A piece of dried mucus that Blob had assumed was just one of the many pieces of dried mucus in the old mine now stepped forward and spoke.
‘They’re using sharp kitchen implements,’ said the intelligence agent, loosening his dried mucus suit.
Blob felt himself reeling.
‘We’ve got to do something,’ he said, going pleading-shaped. He looked around at the government ministers.
He didn’t understand.
Why wouldn’t any of them look at him?
‘In a few minutes,’ said the prime minister, ‘we will be doing something. We’ll be hitting that evil nostril with the biggest invasion force they’ve ever seen. We’ll be blowing those criminal thugs to oblivion. When we’ve finished with them, they’ll be a bunch of corpses in a human’s hanky.’
Blob stared at the prime minister in horror.
‘We’ll be teaching those evil monsters,’ continued the prime minister, ‘that you do not kidnap and mistreat innocent germs, and you do not attack citizens of a free and peace-loving nostril with whipped cream.’
‘But . . .’ said Blob.
‘No buts,’ said the prime minister. ‘Every germ in that nostril will pay the price for their evil ways. When we’ve finished blasting them, that nostril will be cleansed by the wind of peace and freedom.’
The government ministers clapped and cheered.
‘But what if Aristotle’s still in there when you attack?’ said Blob. ‘He could be killed too.’
The cheering ministers didn’t hear him. They were still cheering when the police arrived to take Blob back to the military hospital.
Blob allowed himself to be led away.
One desperate thought burned inside his over-scrubbed and Vegemite-tinged outer layer.
I’ve got to get to Aristotle, Blob said to himself, and warn him.
11
‘Please,’ begged Aristotle. ‘Stop. I can’t take any more.’
‘Give him another,’ said the senior royal adviser.
‘No,’ moaned Aristotle.
‘It’s cake,’ said the senior royal adviser. ‘You like cake.’
‘I’m full,’ groaned Aristotle. ‘I’ve had six pieces.’
‘It’s talcum-powder and playground-dust cake with fluffy skin-flake icing,’ said the senior royal adviser. ‘You told us it’s your favourite.’
‘It is,’ said Aristotle. ‘But I’m stuffed.’
‘If you don’t eat,’ said the senior royal adviser crossly, ‘you won’t grow up to be a happy healthy germ like me.’
He patted both his bulges.
Aristotle slumped back in the big chair that was carved from a single massive chunk of sawdust. He was so full he felt like a single massive chunk of sawdust himself. He tried not to look at the food that was piled on the huge banquet table in front of him. He also tried not to look at the royal chefs, who were bringing in yet more platters.
Mucus steaks.
Skin cream and burnt toast trifles.
Great haunches of virus.
‘Please,’ begged Aristotle. ‘Enough.’
‘He can stop now,’ said one of the scientists crouched around Aristotle peering in through his transparent outer membrane. ‘We’re done.’
Aristotle gave a big sigh of relief.
It was almost as big as the sigh of relief he’d given earlier when he’d realised the scientists weren’t planning to cut him open and the germs carrying the sharp-looking equipment were just chefs.
‘So?’ said the senior adviser to the scientists. ‘What are the results? What have you found? Is he different to us, and if so, how?’
Aristotle listened carefully. He was very keen to know the answers to these questions too.
‘His digestive system’s just the same as ours,’ said one of the scientists. ‘We’ve got exact matches on digestive system, body structure, wobbliness of protoplasm, number of arms and legs, and how tickly he is.’
Aristotle shivered at the memory of the tickle test. He never wanted to see sock fluff ever again.
‘As far as we can tell,’ said the scientist, ‘he’s exactly the same as us.’
No, Aristotle wanted to yell. I’m not the same as you. I’m different. I don’t like rules and regulations. I don’t like counting things. Sometimes I go a bit silly. Come on, you scientists, tell me why.
But he kept quiet.
Calm down, he said to himself. You’re a prisoner in a hostile nostril and the germs here are hoping you’re the same as them so they won’t have to invade your nostril and kill all your friends and your brother. Telling them how different you are would be just a little bit silly.
‘Hmmm,’ said the senior royal adviser, looking closely at Aristotle. ‘So on the physical evidence at least, we’re not living next to a nostril full of dangerously ingermane mutants.’
Aristotle wasn’t sure exactly what ingermane mutants were, but that didn’t stop him trying to reassure the royal adviser.
‘Definitely no dangerous ingermane mutants in our nostril,’ said Aristotle. ‘In fact we have an Ingermane Mutant Control And Regulation Act that makes it compulsory for all ingermane mutants to behave safely and sensibly at all times and to get treatment for their ingermanity at the earliest possible . . .’
Aristotle stopped.
Nobody was listening.
The king had just swept into the banquet hall, followed by several thousand advisers and consultants. The scientists and royal attendants and chefs were all bowing and curtseying and dribbling out little strands of snot as a sign of respect. The senior adviser was whispering to the king.
Oh dear, thought Aristotle.
He didn’t like the way the king was looking at him.
The king held up his arms. All of them. The other germs in the room must never have seen all his arms up before, because they fell silent and gazed at them in shock and awe.
