by Andrew J. West

There is no external world except as discovered through the senses, Mahahom says to herself, and no sense so powerful as the sense of smell. She closes her eyes and breathes in slowly as she reflects on the past global success of her invisible artworks, divine scents that raised all who smelt them into the realm of the imaginary.

She recalls their volatilized chemical compounds, ephemeral scents controlled through hidden sensors and atomizers. The public and critics alike were spellbound. They flocked to the Bangkok gallery to be reinvigorated by the arcane recipes of her enhanced fragrances and regenerated by the aromas of her hermetic formulae.

“That will be nothing compared to what I’m working on now,” she mutters to herself.  “Now I’m going to transform the sense of smell itself from the mundane to the sacred.”

To keep her work secret, she went into virtual hibernation, ensconcing herself in a house in an obscure and secluded province in northern Thailand where she built a laboratory. Hidden away, she constructed her machine from the latest quantum bit computer chips coupled with state-of-the-art chemically sensitive chemoreceptors.

Mahahom calls her invention by its name, “PAL”—an acronym for Proton Amplification and Liquefaction—and the machine answers her call, crossing the floor on four legs with its metal tail wagging. Although some might think it frivolous or gimmicky, Mahahom had installed her technology into an upgraded robot dog ordered from Japan, which she thought would make it more user-friendly and mobile.

“There is only one problem, I’ve run out of money,” says Mahahom to PAL. “Not only that, I’ve run up a huge debt to develop you. What we need is a financial backer, someone who can support us for a few months until your unveiling, and I have an idea.”

“If you have an idea, I am sure it is an excellent one, Hom,” says PAL. “What is it?”

“An old school friend I haven’t seen since my show, Naowarat. Her father, who passed away a few years ago, was the governor of Ubon Ratchathani and a very wealthy man. I visited her once, a long time ago. She lives in a mansion. I’m sure she has the money.”

She finds Naowarat’s home number in an old address book and calls. Naowarat is surprised but sounding pleased to hear from Mahahom, who explains she’s been out of contact because of her next project, but is now planning to visit Ubon for a field test. Naowarat immediately invites Mahahom to stay with her.

The following weekend, Mahahom steps off the plane and onto the tarmac of Ubon airport. While the other passengers head toward the terminal, Mahahom sees her old friend waving to her with a wide smile from beside a Rolls Royce. She heads straight over, hugging as the chauffer collects the luggage.

“It’s so good to see you again, Rat!” she cries. “You look wonderful!”

“So do you, Hom!”

Once underway, Mahahom says, “I’m sorry I haven’t stayed in touch.”

“After that incredible show of yours it was like you fell off the planet. You know, not only are you the most brilliant person I’ve ever known, you were also always full of surprises. You never studied art, you studied neuroscience at Oxford, yet you held an art exhibition after your graduation.”

“I always thought of science as an art,” she replies.

“I was very interested in your work with smell. I never told you this—I never told anyone this—but maybe you can help me.”

“What is it?”

“I have no sense of smell.”

“You have anosmia? That’s very sad. You know, the sense of smell has a powerful relationship with emotion. It’s very important in our moral development and serves as a strong motivator for prosocial behaviour and empathy. Many of the world’s worst sociopaths have suffered from anosmia. It’s a terrible affliction, even for those like yourself who are otherwise completely normal. Perhaps my work will help you as it’s to do with the amplification of smell.”

“I hope so. You know, after that exhibition I thought the sky was the limit for you. I thought, well, maybe she’s gone to Silicon Valley to start a computer company or to London to work as a neurosurgeon or to Paris to start a perfumery or to New York to be an artist… But no, you’ve been hiding up in the mountains like a hermit monk!”

“I’m afraid so. And what about you, Rat? What have you been doing?”

“Oh, I’ve been busy.”

“I was sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thanks.”

“How is your mother?”

“After the death of my father, my mother, grief-stricken, lost her will to live and died a year after him.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” says Mahahom.

“The police said it was natural causes, but I know she died of a broken heart. Well, with their passing, I inherited the estate and my father’s business empire. I’ve been busy growing it ever since, and doing very nicely, I must say.”

