The Micronauts

by Gordon Williams

  ‘‘The replication—it worked! That clock isn’t big— I’m small. And you’re small! And that woman— ”

  ‘‘Anne Richards? Yes, sir. She’s small as well.”

  ‘‘Golly. It doesn’t feel very different. Except that I’m baking hot.”

  ‘‘That’s the silk-lined underwear, sir. At this size, our surface areas are proportionally much greater and that increases the rate of heat loss. We’re testing a new type of field-dress—with solar-heated panels. You’ll get one down at base station.”

  Bruce picked up a pair of heavy white socks. ‘‘Are these actually—small?”

  ‘‘Yes, sir. Thirty-five times smaller than normal. All our clothing is made on old jigs from a London toy factory. Did you spray yourself, sir?”

  ‘‘Yes—the woman told me to do it.”

  ‘‘The butyric acid in our sweat attracts other creatures—seemingly we leave billions of molecules of the stuff every time we put a foot down.” Bruce stared at him. A steady smile was, it seemed—the only expression his clean-cut features knew.

  “ Golly ?” Bruce said doubtfully. ‘‘I haven’t used that word since I was twelve.”

  Magruder laughed with delight. ‘‘It’s that old fantasy, sir—if only we could start over again, but knowing what we know now? In a funny way, that’s what happens.” He hesitated, though his smile did not waver. ‘‘Sir—there is something . . .”

  ‘‘Yes?”

  ‘‘We use given names down here, sir—we all like to think of ourselves as a sort of family. Would you object to that, sir?”

  ‘‘I guess not.”

  “Sir—I don’t know your given name—on your published work you always used your initials.’’

  “It’s Bob.’’

  “You sure you wouldn’t mind me calling you Bob?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  This puzzled Magruder, but he smiled and nodded anyway. “Shall we go then—Bob?”

  Full reality came flooding back when they found Khomich in the corridor with Captain Robinson and the SD corporal, Carr, a black Londoner, all wearing identical undersuits and socks. Robinson looked slightly embarrassed, but Khomich and Carr had the narcissistic arrogance of bully-boy athletes, Khomich squat and heavily- muscled, Carr narrow-hipped and broad-shouldered.

  Magruder held out his hand. “My name is Stanley Magruder—you must be Staff-Commander Khomich. It’s a very great honor to meet you, sir... ”

  Anne Richards appeared in the corridor. “We’ll take the elevator down, shall we?” she said.

  “Don’t we see Jany?” asked Bruce.

  “No, Bob,” Magruder replied. “We find it’s best that Crossovers are not put in a same-room situation with normal-size people. You can speak to him on the closed-circuit link from down below.” As they stepped into the lift, he smiled at Khomich. “We have a sort of custom down here of calling each other by our given names, Staff-Commander. Makes us feel more of a team.”

  “So?”

  The lift door closed. Magruder smiled at them all in turn.

  “I’m Stanley—I prefer that to Stan.”

  “I agree with you,” Khomich said.

  Magruder laughed heartily. Carr exchanged a grimace with Robinson. “I don’t know your given name, Staff-Commander.”

  Khomich’s face was totally blank. The tall young American fidgeted uneasily. At last Khomich spoke. “If you need to call me anything, Staff-Commander will do.”

  "Well, sir, we’ll be out there in the garden for a couple of days at least and— ”

  Khomich simply stared at him. For a moment, Bruce thought he saw something ugly on the American’s face, but the ready smile was soon back in place. The lift stopped and the door slid open. An elderly man wearing a blue nylon tracksuit stepped forward to shake hands.

  "Professor Bruce—this is indeed an honor. I’m Gerhardt Muller, base station leader. Welcome to Arcadia. And this is Staff-Commander Khomich? Welcome—please call me Gerhardt. We’ve dispensed with formality down here, we like to— ’’

  "Where are the clothes?" Khomich snapped. Muller slapped his forehead in self-reproach. "And here I am, chattering away-—come with me if you would, of course I can’t promise you Brooks Brothers tailoring ..."

