Am I perhaps Australia?"" So writes young Althea Hunt, whose notes and jottings--collected, we're told, after she lit off into the unknown, never to be heard from again--comprise this odd, futuristic book by Australian novelist Ireland. In Althea's future-world, people are classed either as ""Frees"" or the more privileged ""Servers""--and no one works except as a hobby. Adolescent sex, promiscuous and impersonal, is the rule. And more than a few people walk around with wood or metal or paper or even fleshly extrusions growing out of their bodies, which they either trim back regularly or let grow to rule them. This persistent plague of metamorphosis is Ireland's chief allegorical device, and it's well served by the otherwise realistic tone of Althea's memories and experiences and wonderings. She recalls seeing, at age six, a mother dog and her litter being run over, each and every one, trying to cross a busy highway. She revels in the naturally malicious joy of pushing and being pushed in a crowd. She mocks male sexuality. And in all her burgeonings and mysteries and changes, Althea is presumably the embodiment of Australia: new, wild, unpredictable. Fair enough. The only serious hitch to this is the book's length and drone, which leads to drabness in a little while. Interesting, mind-catching work, then; but never likable and ultimately far from absorbing.