Molly Moon, Micky Minus, & the Mind Machine

by Georgia Byng

  Although her stomach was rumbling as if an underground train was driving around inside it, Molly shook her head when the lakeweed came to her. Raising her eyes sadly to Rocky, she saw he was eating it without objection.

  She knew that deep down the real him would be screaming to get out. From its little cage on the table, the grasshopper chirped madly.

  CHACK! CHACK! CHACK! CHACK! CHACK!

  “He’s stwidulating,” the princess said. “In udder words, he’s wubbing two bits of his body togeder—his legs, in fact. It’s a bit like playing de violin. Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps he’s trying to tell you that he wants to get out of there,” Molly replied coldly.

  “Oh poppycock and poo!” said the princess, tossing her head dismissively and turning away.

  As she and the other children ate, Molly, who was itching to take her new powers out for a test drive, decided to take this opportunity to see what pictures might appear above their heads. So, staring at Princess Fang’s forehead, she sent out a very simple message to her.

  What are you thinking? Molly half expected the small girl to look up and answer, but instead, oblivious to Molly’s probing, she continued munching on her lakeweed. Molly thought harder. This time she shut her eyes to focus, and the prickling sensation on her scalp began. What are your thoughts?

  “Are you pwaying?” the six-year-old remarked. “It’s no use, you know, and it’s wude to sit wid your eyes shut at de table.”

  What are your thoughts? Molly beamed again. Her hair began to feel like it was rising off her scalp.

  Slowly she opened her eyes. When she did, she saw that, like smoke from a fire, a hazy wisp had appeared above the girl’s head and inside it were pictures. Molly swallowed hard. “WOW! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!” she wanted to shout out loud. “IT EVEN WORKS ON YOU, YOU HORRID LITTLE BRAT!” but she had to behave as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Princess Fang was thinking a lot. Many moving pictures were appearing and then vaporizing above her—so fast that it was difficult to understand them all. Molly saw images of aircraft and foreign countries, of government buildings and official-looking people in smart, futuristic clothes. Images of particular faces kept appearing and disappearing: a Chinese man, an Indian woman. There was a scientist in a laboratory, green lakeweed, and then a ride down the huge spiral slide outside. Princess Fang was very perplexing. In some ways she was like a typical spoiled brat, with her huge playroom and toys, but her thoughts were so grown-up. She was completely unlike any child Molly had even heard of. It was grotesque. There she was, in her tutu dress, swinging her feet childishly but sipping wine and thinking the thoughts of a prime minister. Molly decided to strike up a conversation.

  “I have never met a six-year-old as grown-up as you,” she said. Fang looked up and laughed a shrill, superior laugh. Above her head were images of a Chinese woman of about sixty, who looked like she might be her grandmother. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Molly continued, “where are your parents?” Images of an aircraft crash shot quickly over Fang’s head.

  “Dead,” she said. “Died twenty years ago.” Molly nodded, but silently she was doing calculations. Even though she wasn’t very good at math, Molly could already see that this didn’t add up. Fang was six, so her parents must have been alive not more than six years ago—unless they’d died years before and Fang had somehow been kept as a test-tube baby in a laboratory for fourteen years. Molly supposed this was possible. Anything seemed possible in this place.

  “Erm, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, remembering her manners, “but you have a big sister, don’t you?” She thought of the girl in pink who’d received Micky as a baby. “Your sister must be about seventeen by now.” Around the table the other children began to titter and chuckle. Above the spiral of Fang’s hair popped up an image of Molly’s face—her curly hair; her potato-shaped nose; and her green, closely set eyes. A second later fumes and piles of muck surrounded Molly’s features, and in the princess’s thoughts a toy drum came down over Molly’s head so that she couldn’t be seen.

  Molly was insulted. “Looks aren’t everything,” she said.

  Princess Fang lowered her almond eyes as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. “I have many acquaintances, Milly, but I have no sister,” she said frostily.

  Molly felt frustrated. There was something going on with Princess Fang, she knew, but finding out what was like solving an impossible riddle.

