After walking through the installation for a number of hours, you finally spot something shimmering in the sunlight, about a mile away. As you head towards it, you eventually make out that it's a sphere of indistinct colour, about a metre in diameter, on a plinth. As you get closer, within a few yards and then a few feet, you find that it's not just one sphere, but a cluster of about two hundred smaller balls, each the size of an apple.

That's it. That's all there is.

However, after scratching your head for a while, you notice a small arrow mounted on the plinth, pointing into the distance (as almost all arrows do). Hefting your rucksack, you take careful note of the arrow's direction, and start walking. After a couple of miles, you pass a couple walking the opposite way, and exchange a few words before continuing. You see no- one else.

You've been walking for about two and half hours now, and the exhibit that you last visited is just the tiniest dot against the white salt plain.

After three hours, you almost miss the next part of exhibit, passing a hundred yards to the side of it before you notice it's there. Hastening up to it, you find that most of the exhibit is actually its plinth - otherwise you'd have missed it altogether. The exhibit itself is actually a single fuzzy sphere, about the size of a golfball.

This is getting exhausting, but you're determined not to miss any of the installation. There are only another 78 electrons to go, and then a brief 17 mile jog will take you to the nucleus of the next atom.

You set off once more, but this time with a slightly uneasy feeling about the solidity of the packed-salt floor in which your wraith-like boots are leaving footprints.