Truckers

by Terry Pratchett

  “He says that tales of Outside are just dreams.”

  “So when I said all that about where we lived, he was just laughing at me?” said Masklin.

  “It is often very hard to know what the Abbot really believes,” said Gurder. “I think most of all he believes in Abbots.”

  “You believe us, don’t you?” said Grimma. Gurder nodded, half hesitantly.

  “I’ve often wondered where the trucks go, and where the humans come from,” he said. “The Abbot gets very angry when you mention it, though. The other thing is there’s been a new season. That means something. Some of us have been watching humans, and when there’s a new season, something unusual is happening.”

  “How can you have seasons when you don’t know about weather?” said Masklin.

  “Weather has got nothing to do with seasons. Look, someone can take the old people down to the Food Hall, and I’ll show you two. It’s all very odd. But”—and now Gurder’s face was a picture of misery—“Arnold Bros (est. 1905) wouldn’t destroy the Store, would he?”

  6

  III. And Arnold Bros (est. 1905) said, Let there be Signs, so that All within shall know the Proper Running of the Store.

  IV. On the Moving Stairs, let the Sign Be: Dogs and Strollers Must be Carried;

  V. And Arnold Bros (est. 1905) waxed wroth, for many carried neither dog nor stroller;

  VI. On the Lifts, let the Sign Be: This Elevator to Carry Ten Persons;

  VII. And Arnold Bros (est. 1905) waxed wroth, for oftimes the Lifts carried only two or three;

  VIII. And Arnold Bros (est. 1905) said, Truly Humans are Stupid, who do not understand plain language.

  From The Book of Nome, Regulations v. III–VIII

  IT WAS A long walk through the busy underfloor world.

  They found that Stationeri could go where they liked. The other departments didn’t fear them, because the Stationeri weren’t a true department. There were no women and children, for one thing.

  “So people have to join?” said Masklin.

  “We are selected,” Gurder corrected. “Several intelligent boys from each department every year. But when you’re a Stationeri, you have to forget about your department and serve the whole Store.”

  “Why can’t women be Stationeri, then?” asked Grimma.

  “It’s a well-known fact that women can’t read,” said Gurder. “It’s not their fault, of course. Apparently their brains get too hot. With the strain, you know. It’s just one of those things.”

  “Fancy,” said Grimma. Masklin glanced sideways at her. He’d heard her use that sweet, innocent tone of voice before. It meant that pretty soon there was going to be trouble.

  Trouble or not, it was amazing the effect that Gurder had on people. They would stand aside and bow slightly as he went past, and one or two of them held small children up and pointed him out. Even the guards at the border crossings touched their helmets respectfully.

  All around them was the bustle of the Store moving through time. Thousands of nomes, Masklin thought. I didn’t even think there were any numbers that big. A world made up of people.

  He remembered hunting alone, running along the deep furrows in the big field behind the highway. There was nothing around but earth and flints, stretching into the distance. The whole sky was an upturned bowl with him at the center.

  Here, he felt that if he turned around suddenly, he would knock someone over. He wondered what it would be like, living here and never knowing anywhere else. Never being cold, never being wet, never being afraid.

  You might start thinking it was never possible to be anything else. . . .

  He was vaguely aware that they’d gone up a slope and out through another gap into the big emptiness of the Store itself. It was night—Closing Time—but there were bright lights in the sky, except that he’d have to start learning to call it the ceiling.

  “This is the Haberdashery Department,” said Gurder. “Now, do you see the sign hanging up there?”

  Masklin peered into the misty distance and nodded. He could see it. It had huge red letter shapes on a white banner.

  “It should say Christmas Fayre,” said the Stationeri. “That’s the right season, it comes after Summer Bonanza and before Spring Into Spring Fashions. But instead it says”—Gurder narrowed his eyes, and his lips moved soundlessly for a moment—“Final Reductions. We’ve been wondering what that means.”

  “This is just a thought,” said Grimma, sarcastically, “it’s only a small idea, you understand. I expect big ideas would make my head explode. But doesn’t it mean, well, everything is finally being reduced?”

