by James Morrow
Copyright © 1983 by Tom Snyder productions. Inc.
All tights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Illustrations by Anna Dividian
Contents
Chapter One
Called Away
Chapter Two
A Tour of Metallica
Chapter Three
Night Rocks, Popberries, and Mire Crabs
Chapter Four
Travels with Merton
Chapter Five
How to Talk to a Fuzzle
Chapter Six
Two Wishes
Chapter Seven
The Most Amazing Thing
Chapter Eight
Smoke’s Choice
Chapter Nine
My Choice
Chapter One
Called Away
I used to think that my home planet was the dullest place in the galaxy.
Now I know better. Porquatz, it turns out, is a huge planet. I mean HUGE.
Porquatz makes Planet Jupiter look like a bowling ball. It makes Earth look like a marble. So the truth is that only half of Porquatz—the half where my parents decided to live—is the dullest place in the galaxy. The other half of Porquatz is pretty exciting. And frightening. And dangerous. And strange.
We lived in the country. My mother and father raised cows. The breed is called the Spotted Woggle. Spotted Woggles are quite dull, even for cows. If you’ve seen one Spotted Woggle, you’ve seen them all. The reason is that Spotted Woggles are all the same cow. They are mass produced, like automobiles and digital watches.
The Genetic Engineering people did some very clever things with the Spotted Woggle. You know the old joke about brown cows giving chocolate milk? In the winter Spotted Woggles really do give chocolate milk. In the spring they give ordinary milk. In the fall they give apple cider. In the summer they give lemonade or root beer, depending on what you feed them.
A Spotted Woggle is about as intelligent as a barn door.
Until my adventures began, my mornings on the farm went like this.
5:30 a.m.
Wake up to buzzzzzzz of the alarm clock.
5:40 a.m.
Get dressed.
5:50 a.m.
Feed the stupid chickens.
6:00 a.m.
Slop the dumb hogs.
6:10 a.m.
Water the crummy goats.
6:20 a.m.
Go to the cow pasture and count the Spotted Woggles to make sure none have wandered off.
6:45 a.m.
Eat breakfast.
7:00 a.m.
Start running to school.
Every morning. Day in, day out. Rain or shine. Saturdays and Sundays, too, except for the school part.
By the way, I should tell you that none of the Spotted Woggles ever wandered off. Somehow they knew there was no place worth wandering off to. Maybe the Spotted Woggles were smarter than I thought.
There’s something else I should say. I didn’t really run to school—I walked. I’m a pretty poor runner, always tripping over my feet. Tanglefoot Terry, people call me. My dad says he’s lost track of how many times I’ve knocked over Spotted Woggle milk pails. And, to tell you the truth, I was never very good at school things, either. I tried to do well in math and geography. I really did. But in the middle of a class my mind would wander, and I’d imagine I was an explorer or an astronaut or a lion tamer.
Maybe I just take after my strange relatives. My family tree contains some pretty odd fruit. Grandfather Wilmur, for example. He used to teach chickens to walk a tightrope. And my Aunt Maude, who lived in a house with 87 cats. But the oddest one of all was my Uncle Smoke. Weird Smoke, everybody used to call him. Nutty Smoke. Crazy Smoke Bailey.
Smoke left the farm when he was just a kid, long before I was born, but Dad never tired of telling tales about him. Like me, Smoke was not cut out for farm life. Or school life. Or any sort of life where you did the same thing every day. No one thought he would amount to much.
“I’m sick of Spotted Woggles,” was young Smoke’s favorite thing to say. His other favorite thing to say was: “There must be something on this boring planet besides cows.”
So one day he just flew away. That’s right—he flew. He flew away in a hot-air balloon called the A-Liner. Smoke had borrowed the A-Liner from a carnival. Well, Dad says he borrowed it. Mom says he stole it. He was eleven years old, the same age I was on the morning my adventures began.
That morning was different for me in every way.
