by Lyndon Hardy
Fig moved the glass and looked. His excitement dissolved. There was another deviation, but this one was to the bottom indicating the temperature had fallen and not increased. Somehow, he had ignored it as he had scanned along.
Before he could react further, two more circles appeared, this time near the end of the trace. When Fig studied them, he was not surprised by what he saw — two more deviations also toward the bottom.
“I’m bump hunting, aren’t I?” he said to the cloud as it reassembled. He did not know if they could understand him without the aid of the frequency shifter, but it did not matter. “Straining to see an effect in statistical data that I hope is there. Like particle physicists so anxious to find something publishable. There may be a temperature deviation here, but you guys are too small to register.”
Fig examined the other traces, and the results were the same. Random noise, like static on a radio, nothing beyond what one would expect from mere chance.
He thought for a long while and then decided to try another tactic. He turned the communication frequency shifter on.
“Can you hear me?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“I am wondering,” Fig began slowly. “Besides the hoseherders and hairjumblers, what other types of — what is a generic name for all of you?”
“Demons is a good choice, although devils would serve as well.”
“Okay, demons. So besides hoseherders and hairjumblers, are there other types of demons here on Earth?”
“Lots of kinds. Air sprites, rockbubblers, grem — ”
“And are all of them able to disguise their presence?”
“We’re the only ones because we are so small. Others are much larger and would have a difficult time of it.”
“Okay, does anybody on Earth control them?”
“Most have come through the flame of their own volition. Like ourselves, they have no masters. There is no struggle for dominance.”
“But only most?”
“Well, Chalice thinks he controls us, but actually, that is not true. And yes, there are a few wizards here somewhat worthy of the name. The rockbubblers are a feisty bunch. They have a master, but he barely manages to direct them. He is far away and buried underground. It would be great peril for you to venture to visit him.”
“Underground? — Never mind. Who else?”
“Well, there is a female much like yourself who has some matchmites under her thrall. She is far away as well.”
“But above ground and easier to reach?”
“Why are you asking about other types of demons?”
“It looks like there is no way for me to get irrefutable proof of your existence without an awful lot of effort. So, instead, now that I know others of your ilk exist — bigger ones. I will get proof of them instead,”
“No fair! We want you to compete with Chalice for the Nobel Prize. He does not treat us with respect. If he gets it, we will have done all of the work and get no credit at all.”
“I intend to compete,” Fig said. “And if you really want to make me a creditable contender, you should use your powers to help rather than hinder. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
In reply, the cloud rose to the ceiling, far enough away that Fig could not hear even the faint whine of what must be the tiny wings. The colored lights faded out, and for a quarter hour or so there was absolute silence like that on the moon.
Finally, the lights in the cloud resumed their blinking and descended.
“OK. We agree,” the voice from the converter said. “Would you like to travel and meet her?”
“Yes. Absolutely I would. But I have to ask. If you are at CERN all the time, how do you know all of this?”
“Word gets around.”
Imp in a Haystack
FIG STOOD on the sidewalk outside of the terminal at LAX. He glanced at his reflection in the large glass window behind but saw no dance of lights over his head. The little imps, one third of the total, had assured him that, despite the travel, they would still be with him.
They had better. Like his first visit for the interview at USX, the view of the landscape when landing was bewildering — like a carpet of fireflies anchored to the ground and stretching as far as one could see. Los Angeles was a big place. Southern California even bigger. He had drained his savings for the airfare and had little money left for transportation.
Fig took the downconverter out of his carry-on and slipped it on his belt. Getting the device through the security check was something he did not relish having to do again. He slipped on the microphone headset and put the bud in his ear.
“You told me word gets around,” he said softly. “Why can’t you take me directly to this female wizard?”
“Doesn’t have to be a wizard,” squeaked in his ear. “Matchmites have very little brain. They are easily controlled.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Fig let the irritation from the long trip from Geneva find some relief in the tone of his voice. “Where is she? I need to find how much it will cost to get to her.”
“We have no idea. There has been no contact for several months. The mites probably are being kept in a jar.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before we left?”
“You didn’t ask. This is still a challenge, remember.”
Fig’s irritation grew. Dealing with little points of light with minds all their own was not easy.
He pulled out his phone and entered a query. “Let’s see… Here it is. The area of Los Angeles County alone is — why it is almost five thousand square miles! How can we possibly search all of that?”
“Easy enough. That is only half a square mile for each of us. It will be a snap.”
“What? Looking for a jar that may be hidden away? How long will that take?”
“A year for each of us. Maybe a year and a half at most.”
Fig stepped back from the curb. He did not want to climb into a taxi yet. He was a physicist, after all, he told himself. There had to be a better way than a blanket search.
“These matchmites,” he said. “What do they look like? Are they points of light like yourself?”
“No. Not at all. They are quite large. Compared to our svelte selves, lumbering giants. As large as what you call a fruit fly. We can spot easily such a creature twenty of your human paces away.”
