Truckers

by Terry Pratchett

  “O’ course you’re leader,” snapped Granny Morkie. “Who said you weren’t leader? I never said you weren’t leader. You’re leader.”

  “Right,” sniffed Torrit.

  “And now shut up,” said Granny.

  Masklin tapped Angalo on the shoulder. “Where is this place?” he said.

  Angalo stopped by the wall, which towered up into the distance.

  “You don’t know?” he said.

  “We just thought, well, we just hoped that the trucks went to—to a good place to be,” said Grimma.

  “Well, you heard right,” said Angalo proudly. “This is the best place to be. This is the Store!”

  2

  XIII. And in the Store there was neither Night nor Day, only Opening Time and Closing Time. Rain fell not, neither was there Snow.

  XIV. And the nomes grew fat and multiplied as the years passed, and spent their time in Rivalry and Small War, Department unto Department, and forgot all they knew of the Outside.

  XV. For they said, Is it not so, Arnold Bros (est. 1905) has put All Things Under One Roof?

  XVI. And those who said, Perhaps Not All Things, were cruelly laughed at, and prodded.

  XVII. And other nomes said, Even if there were an Outside, What can it hold that we would need? For here we have the power of the Electric, the Food Hall, and All manner of Diversions.

  XVIII. And thus the Seasons fell thicker than the cushions that are in Soft Furnishings (3rd Floor).

  XIX. Until a Stranger came from afar, crying out in a loud voice, and he cried, Woe, woe.

  From The Book of Nome, First Floor v. XIII–XIX

  THEY TRIPPED OVER one another, they walked with their heads turned upward and their mouths open, they gawked. Angalo had stopped by a hole in the wall and waved them through hurriedly.

  “In here,” he said.

  Granny Morkie sniffed.

  “That’s a rat hole,” she said. “You’re not asking me to go down a rat hole?” She turned to Torrit. “He’s asking me to go down a rat hole! I’m not going down a rat hole!”

  “Why not?” said Angalo.

  “It’s a rat hole!”

  “That’s just what it looks like,” said Angalo. “It’s a disguised entrance, that’s all.”

  “Your rat just went through it,” said Granny Morkie triumphantly. “I’ve got eyes. It’s a rat hole.”

  Angalo gave Grimma a pleading look and ducked through the hole. She poked her head through after him.

  “I don’t think it’s a rat hole, Granny,” she said, in a slightly muffled voice.

  “And why is that, pray?”

  “Because there’s stairs inside. Oh, and dear little lights.”

  It was a long climb. They had to stop and wait several times for the old ones to catch up, and Torrit had to be helped most of the way. At the top, the stairs went through a more dignified sort of door into—

  Even when he was young, Masklin had never seen more than forty nomes all together at once.

  There were more than that here. And there was food. It didn’t look like anything he recognized, but it had to be food. After all, people were eating it.

  A space about twice as high as he was stretched away into the distance. Food was stacked in neat piles with aisles between them, and these were thronged with nomes. No one paid much attention to the little group as it shuffled obediently behind Angalo, who had got some of his old swagger back.

  Several nomes had sleek rats on leashes. Some of the ladies had mice, which trotted obediently behind them, and out of the corner of his ear Masklin could hear Granny Morkie tut-tutting her disapproval.

  He also heard old Torrit say excitedly, “I know that stuff! That’s cheese! There was a cheese sandwich in the bin once, back in the summer of ninety-seven, d’you remember—?” Granny Morkie nudged him hard in his skinny ribs.

  “You shut up, you,” she commanded. “You don’t want to show us up in front of all these folk, do you? Be a leader. Act proud.”

  They weren’t very good at it. They walked in stunned silence. Fruits and vegetables were stacked behind trestle tables, with nomes working industriously on them. There were other things, too, which he couldn’t begin to recognize. Masklin didn’t want to show his ignorance, but curiosity got the better of him.

  “What’s that thing over there?” he asked, pointing.

  “It’s a salami sausage,” said Angalo. “Ever had it before?”

  “Not lately,” said Masklin truthfully.

