The Artemis Fowl Files - Eoin Colfer [40]
Cosmo Hill was the exception. He spent every moment of his waking life watching for that one chance. That split second when his freedom would beckon to him from outside an unlocked door, or an unguarded fence. He must be ready to seize that moment and run with it.
It wasn’t likely that his chance would come on this particular day. And even if it did, Cosmo didn’t think he would have the energy to run anywhere.
The no-sponsors had spent the afternoon testing a new series of antiperspirants. Their legs had been shaved and sectioned with rings of tape. The flesh between the bands was sprayed with five varieties of antiperspirant, and then the boys were set on treadmills and told to run. Sensors attached to their legs monitored their sweat glands, determining which spray was most effective. By the end of the day, Cosmo had run six miles, and the pores on his legs were inflamed and scalding. He was almost glad to be cuffed to a moving partner and begin the long walk back to the dormitory.
Each boy had a section in the dorm where he ate, slept, and passed whatever leisure time the no-sponsors had. These rooms were actually sections of cardboard utility pipe that had been sawed into six-foot lengths. The pipes were suspended on a network of wires almost fifty feet off the ground. Once the pipes were occupied by orphans, the entire contraption swayed like an ocean liner.
Cosmo climbed quickly, ignoring the pain in his leg muscles. His pipe was near the top. If the lights went out before he reached it, he could be stranded on the ladder.
After a few minutes of feverish climbing, Cosmo reached his level. A narrow walkway, barely the width of his hand, serviced each pipe. Cosmo slid across carefully, gripping a rail on the underside of the walkway above him. His pipe was four columns across. Cosmo swung inside, landing on the foam rubber mattress. Ten seconds later, the lights went out.
Someone knocked gently on the pipe above. It was Ziplock Murphy. The network was opening up. Cosmo answered the knock with one of his own, then pulled back his mattress, signaling Fence in the pipe below. The no-sponsors had developed a system of communication that allowed them to converse without angering the marshals. Clarissa Frayne discouraged actual face-to-face communication between the boys, on the grounds that friendships might develop. And friendships could lead to unity, maybe even revolt.
Cosmo dug his nails into a seam in the cardboard pipe and pulled out two small tubes. Both had been fashioned from mashed gum bottle and crispbread, then baked on a windowsill. Cosmo screwed one into a small hole in the base of his pipe, and the other into a hole overhead.
Ziplock’s voice wafted through from above. “Hey, Cosmo. How are your legs?”
“Burning,” grunted Cosmo. “I put my gum bottle on one, but it’s not helping.”
“I tried that too,” said Fence from below. “Antiperspirants. This is nearly as bad as the time they had us testing those Creeper slugs. I was throwing up for a week.”
Comments and suggestions snuck through the holes from all over the pipe construct. The fact that the pipes were all touching, along with the acoustics of the hall, meant that voices traveled amazing distances through the network. Cosmo could hear no-sponsors whispering almost three hundred fifty feet away.
“What does the Chemist say?” asked Cosmo. “About our legs?”
The Chemist was the orphanage name for a boy three columns across. He loved to watch medical programs on TV and was the closest the no-sponsors had to a consultant.
Word came back in under a minute. “The Chemist says spit on your hands and rub it in. The spit has some kind of salve in it. Don’t lick your fingers, though, or the antiperspirant will make you sicker than those Creeper slugs.”
The sound of boys spitting echoed through the hall. The entire lattice of pipes shook with their efforts. Cosmo followed the Chemist’s advice, then lay back, letting a hundred different conversations wash over him. Sometimes