Aristotle's Nostril

by Morris Gleitzman

The room fell silent, except for the gentle trickle of blood running through the veins and capillaries in the walls.

  After a while, Blob realised all the government ministers were looking at him.

  He felt embarrassed.

  They were very important ministers.

  In the government.

  Why were they looking at him?

  Then he realised why. They were expecting him, the only germ there who’d seen the other nostril, to be patriotic and stand up for the nostril of his birth.

  ‘Um . . .’ said Blob. ‘The germs next door are very silly. For example, they play soccer. And they leave birthday decorations lying around their highway entrance ramps.’

  The ministers looked relieved.

  ‘And they’re not as friendly as us,’ added Blob.

  ‘I think we should kill them all,’ said the minister for defence.

  Blob gulped again. He hoped the minister was joking. He was ninety-nine percent sure the minister was.

  Ninety-two percent.

  Eighty percent.

  Sixty-six.

  ‘These are criminals,’ said the minister for defence. ‘They’ve kidnapped one of our citizens.’

  Blob realised the minister for defence wasn’t joking. He looked at the prime minister, hoping the prime minister had a different plan. One that didn’t involve Aristotle accidentally being killed in an orgy of violence.

  The prime minister was gazing out over his estate, staring thoughtfully at the distant mucus fountains and the colourful viruses in their cages.

  Blob could see the prime minister’s think molecules whizzing around again. They were very big think molecules for a germ, which was probably why he was prime minister.

  There was more silence, except for the gurgling walls.

  Suddenly the prime minister turned and spoke directly to Blob.

  ‘I’m not completely convinced there is another nostril,’ he said. ‘Please don’t feel offended, Blab, but you are the brother of a very silly germ.’

  ‘Blob,’ said Blob. ‘It’s Blob.’

  ‘What we need,’ said the prime minister, ‘is an intelligence report. I’m going to send a team of our very best intelligence agents to locate this other nostril and, if it exists, to report on any threat it might pose to our nostril security.’

  Blob thought about this.

  So far the prime minister hadn’t mentioned anything about rescuing Aristotle. Blob wondered if he could form a rescue mission himself. He was pretty well connected. He knew over three million germs by name.

  ‘You’ll go with them,’ said the prime minister to Blob. ‘To show them the way.’

  ‘We’ll get your brother out of there,’ said the minister for defence.

  Blob felt weak with relief.

  ‘And when we’ve finished our mission,’ said Blob, ‘will me and Aristotle be allowed to come back home, you know, now we’ve proved we’re responsible citizens and sensible individuals and very good explorers?’

  The prime minister looked at Blob and slowly shook his top bits.

  Even before he added, ‘Don’t be silly, you’re banished,’ Blob had gone miserable-shaped.

  7

  Inside the other nostril, Aristotle was miserable-shaped, too.

  ‘Come on, sunshine,’ said the nostril defence force sergeant, pushing Aristotle in the back. ‘Get a move on.’

  Aristotle forced his tired legs to trot a bit faster.

  He’d been getting a move on for what seemed like ages now. He and the soldiers escorting him were deep inside the evil nostril.

  ‘Is it much further?’ asked Aristotle.

  The further it was, the more chances he might have to escape before they got to the jail or cannibal restaurant or wherever they were taking him.

  The soldiers all went chortle-shaped.

  Aristotle didn’t get it.

  What was funny about asking if it was much further?

  ‘Excitement of long-distance travel dulled your memory, has it?’ said one of the soldiers.

  The others stayed chortle-shaped.

  Aristotle went puzzled-shaped. Since he’d been in this other nostril, just about everything he’d seen and heard had puzzled him.

  The germs here, for example. OK, they were obviously nasty pieces of work if these rough and thuggish nostril defence force goons were anything to go by. But on the outside they all looked totally normal to Aristotle.

  Just like the germs at home.

  As he squinted around the nostril and watched the locals at school and work and soccer practice and putting up birthday decorations, he couldn’t see a single sign of evil.