  “And they’re dates,” said Angalo. “And that’s a banana. I expect you’ve never seen a banana before, have you?”

  Masklin opened his mouth, but Granny Morkie beat him to it.

  “Bit small, that one,” she said, and sniffed. “Quite tiny, in fact, compared to the ones we got at home.”

  “It is, is it?” said Angalo, suspiciously.

  “Oh, yes,” said Granny, beginning to warm to her subject. “Very puny. Why, the ones we got at home”— she paused and looked at the banana, lying on a couple of trestles like a canoe, and her lips moved as she thought fast—“why,” she added triumphantly, “we could hardly dig them out o’ the ground!”

  She stared victoriously at Angalo, who tried to outstare her and gave up.

  “Well, whatever,” he said vaguely, looking away. “You may all help yourselves. Tell the nomes in charge that it’s to go on the Haberdasheri account, will you? But don’t say you’ve come from Outside. I want that to be a surprise.”

  There was a general rush in the direction of the food. Even Granny Morkie just happened to wander toward it, and acted quite surprised to find her way blocked by a cake.

  Only Masklin stayed where he was, despite the urgent complaints from his stomach. He wasn’t sure he even began to understand how things worked in the Store, but he had an obscure feeling that if you didn’t face them with dignity, you could end up doing things you weren’t entirely happy about.

  “You’re not hungry?” said Angalo.

  “I’m hungry,” admitted Masklin. “I’m just not eating. Where does all the food come from?”

  “Oh, we take it from the humans,” said Angalo airily. “They’re rather stupid, you know.”

  “And they don’t mind?”

  “They think it’s rats,” sniggered Angalo. “We take up rat doodahs with us. At least, the Food Hall families do,” he corrected himself. “Sometimes they let other people go up with them. Then the humans just think it’s rats.”

  Masklin’s brow wrinkled.

  “Doodahs?” he said.

  “You know,” said Angalo. “Droppings.”

  Masklin nodded. “They fall for that, do they?” he said doubtfully.

  “They’re very stupid, I told you.” The boy walked around Masklin. “You must come and see my father,” he said. “Of course, it’s a foregone conclusion that you’ll join the Haberdasheri.”

  Masklin looked at the tribe. They had spread out among the food stalls. Torrit had a lump of cheese as big as his head, Granny Morkie was investigating a banana as if it might explode, and even Grimma wasn’t paying him any attention.

  Masklin felt lost. What he was good at, he knew, was tracking a rat across several fields, bringing it down with a single spear throw, and dragging it home. He’d felt really good about that. People had said things like “Well done.”

  He had a feeling that you didn’t have to track a banana.

  “Your father?” he said.

  “The Duke de Haberdasheri,” said Angalo proudly. “Defender of the Mezzanine and Autocrat of the Staff Canteen.”

  “He’s three people?” said Masklin, puzzled.

  “Those are his titles. Some of them. He’s nearly the most powerful nome in the Store. Do you have things like fathers Outside?”

  Funny thing, Masklin thought. He’s a rude little twerp except when he talks about the Outside; then he’s like an eager little boy.

  “I had one once,” he said. He didn’t want to dwell on the subject. />
  “I bet you had lots of adventures!”

  Masklin thought about some of the things that had happened to him—or, more accurately, had nearly happened to him—recently.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I bet it was tremendous fun!”

  Fun, Masklin thought. It wasn’t a familiar word. Perhaps it referred to running through muddy ditches with hungry teeth chasing you. “Do you hunt?” he asked.

  “Rats, sometimes. In the boiler-room. Of course, we have to keep them down.” He scratched Bobo behind an ear.

  “Do you eat them?”

  Angalo looked horrified. “Eat rat?”

  Masklin stared around at the piles of food. “No, I suppose not,” he said. “You know, I never realized there were so many nomes in the world. How many live here?”

  Angalo told him.

  “Two what?” said Masklin.

  Angalo repeated it.

  “You don’t look very impressed,” he said, when Masklin’s expression didn’t change.

