# 1 — The Caliper of Grod

Monowheel did not stop so much as judder-wedge its screechy tall chassis into an expansion joint between two rusted, lipid-filmed iron plates.

Skeletal, preposterous brass contraption, tall and pitted-yellow. Single fat balloon tire, patched with square criss-cross strips of black gasket tape, gave a final shuddering *flump*. Over handlebars leaned Inspector Grod: long, paper-colored, sourly vigilant auditor whose knobby elbows poked through sleeves of an oiled slate-grey macintosh like two dry, pickled walnuts.

Across chest hung bandolier holding seventeen numbered, clattering zinc clipboards. Around neck, dangling on greasy braided leather thong, swung Caliper of Compression: two notched brass jaws with spring-calibrated dial marked in red *Mastication Units*.

Grod swung spindly, joint-creaking leg over saddle. Boots were mirror-black patent rubber, polished so fierce they reflected violet glare of _The Sump_.

"Shift thirty-two," Grod rasped, throat scraping like coarse pea-gravel kicked down an iron chute. "Sub-district West. Vat Four. Name: Ollie. Function: Lipid-tender third class."

Ollie remained planted on slick catwalk grating, hands resting over cross-handle of drift-alder spade. Dandelion fluff on Ollie's scalp parted neat down middle, curling into two tight, skeptical, ginger horns against rising sesame steam.

"Good morning, Inspector," Ollie said, gentle, unflustered. "Broth is ninety-two degrees. Today's yeast-protein has just begun to knit."

"Did not ask for weather report on soup," Grod snapped, unhooking Clipboard Seven with violent rattle of spring steel. Carbon pencil clicked between yellow, tea-stained teeth. "Upper Concourse requires seventy thousand metric cubes of firm-chew ration by Thursday bells. Cube dimension: four centimeters square. Density requirement: eighty-four on Shore Durometer scale. Minimum jaw-resistance: nine audible crunches before swallowing."

Grod stepped toward lip of Vat Four. Catwalk grating groaned under his patent-rubber heel. Through round iron-rimmed spectacles he peered down into golden, gently sighing broth.

Four pale, velvety babbies bobbed against wooden lip, thyme-flecked crusts trembling as convective heat circulated. Pillow-soft.

Spectacles slid three greasy millimeters down Grod's sharp, twitching nose. "What are those?"

"They are babbies," Ollie said.

"They are oval," Grod hissed, tapping zinc clipboard with flat of pencil. *Tink. Tink. Tink.* "Regulation calls for squares. Sharp, right-angled, disciplined corners. Corner gives consumer psychological impression of civic obedience. These look like... like cushions for an idle, daydreaming beetle."

"Corners get burnt," Ollie said mildly, placid. "Curves let lipid-fat roll past without scorching."

Grod unslung Caliper of Compression. Notched brass jaws parted with sharp *clack-whir* as thumb spun tension wheel. "We shall test resistance to compression under standardized mandibular force."

Cold metal jaws reached down toward tender floating babbies.

Inside Ollie's heart pocket, red velvet lining gave frantic, vibrating jerk. Muffled hiss rose through waxed flax, tiny and hot as an escaping steam-valve:

"Ollie, if he clamps that babbie before rind sets, whole vat curdles into porridge-mush! Kick his monowheel!"