  “By the way, my name is Molly, not Milly.” The princess ignored her. Molly changed the subject. “Why do some of your servants wear masks?”

  The princess wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Because,” she explained with a sneer, “dose servants are far too ugly to look at. If I look at dem, dey make me feel sick. I hate ugly fings and old fings. So please do not make me fink of dem now—it will put me off my dinner.”

  As though the entertainment was over, the girl with towering artichoke-shaped hair began talking to the Asian boy about nuclear travel in space. Molly looked at Miss Cribbins and rolled her chopstick between her finger and thumb. She decided to read her mind next. Like an athlete warming up, she began to prepare herself. Her scalp started to prickle as she concentrated, and then her hair felt like it was lifting from her head. Molly knew she was ready.

  What are you thinking? she silently asked. Slowly, as Cribbins unclipped a small silver box and took out four lozenges, a bubble of images materialized above her auburn bun. Images of the same Chinese sixty-year-old woman Princess Fang had been thinking of appeared. And then, as Cribbins swallowed her pills with a sip of wine, there were pictures of thick books and a whip.

  “Where’s Micky, Miss Cribbins?” Molly asked her out loud. Images of Micky lying on a couch eating celery and being given spoonfuls of medicine quivered above the woman’s head.

  “He’s out of earshot of you,” she said as a servant brought her a tray with a syringe on it. “We can’t have you filling his mind with ridiculous nonsense, like the idea that you are his twin sister.” Then, as calmly as if she was checking her watch, she rolled up her sleeve and gave herself an injection.

  “But I am his sister,” Molly said, trying to ignore the sharp needle piercing the pale flesh. Around the table conversations stopped. Molly began to lie. “Now that I know he is safe and sound, and well looked after, I am happy.” She suddenly thought of a cowboy film she’d watched, where a very fine Indian chief proclaimed, “Go in peace.” Addressing both the princess and Miss Cribbins she pleaded, “Can’t you just let me go in peace? If you give me my gems back and my knowledge of how to hypnotize and time travel, and Rocky too, we’ll just travel away to our time and never bother you again.”

  The princess smiled broadly, her fangs exposing themselves as her mouth spread. The Aladdin waiter bent down to her with a dish of sausages and another green spongy vegetable.

  “But I need all your information on how to hypnotize and how to time twavel in de mind machine,” she said petulantly. “I told you. When I have learned to extwact talent as well as knowledge, den I will have de ultimate guide on how to become a master hypnotist.” The little girl rubbed her small manicured hands together and clicked her fingers. A servant brought her a knife. “Dere is a mountain of knowledge stored in my machine!” She sliced her sausage with the precision of a surgeon and then picked up her chopsticks. “All sorts of people have given me deir minds. I don’t see why you shouldn’t give me yours too.” Children around the table murmured approvingly.

  “But why do you want to put all the information on the machine?” Molly asked, watching the air above Princess Fang. The little girl was thinking of herself in a skullcap next to the giant blue jellyfish.

  “Youf isn’t evewyfing, Milly. It’s nice, yes,” the child said patronizingly.

  “Youth, you mean? And it’s Molly.”

  The princess ignored Molly’s corrections and went on with her self-important speech.

  “Oh, we all love de fountain of youf! It’s
wonderful to have agile limbs and bones dat don’t cweak! You have no idea what old age is like!”

  “And you do?” said Molly, a bit sick of this six-year-old’s clever-clogs ways.

  “Yes. I’ve seen it.” The picture of the sixty-year-old woman flashed again above her head. “But de point I want to make,” continued the small girl, “is dat youf is wonderful, but actually knowledge is far supewior. My pawents were quite bwilliant inventors, you know—the best this countwy has ever had—and dis beautiful mind machine dey made, well, it collects knowledge.”

  Molly was offered sausages. She took one and some of the green spongy stuff as well. Her next question she thought to the princess. Collect it for what?

  Again images of Fang in a skullcap appeared. Molly assumed that the princess could in some way put the knowledge from the machine into her own brain in this way. That must be how this weird six-year-old had become so knowledgeable and wise beyond her years.