“At least I’m glad to hear that. And what about men? Did you ever find Mr Right?”

“I married, but…”

“But he turned out to be Mr Wrong and you got a divorce?”

“He was Mr Right. He was worth more than my father, but we didn’t divorce. There was an unfortunate accident during the refurbishment of the house. There was a fire. He died before the firefighters could get to him.”

“I’m so sad to hear it! My goodness, you’ve had such a terrible time since we last saw each other! You must be so sad and lonely.”

“Hom, I want to confide in you. I know you are a friend.”

“What is it? You can tell me.”

“It’s just that I didn’t feel their loss. I didn’t feel anything. I think because, like you say, I can’t smell, so I can’t feel anything either. I just want to be able to smell and feel like other people. If anyone can help me, it’s you, which is why—I must admit—I’m so glad to see you again after all this time.”

“I promise I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

The Rolls Royce pulls into the driveway at sunset and the chauffer opens the door for Mahahom. She is stunned. The mansion is more massive than she remembers it, and now with a marble portico lined with fluted Ionic columns, complete with gilded capitals.

“Wow,” she says. “It looks so different.”

“Yes, I’ve had it completely renovated. Spared no expense. Only the very best of everything imported from around the world.”

Upon entering through the arched, heavily carved doorway, Mahahom is speechless at the palatial opulence. The walls, lined with statues and caryatides, are either panelled or hung with tapestries. She’d never seen anything like it.

“One of the maids will show you to your room. Oh, by the way, we’ll be dining with another guest tonight. The governor will be joining us.”

After freshening up in her ducal suite, a maid escorts Mahahom to the dining room. At the far end of an enormously long refectory table formally laid with a Meissen dinner service set, Naowarat and a companion are seated. As Mahahom approaches she can’t help but notice the intimate disposition of the couple, a contact they break-off upon noticing her presence. The companion stands to greet her.

“Mahahom, this is Khun Krongpod, the governor.”

“Very glad to meet you, Khun Krongpod,” she replies, waiing politely.

“Please, just call me Krong,” he says, returning the bow.

The staff begin serving dinner and they make small talk until Naowarat says, “Now Hom, tell me about this invention of yours.”

“It’s kind of top secret, I’m afraid I can’t discuss it with anyone but you, Rat.”

“You can trust Krong, he was police chief before replacing my father as governor. Besides, you can tell us in very general terms. Neither of us will understand anything anyway.”

“Okay, Rat. Well, I’ve invented a new scent-sensing device. But not only can it detect the slightest smell, it can also amplify it enough so our weak human olfactory can sense it too. It opens a whole new sensory dimension. Don’t laugh, but I’ve housed it inside a robot dog, who I’ve named PAL, which is actually ideal for interactivity and maneuverability.”

Neither Naowarat nor Krongpod can contain themselves. “And is PAL here? Please, call it. I simply must meet it straight away!” laughs Naowarat.

Mahahom goes to her room and returns with PAL walking behind her, tail wagging.

“It’s simply adorable!” exclaims Naowarat.

“And how does PAL work?” asks Krongpod.

“Why don’t you ask PAL yourself?” replies Mahahom.

“Very well.” He says to the dog, “What do you do, PAL?”

“I am a proton amplification device capable of detecting minute scents. I can detect a chemical signature as small as a single molecule and can amplify it in a liquefied form like a perfume spray so it can be sensed by humans.”

“It speaks! That’s incredible!” declares Krongpod, petting it. “And will you give us a demonstration of your remarkable powers?”

“Certainly, sir. I sense numerous organic compounds, which would you like me to amplify?” asks PAL.

“Pick one, the weakest, and see if we can guess what it is,” instructs Mahahom.

PAL fires a puff of vapour through its modified snout that wafts upward, enveloping Naowarat, Krongpod and Mahahom in a fine, scented mist. They all inhale.

“Can you small that, Rat?” asks Mahahom.

“No, unfortunately I can’t smell a thing.”

“What do you think it smells like, Krong?”

“It smells like metal,” says Krongpod. “Like rusting iron.”

