Truckers

by Terry Pratchett

  In fact the Store was, if anything, busier than usual.

  Of all the family heads, only the Count seemed at all willing to take an interest, and Masklin suspected that even he didn’t really think the Store was going to end. It just meant that the Ironmongri could learn to read, and that annoyed the Haberdasheri, which amused the Count. Even Gurder didn’t seem so sure as he had been.

  Masklin went back to his box and slept, and woke up an hour later.

  The terror had started.

  11

  I. Run to the Lifts

  Lifts, won’t you carry me?

  Run to the Walls,

  Walls, won’t you hide me?

  Run to the Truck,

  Truck, won’t you take me?

  All on that Day.

  From The Book of Nome, Exits Chap. 1, v. I.

  IT STARTED WITH silence when there should have been noise. All the nomes were used to the distant thumping and murmuring of the humans during the long daylight hours, so they didn’t notice it. Now that it was gone, they could hear the strange, oppressive silence. There were days, of course, when humans didn’t come into the Store—for instance, Arnold Bros (est. 1905) sometimes allowed them almost a week off between the excitement of Christmas Fayre and the hurly-burly of Winter Sale Starts Today! But the nomes were used to this; it was part of the gentle rhythm of Store life. This wasn’t the right day.

  After several hours of silence, they just stopped telling one another not to worry, it was probably just some special day or something, like that time when the Store had shut for a week for redecoration, and one or two of the braver or more inquisitive ones risked a quick glance above floor level.

  Emptiness stretched away between the familiar counters. And there didn’t seem to be much stock around.

  “It’s always like this after a Sale,” they said. “And then, before you know where you are, all the shelves are filled up again. Nothing to get upset about at all. It’s all part of Arnold Bros (est. 1905)’s great plan.”

  And they sat in silence, or hummed a little tune, or found something to occupy their minds, to stop thinking unpleasant thoughts. It didn’t work.

  And then, when the humans came in and started taking the few things that were left off the shelves and counters, and piling them in great boxes and taking them down to the garage and loading them onto the trucks . . .

  And started taking up the floorboards . . .

  Masklin awoke. People were prodding him. Somewhere in the distance, other people were shouting. It was somehow familiar.

  “Get up, quickly!” said Gurder.

  “What’s happening?” asked Masklin, yawning.

  “Humans are taking the Store to bits!”

  Masklin sat bolt upright.

  “They can’t be! It’s not time!” he said.

  “They’re doing it just the same!”

  Masklin stood up, struggling into his clothes. He jigged sideways across the floor, one leg out of his trousers, and thumped the Thing.

  “Hey!” he said. “You said the demolition wasn’t for ages yet!”

  “Fourteen days,” said the Thing.

  “It’s starting now!”

  “This is probably the removal of remaining stock to new premises, and preliminary works,” said the Thing.

  “Oh, good. That should make everyone feel a lot better. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I was not aware you did not know.”

  “Well, we didn’t. So what do you suggest we do now?”

  “Leave as soon as possible.”

  Masklin snarled. He had expected two more weeks to solve all the problems. They could have stockpiled stuff to take with them. They could have made proper plans. Even two weeks was hardly long enough. Now the thought of even one week was a luxury.

  He went out into the milling, disorganized crowd. Fortunately the boards hadn’t been taken up in an inhabited area—some of the more sensible refugees said that only a few had been taken up in the far end of the Gardening Department, so the humans could get at the water pipes—but nomes living nearby were taking no chances.

  There was a thump overhead. A few minutes later, a breathless nome arrived and reported that the carpets were being rolled up and taken away.

  That caused a terrified silence. Masklin realized that they were all looking at him.

  “Er,” he said.

  Then he said, “I think everyone ought to get as much food as they can carry and go down to the basement, near to the garage.”

  “You mean you still think we should do it?” said Gurder.

  “We haven’t much choice, have we?”

  “But we were—you said we should take as much as we could from the Store, all the wire and tools and things. And books,” said Gurder.

