XII. And he said, It is Big.
From The Book of Nome, Accounts v. X–XII
ON THE FOURTH day, Angalo returned, wild-eyed and grinning like a maniac.
The nome on guard came running into the department, with Angalo swaggering behind him and a gaggle of younger nomes trailing, fascinated, in his wake. He was grimy, and ragged, and looked as though he hadn’t slept for hours—but he walked proudly, with a strange swaying motion, like a nome who has boldly gone where no nome has gone before and can’t wait to be asked about it.
“Where’ve I been?” he said. “Where’ve I been? Where haven’t I been, more like. You should see what’s out there!”
“What?” they asked.
“Everywhere!” he said, his eyes glowing. “And you know what?”
“What?” they chorused.
“I’ve seen the Store from the outside! It’s . . .” He lowered his voice. “It’s beautiful. All columns and big glass windows full of color!”
Now he was the center of a growing crowd as the news spread.
“Did you see all the departments?” said a Stationeri.
“No!”
“What?”
“You can’t see the departments from outside! It’s just one big thing! And, and . . .” In the sudden silence he fumbled in his pouch for his notebook, which was now a lot fatter, and thumbed through the pages. “It’s got a great big sign outside it, and I copied it down because it’s not Trucker language and I didn’t understand it but this is what it was.”
He held it up.
The silence got deeper. Quite a few nomes could read by now.
The words said CLOSING DOWN SALE.
Then he went to bed, still babbling excitedly about trucks and hills and cities, whatever they were, and slept for two hours.
Later on, Masklin went to see him.
Angalo was sitting up in bed, his eyes still shining like bright marbles in the paleness of his face.
“Don’t you get him tired,” warned Granny Morkie, who always nursed anyone too ill to prevent it. “He’s very weak and feverish. It’s all that rattling around in those great noisy things; it’s not natural. I’ve just had his dad in here, and I had to toss him out after five minutes.”
“You got rid of the Duke?” said Masklin. “But how? He doesn’t listen to anyone!”
“He might be a big nome in the Store,” said Granny in a self-satisfied tone of voice, “but he’s just an awkward nuisance in a sickroom.”
“I need to talk to Angalo,” said Masklin.
“And I want to talk!” said Angalo, sitting up. “I want to tell everyone! There’s everything out there! Some of the things I’ve seen—”
“You just settle down,” said Granny, gently pushing him back into the pillows. “And I’m not too happy about rats in here, either.” Bobo’s whiskers could just be seen under the end of the blankets.
“But he’s very clean and he’s my friend,” said Angalo. “And you said you like rats.”
“Rat. I said rat. Not rats,” said Granny. She prodded Masklin. “Don’t you let him get overexcited,” she commanded.
Masklin sat down by the bed while Angalo talked with wild enthusiasm about the world outside, like someone who had spent his life with a blindfold on and had just been allowed to see. He talked about the big light in the sky, and roads full of trucks, and big things sticking out of the floor that had green things all over them—
“Trees,” said Masklin.
—and great buildings where things went on the truck or came off it. It was at one of these that Angalo got lost. He’d climbed out when it stopped for a while, to go to the lavatory, and hadn’t been able to get back before the driver returned and drove away. So he’d climbed onto another one, and some time after it had driven away it stopped at a big park with other trucks in it. He started looking for another Arnold Bros (est. 1905) truck.
“It must have been a cafe on a highway,” said Masklin. “We used to live near one.”
“Is that what it’s called?” said Angalo, hardly listening. “There was this big blue sign with pictures of cups and knives and forks on it. Anyway—”
—there weren’t any Store trucks. Or perhaps there were, but there were so many other types, he couldn’t find one. Eventually he’d camped out on the edge of a parking lot, living on scraps, until by sheer luck one had turned up. He hadn’t been able to get into the cab, but he had managed to climb up a tire and find a dark place where he had to hold on to cables with his hands and knees to stop himself from falling off onto the rushing road, far below.