For one thing, I wasn’t awakened by the alarm clock. I was awakened by a funny whirrrrrring. It was like the sound a Spotted Woggle’s udder makes when you squeeze it after all the root beer is gone.
For another thing, I didn’t go out and feed the chickens. Or slop the hogs. The whirrrrrring seemed to be coming from the cow pasture, so that’s where I went.
For a third thing, a strange object had landed in the pasture.
Even in the pale light of dawn, I could tell that the object was silver, shiny, and big as a hen coop. The cows were mooing at it. It had windows, but no doors. It also had wheels. Six doughnut-shaped wheels, three on each side.
The object wasn’t sitting on its wheels, however. It floated about two feet off the ground, held up by a hot-air balloon. The balloon was orange on top with red and blue stripes on the bottom. There was a name painted on it in silver letters.
The B-Liner.
I thought: Uncle Smoke is back! He’s traded his silly carnival balloon for a wondrous airship! After all these years, he’s come to tell us tales of unknown lands.
A ladder was bolted to the side of the B-Liner. Taking the rungs two at a time, I reached the roof and discovered a hatch. It looked like the door to a bank vault. I pulled open the hatch and climbed down.
Uncle Smoke had certainly made a wise move in getting rid of his original balloon. As a matter of fact, the B-Liner was more like a spaceship than like a hot-air balloon.
First I noticed the control panel, a glittering array of switches and meters. Then I noticed a computer keyboard with a display screen above it. Then I noticed a bunk bed.
What I didn’t notice was Uncle Smoke. Where was he?
I scrambled up to the bunk bed. Two envelopes lay on the blanket. One envelope was addressed to “Mark and Jenny Bailey.” That’s my mother and father. The other was addressed to me.
I opened the Terry Bailey envelope with one swift stroke of my thumbnail. A letter tumbled out.
Dear Terry:
This is the most important letter you will ever read in your life.
Now that you are no longer a child, I feel you are worthy of the challenge I am about to present.
Believe it or not, there is much more to our planet than farms. As a matter of fact, a great city lies on the far side of Porquatz. I am living there. The city was built in a swamp called Darksome Mire. Lying under a blanket of Nearmist, Darksome Mire is larger than any swamp you can imagine. Darksome Mire is a continent. It is a world. And somewhere in its sticky reaches lies The Most Amazing Thing in the Whole Wide Galaxy.
I want you to find this Most Amazing Thing. I think you can do it. I would look for myself, but my age has caught up with me.
So you have a choice. You can spend the rest of your life counting Spotted Woggles. Or you can come to my city and let me prepare you for your destiny.
If you choose to stay behind, then I say—good luck, my friend. Kiss a cow for me.
If you choose to come, then you must give you
r parents the second letter. It tells why I nave summoned you, and why they must not try to follow, and why you will learn even more from me during the next several months than you would have learned in school. After you deliver the letter, return to the B-Liner, push the autopilot switch, and wait.
Love,
Uncle Smoke
When my father snores, he makes a sound like a pencil sharpener. When my mother snores, she makes a sound like a dog having a nightmare.
Grrunnggrruunngg went my father as I tiptoed into the bedroom.
Grrowwwggrrowwwgg went my mother as I put the letter on the nightstand. Untipping my toes, I kissed my sleeping parents goodbye.
I dashed back to the pasture. The cows were still mooing at the B-Liner. Sunlight glinted off its golden hull. Entering the wondrous airship, I turned on the autopilot, just as Uncle Smoke had told me to, and suddenly felt the sensation you get inside a rapidly rising elevator. The display screen showed the pasture rushing away. The Waggles looked up. I began to count them. There were nineteen. There should have been twenty, but there were only nineteen.
For the first time in years, a Woggle had wandered off.
Chapter Two
A Tour of Metallica
The B-Liner sailed over farmlands. On the display screen, windmills, cornfields, and Spotted Woggles flashed by.