  “Oh, it can’t mean anything as simple as that. You have to interpret these signs,” said Gurder. “Once they had one saying Fire Sale, and we didn’t see them sell any fire.”

  “What do all the other things say?” said Masklin. Everything being Finally Reduced was too horrible to think about.

  “Well, that one over there says Everything Must Go,” said Gurder. “But that turns up every year. It’s Arnold Bros (est. 1905)’s way of telling us that we must lead good lives because we all die eventually. And those two over there, they’re always there too.” He looked solemn. “No one really believes them anymore. There were wars over them, years ago. Silly superstition, really. I mean, I don’t think there is a monster called Prices Slashed who walks around the Store at night, seeking out bad people. It’s just something to frighten naughty children with.”

  Gurder bit his lip. “There’s another odd thing,” he said. “See those things against the wall? They’re called shelves. Sometimes humans take things off them, sometimes they put things on them. But just lately . . . well, they just take things away.”

  Some of the shelves were empty.

  Masklin wasn’t too familiar with the subtleties of human behavior. Humans were humans, in the same way that cows were just cows. Obviously there was some way that other cows or humans told them apart, but he’d never been able to spot it. If there was any sense in anything they did, he’d never been able to work it out.

  “Everything Must Go,” he said.

  “Yes, but not go,” said Gurder. “Not actually go. You don’t really think it means actually go, do you? I’m sure Arnold Bros (est. 1905) wouldn’t allow it. Would he?”

  “Couldn’t rightly say,” said Masklin. “Never heard of him till we came here.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Gurder in a meek voice. “From Outside, you said. It sounded . . . very interesting. And nice.”

  Grimma took Masklin’s hand and squeezed it gently.

  “It’s nice here, too,” she said. He looked surprised.

  “Well, it is,” she said defiantly. “You know the others think so, too. It’s warm and there’s amazing food, even if they have funny ideas about women’s brains.” She turned back to Gurder. “Why can’t you ask Arnold Bros (est. 1905) what is going on?”

  “Oh, I don’t think we should do that!” said Gurder hurriedly.

  “Why not? Makes sense, if he’s in charge,” said Masklin. “Have you ever even seen Arnold Bros (est. 1905)?”

  “The Abbot did, once. When he was young he climbed all the way up to Consumer Accounts. He doesn’t talk about it, though.”

  Masklin thought hard about this as they walked back. There had never been any religion or politics back home. The world was just too big to worry about things like that. But he had serious doubts about Arnold Bros (est. 1905). After all, if he had built the Store for nomes, why hadn’t he made it nome sized? But, he thought, it was probably not the time to ask questions like that.

  If you thought hard enough, he’d always considered, you could work out everything. The wind, for example. It had always puzzled him until the day he’d realized that it was caused by all the trees waving about.

  They found the rest of the group near the Abbot’s quarters. Food had been brought up for them. Granny Morkie was explaining to a couple of baffled Stationeri that the pineapples were nothing like as good as the
ones she used to catch at home.

  Torrit looked up from a hunk of bread.

  “Everyone’s been looking for you two,” he said. “The Abbot fellow wants you. This bread’s soft. You don’t have to spit on it like the bread we had at ho—”

  “Never you mind going on about that!” snapped Granny, suddenly full of loyalty for the old hole.

  “Well, it’s true,” muttered Torrit. “We never had stuff like this. I mean, all these sausages and meat in big lumps, not stuff you have to kill, no ferreting around in dirty bins . . .”

  He saw the others glaring at him and lapsed into shamefaced muttering.

  “Shut up, you daft old fool,” said Granny.

  “Well, we dint have no foxes, I expect?” said Torrit. “Like Mrs. Coom and my old mate Mert, they never—”

  Her furious glare finally worked. His face went white.

  “It just wasn’t all sunshine,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Not all sunshine, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “What does he mean?” asked Gurder brightly.

  “He don’t mean nothing,” snapped Granny.

