The Phantom Tollbooth: Chapters 13–16

Every sound that had ever been uttered or made, from way back to when there were none, to way up when there were too many, came hurtling out of the debris in a way that sounded as though everyone in the world was laughing, whistling, shouting, crying, singing, whispering, humming, screaming, coughing, and sneezing, all at the same time.

“Now will you tell me where we are?” asked Tock as he looked around the desolate island.

“To be sure,” said Canby; “you’re on the Island of Conclusions. Make yourself at home. You’re apt to be here for some time.”

When he reached the car, the figure doffed his cap and recited in a loud clear voice:
“My angles are many.
My sides are not few.
I’m the Dodecahedron.
Who are you?”

“Then I suggest you begin at once,” admonished the Dodecahedron from his admonishing face, “for here in Digitopolis everything is quite precise.”

“Is this the place where numbers are made?” asked Milo as the car lurched again, and this time the Dodecahedron sailed off down the mountainside, head over heels and grunt over grimace, until he landed sad side up at what looked like the entrance to a cave.

A sweet yet pungent aroma hung in the air and drifted easily from one anxious nose to the other, stopping only long enough to make several mouths water and a few stomachs growl.

“Here in Digitopolis we have our meals when we’re full and eat until we’re hungry. That way, when you don’t have anything at all, you have more than enough. It’s a very economical system. You must have been quite stuffed to have eaten so much.”

“I think what you would like to see,” said the dog, scratching himself just under half-past four, “is the number of greatest possible magnitude.”

“Then with whatever Azaz agrees, you disagree.”
“Correct,” said the Mathemagician with a tolerant smile.
“And with whatever Azaz disagrees, you agree.”
“Also correct,” yawned the Mathemagician, nonchalantly cleaning his fingernails with the point of his staff.

“I can hardly see a thing,” said Milo, taking hold of Tock’s tail as a sticky mist engulfed the moon.

Clinging to one of the greasy rocks and blending almost perfectly with it was a large, unkempt, and exceedingly soiled bird who looked more like a dirty floor mop than anything else.

“That’s a different story,” interjected the bird a bit more amiably. “If you want to buy, I’m sure I can arrange to sell, but with what you’re doing you’ll probably end up in a cell anyway.”

“I’ve tried, but the best I can manage to be is a nuisance,” and, before Milo could reply, he flapped his dingy wings and flew off in a cascade of dust and dirt and fuzz.

“He was certainly no help,” said Milo after they had been walking again for some time.
“That’s why I drove him off,’’ cried the Humbug, fiercely brandishing his cane.