Angalo produced his notebook. It was stained almost black.
“Nearly lost it,” he said. “Nearly ate it once, I was so hungry.”
“Yes, but the actual driving,” Masklin said insistently, with one eye on the impatient Granny Morkie. “How do they do the actual driving?”
Angalo flicked through the book. “I made a note somewhere,” he said. “Ah, here.” He passed it over.
Masklin looked at a complicated sketch of levers and arrows and numbers. “‘Turn the key . . . one, two . . . press the red button . . . one, two . . . push pedal number one down with the left foot, push big lever left and up . . . one, two . . . let pedal one up gently, push pedal number two down . . .’” He gave up. “What does it all mean?” he said, dreading the answer. He knew what it was going to be.
“It’s how you drive a truck,” said Angalo.
“Oh. But, er, all these pedals and buttons and levers and things,” said Masklin weakly.
“You need ’em all,” said Angalo, proudly. “And then you go rushing along, and you change up the gears, and—”
“Yes. Oh. I see,” said Masklin, staring at the piece of paper.
How? he thought.
Angalo had been very thorough. Once, when he’d been alone in the cab, he’d measured the height of what he called the Gear Lever, which seemed very important. It was five times the height of a nome. And the big wheel that moved and seemed to be very important was as wide as eight nomes standing side by side.
And you had to have keys. Masklin hadn’t known about the keys. He hadn’t known about anything.
“I did well, didn’t I?” said Angalo. “It’s all in there.”
“Yes. Yes. You did very well.”
“You have a good look—it’s all in there. All about the going-around-corners flasher and the horn,” Angalo went on enthusiastically.
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure it is.”
“And the go-faster pedal and the go-slower pedal and everything! Only you don’t look very pleased.”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about, I’m sure.”
Angalo grabbed him by the sleeve. “They said there was only one Store,” he said urgently. “There isn’t—there’s so much outside, so much. There’s other Stores. I saw some. There could be nomes living in ’em! Life in other Stores! Of course, you know.”
“You get some more sleep,” said Masklin as kindly as he could manage.
“When are we going to go?”
“There’s plenty of time,” said Masklin. “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep.”
He wandered out of the sickroom and straight into an argument. The Duke had returned, with some followers, and wanted to take Angalo up to the Stationery Department. He was arguing with Granny Morkie. Or trying to, anyway.
“Madam, I assure you he’ll be well looked after!” he was saying.
“Humph! Wot do you people know about doctorin’? You hardly ever have anything go wrong here! Where I come from,” said Granny, proudly, “it’s sick, sick, sick all year round. Colds and sprains and bellyache and bites the whole time. That’s what you call experience. I reckon I’ve seen more ill people that you’ve had hot dinners and”—she prodded the Duke in the stomach—“you’ve had a few of those.”
“Madam, I could have you imprisoned!” roared the Duke.
Granny sniffed. “And what has that got to do with it?” she said.
/> The Duke opened his mouth to roar back and then caught sight of Masklin. He shut it again.
“Very well,” he said. “You are, in fact, quite right. But I will visit him every day.”
“No longer than two minutes, mind,” said Granny, sniffing.
“Five!” said the Duke.
“Three,” said Granny.
“Four,” they agreed.
The Duke nodded and beckoned Masklin toward him.
“You have spoken to my son,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Masklin.
“And he told you what he saw.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Duke looked quite small. Masklin had always thought of him as a big nome, but now he realized that most of the size was a sort of inward inflation, as if the nome were pumped up with importance and authority. It had gone now. The Duke looked worried and uncertain.
“Ah,” he said, looking approximately at Masklin’s left ear. “I think I sent you some people, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Satisfactory, are they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me know if you need any more help, won’t you? Any help at all.” The Duke’s voice faded to a mumble. He patted Masklin vaguely on the shoulder and wandered away.
“What’s up with him?” asked Masklin.