  No eating each other.

  No murdering each other.

  Not even bursting each other’s balloons.

  Maybe they know how to hide the bad stuff, thought Aristotle. Maybe that’s part of their evil ways.

  ‘Looking more familiar, sunshine?’ said one of the soldiers, giving Aristotle another push.

  Why would I be looking more familiar? Thought Aristotle.

  Being hard to understand was probably part of their evil ways too.

  He wished the soldiers would stop calling him sunshine. Sunshine was the glowing golden stuff that lit up the nostril at home when the human was at the beach. At the moment Aristotle didn’t feel glowing or golden.

  ‘Here we are,’ said one of the soldiers.

  Aristotle looked around.

  And went surprised-shaped.

  They’d arrived at a dust-sorting depot. It looked exactly like the dust-sorting depots at home. Same big piles of talcum powder and toast crumbs. Same supervisors complaining about sock fluff in the playground dust. Same teams of exotic blow-in microbes purposely putting bits of kitty litter in with the pizza particles.

  Aristotle felt a pang of homesickness. The exotic visitors working in this dust-sorting depot looked just as friendly as Ralph, Fernandez, Preston and Gavin.

  Then he remembered there was an important difference between this dust-sorting depot and the ones at home.

  At home, thought Aristotle grimly, innocent germs aren’t taken to dust-sorting depots to be killed and eaten.

  ‘OK, sunshine,’ said the sergeant. ‘Ready to go back to work?’

  Aristotle stared at the sergeant.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

  The sergeant chuckled.

  ‘Wondering how we know you work here, eh?’

  The sergeant reached over and tapped Aristotle on the back.

  ‘Not too good at catching dust chunks,’ he said. ‘You’ve got dust dents all over your back.’

  Aristotle’s think molecules started whizzing.

  The dents must be from when he was prodded by all those spears while he was being banished. His outer membrane had been so tense ever since, the dents hadn’t had a chance to fade.

  This is incredible, thought Aristotle as he struggled not to show how incredible he thought it was.

  The soldiers think I work here.

  They think I’m from this nostril.

  ‘Welcome home,’ said the sergeant. ‘We hope you enjoyed your little adventure.’

  Aristotle stared at the soldiers.

  Suddenly they didn’t seem quite so rough and thuggish after all.

  Aristotle started to picture a whole new wonderful future, living here in this nostril where the germs were actually quite friendly once you got to know them. Working as a dust-sorter. Joining a soccer team. Developing birthday decoration skills. When Blob got back with a rescue party, if they asked nicely, he could probably live here too.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Aristotle to the soldiers. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Another thought hit him, and he went grin-shaped. In all the time he’d been in this nostril, he hadn’t seen the germs here hold a single meeting or pass a single law, rule or regulation.

  This is my kind of place, thought Aristotle happily.

  ‘Just before you go back to work,’ said the sergeant, ‘
there is the little matter of the charges.’

  ‘Charges?’ said Aristotle, puzzled. ‘You mean I have to pay for being brought here?’

  ‘Very wry and humorous,’ said the sergeant. ‘No, sunshine, I mean the criminal charges that you will, in due course, be charged with.’

  Aristotle wasn’t grin-shaped any more.

  ‘As I’m sure you know,’ continued the sergeant, ‘committing a little stroll out of the nostril is a criminal offence, as well as being extremely dangerous and very silly. I refer you to section eleven of the Travel Prohibition Act, section thirty-nine of the Stay At Home Act, paragraph three of the Germ Protection Ordinance, article nine in the Nostril Bill Of Rights And Other Forbidden Stuff, and all six hundred and fourteen of the Fun Limitation And Discouragement (Except For Soccer) Regulations.’

  Aristotle went sag-shaped.

  He tried to speak, but his chat molecules were as numb as the rest of him.

  Come on, he begged his chat molecules, this is urgent.

  He had to explain.

