Aristotle knew the first thing he’d be doing once he found his way back home.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m going back to tell them now.’
‘Good luck, mate,’ said the tummy germ.
‘Thanks,’ said Aristotle. ‘Thanks for everything.’
With a cheery wave, the tummy germ set off back along the capillary. And reappeared a moment later.
‘One thing I forgot to tell you,’ it said. ‘When you get to the other end of that tunnel, there’s a big open paddock. The tunnel to your nostril leads off it. But there’s something else in the paddock you have to watch out for. Millions and millions of sneeze cells. Do you know what sneeze craters look like?’
‘No,’ said Aristotle.
‘Well, be careful,’ said the tummy germ. ‘If you irritate them, the human will sneeze and we’ll all be blasted out of the nose to certain death. See ya.’
The tummy germ headed off again.
Sneeze cells, thought Aristotle.
He felt like retreating along the capillary with the tummy germ.
But he didn’t. He had a job to do and no time to waste hanging around being scared. If he wanted to feel scared, he’d have to do it on the move.
Aristotle scrambled through the jagged hole onto the nostril floor and peered around.
All clear.
As he’d hoped, the royal commando border guards weren’t even at their posts. They were busy at the recruiting stations, signing up millions of new recruits for the invasion of his and Blob’s nostril.
Aristotle hurried into the dark tunnel.
While he crept through the gloom, he kept his spirits up by thinking about all the interesting experiences he’d had lately.
Finding a second nostril.
Meeting a king and Ralph’s brother.
Discovering that not all tummy germs are deranged killers.
Learning some very important facts from history.
The only disappointing experience, thought Aristotle, was when the scientists couldn’t discover why I’m so different.
He didn’t let it get him down. In fact, as he hurried on through the darkness, he made a plan.
Study hard.
Become a doctor.
Find out myself why I’m different.
It felt like a good plan.
But first he had to save Blob and all the others from the coming war.
13
The big open paddock at the end of the tunnel was exactly like the tummy germ had said.
Big.
Open.
Full of sneeze cells.
At first, Aristotle had trouble recognising them.
The paddock was vast, almost as big as the forest territory north of the human’s top lip. But there was no pale-coloured skin hair here. Just row after row of fleshy ridges, bare except for millions of little craters.
The craters looked empty.
Aristotle had started tiptoeing between them when he felt the wind change direction. It was blowing in through the nostril now.
Or rather, thought Aristotle grimly, nostrils.
Floating on the wind was a big fluff ball. It wasn’t big enough to be nightie fluff. Aristotle peered at it as it tumbled past.
Cotton bud fluff?
Dandelion fluff?
No, he decided when he’d had a good squiz at it. Butterfly fluff. It built up in their bellybuttons, and when they did a heavy landing on a flower or something, it popped out and became airborne.
Aristotle watched as the butterfly bellybutton fluff tumbled into one of the craters.
He saw that the crater wasn’t empty after all. A quivering skin cell rose up inside it to meet the fluff. And immediately the whole world started to tremble.
The wind got stronger. The fleshy ridges shook with terrible spasms. Aristotle was thrown to the ground. He lay there, arms and legs wrapped protectively over himself. He was trembling too. Waiting for the sneeze that would hurl him and all the other nose germs into oblivion and wipe out another generation.
But there was no sneeze.
The trembling spasms slowly subsided.
The wind dropped.
The fluff ball, soggy now with mucus, lay harmlessly on the edge of the crater.
Phew, thought Aristotle. That was close.
He picked himself up and tiptoed carefully back to the edge of the paddock, careful not to slip on any of the ridges and fall into any of the craters. He knew that if butterfly bellybutton fluff could almost cause a sneeze, then a germ, even a small one like him, would certainly do it.
When he got to the edge of the paddock and didn’t have to watch where he was treading any more, he looked up. And saw, in the distance, at the other end of the paddock, another tunnel.
The back entrance to another nostril.
My nostril, thought Aristotle.
He went sad and happy shaped at the same time which hurt. Then he saw something that made him forget the pain.
A tiny figure, standing at the other end of the paddock, waving to him and shouting something.
‘Blob,’ yelled Aristotle, jumping into the air and waving back with delight.
He stopped almost immediately.
Germs who jumped and waved, specially excited ones, could easily fall into sneeze craters.
‘Be careful,’ he yelled to Blob. ‘There are sneeze cells everywhere.’
Blob was still shouting something, but the breeze was carrying his words away and Aristotle didn’t have a clue what he was saying.
Aristotle looked around for a safe way to get to Blob.
He saw that on each side of the paddock was a high cliff. On the cliffs were narrow ledges that didn’t seem to have sneeze craters on them.
‘Hang on,’ Aristotle yelled to Blob. ‘I’ll come to you.’
He clambered up onto the highest ledge he could see, the one that was the safest distance from the sneeze cells, and started making his way carefully along the cliff towards Blob.
It was going to take a while, but Aristotle knew Blob would have plenty to keep himself occupied. Counting the sneeze craters, for a start.