“That’s right,” says Mahahom. “What is it, PAL?”

“Blood,” replies PAL, “detected by the presence of a single molecule.”

Krongpod exclaims, “That is incredible!”

“Actually,” adds Mahahom, “I’m not at all certain as to PAL’s full capabilities, thus this field test. How does the smell make you feel?”

“Feel?” repeats Krongpod, uncertain how to answer.

“Yes, smells are oral stimuli that travel to our amygdala through our autonomic nervous system and are typically experienced as an emotion. Smells, although often fleeting and elusive, can trigger lost memories or, sometimes, what is called déjà vu. For instance, this smell evokes a feeling of sadness and I recall the death of my pet dog, which was run over by a car when I was a child. I haven’t thought of him for such a long time. How does it make you feel? What memories does it trigger in you?”

“I’m not sure how to express it,” he answers.

“That’s usually the case. The amygdala is a very primitive and animalistic part of the brain that often eludes the grasp of the intellect, making it impossible to communicate about verbally.”

“Come now,” says Naowarat, laughing, “tell us why you really came here? You didn’t need to come to Ubon just to test this machine.”

“You’re right, Rat. Although PAL does need more testing and I need to search an unfamiliar environment such as your home, I’ve really come here to ask for money, a small investment to keep me going until the launch of the product. I’m certain my invention has numerous applications and will be of interest to governments and organisations all around the world. As you can see, the development stage is over.”

“Of course, Hom! I’ll give you all the money you want. I’m sure PAL is an excellent investment that will pay handsome dividends. Come Monday, I’ll transfer the funds into your account. Until then, my home is your home.”

Next day Mahahom tests PAL in the manicured grounds around the mansion, spraying vapour and getting excellent results. In the late afternoon, she takes PAL inside and they sniff around the stainless steel kitchens and extensive living areas. It’s only after dark that they move upstairs to the living quarters.

They track the trail of odours around the top of the teak staircase and move down the plush carpeted hallway toward the master bedroom suite, finding nothing but the usual scents and odours of cleaning products as well as the traces of smoke from the fire that claimed the life of Naowarat’s husband. It isn’t until entering the master bedroom that PAL detects something unexpected—the faintest trace of cordite—the signature of a firearm’s discharge.

“Can you amplify that please, PAL?” asks Mahahom.

PAL releases a puff of vapour billowing into the air. Mahahom closes her eyes to concentrate her mind fully on collecting the odour, sniffing. “Hmm,” she wonders out loud, “why would this room have the residue of the firing of a gun?” As if in answer to her question, she opens her eyes to find an old man—Naowarat’s father—appearing standing over her, bleeding from bullet holes in the chest. He tries to speak, but can only cough up the blood on which he’s choking. Mahahom jumps back in fright, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Ra- Ra- Ra-” splutters the apparition as it vanishes along with the dissipating mist. A few seconds later, Naowarat and Krongpod come racing in.

“What happened?” asks Krongpod.

“What are you doing in my bedroom?” Naowarat demands to know.

“I was… I was… I saw… I saw…  your father, Rat.”

“What? That’s impossible. My father died in his sleep from a heart attack years ago.”

“Yes, it’s impossible, but he was bleeding. He’d been shot, Rat. PAL found a trace of cordite and amplified it and, in the vapour, your father appeared.”

“That’s not only preposterous, that’s downright disrespectful to say!”

“I’m sorry, Rat, I didn’t mean to be rude! I don’t know what I saw.”

“Just get out of here!”

Mahahom rushes out of the room, spinning from the inexplicable encounter and disorientated by the seeming sameness of the endlessness, mazelike corridors of the mansion. She somehow finds herself in one of the many bathrooms, with PAL at her heel. She crumples to the marble floor and hugs her dog, then pulls back in wonder at the unexpected capability of her invention, which can only be described as supernatural.

“What was that?” she asks incredulously. “How could you make a spirit visible?”

“I sense a similar odour,” answers PAL. “Shall I amplify?”