‘This,’ said the king in a regal voice, ‘is a perilous hour for our beloved nostril. The forces of darkness have gathered on our doorstep.’
He pointed at Aristotle with one of his arms.
‘Evil germs are among us,’ he went on. ‘Germs who appear to be the same as us, but who hate freedom, peace and friendship. Germs who, despite what they say, have already attacked us with whipped cream.’
The advisers, consultants, scientists, attendants and chefs all gasped.
Aristotle realised they were all looking at him, and not in a friendly way.
The king lowered his other arms until they were all pointing at Aristotle.
‘Evil germs,’ said the king, ‘who have already sent one of their number to spy on us.’
‘No,’ said Aristotle, before he could stop himself. ‘They didn’t. I was banished.’
It was too late. Now he’d have to explain.
‘I was sent away,’ he said quietly. ‘For being silly.’
The other germs all stared at him in shocked silence.
‘Tragic,’ said the king. ‘What sort of germs banish one of their own? Not germs like us. Not germs who respect and care for one another. Not germs who love peace and friendship. One day, sure as snot goes hard, this dark empire next door will attack our freedom, attack our peace, attack our nostril. That is why we must strike first.’
The room erupted into cheers.
Aristotle stared at the king in horror.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re not like that. We’re law abiding, just like you. We’ve got thousands of laws. Millions.’
But the cheering throng couldn’t hear him. They weren’t listening. They only had noise molecules for the king, who caused even more frenzied cheering with his next words.
‘Let Operation Cold War commence.’
Aristotle felt sick.
He knew what war meant. He’d heard the stories. The recent war between the tummy germs and the bottom germs, for example.
Devastation.
And now, thought Aristotle miserably, this nostril’s going to attack our nostril.
<
br /> Another thought smacked into him like an ice chunk from a human’s Slurpee.
Oh no.
Blob.
Aristotle had survived the whipped cream, so chances were Blob had too. But would he survive an all-out attack by war-mad neighbours?
Before Aristotle could answer that awful question, he was grabbed by several palace guards.
As they dragged him away, one desperate thought squeezed through the cakes and cat-hair burgers inside his over-stuffed membrane.
I’ve got to get to Blob, Aristotle said to himself, and warn him.
12
It was the same nostril Blob had known all his life, and yet as he pushed his way through the crowds of nose germs queueing at army recruitment follicles, it felt different.
With a shiver of excitement, Blob knew why. He’d never escaped from a military hospital before.
Never bounced on a bed and out the window before. Never parachuted to the ground clinging to a piece of nightie fluff before. Never put on a fake voice and pretended to be a doctor on his way to play golf before.
It felt good.
So good, he thought, I wouldn’t mind doing it again.
But he decided not to risk it. Going back into the hospital would increase his chances of being caught by at least twice. So would escaping again. Which would add up to four times the risk. Or was that eight?
Blob stopped in a quiet alleyway between two blood capillaries and slapped himself with several of his arms.
Calm down, he told himself. If you don’t calm down you’re going to end up one of the three percent of germs who never get anything finished because they keep getting overexcited.
He counted up to ten thousand.
Quickly, but it still helped.
That was better. Now he could focus on his mission. Finding Aristotle and getting him to safety before the other nostril was obliterated by the wind of peace and freedom.
In the other nostril, Aristotle clung to the ceiling of the dungeon with all his arms and legs.
‘Come on,’ he muttered.
His arms and legs were aching.
He wished the dungeon guard would hurry up and arrive with lunch so he could drop from the ceiling onto the guard, overpower the guard, take the guard’s keys, lock the guard in the dungeon, disguise himself in the guard’s cap, and find a way back home in time to warn Blob and the others that they were going to be invaded and killed, so they’d better be on their guard.
It’s a good plan, thought Aristotle.
He was a little concerned about some parts of it, though.
The overpowering bit, for example.
He’d never actually overpowered anyone before. Not in real life. Specially not a trained dungeon guard.
Then there was the cap. What if it didn’t fit? Or it turned out dungeon guards didn’t have caps?
But the part of the plan that worried Aristotle most was the lunch part. He’d just spent quite a bit of time in the banquet hall telling everyone how bloated and full up and incapable of eating another thing he was.
Would they be giving him lunch so soon?
Ever?
‘Pssst.’
Aristotle almost fell off the ceiling. He looked around to see where the voice was coming from. And when he saw, he almost fell off the ceiling again.
Standing in the gloom at the other end of the dungeon were several big weird-shaped multi-coloured microbes. One of them was square and yellow with blue arms and legs.
Aristotle stared.
‘Ralph?’ he said in amazement.
‘No,’ said the big square yellow microbe, looking amazed too. ‘Ralph’s my brother. He got breathed into the other nostril when I got breathed into this one. You know Ralph?’
Aristotle explained to Ralph’s brother how Ralph had taught him everything he knew about telling a chunk of talcum powder from a lump of gnat’s dandruff.
‘Well you’d better come down here then,’ said Ralph’s brother. ‘If you want to get back to your nostril that is.’
Aristotle slid painfully down the dungeon wall and over to the microbes.
‘Here,’ said Ralph’s brother. ‘Try this.’
