But I'm not even sure you measure distance in miles here.
And another thing. When I left Hertfordshire it was January. But in Burlem's mind it wasn't even Christmas yet. Did I actually travel back in time to get to Burlem? But why? How on earth would that work? I start walking across the bridge, a humid, gray wind blowing my hair around my face. Oh, no; not more weather. I can do without weather. I think it's a bad sign in here.
Apollo Smintheus?
Nothing.
It takes me about ten minutes (or whatever the equivalent is in here) to get to the end of the bridge. I look behind me and see something like a fan of bridges behind me, gleaming in the silver light. When I look, it quickly collapses back into one bridge. Ten minutes, I think. Ten minutes multiplied by 1.6 is sixteen minutes. Is that right? So in crossing that bridge I've just spent another sixteen minutes in the Troposphere? I have to get out of here. My body is just lying there in the hotel room. Come on, Ariel. Faster.
But something tells me that faster may not even make any difference.
I'm now standing on a wide road that reminds me, in some way, of the Embankment in London, except that it seems to go on forever in either direction. The other strange thing is that the road does not have big, grand houses and hotels. Instead there are little cottages everywhere, arranged in a haphazard way: some on top of the other, some with three-dimensional edges. What? Don't be silly, Arieclass="underline" Three-dimensional edges don't exist. Except in four spatial dimensions, my mind reminds me. Oh God. I turn left and keep walking. I notice smoke coming out of some of the chimneys, but the smoke doesn't curl upwards, like smoke should do. As well as expanding into three-dimensional space, the smoke also seems to be curling in on itself, out of itself, and moving in some other directions I don't have the names for. As I walk, the large Embankment turns, improbably, into a dust track, with caravans scattered around and cardboard chickens everywhere. Hang on. Cardboard chickens? What's happening to me? There's a flash in the sky, like lightning, and then dawn starts to break, but much faster than it would normally. I feel so tired. I could just crawl into one of those caravans and sleep for a while maybe. No. Don't be so silly, Arieclass="underline" If you go inside one of those things there'll just be another mind with more thoughts and more memories. For the first time, this knowledge makes me feel exhausted. Now the sun is up, and I'm walking in a bright yellow desert, with giant sand castles popping up everywhere and then disappearing again. What the hell is this the equivalent of? All this is a metaphor, right? Well, what—or where—is the fucking reality that goes with this?
The desert seems to last for hours, but I have no real sense of time in here. The ten minutes I sensed on the bridge could have been three, or one, or twenty. All I know is that each footstep may as well be the ticking second hand of some cosmic clock and the closer I get to myself the farther away I get from any chance of surviving this. I emerge from the desert and onto another dust track, which contains various diners in blue and pink neon. Is the neon a good sign? Should I be pleased that it's back? The sun is going down again, too fast, like the evening of the end of the world. There's a dusty petrol station on one side of the street. If only I could fuel myself there. The air is still humid, and nothing's happened as a result of the lightning: no rain, no thunder. And I'm walking in what must be my own mind, lost inside my ideas and assumptions about what and who everyone else is. I don't know where "I" am. And the red dot in the console isn't getting perceptibly closer.
Apollo Smintheus?
Nothing.
Apollo Smintheus? I'll do anything.... Please come and help me.
Another soundless crack in the sky. Now I think I know what praying is. I walk on another two or three steps, but I seem to be fading. I don't think I can go any farther. There's a rumble in the distance. Thunder? I fall to my knees.
Apollo Smintheus?
And then I see him, like a mirage. A mirage on ... a red scooter?
"Well," he says as he pulls up next to me.
There's a cloud of pale brown dust, and then it settles.
"I thought you weren't coming back," I say.
"I wasn't."
"But you are back. You are here. I'm not just seeing things?"
Apollo Smintheus smiles. "Of course you're just seeing things. But that doesn't mean I'm not here." He looks at his watch. "You're in trouble. Let's have a coffee."
He leaves his scooter in the middle of the dust track and walks towards one of the neon diners. I follow him, but every step feels soggy, as though I'm moving underwater in all my clothes. As we get closer to the diner I realize that it's called Mus Musculus, and instead of a door it has the same arch as Apollo Smintheus's house. The inside is like an amalgamation of every American road movie I've ever seen: red leatherette booths, laminated menus, big glass containers of sugar with silver spouts that deliver one spoonful when you tip them up. The tables are white Formica. In one corner is the same nest I saw back at the place next to the pool hall somewhere, I imagine, on the other side of the Troposphere.
"Well," Apollo Smintheus says again.
I look over at the counter. There aren't any staff here. Above the left-hand edge of the counter there's a TV screen attached with a bracket. It's switched off. There's a big white digital clock on the wall just behind it to the right, but whatever time it's telling isn't familiar to me. First it reads 82.5; then 90.1; then 85.5; then 89.7. It pulses irregularly, which is why I assume it can't be a clock. When I look back to the table, there's a white cup filled with brown liquid. Oh well, if I'm going to die I may as well drink some Troposphere coffee first. And I don't have the energy for much more than drinking coffee, anyway. I want to delay this trip across the Troposphere as long as possible. I can't believe I've been this stupid. I can't believe I'm lost in my own mind. Is this what madness feels like? Probably best not to think too much about that.
"Thanks," I say to Apollo Smintheus. "I mean, for..."
What am I thanking him for? The coffee? Being here? Potentially rescuing me?
"Hmm," says Apollo Smintheus.
"Are you here because I prayed?"
He sips his coffee. His gray paw looks like a key ring I saw once, made of a lucky rabbit's foot: hard and gray and dead. But the rest of him seems so alive it's crazy. After all, eight-foot-tall mouse gods don't actually exist. But he breathes like a person, and his long gray nose looks as though it would feel hard and warm if I were to touch it. Not that I would ever touch it. Another odd thing about Apollo Smintheus is that when I sit opposite him I feel as though I'm sitting opposite a very distinguished professor.
"Not exactly," he says.
"Why are you here?"
"Because you're going to do something for me. Or—perhaps it's easier to say that you have already done something for me. But you don't know what it is yet."
"I'm confused."
"I know."
"Look. Can I just ask you some questions, really quickly? I think I'm in trouble and I've got to get halfway across the Troposphere before I..."
"You are in trouble."
My shoulders sag. "I know. I think I might not be able to get back to myself in time. In fact, I think I already know that I'm not going to make it."
"I agree."
"And I think there's a chance I might die."
"Yes, well..."
"Well, what?"
"Being in the Troposphere, as you call it. If you're here, you're already dead."
Something in my body tries to release adrenaline, but it doesn't work like that in here. The scene in front of me blurs and then comes back.