  “I see,” Molly said, as though none of this impressed her. “So you absorb all the knowledge from your machine into your head. Suck it up like drinking water.”

  “Not as silly as you look, are you?” said the six-year-old rudely. Then, taking a balloon from a drawer in the table, she blew it up. As it grew, Molly saw that it was a replica of a globe, with all the countries and oceans of the world printed on it. Most of the land masses were colored in pale pink, and the seas were blue. “De light pink bits indicate which countwies we plan to take over,” the little girl explained proudly. “De dark pink shows the countwies we alweady contwol. All dat part is called Yang Yongia—after my middle names. It means ‘beautiful’ and ‘fowever bwave.’ De mind machine has been ever so useful. We invite udder countwies’ officials over and dwain deir bwains, you see. Den we can learn deir national secwets and den deir governments are easier to manipulate and destwoy.”

  “And I expect you use Micky Minus to hypnotize them. I bet he makes sure that the people you’ve brain drained go back to their countries secretly working for you.” Molly paused. “And he hypnotizes them not to tell anyone about what you’re up to.”

  “Hmm. Yum, yum, bubble gum!” the child replied irritatingly, and she let go of the balloon so that it shot up into the air and around the room, making a raspberry noise. As the last bit of air escaped from it, it hit the ceiling and then plopped onto the floor.

  “Where are my gems?” asked Molly suddenly.

  “None of your beeswax.” The children around the table laughed. To them, the conversation was like some delightful Ping-Pong match. Molly watched as moving pictures of her gems being deposited into a safe in a wall spun and disappeared above the princess’s head.

  “What program should a person set the mind machine in order to get back their thoughts?” she asked.

  “Nosy parker!” screeched the girl. But as she sipped her wine, numbers and buttons flashed above her. They flipped up and away too fast for Molly to understand or remember. Molly picked up her chopsticks and, giving up the idea of using them properly, stabbed one into the sausage on her plate, holding it up to eat as though it was on a barbecue stick.

  “How long have you kept all those people who live in the dust bowl down there hypnotized?” she asked bluntly, chewing the sausage.

  “Silence in de courtyard,

  Silence in de stweet,

  De biggest fool in de world,

  Is just about to speak!”

  The princess looked delighted with herself. Then she crossed her arms and stuck her tongue out.

  “We’re not in the playground, you know,” Molly replied. She looked with interest at the pictures above the small girl’s head. There was a bearded man and then Redhorn and then Micky Minus, as if Fang was casting her mind back to all the hypnotists who had helped enslave the people. It had obviously been going on for ages.

  “She’s not as dumb as she looks,” said the Mongolian girl, taking a cube-shaped puzzle out of her pocket and beginning to fiddle with it.

  “I agree,” said Miss Cribbins, observing Molly as though she was a performing seal. “But whether she’ll absorb a lot of information in her lessons is another question.” Above her head were pictures of Molly sitting at a desk with piles of books about her.

  Molly interrupted them. Her mouth was full as she spoke, and she was glad. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve always been a terrible student.”

  Miss Cribbins looked at the mashed food in Molly’s mouth and frowned. “I have ways of making you work.” A tight smile crossed her lips.

  Molly felt a shiver of fear, but she didn’t show it. “Where is Redhorn?” she asked.

  “Dead as a doornail,” said Fang. A coffin floated above her right ear.

  They continued eating in silence. Molly mused on all that she’d learned and ate her supper, scooping up the spongy vegetable mash using both her chopsticks at once as though they were a flat spade. The sausage tasted of cod and the vegetable tasted like a mixture of apples and buttered toast. Under the table, Petula heard a splat by her back leg. Molly had dropped some sausage for her. She ate it up gratefully. Then, she noticed an acrid smell. It was the unmistakable whiff of the cat-spider, Taramasalata. Petula sat up, alert.

  Only just noticed me, have you? came the nasty drawl of the creature as her thoughts wormed their way into Petula’s mind. Petula looked about, trying to see where the animal was. She was amazed it could speak dog so well.

  Up here. The cat-spider was hidden, hanging upside down from the underside of the table. Now it let its thread drop and landed on its eight pink furry feet. Petula jumped.