  “Oh.” Gurder turned to Masklin. “I know what a fox is,” he said. “I can read Human books, you know. Quite well. I read a book called”—he hesitated—“Our Furry Friends, I think it was. A handsome and agile hunter, the red fox scavenges carrion, fruit, and small rodents. It— I’m sorry, is something wrong?”

  Torrit was choking on his bread while the others slapped him hurriedly on the back. Masklin took the young Stationeri by the arm and quickly walked him away.

  “Was it something I said?” said Gurder.

  “In a way,” said Masklin. “And now I think the Abbot wants to see us, doesn’t he?”

  The old man was sitting very still, with the Thing on his lap, staring at nothing.

  He paid them no attention when they came in. Once or twice his fingers drummed on the Thing’s black surface.

  “Sir?” said Gurder after a while.

  “Hmm?”

  “You wanted to see us, sir?”

  “Ah,” said the Abbot vaguely. “Young Gurder, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Oh. Good.”

  There was silence. Gurder coughed politely.

  “You wanted to see us, sir?” he repeated.

  “Ah.” The Abbot nodded gently. “Oh. Yes. You, there. The young man with the spear.”

  “Me?” said Masklin.

  “Yes. Have you spoken to this, this thing?”

  “The Thing? Well, in a way. It talks funny, though. It’s hard to understand.”

  “It has talked to me. It has told me it was made by nomes, a long time ago. It eats electric. It says it can hear electric things. It has said”—he glared at the thing in his lap—“it has said that it has heard Arnold Bros (est. 1905) plans to demolish the Store. It is a mad thing, it talks about stars, it says we came from a star, flying. But . . . there is talk of strange events. I wonder to myself, is this a messenger from the Management, sent to warn us? Or is it a trap set by Prices Slashed? So!” He thumped the Thing with a wrinkled hand. “We must ask Arnold Bros (est 1905). We will learn his truth.”

  “But, sir!” Gurder burst out. “You’re far too—I mean, it wouldn’t be right for you to go all the way to the Top again—it’s a terrible dangerous journey!”

  “Quite so, boy. So you will go instead. You can read Human, and your boisterous friend with the spear can go with you.”

  Gurder sagged to his knees. “Sir? All the way to the Top? But I am not worthy . . .” His voice faded away.

  The Abbot nodded. “None of us are,” he said. “We are all Shop soiled. Everything Must Go. Now be off, and may Bargains Galore go with you.”

  “Who’s Bargains Galore?” said Masklin, as they went out.

  “She’s a servant of the Store,” said Gurder, who was still trembling. “She’s the enemy of the dreadful Prices Slashed, who wanders the corridors at night with his terrible shining light, to catch evil nomes!”

  “It’s a good thing you don’t believe in him, then,” said Masklin.

  “Of course I don’t,” agreed Gurder.

  “Your teeth are chattering, though.”

  “That’s because my teeth believe in him. And so do my knees. And my stomach. It’s only my head that doesn’t, and it’s being carried around by a load of superstitious cowards. Excuse me—I’ll go and collect my things. It’s very important that we set out at once.”

  “Why?” said Masklin.

  “Because if we wait any longer, I’ll be too scared to go.”

  The Abbot sat back in his chair.

  “Tell me again,” he said, “about how we came here. You mentioned a color. Mauve, wasn’t it?”

  “Marooned,” said the Thing.

  “Ah, yes. From something that flew.”

  “A galactic survey ship,” said the Thing.

  “But it got broken, you said.”

  “There was a fault in one of the everywhere engines. It meant we could not return to the main ship. Can it be that this is forgotten? In the early days, we managed to communicate with humans, but the different metabolic rates and time sense eventually made this impossible. It was hoped originally that humans could be taught enough science to build us a new ship, but they were too slow. In the end, we had to teach them the very basic skills, such as metallurgy, in the hope that they might eventually stop fighting one another long enough to take an interest in space travel.”

  “Metal Urgy.” The Abbot turned the word over and over. Metal urgy. The urge to use metals. That was humans, all right. He nodded. “What was that other thing you said we taught them? Began with a G.”