The ledge was very narrow. Aristotle had to keep all his attention on where he was walking. If he slipped and rolled down into a sneeze crater . . .
He stopped for a rest and peered ahead towards Blob.
Who wasn’t there.
Aristotle went panic-shaped.
Had Blob slipped and rolled down?
Phew. No, he hadn’t. There he was, on a lower ledge, making his way along the cliff towards Aristotle.
I wish you’d stay put, thought Aristotle, going anxious-shaped. With your hopeless balance, there’s at least a ten to ninety percent chance you’ll fall off.
He pushed the thought away and tried to replace it with a less anxious one.
We’re heading towards each other.
Soon we’ll be together again.
‘Blob,’ yelled Aristotle, waving. ‘Be careful. Don’t try and go too fast.’
Blob yelled and waved back.
Aristotle still couldn’t hear what he was saying. He seemed to be pointing towards the tunnel that Aristotle had recently come out of. And he was trotting along the narrow ledge much too quickly.
‘Slow down,’ yelled Aristotle. ‘Stop and count to a million.’
Blob was gesticulating even more wildly now, using all his arms and even a couple of his legs as he trotted.
Aristotle glanced back over his shoulder at the tunnel Blob was getting so excited about. And instantly saw why.
Speeding out of the tunnel was a platoon of royal commandos. They started to jump up onto Aristotle’s ledge.
‘Down here stupid commandos,’ yelled Blob. ‘I’ll pulverise you all.’
The commandos dropped down onto the lower ledge and headed straight for Blob.
‘Go back,’ Aristotle yelled frantically to Blob. ‘Head for our nostril.’
But Blob didn’t go back. He trotted at full speed, Aristotle saw
with horror, straight at the advancing commandos.
As he got closer, Aristotle could finally hear what he was saying.
‘Look out,’ Blob was yelling. ‘They’re coming from both directions.’
That’s when Aristotle noticed the other troops, a platoon of government soldiers, coming out of the tunnel he was heading towards.
Aristotle knew he should be relieved. These troops were from his nostril. They were on his side. They could rescue Blob. But there was something about the way they were rushing towards him instead of Blob that made Aristotle feel sick and anxious.
Blob crashed into the royal commandos, flailing at them with all his arms and legs, trying to fight them.
He was, Aristotle saw, losing badly.
The commandos were picking him up and carrying him off.
Aristotle, yelling, frantic, tried to climb down to help him, but the ledge was too high.
I don’t understand, thought Aristotle numbly as he dangled off the ledge. Blob must have known he couldn’t defeat a whole platoon of commandos. He must have done the maths.
‘Why didn’t you let them take me?’ Aristotle yelled at Blob. ‘I’m the one they’re after.’
The commandos were just about to carry Blob into their tunnel, but Blob managed to twist around and yell a few words.
Aristotle could barely make out what he was saying.
It sounded a bit like, ‘Because you’re my brother.’
Then the government troops grabbed Aristotle and started dragging him towards the tunnel he’d been heading for all along, except now Aristotle wasn’t pleased to be going there at all.
14
The prime minister gave a big sigh.
Aristotle could see he wasn’t happy. His big think molecules were moving in a very depressed and miserable sort of way.
In fact, Aristotle was noticing that none of the germs at home seemed very happy.
One clue was the way the troops were throwing him carelessly onto the floor in the government meeting room. Another was the way they were leaving him there tied up with very strong rope, the sort made from cockroach eyelashes. Then there was the fact that not one of the government ministers was offering to untie him.
Aristotle hoped everyone would be much more positive and energetic once he’d mentioned Blob.
‘They’ve got him,’ said Aristotle desperately. ‘Blob. We must rescue him.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the prime minister quietly, ‘but we have more important things to worry about.’
‘Please,’ said Aristotle. ‘He’s my brother.’
The minister for defence glared grimly down at Aristotle.
‘Our battle plan,’ he said. ‘Operation Nosewipe. What do those heathens next door know about it?’
Aristotle decided to tell them everything he knew. And then perhaps they’d rescue Blob.
‘It’s all happened before,’ said Aristotle. ‘All this. At least twice in the last two weeks. Before any of us were born.’
Aristotle could see that the minister for defence wasn’t listening.
‘Do they know our attack route?’ demanded the minister.
Aristotle sighed.
‘Please, listen to me,’ he said. ‘We’re repeating history. And it always ends in disaster.’
All the government ministers and military officers in the room frowned and threw each other puzzled glances.
‘He’s in shock,’ said the minister for defence.
‘He’s even sillier than usual,’ said the prime minister.
‘No, I’m not, honest,’ said Aristotle.
The minister for defence leaned even closer.
‘You’re in very big trouble, young germ,’ he said. ‘So if you want to save the nostril of your birth you’d better tell us now the exact numbers of the enemy armed forces. That’s the exact number of the exact number, in total, of germs bearing arms.’
Aristotle looked helplessly up at the ministers.
‘Um . . .’ he said. ‘Lots?’
The prime minister stepped forward again.