  He had to tell the soldiers there’d been a mistake, that he wasn’t from this nostril.

  ‘Is there something you want to say?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Before I go back to the office and start processing the charges?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Aristotle, relieved he could finally get some words out. ‘There is. Quite a lot, actually.’

  ‘Another nostril?’

  The king stared at Aristotle.

  Aristotle waited for the king to go stunned-shaped.

  All the other nose germs in the vast palace throne room already had. Aristotle had himself, just from seeing the royal palace. It was the most magnificent building he’d ever been in that was constructed entirely from bits of tissues.

  The king didn’t go stunned-shaped.

  Aristotle had never met a king before, so he didn’t know whether to be surprised or not. He decided kings were probably trained to stay king-shaped at all times.

  ‘Has anyone else seen this other nostril?’ demanded the king.

  ‘My brother Blob,’ said Aristotle. ‘He used to live there with me. Until we had to leave. Because of the birthday cake.’

  The several thousand royal advisers and consultants and other important-looking germs in the room all started muttering to each other and frowning and scratching their outside layers and looking as if they wished they were somewhere else.

  Aristotle wasn’t sure what was going on.

  ‘All right, calm down,’ snapped the king. ‘We’ve been through this already. You forgot my birthday, no big deal. You remembered eventually, the decorations are going up, my birthday banquet is being prepared and I’m sure each of you is planning a very special surprise or gift for me. So please, let’s forget about it.’

  The royal advisers and consultants all looked ill.

  Except one.

  ‘If I may, your majesty,’ said a particularly important-looking germ. He was obviously a senior royal adviser. The other advisers stepped back to give him room.

  Aristotle couldn’t help staring. The senior royal adviser had the most unusual-shaped body he’d ever seen on a germ. It was narrow in the middle with a large bulge at the bottom and another at the top. It looked to Aristotle as if the senior royal adviser had started to become a parent but then changed his mind halfway through.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said the king.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said the senior adviser, ‘the birthday banquet has been delayed a little, due to a mucus mishap.’

  The king frowned.

  ‘A mucus mishap?’ he said.

  The senior royal adviser looked uncomfortable.

  ‘On the way here,’ he said, ‘we locked the young germ in a storeroom. Unfortunately he spent the time bouncing up and down on the mucus for your birthday banquet.’

  The king glowered at Aristotle.

  Aristotle felt himself trembling. He’d never been glowered at by a king before.

  ‘I’m sorry, your majesty,’ he said. ‘I was just trying to work off some stress.’

  ‘So you bounced up and down on my birthday dinner?’ said the king.

  ‘Yes,’ said Aristotle quietly. ‘Sorry. I can’t help myself sometimes. If you want to throw me out of your nostril I won’t mind.’

  The king gave Aristotle a long look.

  ‘Are all the germs in the other nostril like you?’ he said.

  Aristotle thought about this.

  ‘Not really,’ he said sadly.

  The king and the senior royal adviser exchanged a glance. Aristotle had the feeling they didn’t believe him.

  ‘He’s almost certainly suffering from a tragic delusion,’ said the senior royal adviser. ‘There almost certainly isn’t another nostril. But we can’t take any chances. Not if there might be a few million like him next door.’

  The king thought about this.

  ‘If a royal scouting party goes with you,’ said the king to Aristotle, ‘would you be able to show us this other nostril?’

  Aristotle paused.

  He didn’t think the folks at home would mind. And it would be a way of getting out of here and finding Blob.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  The palace throne room erupted into a buzz of conversation. Everywhere Aristotle looked, important-looking germs were muttering and whispering to each other and giving him suspicious stares. The senior royal adviser was speaking softly to the king, and they were giving him suspicious stares too.

  Oh dear, thought Aristotle. I hope I’m doing the right thing. I hope the folks at home won’t mind. If they’re not in the mood for visitors, they won’t be very pleased with me.

  8

  As Blob slithered through the face-hair forest, he wasn’t very pleased with Aristotle.

