‘I’m dying.’
‘I wish I only felt that bad.’
‘Was it the Snot Champagne? Or the Green Slime cocktails?’
‘I think it was your Mucus Beer.’
‘You didn’t have to drink it all.’
‘You didn’t have to help me.’
‘Still, it was quite a celebration.’
‘One of the best.’
‘Oh look, there’s been a message from our masters. Our evacuation craft has been despatched.’
‘Our ship! Our good old ship! We’re going home at last. I can hardly believe it.’
‘There’s even a message of congratulations.’
‘Yes, yes, very good, but turn it down please. That screen is rather bright.’
‘It is turned down. As far as it will go.’
‘And turn off that music too.’
‘What music?’
‘That bee-bop, bee-bop noise. Were we really dancing to that last night?’
‘Wait a minute. That’s not music ...!’
* * *
Norman Smith rolled over in bed and studied his alarm clock, luxuriating in the thought of the long weekend ahead. Monday was Rata Day, a local holiday to celebrate the founding of the town, so that meant three whole days of idleness. He’d help his mum in the shop of course, but Rata weekend was always quiet as many locals went away. He thought about what else he’d do. Some more on the electronics project he was working on, perhaps a start on next week’s homework — he liked to keep ahead — and maybe he could talk his mum into taking the Mini out for a spin. They could visit his friend Tim Townsend at his aunt and uncle’s farm out on the coast. It’d be fun to talk over all that happened yesterday and find out how the Eltherians’ launch had gone last night.
He reached up and clapped his hands. The radio came on. An electronics project he’d completed the month before. A simple thyristor circuit, but it amused him. Clapping twice turned it off again. It was like having a servant.
He was just in time for the nine o’clock news and listened with half an ear, clapping the radio on and off, on and off. Then he froze mid-clap.
Thirty seconds later he leapt from his bed and raced down the hall. ‘Mum! Mum!’ He burst through the beaded curtain that separated the house from RAGS, the Rata Area General Store.
Gladys Smith was serving a customer. Daisy Robson owned Feather Willow Lodge, the town’s only accommodation. Both women looked round at him and smiled. He realised he was still in his pyjamas.
‘Good morning, Norman.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Robson.’
‘I must say I like your PJs. Rocket ships and moons. Very fashionable.’
‘Er ... thanks.’ Norman coloured.
As they watched her go, Glad said, ‘What’s got you so excited?’
‘Have you heard the news?’
* * *
The hearty breakfast made a heap of dishes. Alkemy, Tim, Coral and Ludokrus stacked them up as the adults took the coffee pot and retired to the back lawn.
‘They have no dishwash?’ Ludokrus was incredulous.
‘They do,’ Coral told him. ‘Us.’
He blew out his cheeks and stared at the pile of cutlery, plates, cups, saucers, trays, pots and greasy pans littering the bench.
‘I’ll wash.’ Tim rolled up his sleeves and started filling the sink.
Alkemy picked up a tea towel. She’d hardly said a word since the news broadcast. Coral patted her shoulder. ‘It’s only a big a deal if the Sentinels listen to Radio New Zealand, you know.’
‘But other news will pick up also,’ Ludokrus said. ‘When we see the helichop before, we laugh because there is no caravan there. No evidence we survive. Now the whole world know the truth.’
‘Well it’s not Uncle Frank’s fault. He doesn’t know about you guys.’
‘Albert tell him no to journalist last night.’
‘For Albert, not for everyone. Anyway, the guy called him. What’s he supposed to say? This was always going to cause a stir, Ludokrus. That was a huge explosion. You’ve seen the crater.’
Ludokrus sighed, picked up a tea towel, then put it down again. ‘You have the calculator?’ he said to his sister.
‘Of course.’ She nodded to her pink school backpack slung over one of the chairs. ‘Always carry.’
‘At least that is not also blowed up.’
He unzipped a side pocket and took out a device that looked like a fancy scientific calculator. It had banks of switches arranged around a central display, each one marked by a symbol that glowed faintly. The switches sat in asterisk-shaped channels, meaning each could be moved in one of eight different directions.
Ludokrus pressed the device against the side of the nearest pot, studied the oval display, and began flicking switches. Then he indicated Tim should hold out one of the greasy pans, pressed a button, and released a small grey-green blob. It dropped from a hatch in the side and plopped into the base of the pan. Within seconds, it began fizzing and bubbling as if the pan was scalding hot.
