A Blink of the Screen: Collected Short Fiction

by Terry Pratchett

  He led Rincemangle along the floor, through a hole in a brick wall and along a very narrow ledge. It was the lift, he explained. Of course, the gnomes had managed to use the big lift, but they’d rigged up a smaller one at the side of the shaft. It was driven by clockwork.

  They arrived in the Gents’ Suiting Department after a long ride down the dark shaft. It was brightly lit, and several gnomes were working a giant sewing machine.

  ‘Good evening!’ said one bustling up, rubbing his hands. ‘Hullo Featherhead – what can I do for you?’

  ‘My friend here in the moleskin trousers –’ began Featherhead, ‘– can’t you make him something natty in tweed? We can’t have a gnome who looks like he’s just stepped out of a mushroom!’

  The gnomish tailors worked hard. They made Rincemangle a suit out of a square of cloth in a pattern book and there was enough over for a spare waistcoat.

  Featherhead led him back down under the floorboards and they went on to the toy department, where most of the gnomes spent the night (they slept when the store was open during the day). All the lights were on. Two gnomes were racing model cars around the display stands. Two teams of gnomes had unrolled one of those big football games and had started playing, while the crowd squeaked with excitement.

  ‘Don’t any human beings ever come down here at night?’ asked Rincemangle, who was a bit shocked. ‘I mean, you don’t keep lookouts or anything!’

  ‘Oh, no one comes here after the cleaners have gone home,’ said Featherhead. ‘We have the place to ourselves.’

  But they didn’t. You see, the store people had noticed how food disappeared and how things had been moved around in the night. They were sensible and didn’t believe in gnomes. So they had bought a cat.

  Rincemangle saw it first. He looked up from the football game and saw a big green eye watching them through the partly open door. He didn’t know it was a cat, but it looked like a fox, and he knew what foxes were like.

  ‘Run for your lives!’ he bellowed.

  Everyone saw the cat as it pushed open the door. With shrill cries of alarm several gnomes rolled back the carpet and opened the trapdoor to their underground homes, but they were too late. The cat trotted in and stared at them.

  ‘Stand still now,’ hissed Rincemangle. ‘He’ll get you if you move!’

  Fortunately, perhaps because of the way he said it, the gnomes stood still. Rincemangle thought quickly, and then ran to one of the toy cars the gnomes had been using. As the cat bounded after him he drove away.

  He wasn’t very good at steering, but managed to drive right out of the toy department before crashing the car into a display. He jumped out and climbed the stem of a potted plant just as the cat dashed up.

  Rincemangle the gnome climbed right up the potted plant just as the cat came scampering towards him. From the topmost leaf he was able to jump on to a shelf, and he ran and hid behind a stack of china plates – knocking quite a few down in the process, I’m sorry to say.

  After half an hour or so the cat got fed up and wandered off, and he was able to climb down.

  When he got back to the gnome home under the floorboards the place was in uproar. Some families were gathering their possessions together, and several noisy meetings were going on.

  He found Featherhead packing his belongings into an old tea caddy.

  ‘Oh hullo,’ he said. ‘I say, that was pretty clever of you leading the cat away like that!’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Well, we can’t stay here now they’ve got a cat, can we?’ said Featherhead.

  But it was even worse than that, because very soon the nightwatchman who usually stayed downstairs came up and saw all the broken things on the floor, and he called the police.

  All the next day the gnomes tried to sleep, and when the store emptied for the night the head gnomes called them all together. They decided that the only thing to do was to leave the store. But where could they go?

  Rincemangle stood up and said: ‘Why don’t you go back and live in the country? That’s where gnomes used to live.’

  They were all shocked. One fat gnome said: ‘But the food here is so marvellous. There’s wild animals in the country, so I’ve heard tell, that are worse than cats even!’

  ‘Besides,’ someone else said, ‘how would we get there? All three hundred of us? It’s miles and miles away!’

  Just then two gnomes burst in dragging a saucer full of blue powder. It smelt odd, they said. They’d found it in the restaurant.