  “We’ll be lucky if we can just take ourselves. There’s no time!”

  Another messenger came running up. It was one of Dorcas’s group. He whispered something to Masklin, who gave a strange smile.

  “Can it be that Arnold Bros (est. 1905) has abandoned us in our hour of need?” said Gurder.

  “I don’t think so. He may be helping us,” said Masklin. “Because, well, you’ll never guess where the humans are putting all this stuff. . . .”

  12

  I. And the Outsider said, Glory to the Name of Arnold Bros (est. 1905).

  II. For he hath sent us a Truck, and the Humans are loading it now with all manner of Things needful to nomes. It is a Sign. Everything Must Go. Including us.

  From The Book of Nome, Exits Chap. 2, v. I–II

  HALF AN HOUR later Masklin lay on the girder with Dorcas, looking down at the garage.

  He had never seen it so busy. Humans sleepwalked across the floor, carrying bundles of carpet into the backs of some of the trucks. Yellow things, like a cross between a very small truck and a very large armchair, inched around them, stacking boxes.

  Dorcas passed him the telescope.

  “Busy little things, ain’t they,” he said conversationally. “Been at it all morning, they have. A couple of trucks have already gone out and come back, so they can’t be going very far.”

  “The letter we saw said something about a new Store,” said Masklin. “Perhaps they’re taking the stuff there.”

  “Could be. It’s mostly carpets at the moment, and some of the big frozen humans from Fashions.”

  Masklin made a face. According to Gurder, the big pink humans that stood in Fashions, and Kiddies Klothes, and Young Living, and never moved at all, were those who had incurred Arnold Bros (est. 1905)’s displeasure. They had been turned into horrible pink stuff, and some said they could even be taken apart. But certain Klothian philosophers said no, they were particularly good humans, who had been allowed to stay in the Store forever and not made to disappear at Closing Time. Religion was very hard to understand.

  As Masklin watched, the big roller door creaked upward and a truck nearby started with a roar and ground slowly out into the blinding daylight.

  “What we need,” he said, “is a truck with a lot of stuff from the Ironmongery Department. Wire, you know, and tools and things. Have you seen any food?”

  “Looked like a lot of stuff from the Food Hall on the first truck out,” said Dorcas.

  “We’ll have to make do, then.”

  “What’ll I do,” said Dorcas slowly, “if they load it all up on a truck and drive it away? They’re working powerful fast, for humans.”

  “Surely they can’t empty the Store in one day?” said Masklin.

  Dorcas shrugged.

  “Who knows?” he said.

  “You’ll have to stop the truck from leaving,” said Masklin.

  “How? By throwing myself under it?”

  “Any way you can think of,” said Masklin.

  Dorcas grinned. “I’ll find a way. The lads are getting used to this place.”

  Refugees were flowing into the Ironmongery Department from all over the Store, filling all the space under the floor with a frightened bu
zz of whispered conversation. Many of them looked up as Masklin walked past, and what he saw in their faces terrified him.

  They believe I can help, he thought. They’re looking at me as if I’m their only hope.

  And I don’t know what to do. Probably none of it will work—we should have had more time. He forced himself to look brimful of confidence, and it seemed to satisfy people. All they wanted to know was that someone, somewhere, knew what he was doing. Masklin wondered who it was; it certainly wasn’t him.

  The news was bad from everywhere. A lot of the Gardening Department had been cleared. Most of the Clothes departments were empty. The counters were being ripped out of Cosmetics, although fortunately not many nomes lived there. Masklin could hear, even here, the thud and crunch of the work going on.

  Finally he could stand it no longer. Too many people kept staring at him. He went back down to the garage, where Dorcas was still watching from his spy post on top of the girder.

  “What’s happened?” said Masklin.

  The old nome pointed to the truck immediately below them.