  The field-duty coats and trousers were of the usual denim—but that was their only familiar feature. They were silk-lined and covered with wide black and yellow stripes, except about the shoulders and upper arms, which were covered with white panels. "No matter the angle, the sun is always hitting one or more of these solar-absorption panels,” Muller explained. "The heat is then air-conducted throughout the suit by means of a capillary network. Darkness is still something of a problem."

  "We’ll be pretty inconspicuous—as long as we’re in a wasps’ nest," Carr complained.

  Muller laughed. Magruder laughed. Carr frowned. Khomich turned on them slowly. "Corporal Carr said something funny? Are you running a joke-show down here with these circus clothes?"

  "Forgive me," Muller oozed. "Yellow and black are common warning colors in nature. We tried camouflage suits at first, but they were not effective. You’ll be conspicuous, yes, but that’s exactly why nature gave creatures like the wasp its bright colors—to let predators know in advance that this is a dangerous animal, so keep clear."

  “You mean they’ll think we’re wasps?” Bruce drawled.

  “Something like that, Bob,” said Magruder warmly. His relentless, breezy good humor was already grating on Bruce’s nerves.

  They pulled on the yellow and black suits and then found boots to fit themselves. Muller and Magruder watched them with smiles that were almost maternal.

  “Now we wish to see what weapons you have,” Khomich said, stamping his new boots.

  As they followed Muller along different corridors, they saw people working in laboratories and workshops. Muller seemed to be giving them a guided tour, stopping at the door of a metal workshop to introduce them to two women drilling holes in a sheet of titanium. Wiping the lubricating oil off their hands the two women greeted them in what seemed to be the regulation manner—an energetic good humor of a kind Bruce had not experienced since the old days of international conferences. It had always irritated him, but now, particularly when he looked at Magruder, it seemed to indicate something more than the merely bogus—an inner arrogance, even the suggestion of a threat; when a man kept shaking hands and smiling was he not, in fact, showing you his fist and his teeth?

  Muller wanted to show them the canteen and kitchens. “We know how food is cooked,” Khomich said. “Where is the armory?”

  Muller laughed apologetically.

  The pistols were long-barreled and heavy, made of a dull alloy, the barrels perforated.

  “We have two kinds of ammunition,” Magruder explained. “The bullets in these black clips have steel tips, but the rest is made of a very tough nylon. You could call them armor-piercing. The steel tip will penetrate the chitinous exoskeleton of big beetles and such, then the nylon whangs around inside and rips everything to mush.”

  “George is very strict about only using guns as a last

  resort,” Muller said, “we have things called prods—like metal walking-sticks only they work on cell-batteries and can give most things a salutory shock. We regard it as very important not to disturb the ecological balance of the garden. After all, we’re here to create a new worid and we don’t want to import all the mistaken attitudes of the old one.”

  ‘‘Just what kind of nasties are we going to bump into out there?” Carr asked.

  Magruder smiled. ‘‘Some of our insect cousins are on the impetuous side—but, after all, we’re the real killers of this world. These red clips hold mercury bullets—they penetrate in the usual way, but then they explode into thousands of mercury particles which blast a pretty big exit hole. Very useful for creatures with a dispersed nervous system and a soft exterior.”

  ‘‘Wouldn’t flame-throwers be useful?” Robinson asked.

&nb
sp; Muller was shocked—in a jolly sort of way. ‘‘We’re lighting the flame of progress—not starting forest fires!”

  Bruce examined a pistol. ‘‘Surely the Professor won’t be shooting at his friends the bugs?” Khomich smiled sarcastically. Bruce tucked the pistol into his waistband. ‘‘It’s not insects I’m afraid of.”

  Muller led them along another corridor. ‘‘This is what we call the Departure Lounge,” he announced, leading them into a glass-domed hall the size of an aircraft hangar. A trail of cables led across a bare concrete floor to a recess where they saw radio equipment and a video-screen. As they walked out into the middle of the floor, their eyes were dazzled by a blaze of sunshine.

  ‘‘There’s Lena checking your packs,” Muller said. He pointed to the domed glass roof. ‘‘In time, we’ll be using every inch of this space.”

  ‘‘What for?” Robinson asked.

  “All the equipment and stores and back-up facilities we’ll need when the project really gets under way, of course. My dear fellow, this is only the start.”

