by Rhys Hughes
Soon, the Temple of Drigg had assumed its correct dimensions, and I was astonished at the craftsmanship which had gone into its manufacture. Everything in the imitation was rendered with superb precision. Even the grumpy icons were plated in bronze and neptunium. I had entered, without a visa, a city within a city, but I was afraid. My descent was too quick to acclimatise my sense: I needed time to fully absorb my predicament. I had picked the best place to extinguish my fears, where the horror of my condition might be assuaged by illusion. Leaving the Temple, I convinced myself this was the genuine Capital, a fraud possible to sustain so long as I did not look up at the enormous sky.
Risking excommunication, I broached the adjacent outhouse where the mouse-sleighs sacred to the denizens of the Heavenly Realm are kept, and borrowed one. In my city, sixty rodents drag each vehicle; here a single mouse was enough. I cracked the reins and directed it towards the second Cliff of Puff, up the slippery slope. The sides of the sleigh rose above me. At the base of the President's tower, I disembarked and hastened up the steps, which grew wider as I ascended. Once more in the roof-garden, surrounded by buildings smaller than me, I breathed a sigh of outrageous relief and wriggled into the Temple of Drigg, observing that yet another scale of the Cosmic Serpent glowed there.
Again the walls and ceiling parted from my body. Once more precious icons expanded to satisfy my aesthetic longing. These were less artistic than the first set, executed more clumsily, as was to be expected. After a few minutes of rest, it was time to leave. There were no mouse-sleighs in the outhouse of this Temple, but one powered by an aphid was adequate for my needs. We rattled down cobbled backstreets, under the lengthening eaves of restaurants patronised only by spiders. Indeed, I was forced to arrest one which refused to pay its bill. For a horrid moment, I thought I might not have enough handcuffs to restrain the arachnid, but Lola had slipped a spare pair into my groin-pouch.
Praying I would not meet a criminal millipede, I continued my slide to the third Cliff of Puff and up to the President's tower. The model in this roof-garden was far clumsier than its predecessors. Houses leant at wrong angles, warped bubbles of glass serving for windows. Petty reality was adopting an alien aspect, but at a pace I could accept. This was the gentle introduction to the microcosmos I needed. I entered the Temple of Drigg, noted the scale of the Cosmic Serpent, and waited. Sure enough, I fell to the size of a regular worshipper.
It was at this point that a low rumble became audible to my hirsute ears. What did it signify? Perhaps the volcano on the City outskirts had erupted again? If so, there was no hope for me. How can a man whose legs are becoming shorter outrun a river of flame? Then I realised this was a fallacious worry. Bodies are burned by heat which surrounds them, not by heat which exists elsewhere. As I continued to dwindle, the greater part of any lava flow which covered me would always be receding, bearing away most of its calefaction. The only fire which could now engulf me was one smaller than the spark of two glowworms rubbed together, a somewhat meek singe in the temperature scheme of things.
This fact was reassuring. But my confidence was boosted yet further when I left my sanctuary to confront boulders of dust tumbling along the pavements like marbles in a renegade gutter. So the rumble came not from geology but acoustics! Vibrations in the air from insectile movement was responsible. I looked up and beheld monster fleas bounding like sundered moons over my comprehension. My voyage to the fourth Cliff of Puff, in a sleigh drawn by an amoeba, was intriguing. Up the tower and into another roof-garden, where a more debased Capital and Temple awaited. The Cosmic Serpent had shed even on this altar, a scale from the tip of its tail, a rainbow disc as subtle as a jaguar's itch.
I repeated my flight from tower to tower seventeen times. My mounts grew increasingly bizarre and feisty — radiolaria, bacterium, virus. The model became distorted beyond recognition, mere lumps of corundum acting as civic buildings and bandstands. Only the bright scale remained itself and I eventually decided to cease my exertions here and permit myself to be sucked down into quarkland without the mirage of theatre. I was ready for anything. When I was small enough to mount the altar and crouch over the flake, it suddenly occurred to me I had no way of returning. Even if I managed to arrest the recidivist particle, it would evade justice on a technicality. Oh, the law is an asymptote!