  “That’s the one we want,” he said. “It’s got all sorts in it. Lots of stuff from the Do-It-Yourself Department. There’s even some Haberdashery things, needles and whatnot. All the stuff you told me to look out for.”

  “We’ve got to stop them from driving it out!” said Masklin.

  Dorcas grinned. “The machinery that raises the door won’t work,” he said. “The fuse has gone.”

  “What’s a fuse?” said Masklin.

  Dorcas picked up a long, thick red bar lying by his feet. “This is,” he said.

  “You took it?”

  “Tricky job—we had to tie a bit of string round it. Made a powerful big spark when we pulled it out.”

  “But I expect they can put another one in,” said Masklin.

  “Oh, they did,” said Dorcas, with a self-satisfied expression. “They’re not daft. Didn’t work, though, because after we took the fuse out, the lads went and cut the wires inside the wall in a couple of places. Very dangerous, but it’ll take the humans forever to find it.”

  “Hmm. But supposing they lever the door up?”

  “Won’t do them any good. It’s not as if the truck will go, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  Dorcas pointed downward. Masklin watched, and after a moment he saw a couple of small figures scurry out from under the truck and dive into the shadows by the wall. They were carrying a pair of pliers.

  A moment later a solitary figure hurried after them, dragging a length of wire.

  “Powerful lot of wire them trucks need,” said Dorcas. “This one ain’t got so much, now. Funny, isn’t it? Take away a tiny spark and the truck won’t go. Don’t worry, though—I reckon we’ll know where to put it all back later.”

  There was a clang down below. One of the humans had given the door a kick.

  “Temper, temper,” said Dorcas mildly.

  “You’ve thought of just about everything,” said Masklin admiringly.

  “I hope so,” said Dorcas. “But we’d better make sure, hadn’t we.” He stood up and produced a large white flag, which he waved over his head. There was an answering flicker of white from the shadows on the far side of the garage.

  And then the lights went out.

  “Useful thing, electricity,” said Dorcas in the darkness. There was a rumble of annoyance from the humans below, and then a jangling noise as one of them walked into something. After some grunting and a few more thuds, one of the humans found a doorway out into the basement, and the rest of them followed it.

  “Don’t you think they’ll suspect something?” said Masklin.

  “There’s other humans working in the Store. They’ll probably think they caused it,” said Dorcas.

  “That electricity is amazing stuff,” said Masklin. “Can you make it? The Count de Ironmongri was very mysterious about it.”

  “That’s because the Ironmongri don’t know anything.” Dorcas sniffed. “Just how to steal it. I can’t seem to get the hang of the reading business, but young Vinto has been looking at books for me. He says making electricity is very simple. You just need to get hold of some stuff called you-ranium. I think it’s a kind of metal.”

  “Is there some in the Ironmongery Department?” said Masklin hopefully.

  “Apparently not,” said Dorcas.

  The Thing wasn’t very helpful, either.

  “I doubt if you are ready for nuclear power yet,” it said. “Try windmills.”

  Masklin finished putting his possessions, such as they were, in a bag.

  “When we leave,” he said, “you won’t be able to talk, will you? You need electricity to drink.”

  “That is the case, yes.”

  “Can’t you tell us which way we should go?”

  “No. However, I detect radio traffic indicative of airline activity to the north of here.”

  Masklin hesitated. “That’s good, is it?”

  “It means there are flying machines.”

  “And we can fly all the way Home?” said Masklin.

  “No. But they may be the next step. It may be possible to communicate with the starship. But first, you must ride the truck.”

  “After that, I should think anything is possible,” said Masklin gloomily. He looked expectantly at the Thing, and then noticed with horror that its lights were going off, one by one.

  “Thing!”

  “When you are successful, we will talk again,” said the Thing.

  “But you’re supposed to help us!” said Masklin.

  “I suggest you consider deeply the proper meaning of the word ‘help,’” said the box. “You are either intelligent nomes or just clever animals. It’s up to you to find out which.”

  “What?”

  The last light went off.

