stopped and stared at him seriously.
“Perhaps she deliberately trained that chicken to stop laying eggs.”
Silence.
Even Achim Blöcker stopped stirring his coffee.
By now, Thomsen was visibly working himself into a frenzy.
“Maybe this was her plan from the very beginning! Destabilize Germany! First egg prices! Then panic! Then panic buying!”
Clausen stared at him like a man witnessing someone slowly lose his mind in real time.
“An… egg terrorist?”
Thomsen raised a meaningful finger.
“Never underestimate people with chickens.”
“District Administrator,” Clausen said cautiously, “this is Anke Lorenz. The woman has been complaining about the same broken streetlight for eight years.”
“Those are often exactly the people who become radicalized first!” Blöcker suddenly exclaimed, spilling coffee onto his trousers in the process.
McDoven silently handed him a handkerchief.
Thomsen nodded darkly.
“Thank you, Achim.”
He turned back to Clausen.
“Don’t you understand? If word keeps spreading, half of Lower Saxony will be breaking down our doors by tomorrow!”
“Or Schleswig-Holstein,” McDoven murmured politely.
Thomsen looked at him in confusion.
“Excuse me?”
“Well,” McDoven said calmly, “given Lüttmoorsiel’s exceptionally close proximity to the border, a cross-regional outbreak of egg hysteria certainly cannot be ruled out.”
Thomsen suddenly looked as though he were having slight difficulty breathing.
“My God.”
The door opened.
Clausen’s mother stood in the doorway, leaning on the broom handle like a medieval weapon.
“Henning.”
“What now, Mother?”
The old woman looked from one exhausted face to the next.
“The television people are at Anke’s place.”
Absolute silence.
Then Clausen and Thomsen looked at each other at exactly the same moment.
“We’ll take my car,” the District Administrator said immediately.
Thomsen was already rushing toward the door.
Blöcker gulped down the rest of his coffee like a man about to be sent to the front lines.
McDoven slowly rose, smoothed his sleeves, and picked up his notepad.
“Well then,” he said dryly.
“I suppose we’re off to save the republic.”