  This is all your fault, Aristotle, he thought crossly. If you hadn’t got us banished and then wandered into that other nostril, I wouldn’t have to be scraping my front bits ragged rescuing you.

  It was the first time Blob had ever been on an intelligence and rescue mission, and he wasn’t enjoying it.

  ‘Go faster,’ said the senior intelligence agent.

  He prodded Blob in the bottom with an item of very sharp secret-agent equipment that looked like a skin flake but, Bob suspected, could kill you if you didn’t obey orders.

  ‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ said Blob.

  He was.

  He could be going faster, but only if the senior intelligence agent dropped this ridiculous idea of the whole lot of them slithering through the face-hair forest on their fronts.

  The forest floor was strewn with rubble. Blob’s outer layer was ragged with toast-crumb cuts and kitty-litter scrapes.

  He glanced back at the three thousand two hundred and fourteen intelligence agents slithering behind him. They didn’t seem to be having any trouble. Must be the training.

  ‘Ouch,’ grunted Blob as a chunk of something gouged him in the guts.

  The disguises weren’t helping, either.

  ‘Can I take this off now, please?’ said Blob.

  ‘No,’ said the senior agent. ‘We could encounter hostile forces at any time. We must keep our identities hidden.’

  Blob didn’t get it. It didn’t add up. How was pretending to be tummy germs going to help them?

  The bits of bacon and spinach were really uncomfortable on his back, and the smears of Vegemite on his outer membrane were stinging.

  As Blob slithered painfully towards the mole hill looming up ahead, he worried about what else might be looming up ahead.

  Cannibal germs from the other nostril.

  He hoped this wasn’t going to turn into one of those rescue missions he’d heard stories about. The ones that exploded into violence with a ninety-six percent chance of germs getting hurt, including the one who’s showing the others how to get there.

  Not that it matters, thought Blob miserably. Thanks to Aristotle, I’ll never get to go home again anyway.

  A chunk of something sharp and pa
inful stabbed Blob in a tender spot in his middle. The same spot that used to tingle with pleasure when he went on pimple counting trips with Aristotle to remote parts of their nostril. Way back in their early hours together.

  Before he found out his brother was a silly idiot.

  In another part of the face-hair forest, Aristotle hoped he wasn’t being a silly idiot.

  He was worried.

  The royal scouting party was worrying him.

  For a start, they looked more like commandos. They were all armed with semi-automatic spears, and as they trotted through the face-hair forest towards his and Blob’s nostril, they were singing worrying commando songs.

  ‘Excuse me,’ panted Aristotle to the commando officer. ‘This is a peaceful mission, isn’t it?’

  Aristotle was putting on a spurt to keep up with the commando officer. His legs were aching. So was his back. The scouting party were all trotting with their bodies flattened and folded forward to keep a low profile. Aristotle had only ever done that for a short trot, not a long trot like this one.

  ‘Very peaceful mission,’ replied the commando officer, scanning the forest ahead with a grim squint. ‘Our orders are to peacefully gather intelligence about this other nostril of yours.’

  ‘It’s just that the song your men are singing,’ said Aristotle, ‘seems to be about violence and killing.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said the commando officer. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘That chorus they’ve just finished,’ said Aristotle. ‘They kept repeating the words waste the microbes, squish their guts out.’

  ‘Did they?’ said the commando officer.

  ‘Yes,’ said Aristotle. ‘And kill ninety-nine percent of all known germs.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the commando officer. ‘That’s just a training song.’

  ‘A training song?’ panted Aristotle.

  ‘They sing it to keep cheerful,’ said the officer. ‘It’s good to keep cheerful on a peaceful mission.’

  Aristotle thought about this as he and the royal scouting commando unit started to trot up the mole hill and his legs started to hurt a lot.

  Yes, he said to himself doubtfully. Cheerful is good.

  He was still worried.

  I hope Blob’s OK, he thought anxiously. And I hope he stays out of the way when these commandos get to our nostril.