‘Listen carefully, you silly germ,’ he said. ‘Our survival depends on this, including yours. Is there anything at all you can tell us that will help us in our strike against the enemy?’
Aristotle thought desperately for something he could tell them, something that would help Blob. They wouldn’t listen to the truth about their history, so it had to be something else.
Of course.
Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
‘I know one thing,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t attack them the back way.’
‘Sneeze cells?’ said the king, looking puzzled.
Blob nodded.
He was so awed, he was finding it a bit hard to speak. He’d never been in the presence of a king before, not even a puzzled one. And this palace was incredible. He couldn’t begin to count how many bits of how many tissues had been used to build the ornate walls and ceilings.
‘We know nothing about any sneeze cells,’ said an important-looking adviser to the king.
‘There are millions of them,’ said Blob. ‘That’s why you mustn’t attack by the back way.’
He squinted pleadingly up at the adviser, who was the strangest-shaped germ he’d ever seen.
Maybe it’s just my squiz molecules playing up, thought Blob. Probably be a sixty percent chance of that when you’re lying on the floor like this tied up very tightly with very strong rope made from dust-mite armpit hair.
‘This is just great,’ the king was saying bitterly. ‘First everyone forgets my birthday, now there are millions of sneeze cells covering our attack route.’
Blob watched as the royal adviser’s strange-shaped bulges twitched long-sufferingly.
‘May I remind you, your majesty,’ he said, ‘that this young germ is a replacement enemy spy for the one that escaped. His job is to try and delay us in our quest for peace and freedom. The chances of him telling the truth are about one nothingth of nought percent.’
‘Actually,’ said Blob, ‘it’s better to express that either as a fraction or as a percentage.’
The strange-shaped royal adviser went an even stranger shape and gave Blob an angry glare. Then he turned to a large aroma worker who was standing very close to Blob.
‘This is your last chance to save your career, Leonard,’ said the strange-shaped royal adviser. ‘Tell his majesty I’m right.’
The large aroma worker bent down very close to Blob. His expression, Blob saw, rapidly became very pained.
Maybe he’s got a bad back, thought Blob.
‘Um . . .’ said Len. ‘The young germ’s telling the truth.’
The strange-shaped royal adviser looked as though he was going to explode and splatter them all with his insides. Which Blob didn’t think would be a very good thing to do to a king.
‘You’re fired,’ the royal adviser yelled at the aroma worker. Then he turned to the king. ‘If we wait, your majesty, we run the risk of them attacking us first.’
‘You’re right,’ said the king. ‘I’m ordering the attack now.’
Everyone in the room started scurrying around. Everyone except Blob and the large aroma worker.
Blob couldn’t scurry because he was still tied up. He struggled against the ropes but it was no good. Then he noticed how upset the large aroma worker was looking.
So upset that Blob started to think he must have a brother about to be killed in the attack too.
‘Sneeze cells?’ said the prime minister, looking suspicious.
Aristotle nodded.
‘We’ve never heard anything about any sneeze cells,’ said the minister for defence.
‘I think I might have once,’ said the minister for the environment.
‘I’ve actually seen them,’ said Aristotle. ‘Butterfly bellybutton fluff sets them off.’
The prime minister and all the other ministers looked at Aristotle and at the minister for the environment.
‘So here’s our choice
,’ said the prime minister gravely. ‘With a hostile enemy possibly about to attack us at any moment, we can either believe the word of the silliest germ in this nostril . . .’
‘And the silliest minister,’ said the minister for defence, still glaring at the minister for the environment.
‘. . . or,’ said the prime minister, ‘we can defend ourselves.’
‘Defend ourselves,’ roared all the other ministers.
‘I’m ordering the attack,’ said the prime minister.
Everyone in the room started scurrying around.
Everyone except Aristotle and the minister for the environment.
Aristotle couldn’t scurry because he was still tied up. He struggled against the ropes but it was no good. Then he noticed how upset the minister for the environment was looking.
So upset that Aristotle started to think he must have a brother about to be killed in the attack too.
15
Aristotle couldn’t believe it.
Banished again.
He stood, disbelief-shaped, where the defence force border guards had left him, outside the front entrance to the nostril. He was dimly aware he’d been standing there for ages. Nearly a minute probably.
Thoughts churning.
Insides churning too.
In front of him the whipped-cream covered forest was slowly thawing. Aristotle could see that most of the cream had been licked away, probably by the human or one of its pets. But great globs of it were still dripping from the face hairs, and huge drifts were still glistening in the larger skin cracks.
A germ could get through, thought Aristotle as he peered at the forest.
If he was careful.
And determined.
And then, if he was even more determined, he could enrol in university and study hard and become a doctor and do research and discover why he was different.
Aristotle knew it wouldn’t be easy.
Human universities probably didn’t feel so good about germs enrolling. Not in medicine. And the study would be very hard. The medical text books would be very difficult to get through, particularly for a germ who’d keep getting lost in the middle of full stops and would probably keep falling into the cracks where the corners of pages had been folded over.
Still, thought Aristotle, I’d give it a go if I could.