  ‘‘None of you people seem particularly worried about George Richards,” Bruce said to Magruder.

  ‘‘George is pretty tough,” Muller retorted sharply. Bruce wondered if he had touched a sore spot.

  “Lena—meet our visitors,” Muller called.

  The girl was kneeling beside a row of red canvas shoulder-packs. Before she stood up, she looked over her shoulder. In that brief moment, there was no smile on her face. She had shortly-cut dark hair and gray-blue eyes. Her mouth was wide and narrow-lipped. Then she jumped up and brushed back her short dark hair and greeted them like old comrades.

  “Lena is a nutritionist and she’s also your expert on soil chemistry,” Muller explained. “We all double up in skills here.”

  Imagining he had Khomich’s mental processes pretty well typed, Bruce waited for his objection to the inclusion of a second woman in the party. Instead Khomich let the girl shake his hand and then said, without hostility. “You think you can keep up with us?”

  She winked with an almost masculine heartiness. “You try me,” she said in an Australian accent. When Muller introduced her to Bruce, she said, “I read all your published work when I was a student, Professor. I couldn’t believe my luck when Gerhardt said you’d be in the party.” She smiled guiltily. “We use first names down here, but it seems presumptuous with a distinguished person like you.”

  “Okay, you can call me ‘Professor.’ ”

  She took it, of course, as a joke. Bruce watched her dispassionately. Like Magruder, she seemed strengthened by some unshakable inner knowledge which put her beyond sarcasm or insult. He remembered meeting people like that in the old days, when fear of famine produced a wave of new religious movements, each more fundamental than the last and each giving its adherents a cast-iron belief that they alone had seen the light.

  “Right then,” said Muller, “Jany may have told you a few things about the garden, but down here we probably take a more realistic view of it. Most of the dangers come from our own ignorance. Each trip is part of our educa-

  tion and we’re always learning something new. All the gear is distributed about these packs—you’ll each have a map, your own rations, a lapel communicator, water- bottle. Stanley and Lena will show you how to refill it from dewdrops—this is your prod—when you squeeze the grip, the gas-cell battery gives a slight electric shock to whatever the business end is touching—very useful for steering most creatures in the other direction. You’ll wear this gauze mask crossing the first stretch of lawn, at this time there’s a lot of dust, although the worst of the pollen is over. You must eat one of these brown cake- concentrates at regular intervals; that’s vital to help your metabolism keep up with the extra heat loss. You’ll find supplies of freeze-dried rations and cooking equipment at the safety stations. This is your torch—only use it when you’ve put up your tent and you’re safely inside. Light at night isn’t recommended.”

  ‘‘Do we have compasses?” Robinson asked.

  ‘‘They would be so small the magnetic force of the stones would make then unreliable. Your map will give you landmarks to guide you in most parts of the garden. Let’s take a look at the map.” They moved in around him. ‘‘Basically, this is an ordinary walled garden, but without being alarmist, I have to admit we’re not a hundred percent sure what might have been introduced accidentally or otherwise by all the people who’ve used this place for research. Apart from the raven or crow which attacked the last party, a pair of blackbirds have made the garden their territory—they might just have a peck at you. If you feel chilly, don’t try to emulate the lizards by basking on hot stones to raise your body temperature— after a hot spell like this, the stones have absorbed a great deal of heat. If you don’t reach Station Two here on top of the main rockery before dark, be careful where you pitch your tent—put it up under shelter, but not in the middle of heavy foliage because plants give off a lot of carbon dioxide at night. When you come down the other side of the main rockery, you’ll be in the general area of Crossing Two over the little stream—it’s just a piece of wood, actually. George was in that area when he radioed

  for help. Look out for nettles—a few stings could be fatal at our size. Normally, you would have done a few short acclimitization trips before a journey like this, but no matter, the garden is not a deadly dangerous place—we have electrified stripping all around the wall to keep out such predatory mammals as foxes and wild cats.” He smiled. “Just think of all the old explorers and missionaries who penetrated the unknown heart of darkest Africa with nothing much more than faith and fly- whisks.” A small tube clipped to the chest of his nylon tracksuit began to emit a bleep. “Control wants to speak to me,” he said, hurrying across the wide concrete floor to the communications recess. Khomich followed him.