  Masklin looked hard at the end of his spear. It was a piece of flint he’d found in a field one day, and he’d spent ages teasing a bit of twine out of the hay bale in order to tie it onto a stick. Right now it seemed about the one familiar thing in a bewildering world.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “What is a thousand?”

  Duke Cido de Haberdasheri, who was also Lord Protector of the Up Escalator, Defender of the Mezzanine, and Knight of the Counter, turned the Thing over in his hands, very slowly. Then he tossed it aside.

  “Very amusing,” he said.

  The nomes stood in a confused group in the Duke’s palace, which was currently under the floorboards in the Soft Furnishings Department. The Duke was still in armor, and not very amused.

  “So,” he said, “you’re from Outside, are you? Do you really expect me to believe you?”

  “Father, I—” Angalo began.

  “Be quiet! You know the words of Arnold Bros (est. 1905)! Everything Under One Roof. Everything! Therefore, there can be no Outside. Therefore, you people are not from it. Therefore, you’re from some other part of the Store. Corsetry. Or Young Fashions, maybe. We’ve never really explored there.”

  “No, we’re—” Masklin began.

  The Duke held up his hands.

  “Listen to me,” he said, glaring at Masklin. “I don’t blame you. My son is an impressionable young lad. I have no doubt he talked you into it. He’s altogether too fond of going to look at trucks, and he listens to silly stories and his brain gets overheated. Now I am not an unreasonable nome,” he added, daring them to disagree, “and there is always room for a strong lad like yourself in the Haberdasheri guards. So let us forget this nonsense, shall we?”

  “But we really do come from outside,” Masklin persisted.

  “There is no Outside!” said the Duke. “Except of course when a good nome dies, if he has led a proper life. Then there is an Outside, where he will live in splendor forever. Come now.” He patted Masklin on the shoulder. “Give up this foolish chatter, and help us in our valiant task.”

  “Yes, but what for?” said Masklin.

  “You wouldn’t want the Ironmongri to take our department, would you?” said the Duke. Masklin glanced at Angalo, who shook his head urgently.

  “I suppose not,” he said, “but you’re all nomes, aren’t you? And there’s masses for everyone. Spending all your time squabbling seems a bit silly.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Angalo put his head in his hands.

  The Duke went red.

  “Silly, did you say?”

  Masklin leaned backward to get out of his way, but he’d been brought up to be honest. He felt he wasn’t bright enough to get away with lies.

  “Well—” he began.

  “Have you never heard of honor?” said the Duke.

  Masklin thought for a while and then shook his head.

  “The Ironmongri want to take over the whole Store,” said Angalo hurriedly. “That would be a terrible thing. And the Millineri are nearly as bad.”

  “Why?” said Masklin.

  “Why?” said the Duke. “Because they have always been our enemies. And now you may go,” he added.

  “Where?” said Masklin.

  “To the Ironmongri, or the Millineri. Or the Stationeri—they’re just the people for you. Or go back Outside, for all I care,” said the Duke sarcastically.

  “We want the Thing back,” said Masklin stolidly. The Duke picked it up and threw it at him.

  “Sorry,” said Angalo when they had got away. “I should have told you Father has rather a temper.”

  “What did you go and upset him for?” asked Grimma irritably. “If we’ve got to join up with someone, why not with him? What happens to us now?”

  “He was very rude,” said Granny Morkie stoutly.

  “He’d never heard of the Thing,” said Torrit. “Terrible, that is. Or Outside. Well, I was borned and bred outside. Ain’t no dead people there. Not living in any splendor, anyway.”

  They started to squabble, which was fairly usual.

  Masklin looked at them. Then he looked at his feet. They were walking on a sort of short dry grass that Angalo had said was called carpet. Something else stolen from the Store above.

  He wanted to say: This is ridiculous. Why is it that as soon as a nome has all he needs to eat and drink, he starts to bicker with other nomes? There must be more to being a nome than this.

  And he wanted to say: If humans are so stupid, how is it that they built this Store and all these trucks? If we’re that clever, then they should be stealing from us, not the other way around. They might be big and slow, but they’re quite bright, really.