  Rincemangle sniffed at it. ‘It’s poison,’ he said. ‘They think we’re mice! I tell you, if we don’t leave soon we’ll all be killed.’

  Featherhead said: ‘I think he’s right. But how can we leave? Think of the roads we’d have to cross, for one thing!’

  As the days passed things got worse and worse for the gnomes. Apart from the cat, there were nightwatchmen patrolling the store after everyone had gone home, and the gnomes hardly dared to show themselves.

  But they couldn’t think of a way to leave. None of them fancied walking through the city with all its dangers. There were the lorries that delivered goods every day, but only a few brave gnomes were prepared to be a stowaway on them – and, besides, no one knew where they would stop.

  ‘We will have to take so much with us!’ moaned the Head Gnome, sitting sadly on an empty cotton reel. ‘String, and cloth, and all sorts of things. Food, too. A lot of the younger gnomes wouldn’t survive for five minutes in the country otherwise. We’ve had such an easy life here, you see.’

  Rincemangle scratched his head. ‘I suppose so, but you’ll have to give it up sooner or later. Where’s Featherhead?’

  Featherhead, the gnome Rincemangle was staying with, had led a raid on the book section to see if there were any books about living in the country.

  Towards dawn a party of tired gnomes came back, dragging a big paper bag.

  ‘We were almost spotted by the nightwatchman,’ muttered Featherhead. ‘We got a few books, though.’

  There was one in the sack that had nothing to do with the country. Rincemangle looked at it for a long time.

  ‘Teach Yourself to Drive,’ he said. ‘Hmmm.’ He opened it with some difficulty and saw a large picture of the controls of a car. He didn’t say anything for a long time.

  Finally the Head Gnome said: ‘It’s very interesting, but I hardly think you’re big enough to drive anything!’

  ‘No,’ said Rincemangle. ‘But perhaps … Featherhead, can you show me where the lorries are parked at night? I’ve got an idea.’

  Early the next evening the two gnomes reached the large underground car park where the store’s lorries were parked.

  The journey had taken them quite a long time because they took turns at dragging the book on driving behind them.

  And it took them all night to examine the lorry. When they arrived back at the toy department they were very tired and covered in oil.

  Rincemangle called the gnomes together.

  ‘I think we can leave here and take things with us,’ he said, ‘but it will be rather tricky. We’ll have to drive a lorry, you see.’

  He drew diagrams to explain. A hundred gnomes would turn the steering wheel by pulling on ropes, while fifty would be in charge of the gear lever. Other groups would push the pedals when necessary, and one gnome would hang from the driving mirror and give commands through a megaphone.

  ‘It looks quite straightforward,’ said Rincemangle. ‘To me it looks as though driving just involves pushing and pulling things at the right time.’

  An elderly gnome got up and said nervously: ‘I’m not sure about all this. I’m sure there must be more to driving than that.’

  But a lot of the younger gnomes were very enthusiastic, and so the idea took hold.

  For the rest of the week the gnomes were very busy. Some stole bits of string from the hardware department, and several times they visited the lorries at night to take measurements and try to find out how it worked.
Meanwhile the older gnomes rolled their possessions down through the store until they were piled up in the ceiling of the lorry garage.

  A handpicked party of intrepid mountaineering gnomes found out where the lorry keys were kept (high up on a hook in a little office). Rincemangle, meanwhile, studied road maps and wondered what the Highway Code was.

  At last the day came for moving.

  ‘We’ve got to work fast,’ said Rincemangle, when they heard the last assistant leave the building. ‘Come on – now!’

  While the gnomes lowered their possessions through the garage roof on to the back of the lorry, Rincemangle and an advance party of young gnomes squeezed into the cab through a hole by the brake pedal.

  Inside it was – to them – like being in a big empty hall. The steering wheel seemed very big and far too high up.

  The gnomes formed themselves into a human pyramid and by standing on the topmost gnome’s back Rincemangle managed to throw a line over the steering wheel. Soon they had several rope ladders rigged up and could set to work.