  “What’s it really like out there?” Corporal Carr asked Lena Davidson. Anne Richards shuddered.

  “It’s horrible.”

  “Honestly, Anne, I don’t think you should be coming on another trip so quickly,” said the Australian girl. “We know roughly where George must be, we don’t need you to—*

  Anne Richards shook her head emphatically. “No! I couldn’t stay here worrying.”

  Stanley Magruder put his arm round her shoulder. “Don’t worry about a thing, Anne. We’ll find George. In fact, I’ll bet he’s in one of the uncompleted Safety Stations right now, waiting for us.”

  Bruce noticed that she did not enjoy Magruder’s brotherly attentions. She pulled away, looking across to where Khomich was standing behind Muller at the video-monitor. “What exactly is that man here for?” she asked Bruce.

  “The same reason I’m here—to find your husband.”

  “That isn’t why you came here originally.”

  “Towne wanted to know what Project Arcadia is all about. After all, your husband diverted a lot of WFC material to this place without going through channels.”

  “There was no need for you and these soldiers to come down here.”

  “Why not? Don’t you want our help?”

  “You walked out of WFC because Towne made

  THE MICRONAUTS

  George chief-coordinator. You don’t even like George, do you?”

  “Does that matter?”

  ‘‘Are you going to arrest him?”

  ‘‘He has some explaining to do, that’s all.”

  She stared up at him, her brown eyes trying to decide if he was being honest.

  Muller and Khomich came back across the concrete floor. ‘‘It was Jany with a weather report,” Muller said. ‘‘It’s just possible we’ll have rain here by early morning. Normally, we don’t let parties go out if rain is imminent.”

  ‘‘We are not old women frightened of getting wet,” Khomich said sneeringly.

  ‘‘Of course not. Anyway, you’re in good hands with Stanley and Lena.” He smiled at them all in turn. ‘‘Well, this is it. Don’t worry, Anne, you’ll find George safe and well. Goo
d luck, everybody.”

  They each shook hands with him and followed Ma- gruder to the dimly-lit entrance of a low corridor, facing a fine spray of DMP insect-repellent. The last thing they saw, above the entrance to the exit corridor, was a brightly-colored notice of the kind laboratory technicians always find so funny: -

  DON’T LET THE GRASS STEP ON YOU!

  /

  ROBERT WILSON BRUCE

  ANDREI ILYANOVICH KHOMICH

  ANNE RICHARDS (Nee Gaskeyns)

  STANLEY NORRIS MAGRUDER

  LENA ELIZABETH DAVIDSON

  HUGH TELFER ROBINSON

  FITZROY WAVER LEY CARR

  Doctor of Biology (Cambridge); born Regina, Saskatchewan.

  Staff-Commander, WFC Department of Security; born Vinnitsa, Ukraine. Doctor of Medicine (Paris); born Liege, Belgium. Graduate (Honors) of the WFC Institute of Technology (Atlanta); born Sacramento, California. Graduate (Honors) of the WFC Institute of Technology (Atlanta); Doctor of Organic Chemistry (Sydney); born Narooma, New South Wales.

  Captain, Army of the UK Zonal Council; born Did- cot, Berkshire.

  Corporal, Army of the UK Zonal Council; born Brix- ton, London.

  map of the Garden

  THE HOUSE

  .-.

  t.;r. , ' l l/n f Jt?^}fii

  Was this the planet Earth?

  Coming toward them between the towering grass saplings was what looked like a giant panda—with a hard, glinting face. Its lustrous hairs were long and jet-black except on its back, where they formed a brilliant yellow streak. It ambled past on small, rubbery feet, as long as a railway coach, a rippling column of undulating black and yellow fur.

  Lena Davidson’s eyes smiled at Hugh Robinson above her white gauze mask. “That’s a woolly bear caterpillar of the garden tiger moth,” said her muffled voice. “Quite harmless.” He nodded uncomprehendingly, baffled by this dream world of vast noise and stupefying smell, a world from half-remembered storybooks, a world seething with dazzling images both hideous and beautiful, a world so huge their puny eyes could make no sense of it.