I sailed over a forest whose trees were cloaked in purple leaves.
I sailed over a lake. A fish popped out, grew two wings, caught a dragonfly in its mouth, and returned to the waters.
I sailed over a desert. Snakes zigzagged across hot sands.
I sailed and sailed. Day after day, week after week. I was never hungry. Uncle Smoke had stocked the pantry with some stuff that tasted like chicken, some object that smelled like bread, some things that looked like cookies, and some junk that sounded like Crickle-Crackle Breakfast Cereal.
At last the B-Liner began to go down. The screen showed nothing but fog. The fog was white, thick, and impossible to see through. It hung in the air like a great wad of wet cotton. I realized that this was the Nearmist my uncle had described in his letter.
When the B-Liner finally dropped below the Nearmist, I got my first view of the landscape.
Imagine a desert. Flat. Smooth. Shining. An endless sandy plain rolling to a dim horizon. Now imagine that all the sand has been turned into black sticky tar. That’s Darksome Mire.
But why was the B-Liner going down? If the ship got stuck in the mire, I would probably need a hot-air balloon the size of Porquatz itself to break free. Was the autopilot on the blink? Was something wrong with the balloon? And where was the “great city” Smoke had mentioned in his letter? Had my crazy uncle gone crazy?
Clunk, wump, bump. I had landed. But on what? Darksome Mire didn’t look like the sort of place that gave off clunks, wumps, and bumps when you hit it. It should have given off slooshes and burrruppps.
Climbing down the outside of the B-Liner, I found myself on a small concrete island. There was room on the island for myself, the B-Liner, and a rusty hatchway—nothing more. The air was filled with a thick, swampy smell. Meanwhile, fifteen feet above my head, the Nearmist stretched like a rubber ceiling, so that I had the odd feeling of being indoors even though I knew I was out.
The hatchway opened. Out popped Uncle Smoke.
He was an old man now. His skin was crumpled. A great white beard gushed from his jaw like a frozen waterfall.
“Terry?” he asked in a creaky voice.
“Uncle?” I asked back.
“Welcome to the city of Metallica, kiddo,” he said, throwing his bony arms around me.
“I don’t see any city,” I said. “All see is tar. And where did you get this great balloon? And what happened to the A-Liner? And how do I find The Most Amazing Thing in the Galaxy? And why are you living out here? And who—?”
“Hold on,” Smoke broke in with a smile. “One thing at a time.” He stomped his boot against the rusty hatchway. “Metallica is below our feet—an underground city! If you’re not too tired, I’ll give you the grand tour right now.”
Pulsing with excitement, I ran to the hatchway. A ladder of solid stone led into the ground. As we went down, a strange glowing insect buzzed over and began lighting our way. It looked like a giant firefly. Then I realized that it wasn’t a real insect, but a thing of metal and wires and glass.
“A robot?” I asked.
“Yes.” Smoke replied. “A robot. Everybody who lives in Metallica is a robot. Except me, of course. And my cat.”
The ladder took us to a small chamber consisting of three marble walls and a fourth wall made of gold. As we came near the gold wall, it slid upward, glittering in the light from the robot firefly. Beyond, an elevator waited.
We entered, and my uncle said good-bye to the firefly. The bug answered with three bright blinks.
Five buttons decorated the elevator control panel.
“First we should visit the Great Metallica Auction,” said Smoke. “That’s on Level Three.”
“The Great Metallica Auction?”
“Yes. Quite different from most auctions. Back home you go in with money and walk out with antiques, gadgets, and junk. But here at the Great Metallica Auction, you come in with those things and walk out with money.”
“What do Metallicans use for money?”
“You’ll see.” said Smoke.
I pushed the Level Three button.
Smoke and I went down. My stomach stayed on Level Five. We stopped. My stomach returned to me. The gold door flew open.