  They planned to steer by two ropes tied to the wheel, with fifty gnomes hanging on to each one. While this was being sorted out other gnomes built a sort of wooden platform up against the windscreen, just big enough for Rincemangle to stand and give orders through a megaphone.

  Other gnomes came in and were sent to their positions by Featherhead. Before long the cab was festooned with rope ladders, pulleys and fragile wooden platforms, and these in turn were covered with gnomes hanging on to levers and lengths of thread.

  The big moment came when the ignition key was hauled up and shoved into its keyhole by two muscular gnomes. They gave a twist and some lights came on.

  ‘Right,’ said Rincemangle, looking down at the waiting crowds. ‘Well, this is going to be a tricky business, so let’s get started right away.’ Featherhead joined him on the platform and hauled up the Teach Yourself to Drive book and a street map of Blackbury.

  ‘On the word Go, the Starter Button party will give it a good press and – er – the Accelerator Pedal squad will press the pedal briefly,’ Rincemangle said uncertainly. ‘The gnomes working the clutch and gear lever will stand by. Go!’

  Of course, it didn’t work as simply as that. It took quite some time before the gnomes found out how to start up properly. But at last the engine was going, making the cab boom like a gong.

  ‘Headlights on! Clutch down! First gear! …’ Rincemangle shouted above the din. There were several ghastly crashes and the great lorry rolled forward.

  ‘Here, what about the garage doors?’ shouted Featherhead.

  The lorry rolled onwards. There was a loud bang and it was out in the street.

  ‘Turn left!’ shouted Rincemangle hoarsely. ‘Now straighten up!’

  For several minutes the cab was full of shouts and bangs as the gnomes pushed and pulled on the controls. The lorry wove from side to side and went up on the pavement several times, but at least it kept going. Rincemangle even felt bold enough to order a gear change.

  Through the dark streets of Blackbury the lorry swayed and rumbled, occasionally bouncing off lampposts. Every now and again there was a horrible clonk as it changed gear.

  Steering was the big difficulty. By the time the gnomes down below had heard Rincemangle’s order it was usually too late. It was a good job there were no other vehicles on the road at that time of night, or there would have been a very nasty accident.

  They blundered through the traffic lights and into Blackbury High Street, knocking a piece off a pillar box. Featherhead was staring into the great big mirror, high above them, that showed what traffic was behind.

  ‘There’s a car behind with a big blue flashing light on it,’ he said conversationally. ‘Listen! It’s making a siren noise.’

  ‘Very decorative, I’m sure,’ said Rincemangle, who wasn’t really listening. ‘Look lively down below! It’s a straight road out of town now, so change into top gear.’

  There was a thud and a crash, but the gnomes were getting experienced now and the lorry whizzed away, still weaving from side to side.

  ‘The car with the flashing lights keeps trying to overtake us,’ said Featherhead. ‘Gosh! We nearly hit it that time!’

  He craned up and had another look. ‘There’s two Human Beings in peaked caps inside it,’ he added. ‘Gosh! They look furious!’

  ‘I expect someone has got a little angry because of all those lampposts we knocked down. I don’t think we were supposed to,’ said Rincemangle. Unfortunately, while he said this, he didn’t look where they were going.

  *

  The lorry rumbled off the road and straight through a hedge. The field behind it was ploughed, and the gnomes had to hang on tightly as they were jolted around in the cab.

  The police car screeched to a halt and the two policemen started running across the field after them, shouting.

  The lorry went through another hedge and frightened a herd of cows.

  Rincemangle peered through the window. There was a wood ahead, and behind that the heather-clad slopes of Even Moor started climbing up towards the sky.

  ‘Prepare to abandon lorry!’ he shouted. They plunged into a wood and the lorry stopped dead in the middle of a bramble thicket. It was suddenly very quiet.

  Then there was a very busy five minutes as the gnomes unloaded their possessions from the back of the lorry. By the time the policemen arrived there was not a gnome to be seen. Rincemangle and Featherhead were sitting high up on a bramble branch and watched as the men wandered round the abandoned lorry, scratching their heads. After poking around inside the cab and finding the little ropes and ladders they wandered away, arguing.

