by Sue Bough
Norman was convinced she looked straight at him, and he squirmed on his stool.
“Right, I’ll take the register; and when I call your name, please bring your jars up so we can all see them.”
Miss Lastic pushed a button on her central panel and a list of names was projected onto the wall. One by one, Norman’s classmates left their seats and marched proudly into the middle of the classpod.
“Anna Conda… Oh, well done, Anna! Two Firelighters and a nice big Scudder!”
Norman’s day was getting worse by the minute. He shuffled to the farthest edge of his stool, away from where Anna was waving her jar excitedly for all to see.
“Theresa Green… Not bad at all, Theresa; a Spring Fly and a Marge Fly. Now, class, you see the back legs on this Spring Fly? These are tightly coiled and enable it to launch itself into flight with alarming speed. No, Theresa… we don’t want to see your impression of a Spring Fly.”
“Miss, why is a Marge Fly called a Marge Fly?” Anna Conda asked as she peered into her neighbour’s jar.
“Well, because they are just like the Butterflies found on Earth – only less fat.”
Norman was usually fascinated to hear Miss Lastic explain about the various insects (except Scudders, of course), but as each Poggle collected their jar he could only think of his approaching turn. This was one occasion when he was glad his surname was near the end of the alphabet.
“Angelica Mould… Hmm, another Firelighter, but… have you pulled its legs off?!” Miss Lastic studied the poor creature, which had no choice but to flutter endlessly around the jar, having no legs to land on.
“No, Miss! Of course not!” Jeli protested indignantly.
“Then why is there something that looks suspiciously like a leg stuck to your finger?”
Miss Lastic fixed Jeli with one of her stares, which were far worse than any words that ever came from her mouth. Jeli went scarlet and quickly returned to her seat.
“Angelica Mould…
have you pulled its legs off?”
“Ernie Sludgebucket… Good effort, Ernie! Two Humm Bugs and a Trojan. Do you know what this one does?”
“Suckers, tentacles and fizzy slime!” Ernie replied excitedly.
“Ah, Trojanus Octopussus Fizzicalis! Very nice.”
Ernie returned to his seat with a big grin on his face and, despite his fate, Norm managed to smile back.
“Norman Snodgrass.”
The smile vanished. It seemed to take an age for him to walk to the shelves of jars, select his empty one and shuffle up to the central console.
“What’s this, Norman?” Miss Lastic’s penetrating gaze fixed upon him.
“Nothing, Miss,” mumbled Norman.
“I can see that perfectly well. Explain.”
Norman gulped and looked at his friend for some last-minute, desperate help. Behind Ernie, Boris Whinge’s spotty face erupted into a grin.
“Spong!” mouthed Ernie. Of course.
“I’m-afraid-I-didn’t-have-time-to-do-the-homework-last-night-Miss-Lastic-I-had-to-go-with-my-parents-to-take-Spong-to-the-vet-he’s-not-well,” Norman garbled without breathing. He really was a terrible liar.
Miss Lastic studied Norman’s face intently, her shrewd eyes locking onto his.
At last she said, “Very well, I’ll give you until the end of the week to come up with something, but no excuses then.”
A sharp exhalation from his left told him that Ernie hadn’t been breathing either. “Well done!” Ernie whispered as Norm returned thankfully to his place. Norman didn’t feel as if he’d done anything to be proud of at all.
“Aw, is poor iddle Spongy-Wongy sick, then? Sick of being with a creep like you, more like!” Boris leaned forward and sneered quietly.
“Boris Whinge.” Miss Lastic’s voice made him jump.
“Wh-what, Miss?” he stuttered.
“Your homework, of course, Boris.”
The class giggled as Boris sloped over to the last remaining jar in the cubbyholes.
“Very nice, Boris; a Sneezewort.” The smug grin returned. “Now, you have to be careful with Sneezeworts, or Kleenexus Snotificus to give them their proper name. They live by disguising themselves as tissues and waiting for someone to sneeze and mistake them for a hanky. Then they feed off the… Yes, well, it’s all pretty unpleasant. The trouble is they harbour germs and can pass on all sorts of bugs. I hope you washed your hands after you collected this one, Boris?”
Boris shifted guiltily and tried to hide his grimy fingers that hadn’t seen clean water for a very long time.
“Now, class, we will keep these insects for two weeks to enable us to care for them and study them, then we will release them again. Please return your jars to the shelves and line up for assembly.”
There was a scraping of stools and a clatter of three-toed feet as twenty Poggles all tried to head for the door at once.
“Two lines, and don’t run! How many times must I tell you?” Miss Lastic chided wearily.
Spies
The weekly assembly in the Star Chamber was not like the dull assemblies held in Earth schools. For a start, everyone on the Planet attended, so it was a huge gathering. Important news was shared, decisions were made, and occasionally punishments were dealt out to those who had disobeyed the Poggle Charter.
This didn’t happen often as, by and large, Poggles were a peaceful, law-abiding bunch. Not surprisingly, the role of Poggle Warden – a bit like our policemen – was not a challenging one. As a result, one or two Wardens created petty rules to increase their own importance, but this was usually stamped out by the Elder Poggles.