“Don’t they glow like you do? Couldn’t you detect them farther — ”
“No. Not at all. Uninteresting gray. And now that we think about it, there are certain backgrounds in which they would easily blend.”
Fig adjusted the microphone slightly on his headset. “Their voices then. Perhaps you can listen for them instead.”
“Would work. We barely would be able to hear them though. Deep slow rumbles hard to distinguish from background noise. For you it also would be different of course. More like the whine of what you call a mosquito.”
“Yes, a mosquito’s whine!” Fig exclaimed. Two or three other waiting passengers turned their heads and stared. “I can add a little parabolic antenna and a narrow band filter to the converter,” he said more softly. “Center it on the frequency of wingbeats, convert it up for you guys, and then you can home in on the source.”
“We would need about nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine more of the devices — one for each half square mile.”
“Maybe there is a way to accomplish that,” Fig said. “First steps first. Let me find out how to get to an electronics store for the additional circuitry, and we can test the prototype out around here. Who knows, we might get lucky.”
“Yeah, right. One chance in ten thousand. And, oh, do you remember the part about probably being kept in a jar?”
FIG GRIMACED as he remembered putting the three one-dollar bills of change into his empty wallet. Cab fare was expensive, and so were the parts and tools he had to buy. He had packed a few small breadboards, wire, some ICs and so on in his carry-on, but the snips and stripper had been
confiscated at the airport in Geneva. He did have a credit card, but it already was almost maxed out.
But no matter for now. He stood up from the small table in the internet café and left before the waiter could come and ask him again what he was doing with the breadboard and wires. Outside, he pushed the ON button on the modified converter and pointed the antenna north.
“Hear anything?” he asked into his headset.
“Only static.”
Fig began pivoting to the west. After turning about twenty degrees, his earbud came alive.
“There! That direction! We hear the whine.”
Fig started walking north.
“No, no. Not that way! More north-by-northwest.”
“I’m on a street where there is traffic,” Fig said. “I can’t cut across where I want to. Hang on. At the next intersection, I will cross to the other side. We will have to zig-zag our way.”
There was no reply, and Fig continued. After about a mile or so of crooked path, he came upon a small city park. It had the usual playground equipment and children riding bikes. In the very center stood a small pond that no one was near, an oasis beckoning the weary traveler.
Fig approached, and as he did, the whine in his earbud grew louder. He squinted, trying to see if any imps were visible, but saw none. When he reached the edge, a cloud of swirling activity did come into view, bigger than the tiny dots of light, but darting about in much the same way.
While he pondered, he felt a tickling on his forehead. Instinctively, he swatted at it. As he did, more of the cloud surrounded him and began biting as well. Mosquitos! This was not a cloud of imps, but mosquitos instead. Of course! What kind of physicist was he anyway? His altered device had done its job well, but not the way he had intended. Finding what he was looking for was going to be a lot harder.
The Queen of the Eight Universes
FIG PONDERED the alternatives. Seeking out the matchmites was not going to work. Somehow, he would have to get them to come to him instead. But if they were confined to a jar or bottle, that was not going to happen either. How horrible that must be, he thought, confined in a small volume. Having to live in one’s own…
“Wait a minute! What about bathroom breaks?” he said into his headset. Or if not that, giving the place a cleaning every once and a while. Do you guys even have to go?”
“Of course we do. Like all living things, we take in food, convert some of it to a form we can use for energy, and get rid of the rest. It takes a lot of power to keep buzzing around, flashing our lights, and thinking about things.”
“Not you. The matchmites.”
“It is the same for them. Every so often, the wizard lets them out to forage.”
“Why don’t they then flee?”
“They are forced to return if they are being dominated by a master.”
“Okay, never mind that part.”
He pushed up his glasses, and then, after a moment, his eyes brightened. “How about this? The matchmites get free every so often so they can seek out food. What is their favorite kind?
Fig did not wait for an answer. “You see, we could go with the idea of spreading out over the entire area, one of you guys to every half square mile or so. And each of you would have a food lure. Then, bingo, when a matchmite showed up for one of you, we would know exactly where to concentrate a subsequent search. With all of you looking over half a square mile, it should not take long at all, certainly not a year. So how about it? What is the mite’s favorite food?”
The colors and patterns shifted again, although this time the change lasted for a few minutes.
“Hello,” Fig jiggled the wire running from his headset to the converter. “Can you still hear me?”
“Favorite food? Well, we are!” the voice sounded in Fig’s earbud after another few moments. “Kind of a delicacy — so we have been told.”
Fig blanched. “Whoa! No need to go that way. What is the second favorite?”
“There isn’t one. Matchmites almost go berserk when they can wolf down one of us. Somehow we … Well, it is hard to believe, but we have been told we smell something wonderful to other demons. But, if one of us is not in the area, the matchmites eat whatever else is around because they have to.”