  The Thing appeared to hesitate, but it was learning how to talk to nomes now. “Agriculture?” it said.

  “That’s right. A Griculture. Important, is it?”

  “It is the basis of civilization.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means ‘yes.’”

  The Abbot sat back while the Thing went on talking. Strange words washed over him, like planets and electronics. He didn’t know what they meant, but they sounded right. Nomes had taught humans. Nomes came from a long way away. From a distant star, apparently.

  The Abbot didn’t find this astonishing. He didn’t get about much these days, but he had seen the stars in his youth. Every year, around the season of Christmas Fayre, stars would appear in most of the departments. Big ones, with lots of pointy bits and glitter on them, and lots of lights. He’d always been very impressed by them. It was quite fitting that they should have belonged to nomes, once. Of course, they weren’t out all the time, so presumably there was a big storeroom somewhere where the stars were kept.

  The Thing seemed to agree with this. The big room was called the galaxy. It was somewhere above Consumer Accounts.

  And then there were these “light years.” The Abbot had seen nearly fifteen years go past, and they had seemed quite heavy at the time—full of problems, swollen with responsibilities. Lighter ones would have been better.

  And so he smiled, and nodded, and listened, and fell asleep as the Thing talked and talked and talked. . . .

  7

  XXI. But Arnold Bros (est. 1905) said, This is the Sign I give you:

  XXII. If You Do Not See What You Require, Please Ask.

  From The Book of Nome, Regulations v. XXI–XXII

  “SHE CAN’T COME,” said Gurder.

  “Why not?” said Masklin.

  “Well, it’s dangerous.”

  “So?” Masklin looked at Grimma, who was wearing a defiant expression.

  “You shouldn’t take girls anywhere dangerous,” said Gurder virtuously.

  Once again Masklin got the feeling he’d come to recognize often since he’d arrived in the Store. They were talking, their mouths were opening and shutting, every word by itself was perfectly understandable, but when they were all put together, they made no sense at all. The best thing to do was ignore t
hem. Back home, if women weren’t to go anywhere dangerous, they wouldn’t go anywhere.

  “I’m coming,” said Grimma. “What danger is there, anyway? Only this Price Slasher, and—”

  “And Arnold Bros (est. 1905) himself,” said Gurder nervously.

  “Well, I’m going to come anyway. People don’t need me, and there’s nothing to do,” said Grimma. “What can happen, anyway? It’s not as if something terrible could happen,” she added sarcastically, “like me reading something and my brain overheating, for example.”

  “Now, I’m sure I didn’t say—” said Gurder weakly.

  “I bet the Stationeri don’t do their own washing,” said Grimma. “Or darn their own socks. I bet—”

  “All right, all right,” said Gurder, backing away. “But you mustn’t lag behind, and you mustn’t get in the way. We’ll make the decisions, all right?”

  He gave Masklin a desperate look.

  “You tell her she mustn’t get in the way,” he said.

  “Me?” said Masklin. “I’ve never told her anything.”

  The journey was less impressive than he’d expected. The old Abbot had told of staircases that moved, fire in buckets, long empty corridors with nowhere to hide.

  But since then, of course, Dorcas had put the lifts in. They only went as far as Kiddies Klothes and Toys, but the Klothians were a friendly people who had adapted well to life on a high floor and always welcomed the rare travelers who came with tales of the world below.

  “They don’t even come down to use the Food Hall,” said Gurder. “They get everything they want from the Staff restroom. They live on tea and biscuits, mainly. And yogurt.”

  “How strange,” said Grimma.

  “They’re very gentle,” said Gurder. “Very thoughtful. Very quiet. A little bit mystical, though. It must be all that yogurt and tea.”

  “I don’t understand about the fire in buckets, though,” said Masklin.

  “Er,” said Gurder, “we think that the old Abbot might, er, we think his memory . . . after all, he is extremely old . . .”

  “You don’t have to explain,” said Grimma. “Old Torrit can be a bit like that.”