  Ha! The thing laughed. Tricked ya! “Miaaaowwww!”

  Petula’s skin prickled as she recovered from the little shock. She didn’t like this animal at all. Then she suddenly thought how marvelous it would be if she could hypnotize it. So far she had been useless to Molly—she needed to practice hypnotism. Taramasalata would be the perfect subject. Petula ignored the creature’s purring and instead tried to focus on her own breathing. She wanted to become calm enough to tune into the cat-spider’s vibrations and for her eyes to throb hypnotically. In Los Angeles she’d once charmed a director so thoroughly that she was sure she’d actually hypnotized him. As her forehead bristled and her ears tickled she felt she was ready. And so, slowly, she looked up.

  Her huge brown eyes bored into the creature’s unblinking yellow ones. Petula gritted her teeth and sent out what she thought was a hypnotic blast. But nothing happened.

  Dogs always stare, said the cat-spider. So rude. No manners.

  Petula gave up. It wasn’t working. I’m sorry, she apologized.

  Don’t try and get smarmy with me, came the cat-spider’s frosty reply. I want nothing to do with a ball of fur and guts like you. Just came to inspect you, that’s all. You are quite as repulsive as I suspected. Horrid popping-out eyes and a face like a bottom! With that, she wound herself back up to her cavelike hiding place under the table. Petula frowned and snarled. At least now she knew exactly where she and this Taramasalata stood.

  Above, waiters were bringing the diners coffee, salted plums, and ginger slices. Then Princess Fang was brought a selection of cigarettes. She chose a green one and lit it. Three of the other children began smoking too. Molly was amazed. To see children smoking was as peculiar as seeing a horse dressed in clothes.

  “So, Monsieur Povolay is awiving tomowow,” Princess Fang said, leaning back against an invisible rest on her stool and puffing smoke into the air, “but I shan’t look at him; he is far too wepulsive!” She winced. “He should be put down.” An ugly, whiskered man in a suit hovered above her forehead.

  Another poor victim, Molly thought.

  Across the table the young boy of six or seven with sunglasses on consulted a glowing pad.

  “Yeah, M’sieur Povolay is tomorrow. I fink we h’ve ve Chinese biologists arriving in ve afternoon as well.”

  “And,” whined the princess, “dere must be a show. Cwibbins, you pwomised us all a pantomime dis wee
k. And a magic act. We’re bored. And I want to play dat game where if de servants get it wong dey have to chop up onions blindfolded. It’s so funny when dey cut demselves!”

  Around the room the children all nodded in agreement.

  “Smoking gives you cancer,” Molly said.

  “Ha! Oh, silly Milly! You are so out of date!” sniped the princess. “Cancer was cured two hundwed years ago. It’s a disease of de past. Why don’t you have a cigawette? I always have one at de end of a meal.”

  “It still makes your breath smell something rotten,” Molly said icily. “And by the way, it’s Molly, not Milly.” But it was as if Molly hadn’t spoken, for the princess did not reply. Her attention was all on a big bowl that was being brought to her.

  “Oh, it’s my favowite fing!” she cried. “I do so love it when we have fortune cookies! Quick, quick. Me first, me first!” Obediently the waiter tilted the bowl so that she could choose a cookie. The little girl greedily dived her hand to the bottom and fished out a red parcel. Ripping its wrapper off, she found the slip of paper. Throwing her glowing cigarette over her shoulder, she took a bite of the biscuit and, munching, read her fortune.

  “Oh, dey’re always so stoopid!” she exclaimed. “It says, ‘Never play leapfwog wid a unicorn.’ Ha. Ha, h-ha! Dat’s actually quite funny!” Everyone else at the table had also now chosen a cookie. “Tell us yours, Milly.” Molly uncurled her white slip of paper.

  “‘The robbed one who smiles steals something from the thief,’” she read.

  Silly, see? Now dis is much better. Listen to dis poem I know:

  “Ooo-errr, ooo-errr, ooo-errr

  Milly fell down de sewer,

  She pulled de chain

  And up she came