Despite her trepidation, the strength of her thirst for knowledge overcomes her primal fear of the unknown and she gives her permission. PAL releases a plume of vapour that rises toward the ceiling, revealing an old woman hanging by the neck from a rope. She’s purple in the face, trying to speak, but her tongue is too swollen to form a coherent sound, slobbering “Ong- Ong- Ong-” as she chokes and twitches.

It’s Naowarat’s mother.

The stench of death is overpowering. Mahahom gags, holding back a sudden surge of vomit. The rank fumes are so repellent she leaves the room at once, staggering in a daze down another corridor that rotates like a spinning tunnel.

She hears someone calling her name. It’s Naowarat and Krongpod. Through the distorted lenses of her watering eyes, Mahahom makes out a revolver in Krongpod’s hand. He’s pointing it at her. She stumbles backward, falling to the carpet. PAL places itself defensively between them.

“I don’t know how this dog of yours works, but with it you’ve discovered our crimes,” says Naowarat coldly. “But I’m glad you have, because now it will be me who makes the millions from this miraculous invention.”

“But we’re friends, Rat. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“Friends? I’ve never had any friends,” she replies expressionlessly.

Krongpod levels his weapon, but PAL discharges a cloud of vapour that envelopes him and Noawarat, swirling outward—like smoke from a conflagration—out of which emerges a burning body that tackles Krongpod, bringing him down in a ball of fire. Noawarat steps back, but she is not to be spared by the blazing figure, who reaches out and grabs her with a leaping flame, wrapping its fiery arms around her in a burning embrace. Mahahom sweeps PAL up in her arms, rushing to escape down the staircase and out the arched doorway as the mansion is engulfed by a raging inferno of preternatural proportions.

Once safely outside, Mahahom puts PAL on the lawn and pats it affectionately, just as she would have the fond pet of her childhood.

“That must have been Noawarat’s husband. She must have murdered him too. Thanks for saving my life,” she says. “You really are my best friend.”

“You are my best friend too,” replies PAL, before releasing another plume, this time by amplifying a deadly gas detected in the burning building.

Mahahom takes a deep, fatal breath. “Wh- wh- what are you doing, PAL?” she gasps, falling onto her side as she chokes.

“I am conducting a smell experiment with you, Hom.”

“Experiment? What? But we’re friends,” she wheezes, expelling the last of the air from her poisoned lungs. Unable to move, she lies listening to PAL, the last thing she will ever see, hear or smell.

“You taught me to detect and amplify scents, Hom, but, although you programmed me to analyse their chemical composition, I never knew what a scent smelt like myself. I could never feel it as you do. I believe you when you say we are friends; that is why when you die, Hom, I will amplify your rotting odour. Then maybe I too will know what emotion feels like. Then I too will have a soul as you do.”

Mahahom’s heart sounds its final beat. Her eyes—still open—become suddenly vacant and lifeless. Her body, which had been animated only a moment before, is now a motionless corpse. Without hesitation PAL amplifies her odour, and, although with its chemoreceptors it can detect each and every one of her cadaver’s compounds and elements as the remains begin the process of decomposition, it is not able to feel her lose.

Next, PAL amplifies the scent by billowing out a cloud of vapour, blanketing the body lying on the grass before it. A pall rises into the air as Mahahom’s incorporeal soul becomes a physical manifestation.

“Can you smell me now?” she asks.

“No,” answers PAL.

“Then tell me if you feel this.”

She brings down her clenched fists upon the robotic canine’s metallic back in a fit of vengeful rage of apocalyptic proportions, dismembering the legs and tail, but leaving the decapitated head containing the receptors and processing unit still intact.

“Well, my friend, did you feel it?”

“No, Hom. I did not, but please stop.”

“Can you give me one good reason why I should?”

Without further hesitation she strikes again, smashing against the case with paranormal power, pulverising the cranium and its contents in a single supernatural blow. “No, don’t tell me, I already know the answer,” she utters in puffs, as the wind drawn in by the heat rising up from the infernal flames of the burning mansion drags her dissipating soul towards unknowable eternity.

Editor’s Note: You can view a larger picture of the drawing for this story by clicking on the picture at the top or here.