Stepping from the elevator, we found ourselves in a sports arena so huge it could have hosted a football game, a horse race, a circus, and a Bailey family reunion all at the same time. Six Metallican Elders were sitting in the best seats. The place was lit by a swarm of robot fireflies.
I shall never forget my first view of the Metallicans. They looked like what might have happened if you put a tribe of elves and a bunch of washing machines in a matter transmitter and then scrambled their molecules. The Metallicans had pointy metal heads, shiny metal stomachs, and two pairs of thin metal arms. I found myself liking them in spite of their rather grouchy-looking metal faces.
A seventh robot stood in the middle of the arena, holding up a gadget that I took to be a kind of radio receiver. “Will you give me thirty green chips for my latest invention?” the robot asked.
“You’re living in a dream world, tin head,” an Elder shouted from the grandstand. “Try asking us for twenty.”
“Pay close attention to what happens here, kiddo,” Uncle Smoke whispered to me. “When you begin your journey, you’ll need as many green chips as you can get.”
The Inventor Robot and the Elders spent nearly an hour arguing over the worth of the radio. At last the price was set, and the satisfied Metallican walked off with sixteen green chips in his pocket and a big smile on his face.
After we returned to the elevator, Uncle Smoke said that our next stop would be Level Two. The Galactic Store. “It’s the place where you’ll spend your green chips.” Smoke explained.
If I ever end up raising dinosaurs for a living, and need some place to put them when company comes over, right away I’ll think of the Galactic Store. The walls were at least a hundred feet tall, and the main aisle was the width of a six-lane highway. Instead of running from one end of the store to the other, however, the aisle went from floor to ceiling, twisting around itself like a spiral staircase. Metallicans were everywhere, busy as ants on a candy cane, pushing their shopping carts in front of them as they looked over the towering racks of goods.
And what goods! Never had I seen such a huge variety of gizmos, gadgets, doohickies, thingamabobs, and whoziewhats for sale. Even the household items were mechanical: electronic toothbrushes, infra-red window washers, laser mousetraps, microwave garbage disposals, macrowave burglar alarms, nuclear barbeque grills, and digital lawnmowers. Glowing spheres the size of Spotted Woggles floated among the racks, bathing the goods in a brilliant
light.
“The B-Liner is not yet ready for the kind of trip you’ll be taking,” said my uncle as we started down the curved aisle. “You’ll have to outfit it with gizmos purchased at the Galactic Store.”
Leading me back to the elevator, Smoke promised that our next stop would be “the city itself.” He pushed the Level One button.
Getting off, we started across a catwalk. Above our heads: a dark, starless ceiling. Below: the night-covered City of Metallica. The windows of its many houses and public buildings were a million chips of light. From the catwalk, Metallica looked like a great cluster of stars. “Amazing.” I said.
“Amazing.” Smoke Bailey agreed. “But not as amazing as the Amazing Thing you’re going to find!”
This time the elevator took us up. Past the Galactic Store. Past the Great Auction. We got out on Level Four. A narrow hall paved with steel bolts led to Smoke’s apartment.
The living room was as simple and snug as the inside of the B-Liner. My uncle was a man of few needs. A fire crackled merrily in a stone hearth, and, as if that weren’t cozy enough, Smoke’s fluffy gray cat rubbed up against my legs. Before long I noticed an old wooden trunk of the type that Earth pirates would fill with treasure and then bury. The rug we sat on was just as old—it looked like the flying carpets of the Arabian Nights stories, the kind that carried genies and princesses in the days before jet packs.
Smoke gave me a hot mug of root beer, a “local blend” as he put it. I have never tasted anything so sweetly delicious. There’s a fortune waiting for the farmer whose Spotted Woggles start producing Metallican root beer.
“Well, kiddo, are you ready to learn about the search that lies ahead of you?” Smoke asked, tugging at his beard.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied.
“Then sip your root beer, pat the cat, and listen to my story.”
Chapter Three
Night Rocks, Popberries, and Mire Crabs