No matter: the President had issued a warrant and I am loyal enough to be imprudent. The scale widened beneath me, knocking away my feet and accepting my body as I fell onto its surface. I stood and gasped as blue and orange tints swirled and grew in its translucent depths. Within five minutes, I was in the centre of a vast reptilian plateau covered in tiny cracks which opened up like famished mouths. I skipped between them, but whenever I found a solid place to rest, it soon became riddled with more fissures, yawning one within the other, like an old man locked in an old woman who is herself locked in a tortoise.
I stumbled on the edge of a crevice which expanded into a valley. I found myself stuck on an isolated fibrous outcrop, unable to move in any direction. As my island became a continent, my malady challenged it to a duel, scarring its puffy cheeks with fresh chinks. I tripped and bridged a cranny, blinking in horror as its edges receded beyond the reach of my hands and feet, sending me plummeting into the velveteen dusk. Down went I, tumbling like an electrified voltigeur, into nanospace, screeching in a myriad accents as my tongue changed shape under my voice. Long strings of globes rattled close: sticks of bells for an angstrom jester. With an astounded shout, I understood these to be chains of complex molecules in their Sunday best, preparing for reactions.
Since the beginning of the expedition, my breathing had become more laboured as I contracted. The oxygen which passed into my lungs was much coarser than my usual brand. Now its atoms lodged in my throat, swelling rapidly and causing me to choke. I doubled up in pain and spat them out, clamping my mouth until they became too large to enter. At this level, I no longer needed to suspire — the rules of nature were twisted. Below my aching frame, a cluster of smooth spheres winked in rotation, drawing me into orbit around it. Vivid as a bunch of purple eyeballs, it was an odd but edifying sight, a jewelled knot among the bland nuclei which hurried past my ears. I struggled to identify the element. Ruthenium? Nobody has ever analysed the Cosmic Serpent's varnish.
All relevant speculation was terminated by a projectile which smote my knee, exploding into visible waves of energy which burned my face and ungloved hands. One of the electrons which looped the lilac nucleus like warrior elks around a convoy of chuck-kayaks had broken my concentration and bruised my bone. The fissionable surge caught me up and cast me into the electromagnetic field of a central proton which ballooned to receive me. I landed heavily on its glossy surface and lay for many minutes in a ridiculous position, arms flung over my eyes. When I lifted them, I felt a delight hitherto only available to those devotees of the Supreme Roger who own private bannisters. I had stopped shrinking. My ordeal was over. I had attained the smallest possible girth.
Exploring my environment, I tried to whistle appreciatively through my teeth, not an easy task when there is no air. This was no boring atom with inadequate facilities. On every side I beheld inorganic forms which presented the appearance of foliated clouds of the highest rarity — they undulated and broke into vegetable shapes, tinged with maroon splendours compared with which the amethyst glaciers of Grokkland are mere baubles. Far away into the interminable distance stretched broad avenues of these gaseous forests, dimly transparent, behind which lurked anthropoid forms like silhouettes in a shadow-play illuminated by sparkling wine, flaming brandy and hot chillies. But what was this nearest me? A shade which had the semblance of a woman! Miniature humans?
She swept out from between the rainbow-curtains of the cloud-trees, her charms beyond any attempt at inventory, save perhaps her mystic eyes of emerald and lustrous auburn hair, and my unpasteurised heart curdled. What a pale, vapid ghost of woman-loveliness! I fell in love as promptly as citizens should pay their fines. I decided t
o call her Animula, which seemed an appropriately erudite name for an impossible beauty. Caught in an unbearable passion, I boldly hailed her.
"Animula! What a gorgeous divinity you are! Such sleek and romantic limbs protruding from an impeccable torso!"
She responded with a fierce scowl: "My name is Mandy."
Even her frown was exquisite. I felt an urge to abase myself before her ankles. She was quick to stall my intention by slapping my mouth and stamping her perfect heel. I was entranced.