Granny Morkie started to roll bandages in a businesslike way. No one needed them, but she believed in having a good supply. Enough for the whole world, apparently.
“He’s having to think,” she said. “That always worries people.”
“I just never thought it would be as hard as this!” Masklin wailed.
“You mean you didn’t have any idea how we can drive one?” said Gurder.
“None at all?” said Grimma.
“I . . . well, I suppose I thought the trucks sort of went where you wanted,” said Masklin. “I thought if they did it for humans, they’d do it for us. I didn’t expect all this go-one-two-pull stuff! Those wheels and pedals are huge—I’ve seen them!”
He stared distractedly at their faces.
“I’ve thought about it for ages,” he said. He felt they were the only two he could trust.
The cardboard door slid open and a small, cheerful face appeared.
“You’ll like this one, Mr. Masklin,” he said. “I’ve been doing some more reading.”
“Not now, Vinto. We’re a bit busy,” said Masklin. Vinto’s face fell.
“Oh, you might as well listen to him,” said Grimma. “It’s not as if we’ve got anything more important to do now.”
Masklin hung his head.
“Well, lad,” said Gurder with forced cheerfulness, “what idea have you come with this time, eh? Pulling the truck with wild hamsters, eh?”
“No, sir,” said Vinto.
“Maybe you think we could make it grow wings and fly away in the sky?”
“No, sir. I found this book, it’s how to capture humans, sir. And then we can get a gnu—”
Masklin gave the others a sick little smile.
“I explained to him that we can’t use humans,” he said. “I told you, Vinto. And I’m really not certain about threatening people with antelopes—”
With a grunt of effort, the boy swung the book open.
“It’s got a picture in it, sir.”
They looked at the picture. It showed a human lying down. He was surrounded by nomes and covered with ropes.
“Gosh,” said Grimma, “they’ve got books with pictures of us!”
“Oh, I know this one,” said Gurder dismissively. “It’s Gulliver’s Travels. It’s just stories, it’s not real.”
“Pictures of us in a book,” said Grimma. “Imagine that. You see it, Masklin?”
Masklin stared.
“Yes, you’re a good boy, well done,” said Gurder, his voice sounding far off. “Thank you very much, Vinto, and now please go away.”
Masklin stared. His mouth dropped open. He felt the ideas fizz up inside him and slosh into his head.
“The ropes,” he said.
“It’s just a picture,” said Gurder.
“The ropes! Grimma, the ropes!”
“The ropes?”
Masklin raised his fists and stared up at the ceiling. At times like this, it was almost possible to believe that there was someone up there, above Kiddies Klothes.
“I can see the way!” he shouted, while the three of them watched in astonishment. “I can see the way! Arnold Bros (est. 1905), I can see the way!”
After Closing Time that evening, several dozen small and stealthy figures crept across the garage floor and disappeared under one of the parked trucks. Anyone listening would have heard the occasional tiny clink, thud, or swear word. After ten minutes they were in the cab.
They stood in wonder, looking around.
Masklin wandered over to one of the pedals, which was taller than he was, and gave it an experimental push. It didn’t so much as wobble. Several of the others came over and helped, and managed to get it to move a little.
One nome stood and watched them thoughtfully. It was Dorcas, wearing a belt from which hung a variety of homemade tools, and he was idly twiddling the pencil lead that was kept permanently behind one ear when it wasn’t being used.
Masklin walked back to him.
“What d’you think?” he said.
Dorcas rubbed his nose. “It’s all down to levers and pulleys,” he said. “Amazing things, levers. Give me a lever long enough, and a firm enough place to stand, and I could move the Store.”
“Just one of these pedals would be enough for now,” said Masklin politely.
Dorcas nodded. “We’ll give it a try,” he said. “All right, lads. Bring it up.”