  When they had gone the gnomes crept out of their hiding places and gathered round Rincemangle.

  ‘Even Moor is only a few hundred yards away,’ he said. ‘Let’s spend the day hidden here and we can be up there tonight!’

  The gnomes lit fires and settled down to cook breakfast. Many of them were wondering what it would be like to live in the country again after so long in the town. A lot of the little ones of course – I mean, even littler than the average gnome – were rather looking forward to it. But they all knew that there was going to be a lot of hard work before them.

  Early next morning a poacher, coming home for breakfast, told his wife he’d seen a lot of little lights climbing up the slopes of the Moor. She didn’t believe him, but perhaps you will.

  KINDLY BREATHE IN SHORT, THICK PANTS

  BATH AND WEST EVENING CHRONICLE, 9 OCTOBER 1976

  The passage of time has blurred what possibly motivated me to write this, but it was probably after hearing one too many half-baked ideas from one too many half-baked politicians, who are always at their worst when trying to be mater, while always subtly getting it wrong. They’re still doing it.

  A message from the Rt Hon Duncan Disorderly, MP, the new Fresh Air Supremo

  Good evening. [takes deep breath.]

  As you will no doubt be aware, Britain is facing an air crisis of alarming proportions. In some places supplies of fresh air are reaching alarming prop— no, I’ve already said that … crisis levels. Why is this, you ask? [Goes to chart behind chair.]

  For years we have been assured of regular supplies of fresh air blown in from the Atlantic. Unfortunately the demand is exceeding supply. More people [Pokes small black figures on chart] insist on breathing, which means less air for everyone else.

  [Taps chart firmly with stick.]

  Your Government has been well aware of the problem since about lunchtime, as a result of which I am talking as new Fresh Air Minister now instead of chairing the House of Commons tea trolley sub-committee. Even we politicians have to breathe, you know – ha ha – though of course some of us breathe slower while others breathe faster.

  While it is true to say that people in South Wales and the industrial Midlands are being allowed to breathe for only eight hours a day, while Scotland and the South have ample supplies of fresh air, a redis
tribution would be prohibitively expensive.

  A working party is, however, and in strict accordance with Government policy, considering legislation to compel those in Fresh Air Surplus areas into wearing gas masks connected to bottles of potted smog. This is democracy.

  Meteorologists tell us that the wind must blow at a hundred miles an hour for the next three months to top up our fresh air levels. In the meantime, what can you do?

  Here is how you can help:

  Breathe very slowly. Ministry staff will be calling on you soon to demonstrate.

  All pumps, fans and windmills are banned – penalty £400 – so that supplies of fresh air can be diverted to essential industries. Remember – it takes four million cubic feet of air to make one car tyre, and two thousand tiny bubbles to make a cubic inch of carpet underlay.

  Avoid heavy breathing. Have a cold bath instead – sorry, I mean have a good rub-down with spit. Ministry cats will be calling on you to demonstrate.

  Put a brick up your nose.

  The air you exhale can still be used to inflate balloons, tyres, to warm your hands and cool your porridge.

  If we all follow these simple rules we will be able to stick our chests in with pride and say that British suck and ingenuity has won the day again. Thank you. [Breathes out slowly.]

  THE GLASTONBURY TALES

  BATH AND WEST EVENING CHRONICLE, 16 JUNE 1977

  Actually, I’m rather proud of this one, which has some truth in it. I distinctly remember picking up the first of the hitchhikers when going home from Bath one sunny evening. And there were a lot more hitchhikers heading to Glastonbury. Indeed, as I look back nearly all of it has some basis in reality, but as Mark Twain used to put it, I might have here and there put a little shine on things. Only he said it in American. I certainly do remember the smoke coming from the back of my van, and hastily winding down my window while at the same time keeping an eye out for Mister Plod. As it was, when we arrived at Glastonbury and I opened the back there was a kind of pleasant fog but I don’t think anyone noticed very much. They were better and somewhat nicer days. And if there is anyone out there who can prove that they were one of those in my van, I would be very pleased to hear from them – but I suppose by now they’re prime ministers and so forth.