  “Thing?”

  The lights stayed off. The little black box contrived to look extremely dead and silent.

  “But I relied on you to help us sort out the driving and everything! You’re just going to leave me like this?”

  If anything, the box got darker. Masklin stared at it.

  Then he thought: It’s all very well for it. Everyone’s relying on me. I’ve got no one to rely on. I wonder if the old Abbot felt like this. I wonder how he stood it for so long. It’s always me who has to do everything—no one ever thinks about me or what I want. . . .

  The shabby cardboard door swung aside and Grimma stepped in.

  She looked from the darkened Thing to Masklin.

  “They’re asking for you out there,” she said quietly. “Why is the Thing all dark?”

  “It just said good-bye! It said it won’t help anymore!” Masklin wailed. “It just said we have to prove we can do things for ourselves and it will speak to us when we’re successful! What shall I do?”

  I know what I could do, he thought. I could do with a cool washcloth. I could do with a bit of understanding. I could do with a bit of sympathy. Good old Grimma. You can rely on her.

  “What you’ll do,” she said sharply, “is jolly well stop moping and get up and go out there and get things organized!”

  “Wha—”

  “Sort things out! Make new plans! Give people orders! Get on with it!”

  “But—”

  “Do it now!” she snapped.

  Masklin stood up.

  “You shouldn’t talk to me like that,” he said plaintively. “I’m the leader, you know.”

  She stood arms akimbo, glaring at him.

  “Of course you’re the leader,” she said. “Did I say you weren’t the leader? Everyone knows you’re the leader! Now get out there and lead!”

  He lurched past. She tapped him on the shoulder.

  “And learn to listen,” she added.

  “Eh? What do you mean?”

  “The Thing’s a sort of thinking machine, isn’t it? That’s what Dorcas said. Well, machines say exactly what they mean, don’t they?”

  “Yes,
I suppose so, but—”

  Grimma gave him a bright, triumphant smile.

  “Well, it said ‘When,’” she said. “Think about it. It could have said ‘If.’”

  Night came. Masklin thought the humans were never going to leave. One of them, with a flashlight and a box of tools, spent a long time examining fuse boxes and peering at the wiring in the basement. Now at last even it was gone, grumbling and slamming the door behind it.

  After a little while, the lights came on in the garage.

  There was a rustling in the walls, and then a dark tide flowed out from under benches. Some of the young nomes in the lead carried hooks on the ends of thread lines, which they swung up to the truck’s covers. They caught, one after another, and the nomes swarmed up them.

  Other nomes brought thicker string, which was tied to the ends of the thread and gradually dragged upward. . . .

  Masklin ran along, under the endless shadow of the truck, to the oily darkness under the engine where Dorcas’s teams were already dragging their equipment into position. Dorcas himself was in the cab, rooting around among the thick wires. There was a sizzling noise, and then the light in the cab came on.

  “There,” said Dorcas. “Now we can see what we’re at. Come on, lads! Let’s have a bit of effort!”

  When he turned around and saw Masklin, he made as if to hide his hands behind his back, then thought better of it. Both of them were thrust into what Masklin could now see were the fingers cut out of rubber gloves.

  “Ah,” said Dorcas, “didn’t know you were there. Bit of a trade secret, see? Electricity can’t abide rubber. It stops the stuff from biting you.” He ducked as a team of nomes swung a long wooden beam across the cab and started to fasten it to the gear lever.

  “How long’s it going to take?” shouted Masklin, as another team ran past dragging a ball of string. There was quite a din in the cab now, and threads and bits of wood were moving in every direction in what he hoped was an organized way.

  “Could be an hour, maybe,” said Dorcas, and added, not unkindly, “We’d get on quicker without people in the way.”

  Masklin nodded, and explored the rear of the cab. The truck was old, and he found another hole for a bundle of wires which, at a squeeze, would take a nome as well. He crawled out into the open air and then found another gap that let him into the rear of the truck.