Aristotle couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Ralph’s brother was holding open a tissue paper flap revealing a hole in the wall of the dungeon.
‘We’ve been working on this for a while,’ he said. ‘It’s not big enough for us yet, but a little squirt like you should fit through.’
‘Thanks,’ said Aristotle. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘When you see Ralph,’ said his brother, ‘tell him Lou’s on his way.’
‘I will,’ said Aristotle. ‘Thank you so much.’
He was tempted to stay and help Lou and the others make the hole big enough for them too, but then he remembered that if he didn’t get home soon and warn Blob and Ralph and the others about the invasion, there wouldn’t be any point.
‘Thanks,’ said Aristotle again and wriggled into the hole.
Blob hadn’t been this far up the back of the nostril since he was a little kid on a pimple-counting trip.
He crouched behind a skin blemish and looked around.
All clear.
As he’d hoped, there wasn’t a nostril defence force border guard to be seen. They were all busy at the recruiting stations, signing up millions of new recruits for the invasion of the other nostril.
Blob could see a queue from here. He was tempted to count the recruits. He didn’t. Well, only the first six hundred and forty-two.
Then he slapped himself a couple of times and crept fearfully into the dark tunnel at the end of the nostril.
It was at moments like this he most wished he had a parent. A wise loving parent who would hug him and tell him important things he needed to know. Like whether you could get into the other nostril by this back way. And what was the chance, expressed as a percentage, of being attacked by scary monster germs in a dark tunnel like this.
While he crept through the gloom, Blob kept his spirits up by counting every germ he could remember who had ever been to the other nostril by the back way.
His spirits didn’t stay up for long.
The total was zero.
But Blob kept going.
I may not have a parent, he thought sadly, but I do have a brother.
Or rather he hoped he still did.
Aristotle stood frozen with fear.
Everything had been going so well.
The tunnel from the dungeon had led into a dried-out capillary and Aristotle had been making really good time along the inside of the smooth old blood vessel until just now when he’d heard footsteps running after him.
For a moment he’d assumed it was Lou and the others.
Then he’d smelled the awful whiff of half-digested bacon and rotting spinach and that human food that comes in red boxes.
Aristotle knew exactly what the smell meant.
A tummy germ.
Aristotle remembered everything Blob had ever said about tummy germs. How they’re bigger than nose germs. How they live much longer. Oh, and the stuff about them being cruel vicious killers. Aristotle trembled, his insides tight with fear.
Then he turned round to face his pursuer.
‘G’day,’ said the tummy germ. ‘Lou asked me to point you in the right direction.’
Aristotle had to admit the tummy germ didn’t look like a crazed killer.
Not completely.
OK, it did have a very tough-looking acid-proof outer layer. And it did have the sharpest most vicious-looking claws Aristotle had ever seen. But as it stood there nodding at Aristotle, it was definitely grin-shaped.
‘Thanks,’ said Aristotle. He pointed along the capillary in the direction he’d been going. ‘Isn’t this the right direction?’
‘Not any more,’ said the tummy germ. ‘Carry on along there and you’ll end up in the sinuses. You want to go this way.’
With a sudden movement that made Aristotle flinch and jump back,
the tummy germ slashed a hole in the wall of the capillary with one of its fearsome claws.
Aristotle wondered if he was going to be kidnapped and taken down to the tummy and dissolved in acid. He thought about trotting for it. Then he thought about what would happen to Blob if he didn’t get back home soon and warn everyone.
The tummy germ peered out through the jagged hole in the capillary and signalled for Aristotle to do the same.
‘See that big tunnel at the back of the nostril,’ said the tummy germ. ‘That’s the way to your nostril.’
Suddenly the tummy germ grabbed Aristotle and pulled him back into the capillary.
Aristotle caught a glimpse of a royal commando platoon marching past.
‘Don’t want to get picked up by them,’ muttered the tummy germ.
‘I know,’ said Aristotle grimly. ‘Thanks.’
He peeked out of the hole again and studied the dark tunnel at the end of the nostril.
‘Hope we don’t meet any in there,’ he said.
‘I won’t,’ said the tummy germ. ‘This is as far as I go. You’re on your own from here.’
Aristotle looked at the tummy germ.
‘You’re not going back to the tummy?’ he said.
‘Nope,’ said the tummy germ. ‘My place is up here, keeping an eye on these dodgy nose germs. No offence. Lou explained you’re different. But you lot have already wiped each other out several times, and we’re worried you might get bored with that and start on us.’
Aristotle stared at the tummy germ.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You nostrils invade each other and wipe each other out on a regular basis,’ said the tummy germ. ‘It’s happened twice already in my lifetime and I’m only two weeks old.’
Aristotle struggled to take this in.
‘Of course,’ continued the tummy germ, ‘you don’t wipe each other out completely. There’s always a few survivors in each nostril to start a new population. But the poor buggers are in such shock, they never remember what’s happened. And so the whole thing starts all over again. Which is why my job is to lie low here and warn the folks at home if I see an invasion brewing. I wish your silly leaders could grasp just how predictable you lot are. Present company excepted.’
Aristotle's Nostril Page 6