  And he wanted to add: I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re at least as intelligent as rats, say.

  But he didn’t say any of this, because while he was thinking, his eyes fell on the Thing, clasped in Torrit’s arms.

  He was aware that there was a thought he ought to be having. He made a space in his head politely and waited patiently to see what it was and then, just as it was about to arrive, Grimma said to Angalo: “What happens to nomes who aren’t in a department?”

  “They lead very sad lives,” said Angalo. “They just have to get along as best they can.”

  He looked as if he were about to cry. “I believe you,” he said. “My father says it’s wrong to watch the trucks. They can lead you into wrong thoughts, he says. Well, I’ve watched them for months. Sometimes they come in wet. It’s not all a dream Outside—things happen. Look, why don’t you sort of hang around, and I’m sure he’ll change his mind.”

  The Store was big. Masklin had thought the truck was big. The Store was bigger. It went on forever, a maze of floor and walls and long, tiring steps. Nomes hurried or sauntered past them on errands of their own, and there seemed to be no end of them. In fact the word “big” was too small. The Store needed a whole new word.

  In a strange way it was even bigger than outside. Outside was so huge, you didn’t really see it. It had no edges and no top, so you didn’t think of it as having a size at all. It was just there. Whereas the Store did have edges and a top, and they were so far away they were, well, big.

  As they followed Angalo, Masklin made up his mind and decided to tell Grimma first.

  “I’m going back,” he said.

  She stared at him. “But we’ve only just arrived! Why on earth—?”

  “I don’t know. It’s all wrong here. It just feels wrong. I keep thinking that if I stay here any longer, I’ll stop believing there’s anything outside, and I was born there. When I’ve got you all settled down, I’m going out again. You can come if you like,” he added, “but you don’t have to.”

  “But it’s warm and there’s all this food!”

  “I said I couldn’t explain. I just feel we’re being, well, watched.”

  Instinctively she stared upward at the ceiling a few inches above them. Back home anything watching them usually meant some
thing was thinking about lunch. Then she remembered herself and gave a nervous laugh.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said.

  “I just don’t feel safe,” he said wretchedly.

  “You mean you don’t feel wanted,” said Grimma quietly.

  “What?”

  “Well, isn’t that true? You spend all your time scrimping and scraping for everyone, and then you don’t need to anymore. It’s a funny feeling, isn’t it.”

  She swept away.

  Masklin stood and fiddled with the binding on his spear. Odd, he thought. I never thought anyone else would think like that. He had a few dim recollections of Grimma in the hole, always doing laundry or organizing the old women or trying to cook whatever it was he managed to drag home. Odd. Fancy missing something like that.

  He became aware that the rest of them had stopped. The underfloor stretched away ahead of them, lit dimly by small lights fixed to the wood here and there. Ironmongri charged highly for the lights, Angalo said, and wouldn’t let anyone else into the secret of controlling the electricity. It was one of the things that made the Ironmongri so powerful.

  “This is the edge of Haberdasheri territory at the moment,” he said. “Over there is Millineri country. We’re a bit cool with them at the moment. Er. You’re bound to find some department to take you in. . . .” He looked at Grimma.

  “Er,” he said.

  “We’re going to stay together,” said Granny Morkie. She looked hard at Masklin, and then turned back imperiously and waved her hand at Angalo.

  “Go away, young man,” she said. “Masklin, stand up straight. Now . . . forward.”

  “Who’re you, saying forward?” said Torrit. “I’m the leader, I am. It’s my job, givin’ orders.”

  “All right,” said Granny Morkie. “Give ’em, then.”

  Torrit’s mouth worked soundlessly. “Right,” he managed. “Forward.”

  Masklin’s jaw dropped.

  “Where to?” he asked, as the old woman shooed them along the dim space.

  “We will find somewhere. I lived through the Great Winter of 1999, I did,” said Granny Morkie haughtily. “The cheek of that silly old Duke man! I nearly spoke up. He wouldn’t of lasted long in the Great Winter, I can tell you.”