The central Star Chamber in the heart of the Green Planet was an impressive space. Naturally circular, as most rooms on the planet were, its roof was alight with a hundred glass globes. These were filled with Firelighters, gorging on sugar and emitting their bright radiance and heat. It was a full-time job for an old Poggle called Flint Zippo to ensure the lanterns never went out. The job had been passed down through the Zippo family for generations and they carried out their duty with pride.
As Norman filed into the chamber with his class, he was once again struck by the majestic surroundings and seriousness of the occasion. There was no question of misbehaving in here. Even Boris Whinge looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth as he took his seat on a semi-circular bench near the front of the room. Ernie was sitting beside him, not through choice but because this bench was reserved for the Hooting Choir and both were members.
Above their heads in the viewing galleries, the adult Poggles arrived through the many Zube Tube outlets, fitted with special, star-shaped openings. Norman could just make out his parents seated above and to his right. Mum wore her best feathered hat as usual, and Dad his smartest trilby.
Once everyone was gathered, a signal was given. The Hooting Choir stood and raised their trumpet-shaped snouts to the roof. The crowd fell silent as the melodious sound of the Green Planet Anthem drifted around them. Poggle hooting is a bewitching cross between bagpipes and humming, the sound of which has been known to send some into an almost trancelike state.
As the music reached its climax, the heavy purple curtains at the front of the chamber drew back silently. Now the whole assembly stood as six Elder Poggles processed in and waited behind some small wooden stools on the raised platform. A seventh stool was left unoccupied in the centre and, as the last chord of the anthem echoed around the room, Zohar, Master Poggle, entered the chamber. His purple robe flowed behind him and his gold hat shone in the firelight. The hem of his robe was decorated alternately with small silver bells and embroidered mungoberries. The silver bells tinkled as he walked.
“Greetings, fellow Poggles, and be seated,” came the usual salute.
There was a shuffling of stools and benches as the throng of Poggles settled down attentively. Norman loved as
semblies. Although he tried to pay attention to what was going on, the Master Poggle’s gentle, lilting voice usually sent him into a happy daydream, far from Boris Whinge’s cruel taunts. For the first time since losing Spong, his stomach unknotted slightly.
“Greetings, fellow Poggles, and be seated.”
“I’m pleased to tell you,” Zohar began, “that the production of sugar has increased this week. I’m sure we would all like to thank the members of the mining team who have worked so hard to achieve this.”
An appreciative ripple of applause ran around the room. The core of the Green Planet was made of pure sugar which was a staple Poggle food.
“Unfortunately, our waste levels are still rising.” Murmurs of concern could now be heard. “We will continue to monitor the Waste Dome, and we have an expert working to find a long-term solution to the problem…”
*
After what seemed to Norman like a few moments, but was actually half an hour, Miss Lastic ushered her class out of the chamber and back to the nearby school pod. Ernie caught up with his friend along the way.
“Nice hooting, Ern,” said Norm.
“Glad you think so,” grinned his mate. “Hard to hear with Whinger rasping away in my ear, though.”
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Their first lesson was Geography with Mrs Sippy – a middle-aged Poggle with a twinkle in her eye whose favourite subject was Earth. She claimed to have been part of a Poggle Exploration Team (PET) sent to Earth to look for intelligent life, and she made a point of dropping this fact into every lesson. You could say it was her PET subject.
There had been great excitement on the Green Planet when, forty years earlier, the first PET landed in a cornfield in a place called Wiltshire, in the United Kingdom. However, after months of studies and seeing the mess the Humans were making of their home, the PET reached the conclusion that perhaps they weren’t so intelligent after all, and the search continued. There was one exception – a young Professor who had begged to be allowed to return with them.
Geography was nearly over, and Mrs Sippy was indulging herself again.
“Oh, we used to have such fun,” she began. “Every time we landed in a field on Earth the Humans would go mad about the patterns our spaceship left behind! So then, every PET would make a point of stopping there whenever they passed nearby, to leave fresh marks. You should have seen them waving their arms in excitement,” she giggled, “and then we’d tune into their radio stations on the way home to listen to the nonsense they came out with. All over a pile of smashed grass!”
She wiped her eyes as the buzzer went for the end of the lesson. The many classpod doors flew open and streams of Poggles ran into the spacious playpod at the end of the main corridor.
Norm and Ernie picked their way through the crowd. Some were playing Spaceball, trying to keep an almost weightless, jelly-like ball in the air using only the power of thought. You had to position yourself underneath it and skilfully will the ball up into the cup-shaped helmet on your head. All the while, the opposing team tried to jostle you out of the way. Once you had the ball, you had to run the length of the pitch and flick it into your opponent’s goal. Points were deducted if you were the last person to touch the ball before it hit the ground.
Norm was hopeless at Spaceball, or any activity that required balance, because of his long toes. He usually sat at the side of the playpod, looking on with Ernie.
“Right,” began Ernie when they had found a bench out of earshot, “we need a plan.”
“A plan for what?” Norm felt uneasy.
“To get Spong back, of course! We have to go to the Wasteland!” Ern waved his hands excitedly.