‘Tilt her.’
Tim did so. As the blob moved, the area beneath it shone through, shiny and clean.
‘Oh wow! That’s neat.’
The blob expanded, an action Tim knew to be the work of the microscopic machines generated by the calculator. They replicated furiously, copying themselves and clearing a path as they went. One quick slosh of the pan, and it was spotless.
‘That makes it easier. What now?’ The fizzing green bubbles reached the rim.
‘Pour into next.’
Tim did so and the process continued, except for the residue in the first pan, which continued fizzing, bubbling and expanding. He dipped it in the sink to rinse it. That slowed the process a little, but it continued again as soon as he took the pan out.
‘Er ...’ he said.
Alkemy looked at the calculator and frowned. ‘Where do you tell the nanomachine to get material to make more machine?’
Ludokrus gave her a long-suffering look. ‘From the pan of course.’
‘... um ...’
She pointed to the display. ‘You set it to take the atom from the metal of the surface, yes?’
‘A few only. No one will miss.’
‘... Hey guys ...’
‘Please define “few”. And how do they know when they are to stop?’’
He looked at her blankly for a moment then muttered, ‘Oh.’
With a distinct bloop, the bottom fell out of the frying pan Tim was holding. The bulk of the blob landed on the stainless steel bench where it bubbled even more furiously. Some droplets splashed on to the cream-coloured benchtop where they fizzled out for lack of raw material, but others found the metal parts of the taps, the toaster and the electric jug.
‘Oh no!’ Tim cried.
The shiny chrome sugar bowl was the first casualty. One thin side vanished, spilling a cascade of sugar across the breakfast bar. Tim grabbed a spoon to stem the flow, but the curved handle had been splashed with a tiny droplet. It seethed greenly for a second, then sagged. He watched in amazement as it bowed, bent, then broke in half.
‘Oops,’ Ludokrus said.
The whole sink bench was now seething with molecular activity. It looked as if its entire surface was engulfed in a weird green fire as nanomachines consumed the thick metal. Faint pops and crackles sounded as the fizzing mass reached the pots and pans stacked on one side and began dissolving them from below.
‘What do we do?’ Tim cried.
Ludokrus snatched the calculator back and began furiously flicking switches. Alkemy rushed from the kitchen.
The toaster collapsed in on itself like the shell of a burnt-out building. The electric jug, pulled off-centre by the weight of its plastic handle, tilted sideways and slumped to the benchtop.
‘Water!’ Coral pointed to the sink where the seething activity around the sides of the basin had stopped at the water line. Tim dipped a hand in and splashed, causing the greenish bubbles to slow markedly. He splashed again, sloshing water round the sink, then grabbed a plastic jug, scooped it full and tipped it over the bench.
The water wiped out most of the activity, washing a grey-green sludge into the sink and revealing deeply scarred metal peppered with small green blotches that flared again as the water drained away. He repeated the process. Again and again. It wasn’t a complete cure, but it was slowing them down.
Alkemy returned, dragging the laundry basket. ‘Cover, quick!’ she said, hurling T-shirts, socks and bed linen on to the bench, piling it as high as possible.
‘What ...?’ Coral said, but Tim caught on right away.
‘Nanomachines get their energy from light. Block it out and they shut down.’
‘Oh, right!’
Coral snatched the curtains shut while Tim and Alkemy emptied the laundry basket, covering every available surface and pressing down tightly. The others helped, leaning on it in the semi-darkness, fearful that the damaged bench might collapse beneath them.
A minute later they carefully peeled back the damp laundry. Specks of activity flared here and there, but were easily snuffed out. Alkemy gathered up the sodden garments, most now stained grey-green, while Coral opened the curtains to reveal the extent of the damage.
The frying pan was just a handle attached to a ragged circle of wire, while the pots stacked on the sink bench leaned like capsized boats, their bottoms and sides partially dissolved. All that remained of the kettle and toaster were odd collections of plastic bits. The sugar bowl had gone completely. The stainless steel benchtop and once-shiny taps were now deeply scored and pitted, as if eaten away by acid.
They stared at the devastation, open-mouthed in shock.
‘What the heck do we do now?’ Coral muttered.
Tim shook his head as footsteps sounded on the veranda outside. ‘Better think quickly. Someone’s coming!’