Art Pact 164 - Undrillable

The drills rushed downwards, glorying at the sight of the work coming towards them. Their bits spun eagerly, they revved and relaxed, they tucked their bodies away neatly in preparation for the plunge, calling to each other with honks and hoots that echoed across the landscape. For a moment more they were in cold air, then their cries were cut off suddenly as they plunged into the soil.

Twisting, claylike earth grabbed at the helices of their bits, trying to keep its place in the earth. But they were too strong for mere clay, ripping at it and twisting it up behind them. What came to the base of their bits flew out in compressed pulses into pouches at their throats which their collections of tiny limbs then cleared out, pushing these tailings towards the backs of their bodies.

In the ground, blinded by the substrate through which they joyously worked, they could no longer see each other. Yet they could feel the patterns of vibrations coming through the earth through which they moved, and that was enough to remind them of the presence of their brothers and sisters. The sheer pleasure of travelling downwards was enough anyway to remove all fears and doubts from their minds, and to allow them a glorious sense of a future free of idleness and hunger, a future in which they would drill on downwards forever. They began to relax into their task, and with relaxation came the chance to play, to stretch ligaments and test muscles, to weave from one side to another and to turn in tight and intricate patterns that left behind them larger helices, giant unseen negative space self-portraits of their own bits. Although they could not see each other, their sensitivity to each other's place around them was enough that they could begin to group into pairs and circle around each other on their way down, completing the sculptures.

Their time in the clay did not last long, and soon they came to rock - patchy at first, but soon turning to vast solid stretches of brittle turbidite interspersed with surprising but delightful blobs of granite. This was harder work, but more satisfying, and they slowed down a little to revel in the feel of the rock dust grinding before the tips of their bits. As the dust was pushed back by their legs they took little samples of it with smaller limbs and conveyed them to the tastebuds located in their necks just behind the great muscles that span their bits. The turbidite tasted spicy to them, with just a hint of sulphur and aluminium in it, an unusual taste that had them buzzing to each other as best they could. The rock carried vibrations more faithfully than the earth, so their sense of each other's positions became more acute, and by modulating the speed at which their bits span they could signal to each other - simple signals only, but enough to pass on the direction of interesting finds and unusual tastes. Their geometric paths now became chaotic ones as they darted from side to side on their way down, calling to each other and responding to each other's cues.

Slate, Marble, Schist, layers upon layers of other rock they found as they drilled. It seemed like a paradise to them, their drill muscles burning with a warm sensation, tired but comfortable so that they felt as though they could continue indefinitely. The contrast to the cold thin air they had fallen through for so long was dizzying, as though an explosion of colours and lights after a lifetime spent in darkness.

Then, so suddenly that for a good minute after they were stunned, they were brought to a halt. They had just emerged from a rich layer of basalt - scratchy and warm, like being massaged by a hedgehog - when they discovered on the other side a substance that pushed back against the tips of their bits. They drilled harder. Nothing. Reluctantly, painfully, they used their weak legs to draw back a few centimetres along their path to examine the surface of the barrier, letting their stalked eyes protrude from their recessed covers behind the drill heads and snake along the curved surfaces of the bit until they could see clearly.

It was dark, as black as obsidian, but not shiny. The limited light given off by the luminescent parts of their bits seemed to fall directly into the object and vanish forever. Each of the drills, now more sensitive to its surroundings, felt the quiet that told it that its brothers and sisters were not drilling either. They buzzed to each other with increasing perplexity. They withdrew their eyes, drilled again, and feeling no give, stopped again and again extruded their eyes to examine the surface. It was unmarked, even after eight or ten attempts.

Consternation rippled through the rock, carried by the frightened buzzes of the drills. The most nervous contorted themselves awkwardly and laboriously began to scratch at the sides of their tunnels until they could gain enough space and enough purchase to drill sideways and feel tentatively towards their siblings. It was a dangerous business emerging into someone else's tunnel - come through at the wrong point and you could drill right through them. Gingerly, therefore, they drilled centimetre by centimetre, until by warning their host to back away to a safe distance they could then poke the very tip of their bits through into the other tunnel.

The barrier remained intractable, though, rejecting all attempts at drilling. Alarm grew, and the drills began to discuss the nightmare scenario. In soft cries and calls they chattered to each other in the awkward right-angled meeting places they had made, and began to wonder whether they would have to resort to painful backward crawling. They could turn around, of course, but drilling in any direction but down was equally stressful and uncomfortable. But was there, they asked each other, no other option?

Had they stumbled upon the unthinkable - an undrillable rock?