“B-but, we can’t… I mean, how do we know he’ll still be there? He could have bounced anywhere by now!”
Ernie hadn’t thought of that. He paused, frowned and said “Well, we have to start somewhere. Maybe he’ll have left some tracks behind.”
Norm couldn’t think of any more arguments, and by the time break had finished he’d reluctantly agreed to sneak out of his pod and meet Ern half an hour after bedtime. They would then take the nearest Zube Tube to the Wasteland.
As they left their bench to head for the next class – Poggish with Miss Interpret – they failed to spot a shadowy figure hiding in the bushes nearby. Boris Whinge emerged from the undergrowth. He’d been searching for a stray Spaceball and was delighted to find himself eavesdropping on their plan.
We’ll see about that, he thought to himself.
“They failed to spot a shadowy figure hiding in the bushes nearby.”
As the day wore on, Norman became more and more convinced that the plan was a foolish one and doomed to fail. There was no chance to persuade Ernie to call it off, though – he had hooting practice after school – so Norman walked home alone.
What a mess, he thought; why didn’t I just come clean to Mum and Dad in the first place?
The simplicity of this idea suddenly struck him. What an idiot he was. Spong was missing, he’d lied to his parents and his teacher, he still had to do yesterday’s homework and, worst of all, he’d agreed to go to the Wasteland tonight. He wouldn’t be surprised if the Fib Pot’s spout met him halfway home. It was bound to be miles long by now. Yes – he was a complete idiot.
*
Supper was an awkward one. Isadora Snodgrass made tea in the Fib Pot, and its oversized spout slopped liquid everywhere as she poured. No one spoke. Norman felt as though he would explode if this went on much longer and, try as he might, he couldn’t stop the end of his hooter from trembling.
Arthur Snodgrass was also in some discomfort. He stole a sideways glance at his son. The poor Poggle looked wretched. Isadora tried to pour a third cup of tea but the spout drenched a plate of Green Bug butter sandwiches and something inside Norm snapped.
“Mum, I…” he began.
“Izzy, there’s something I need to tell you,” his father interrupted, flashing Norman a meaningful look.
Isadora Snodgrass put the Fib Pot down.
“What is it, dear?” she said quietly.
“It’s my fault the Fib Pot is like that… I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
“Go on…”
“Well, when I said I had to work late tonight, it wasn’t completely true. I was round at Bill Sludgebucket’s trying out his home-brewed Pogginton Beer. I’m very sorry.”
For a moment Isadora said nothing and just watched the Fib Pot. Gradually its spout shivered and began to shrink.
“You of all people should know better, Arthur,” she said finally, and there was the faintest glimmer of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll fetch a cloth.” She bustled into the kitchen.
Arthur Snodgrass looked at the pot, whose spout had stopped shrinking but was still much longer than normal. He looked at his son… then, with a wink, popped a tea cosy over the green monstrosity.
“I trust you to do the right thing,” was all he said.
To the Wasteland
Norman’s heart was pounding. He was certain his parents would hear and come to see what the noise was. He’d gone to bed twenty-five minutes earlier and had pretended to be asleep when his mum checked to make sure he wasn’t reading under the covers. Nothing could be further from the truth.
In five minutes’ time, he’d agreed (who knew why) to meet Ernie and go on a crazy search for Spong. At this present moment he doubted he would have the courage to get out of bed, let alone make it all the way to the Wasteland.
Four minutes.
Norm wiggled his toes and persuaded one foot to let itself be dangled out of bed. So far, so good. The other foot seemed happy enough to follow and soon both feet were on the floor, but his body was reluctant to leave the warmth of its fleecy blanket.
All I’ve got to do is straighten my legs and I’ll be standing, he thought to himself, but his knees wo
bbled uncooperatively. He gave them a stiff talking to and they stiffened up. He was standing.
Three minutes.
Feeling a little braver now that he had achieved the impossible, he quickly stuffed a pillow under his blanket in case Mum should look in again on her way to bed. She’d be worried if she didn’t see a Norm-shaped lump under the cover. Norman glanced down at his flabby blue stomach bulging over his utility belt and stuffed a second pillow into the bed for good measure. That should do it.
Two minutes.
The squeak of his bedpod door made him freeze in the hall. Luckily, his parents were watching a comedy programme on the Telescreen and burst into hoots of laughter at the same moment. They were still chuckling as a small shadow sneaked down the hallway to the front door.
One minute.
Norm fumbled with the latch, and it clattered as if a mob of the worst burglars on the Planet were trying to break in. Norm glanced fearfully behind him. Suddenly, his dad strode out of the living pod still talking to his mum over his shoulder. He headed in the opposite direction towards the kitchen, totally unaware of his son silhouetted against the front door behind him.
Norm had to act fast before his father returned. With a last fumble he loosened the catch and opened the front door just wide enough to squeeze through (which was pretty wide in Norm’s case). Without looking back, he quickly pulled it to and headed down his garden path to the gate.
Little did he know that someone had watched him leave. Underneath his bed, eight glittering eyes sparkled in the dark. They belonged to a Scudder.
I wonder where he’s off to…? Scheherazade (for that was the Scudder’s name) thought to herself. It’s most unlike him.