A length of wood, carried all the way down from the Home Handyman Department, was nomehandled into the cab. Dorcas ambled around, measuring distances with a piece of thread, and finally had them wedge one end into a crack in the metal floor. Four nomes lined up at the other end and hauled the wood across until it was resting on the pedal.
“Right, lads,” said Dorcas again.
They pushed down. The pedal went all the way to the floor. There was a ragged cheer.
“How did you do that?” said Masklin.
“That’s levers for you,” said Dorcas. “O-kay.” He looked around, scratching his chin. “So we’ll need three levers.” He looked up at the great circle of the steering wheel. “You have any ideas about that?” he said.
“I thought ropes,” said Masklin.
“How d’you mean?”
“It’s got those spokes in it, so if we tie ropes to them and have teams of nomes on the ropes, they could pull it one way or the other, and that’ll make the truck go the way we want,” said Masklin.
Dorcas squinted at the wheel. He paced the floor. He looked up. He looked down. His lips moved as he worked things out.
“They won’t see where they’re going,” he said finally.
“I thought someone could stand right up there, by the big window in the front, and sort of tell them what to do?” said Masklin, looking hopefully at the old nome.
“These’re powerful noisy things, young Angalo said,” said Dorcas. He scratched his chin again. “I reckon I can do something about that. Then there’s this big lever here, the Beer Lever—”
“Gear Lever,” said Masklin.
“Ah. Ropes again?”
“I thought so,” said Masklin earnestly. “What do you think?”
Dorcas sucked in his breath. “We-ell,” he said. “What with teams pulling the wheel, and teams shifting the Gear Lever, and people working the pedals with levers, and someone up there telling them all what to do, it’s going to take a powerful lot of practicing. Supposing I rig up all the tackle, all the ropes and such: How many nights will we have to practice? You know, get the hang of it?”
“Including the night we, er, leave?”
“Yes,” said Dorcas.
“One,” said Masklin.
&nbs
p; Dorcas sniffed. He stared upward for a while, humming under his breath.
“It’s impossible,” he said.
“We’ll only have one chance, you see,” said Masklin. “If it’s a problem with all the equipment—”
“Oh, no problem there,” said Dorcas. “That’s just bits of wood and string—I can have that ready by tomorrow. I was thinking of the people, see. You’re going to need a powerful lot of nomes to do all this. And they’re going to need training.”
“But—but all that they’ll have to do is pull and push when they’re told, won’t they?”
Dorcas hummed under his breath again. Masklin got the impression that he always did that if he was going to break some bad news.
“Well, laddie,” he said, “I’m six; I’ve seen a lot of people, and I’ve got to tell you, if you lined up ten nomes and shouted ‘Pull!,’ four of them would push and two of them would say ‘Pardon?’ That’s how people are. It’s just nomish nature.”
He grinned at Masklin’s crestfallen expression.
“What you ought to do,” he said, “is find us a little truck. To practice on.”
Masklin nodded gloomily.
“And,” said Dorcas, “have you thought again about how you’re going to get everyone on? Two thousand nomes, mind. Plus all this stuff we’re taking. You can’t have old grannies and little babies shinning up ropes or crawling through holes, can you?”
Masklin shook his head. Dorcas was watching him with his normal mild grin.
This nome, Masklin thought, knows his stuff. But if I say to him Leave it all to me, he’ll leave it all to me, just to serve me right. Oh, critical path analysis! Why is it always people?
“Have you got any ideas?” he said. “I really would appreciate your help.”
Dorcas gave him a long, thoughtful look and then patted him on the shoulder.
“I’ve been looking around this place,” he said. “Maybe there’s a way we can practice and solve the other problem. You come down here again tomorrow night and we’ll see, shall we?”
Masklin nodded.
The trouble was, he thought as he walked back, that there weren’t enough people. A lot of the Ironmongri were helping, and some of the other departments, and quite a few young nomes were sneaking off to help because it was all exciting and unusual. As far as the rest of them were concerned, though, life was going on as normal.
Truckers Page 12