"You speak my language? Really, Animula, this is astonishing! Where did you learn it? Shall we spend all our honeymoon in bed or must we try mature pastimes as well? Come close and let me mumble a hastily composed sonnet! I am Titian, a poet from paradise."
"I rarely speak to ugly men, but you're plainly a foreigner so I'll make an exception today. This is the nature reserve of Semaj-Ztif on the proton known as Neirb'O. It is not I who speak your language but you who converse in mine. Your tongue is too small to pronounce any words larger than those which are used in Esperatto, the lingua franca of most atoms. Only the denizens of posh nuclei prefer not to use it. For instance, the helium people judge it too common and generally rely on anticipation and telepathy. Does that answer your question?"
I was forced to admit it did. What other knowledge was to be gained from my beloved Animula? I took her in my arms, but she was too powerful to hold, and I clutched my bleeding nose in dismay and adoration. If all my words were uttered in her bijoux dialect, it was best I kept my poems to myself — they might not translate well. She retreated and I followed. I chased her among the violet drooping silken pennons, which I theorised were wisps of raw energy rather than peeled matter. At regular intervals she turned to deliver a forceful kick in my direction and only my padded groin-pouch saved me from excessive injury.
While we gambolled in the rituals of courtship, a shrill noise from above made us pause. A thrilling aerial sight greeted my vision. Figures with plumage and extended feet were surfing the proton's electromagnetic field, diving to hurl pyramidal objects before veering away. These weird apparitions were not as grotesque as mutated brutes ought to be — if you wish to visualise them, imagine the descendants of a race forced to mate with ostriches. But they propelled Animula into a fit of acute trembling and sobbing. The surfboards were part of their anatomy, but the pyramids most certainly were not. The size of milking stools, each connected with the ground and dented it with a dull clang.
Spying us, one of the eldritch surfers dipped closer and loosed his geometric shape directly over my head. It screeched down and I whimpered in anticipation of death. The nape of my neck seemed to burst and I knew my attacker had achieved a direct hit. I walked away, surprisingly calm, but instead of advancing in a linear direction, as one expects when feet are operated in traditional fashion, I vanished and reappeared at a fair distance behind Animula. I tried again and now a zoetrope must have been spun backwards — events reversed themselves until once more I was in the crepuscular void with a damaged knee, hurtling towards my target proton. Is any genre of love worth such affliction?
My landing was even heavier on this second occasion. I staggered up to regard my beloved. The raid was over: pyramids lay tumbled across the terrain, half-concealed by cirrus drapes. High above, the marauders were returning to a neighbouring sphere, possibly to indulge in a barbecue of truly insignificant proportions. Who were they? How did they alter space and time with their bombs? What beer would they choose to complement the feast? I enquired and Animula was obliging.
"They are the inhabitants of Yar, a militant kingdom on the neutron known as Sgnimmuc. Centuries ago they declared war on Neirb'O and sought to destroy our culture. They failed and have turned instead to politics, declaring independence from the purple atom. They want to split it apart by shelling us with quarks. They wrench them up from their own world and deposit them on ours. Any imbalance in the quantum structure of the atom will eventually cause the nucleus to detonate with massive loss of life. Their ruler, Nosliw Nairb, is totally mad."
I stooped and raised a pyramid. "This is a quark?"
"Yes, the tiniest known particle. The building-block of all matter. You should have ducked when it struck you."
"But how did it propel me through time and space?"
"Not my concern. That's your problem."
Because I am fiendishly cunning, once winning an award for decoding the prismatic runes of Achromia, I understood at once what had happened. For quarks, overlooked by the general laws of physics, improbable events were normal. Their behaviour did not always correspond to my prejudices, which assumed particles must have regular habits. Quarks were frequently indeterminate in their lifestyles and also in their influence over other objects. Thus the one which landed on my neck had temporarily pitched me into a reality where crazy rules applied. This was fascinating, but duty beckoned — I had found the renegade at last. I slipped the shape into my suitcase and bent my knees in satisfaction.
Before I could wonder how I might get it back to the President, the ground shifted and I started to expand. Obviously Dr Celery's potion was wearing off! This was extremely convenient, as are many of the incidents which make up my life, though others may dismiss them as coincidence and the dictates of chance. I know differently. I sow my own luck, nurturing it in a pot with pear compost and optimism.