“I said no. We aren’t going to do that.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad. Like before, the odds would be ten thousand to one. And something the rest of us could talk about later for many orbits around your sun.”
“But being eaten alive.”
“No worse than what we have to deal with all the time back in our own realm. One big gulp is okay. It’s the grinding and gnashing that doesn’t feel so good.”
The speaking stopped, and the cloud began to disperse.
“Wait!”
“We have decided,” the last one to leave said. “You are not a wizard who can command us to stop. We are going to do it. Spread out over the entire area. Report back every twenty-four of your hours. And since release for feeding probably is not a daily event it will take a little while before a roll call is one short. But then, all of us will converge and comb the area that remains. We will find the mites there even if they are kept in a jar.”
FIG WALKED cautiously up to the closed door of the café. The curtains were drawn, but loud music managed to escape and fill the air. The imps said they had been successful. They had told him to go there.
“You’re sure she is inside? She’s the one?”
“Yes, we have found the matchmite. There is only one and in a jar, as we suspected. Tucked away in a satchel she carries on her back when she comes here from somewhere else. There are two males with her, but they are not seen much.”
“Then one of you — ”
“No longer a matter of concern. Get the mite from the female so we can get the competition with your advisor underway. Can you imagine the look on his face when you show it to him?”
Fig’s heart began to race. He was on the cusp of a great discovery, one that would make him famous. Rockbubblers, hairjumblers, matchmites, all demons from somewhere else. This was the experience of a lifetime. Greater than Oz, Narnia, Neverland, Barsoom, Pellucidar, all of the rest. Nothing could be more perfect than this!
He opened the door, entered, and looked from left to right, still listening to the directions in his earbud. He saw three waitresses bustling about with meals stacked on their arms like giant buttons of extreme fashion.
“The one with the long red hair,” the speaker chirped.
At first, Fig frowned at what he saw. The woman’s clothes had seen better days, a patch on one knee, a slight tear on a sleeve. Her shoulders sagged. Furrows hung under puffy and listless eyes. A smile forced itself on her face for the benefit of the customers. She was visibly tired and overworked.
But she was not wrapped in the despair of her lot, Fig decided as he watched. No, that too was clear. There was defiance underneath it all, her motions not tentative but quickly done like a robot so she could move on to the next step. Whatever was her plight, despite everything, she labored on.
And her face. Pale skin, oh so very pale, and large green eyes — Bette Davis eyes, a previous generation would have said. She definitely was different.
Fig moved to intercept her as she headed back toward a hallway leading to the rear. He reached out to touch her arm, but she quickly pulled it away.
“The imp in the jar,” he bent down and whispered in her ear. “A matchmite from another realm. I know you have it.”
The woman blinked. “How do you know? How…” The tiredness she could not shake off stole away the rest of her words. But the little she spoke was accented. She was not from anywhere near here.
Fig took inhaled her essence. He smelled spices — cinnamon, nutmeg, and — and other scents as well. More forgotten memories from childhood suddenly surfaced. He remembered spotting the new girl, Margaret, on the first day of eighth grade. Not knockout gorgeous like the blond already surrounded by a half dozen of the jocks
, but sassy, perfect for a nerd who would want nothing better than to pledge to her his sword. The Scarlet Pimpernel and The Prisoner of Zenda had become the stories that then ran through his head.
Yes, there were other dreams that had matured with him as he grew. Visit to a new unexplored land had become no longer enough. There had to be adventure as well, the rescue of the princess. No, better than that, the faithful retainer who rescued — what had he imagined — yes, rescued no less than the queen, the Queen of the Eight Universes.
He hesitated a moment more as another thought crowded in. Impossible. Truly impossible. Wasn’t he already experiencing wonders enough? But like the crescendo at the end of a symphony, the feeling welled up within him, drowning out the rest of his thoughts. The icing on the cake would be if the woman who controlled the mite, the one standing right before him, also was not from the Earth. Like the imps, not from the Earth, but instead… He imagined the drum roll. Not from the Earth, but instead… the Queen.
Then before he could stop himself, Fig fell to his knees, ripped the electronics from his head, and offered it up to her as if it were her long-lost crown.
No one in the dining area noticed. The patrons continued paying attention to their own concerns. But out of the corner of his eye, Fig saw two men approach them from the hall that must have led to the kitchen, one big with bulky muscles flexing through a tight T-shirt, the other shorter, smaller, with a vacant look on his face, as if the other was dragging him along.
“Is this guy giving you trouble, Briana?” the big man asked. “Jake and I can take care of it. Go outside for a breath of air for a bit. You have been pushing yourself too hard. Worrying too much. The extra shifts so all three of us get enough to eat — well, you do eat everybody’s desserts, and that’s okay. But anyway, maybe tomorrow we can figure out a way around the security guards.”
Fig wanted to find out more about the matchmite, but to his surprise, he blurted other words instead. “How can I serve you?” he asked.