for a raft to reach the delta where the deep blues play.”
Gojiro felt miserable knowing Komodo would never give up, that he’d grow old and gray—he was already past thirty, a boy no more! —trying to make sense of the ever-elusive Instant of Reprimordialization. But that’s Komodo for you. Most so-called men of science put their faith in the physical, give allegiance to what can be shown and known. They lay a telescope on Uranus, so they know Uranus “exists.” Ditto for Pluto. Komodo does that too, he’s no metaphysic pisser in the wind; his houses aren’t made from straw or wood, he uses brick, lays them one at a time. That’s what he loves, to see how things fit together, how they work. But that doesn’t mean Komodo believes in things just because they’re there and he made them. That’s not how Komodo defines belief. Instead, he follows the chain of logic to the point where it breaks down. Then he looks into that Void, and says, “I believe in this.”
That’s how it was with that invisible Instant of Reprimordialization. The more Komodo failed to understand the workings of the mysterious zone, the more he revered it. All he needed was “the new stim.” With the new stim, Komodo claimed, what could not be known would become known, what could not be seen would be seen. Komodo talked a lot about the new stim in those desperate days after the swearing of that hideous Amendment. It became his grail, that single as-yet unglimpsed idea that could jumpstart the dead-in-the-water Cosmo. Every night he’d be down in his lab, making with the beakers and bunsens, hothousing inventions at an unprecedented rate. They were marvelous items too, but when Komodo surveyed what he’d made, his face, once bright with prospect, drooped. “Not what I intended . . . no business being invented, none at all.” Then he’d begin again.
Gojiro rued Komodo’s disappointment, but he was powerless to help. After all, how easy was it to come up with something completely new, a truly original idea? An old idea throws a rod, you can tow it by the body shop, let Vito swat the fenders with his mallet, beat it to a different shape. Tell him it’s a rush job, no problem, he’s wild for the overtime. But a new idea, an absolutely new idea? Get out your butterfly net and clear every calendar. A new idea demands Inspiration, and you could wait a thousand years for that. But they didn’t have a thousand years. They had less than one. No, the monster moaned inside his gloomy volcano, there was no chance. He was fresh out of new ideas.
He was paralyzed, smothered beneath the lassitude of crumbled dreams. All hope was a shell game. That being the case, when Komodo came sliding down the ’cano pole with that strange letter in his hand, the leviathan was not prepared to put much stock in it.
The Letter
W HEN KOMODO FIRST PULLED THAT LETTER out of the pocket of his black pajamas, Gojiro figured it had to be a joke, a warped bid to lighten the heavy weather. That would have been all right; the giant reptile hadn’t had a good laugh since he stopped his career as “the Atomic Comic, the world’s tallest stand-up.”
The monster’s comedy career was another of the little “rainy day” activities Komodo whipped up to keep those nutty Atoms from killing one another during inversion season. The reptile would clamber onto the rec-hall stage, wring his withery front claws together, go into his spritz. “Hi ho, neutrinos. Parlez-vous protonese?” Then he’d lay a spew of ’tilic titters on the dyslexics. “Okay, okay . . . these two triceratopses go into a bar, see . . .” But it was ridiculous. The Atoms, denser than ingots, thought his every hunk, whether hip or dip, was a riot. “I blow my nose and they’re on the floor,” Gojiro complained. “Might as well play Bellevue. Laughing-house laughs are no laughs at all. Let ’em go back to pulling wings off flies. I’m finished.”
The monster only glowered when
Gojiro felt miserable knowing Komodo would never give up, that he’d grow old and gray—he was already past thirty, a boy no more! —trying to make sense of the ever-elusive Instant of Reprimordialization. But that’s Komodo for you. Most so-called men of science put their faith in the physical, give allegiance to what can be shown and known. They lay a telescope on Uranus, so they know Uranus “exists.” Ditto for Pluto. Komodo does that too, he’s no metaphysic pisser in the wind; his houses aren’t made from straw or wood, he uses brick, lays them one at a time. That’s what he loves, to see how things fit together, how they work. But that doesn’t mean Komodo believes in things just because they’re there and he made them. That’s not how Komodo defines belief. Instead, he follows the chain of logic to the point where it breaks down. Then he looks into that Void, and says, “I believe in this.”
That’s how it was with that invisible Instant of Reprimordialization. The more Komodo failed to understand the workings of the mysterious zone, the more he revered it. All he needed was “the new stim.” With the new stim, Komodo claimed, what could not be known would become known, what could not be seen would be seen. Komodo talked a lot about the new stim in those desperate days after the swearing of that hideous Amendment. It became his grail, that single as-yet unglimpsed idea that could jumpstart the dead-in-the-water Cosmo. Every night he’d be down in his lab, making with the beakers and bunsens, hothousing inventions at an unprecedented rate. They were marvelous items too, but when Komodo surveyed what he’d made, his face, once bright with prospect, drooped. “Not what I intended . . . no business being invented, none at all.” Then he’d begin again.
Gojiro rued Komodo’s disappointment, but he was powerless to help. After all, how easy was it to come up with something completely new, a truly original idea? An old idea throws a rod, you can tow it by the body shop, let Vito swat the fenders with his mallet, beat it to a different shape. Tell him it’s a rush job, no problem, he’s wild for the overtime. But a new idea, an absolutely new idea? Get out your butterfly net and clear every calendar. A new idea demands Inspiration, and you could wait a thousand years for that. But they didn’t have a thousand years. They had less than one. No, the monster moaned inside his gloomy volcano, there was no chance. He was fresh out of new ideas.
He was paralyzed, smothered beneath the lassitude of crumbled dreams. All hope was a shell game. That being the case, when Komodo came sliding down the ’cano pole with that strange letter in his hand, the leviathan was not prepared to put much stock in it.
The Letter
W HEN KOMODO FIRST PULLED THAT LETTER out of the pocket of his black pajamas, Gojiro figured it had to be a joke, a warped bid to lighten the heavy weather. That would have been all right; the giant reptile hadn’t had a good laugh since he stopped his career as “the Atomic Comic, the world’s tallest stand-up.”
The monster’s comedy career was another of the little “rainy day” activities Komodo whipped up to keep those nutty Atoms from killing one another during inversion season. The reptile would clamber onto the rec-hall stage, wring his withery front claws together, go into his spritz. “Hi ho, neutrinos. Parlez-vous protonese?” Then he’d lay a spew of ’tilic titters on the dyslexics. “Okay, okay . . . these two triceratopses go into a bar, see . . .” But it was ridiculous. The Atoms, denser than ingots, thought his every hunk, whether hip or dip, was a riot. “I blow my nose and they’re on the floor,” Gojiro complained. “Might as well play Bellevue. Laughing-house laughs are no laughs at all. Let ’em go back to pulling wings off flies. I’m finished.”
The monster only glowered when
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