"Animula, listen to me! Your atom is doomed. The people of Sgnimmuc must surely triumph over those of Neirb'O. But I can offer you an escape from the madness. Come with me back to the big universe and be my bride! You know it makes sense. Why perish here when there is a greater destiny awaiting you in heaven? Give me an answer!"
Her lips quivered. Her nod was almost imperceptible. She climbed in my suitcase, curled up next to the pyramid and I shut the lid. I was not sorry to be leaving the proton. My sojourn had been brief but productive and it appeared I would not have to indulge in any more adventures. Just for a moment, observing the surfers of Yar aligning their mental dipoles to thoughts of destruction and chaos, I thought I might be in for months of Lucianic satire, involving heroic fights in ruined cities and decayed mansions, violent encounters with beasts, alien cheeses, tulwar-wielding gruntbugglies and embalmed gods with carious fangs. Instead I had a pair of gratifications: a quark and a girlfriend. There is a twist to my tale but first I must reclaim my original state.
Molecules fell away around me. I reappeared on the Cosmic Serpent's smallest scale. My growth was much quicker than my descent and there was no time to leave the Temple. I burst it asunder like a heretic, swelling over model after model until I finally reached my authentic cosmos. Here I stretched my limbs, left the roof-garden and carried the suitcase down to the President. It was Monday, the deadline for my mission. He smirked with childlike glee when I threw back the lid and hoisted Animula to her feet. Wrapping her in chains, I presented her to him, bowed elaborately, planted a farewell kiss on her brow and absorbed his praise. She did not take kindly to captivity, protesting vigorously but to no avail. In this reality, her language was incomprehensible.
Why had I delivered my sweetheart to the President? Never let it be declared that Titian Grundy's emotions choke his reason. My appreciative study of Animula when I first encountered her in the glade enabled me to calculate her volume. It was plain she was a single particle rather than a being constructed from individual units, else such units would have to be smaller than quarks, which according to modern science is impossible. I also visually calculated the volume of the pyramids which were dropped from above (one-third the height multiplied by the area of the base) and reckoned that although shorter, they took up more room in total than did Animula. Thus she was the illegal particle.
I left the President to his homework and hastened down the Cliff of Puff. But a terrible shock greeted me at the Station. It was flooded and most of my colleagues had drowned. Dr Celery's lakes had swelled to full size again on his coat. I arranged for them to be returned to Xopué with a demand for compensation. My cheese colle
ction is ruined, but my poet's cat escaped by commandeering an experimental submarine. The macroscopic, bloated cadaver of Percy Flamethrower was never recovered — it drifts in mysterious currents around the building, occasionally appearing to knock on a window and give a mordant salute. Satsuma Ffroyde is also listed as missing, but I suspect he has survived and is evolving into an amphibian in one of the obscure offices in the attic.
In the comfort of my own home I experiment with the pyramid. All it will take for me to have more power than anyone before me is to work out how to operate its quantum properties. I perch on the apex and shake the reins I have looped about it. Mouse and hattock away! One evening I will ride back into the distant past to arrest my very first ancestor. I hold him responsible for all my subsequent troubles, the misery of my life. In the end I will be avenged on myself. Women — you too have betrayed me! I want nothing more to do with any of you, nothing more to do with beauty. Leave me now, you cruel soft-bodied devils! Oh, Animula! If only you had acted your slipper-size instead of your age!
The Suppertime Sting
Titian Grundy here, long chin of the law, reporting direct from the swirling mists of the chronoflow. My mission: to seek out and arrest my first ancestor. Balanced precariously on a green pyramid, a time machine which is a tomb for centuries — watch how it gobbles up the past as my heels scrape a hold on its smooth sides! I can't say this is a pleasant mode of transport; I much prefer my winged chariot launched by monkeys. But nothing in my career is ever comfortable, save the ample charms of Lola Halogen, which are inert and noble, and therefore beyond the reach of this chin.
