Truckers (12 page)

“Jump down!” he shouted. “You can't trust ground that moves by itself!”

Her pale face peered over the edge of her stair.

“What good will that do?” she said.

“Then we can go and talk about it!”

She laughed. “Go where? Have you looked down lately?”

Masklin looked down.

He was already several stairs up. The distant figure of Gurder, his face just a blob, screwed up his courage and jumped onto a step of his own. . . .

Arnold Bros (est. 1905) was not waiting at the Top.

It was simply a long brown corridor lined with doors. There were words painted on some of them.

But Grimma was waiting. Masklin waved a finger at her as he staggered off his stair, which mysteriously folded itself into the floor.

“Never,
ever
, do anything like that again!” he shouted.

“If I hadn't, you'd still be at the bottom. You could see Gurder was scared out of his wits!” she snapped.

“But there could have been all sorts of dangers up here!”

“Like what?” said Grimma haughtily.

“Well, there could be . . .” Masklin hesitated. “That's not the point, the point is—”

At this point Gurder's stair rolled him almost to their feet. They picked him up.

“There,” said Grimma brightly. “We're all here, and everything's perfectly all right, isn't it.”

Gurder stared around him. Then he coughed and adjusted his clothes.

“I lost my balance there,” he said. “Tricky, these moving stairs. But you get used to them eventually.” He coughed again and looked along the corridor. “Well, we'd better get a move on,” he said.

The three nomes crept forward, past the rows of doors.

“Does one of these belong to Prices Slashed?” asked Grimma. Somehow the name sounded far worse up here.

“Um, no,” said Gurder. “He dwells among the furnaces in the basement.” He squinted up at the nearest door. “This one is called Salaries,” he said.

“Is that good or bad?” asked Grimma, staring at the word on the varnished wood.

“Don't know.”

Masklin brought up the rear, turning slowly to keep all the corridor in view. It was too open. There was no cover, nothing to hide behind.

He pointed to a row of giant red things hanging halfway up the opposite wall. Gurder whispered that they were buckets.

“There's pictures of them in
Colin and Susan Go to the Seaside
,” he confided.

“What's that written on them?”

Gurder squinted. “‘Fire,'” he said. “Oh, my. The Abbot was right. Buckets of fire!”

“Fire in buckets?” said Masklin. “Buckets of
fire
? I can't see any flames.”

“They must be inside. Perhaps there's a lid. There's beans in bean tins, and jam in jam jars. There should be fire in fire buckets,” said Gurder vaguely. “Come on.”

Grimma stared at this word, too. Her lips moved silently as she repeated it to herself. Then she hurried after the other two.

Eventually they reached the end of the corridor. There was another door there, with glass in the top half.

Gurder stared up at it.

“I can see there's words,” said Grimma. “Read them out. I'd better not look at them,” she added sweetly, “in case my brain goes bang.”

Gurder swallowed. “They say ‘Arnold Bros (est. 1905). D.H.K. Butterthwaite, General Manager.' Er.”

“He's in there?” she said.

“Well, there's beans in bean tins and fire in fire buckets,” said Masklin helpfully. “The door's not shut—look. Want me to go and see?”

Gurder nodded wretchedly. Masklin walked over to the door, leaned against it, and pushed it until his arms ached. Eventually it swung in a little way.

There was no light inside, but by the faint glow from the corridor through the glass he could see he was entering a large room. The carpet was much thicker—it was like wading through grass. Several yards away was a large rectangular wooden thing; as he walked around it, he saw a chair behind it. Perhaps this was where Arnold Bros (est. 1905) sat.

“Where are you, Arnold Bros (est. 1905)?” he whispered.

Some minutes later the other two heard him calling softly. They peered around the door.

“Where are you?” hissed Grimma.

“Up here,” came Masklin's voice. “This big wooden thing. There's sticking-out bits you can climb on. There's all kinds of things up here. Careful of the carpet—there could be wild animals in it. If you wait a minute, I can help you up.”

They waded through the deep pile of the carpet and waited anxiously by the wooden cliff.

“It's a desk,” said Gurder, loftily. “There's lots of them in Furnishing. Amazing Value In Genuine One Hundred Percent Oak Veneer.”

“What's he doing up there?” said Grimma. “I can hear clinking noises.”

“A Must In Every Home,” said Gurder, as if saying the words gave him some comfort. “Wide Choice Of Styles To Suit Every Pocket.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sorry. It's the sort of thing Arnold Bros (est. 1905) writes on the signs. I just feel better for saying it.”

“What's that other thing up there?”

He looked where she was pointing.

“That? It's a chair. Swiveled Finish For That Executive Look.”

“It looks big enough for humans,” she said thoughtfully.

“I expect humans sit there when Arnold Bros (est. 1905) is giving them their instructions.”

“Hmm,” she said.

There was a clinking noise by her head.

“Sorry,” Masklin called down. “It took me a while to hook them together.”

Gurder looked up at the heights, and the gleaming chain that now hung down.

“Paper clips,” he said, amazed. “I never would have thought it.”

When they clambered to the top, they found Masklin wandering across the shiny surface, prodding things with his spear. This was paper, Gurder explained airily, and things for making marks.

“Well, Arnold Bros (est. 1905) doesn't seem to be around,” Masklin said. “Perhaps he's gone to bed, or whatever.”

“The Abbot said he saw him here one night, sitting at the desk right here,” said Gurder. “Watching over the Store.”

“What, sitting on that chair?” said Grimma.

“I suppose so.”

“So he's big, then, is he?” Grimma pressed on relentlessly. “Sort of human sized?”

“Sort of,” Gurder agreed reluctantly.

“Hmm.”

Masklin found a cable as thick as his arm winding off across the top of the desk. He followed it.

“If he's human shaped and human sized,” said Grimma, “then perhaps he's a—”

“Let's just see what we can find up here, shall we?” said Gurder hurriedly. He walked over to a pile of paper and started reading the top sheet by the dim light coming in from the corridor. He read slowly, in a very loud voice.

“‘The Arnco Group,'” he read, “‘incorporating Arnco Developments (UK), United Television, Arnco-Schultz (Hamburg) AG, Arnco Airlines, Arnco Recording, the Arnco Organization (Cinemas) Ltd., Arnco Petroleum Holdings, Arnco Publishing, and Arnco UK Retailing Ltd.'”

“Gosh,” said Grimma flatly.

“There's more,” said Gurder excitedly, “in much smaller letters—perhaps they're meant to be right for
us.
Listen to all these names: ‘Arnco UK Retailing Ltd. includes Bonded Outlets Ltd., the Blackbury Dye and Paint Company, Kwik-Kleen Mechanical Sweepers Ltd., and—and—and—'”

“Something wrong?”

“‘—Arnold Bros (est. 1905).'” Gurder looked up. “What do you think it all means?
Bargains Galore preserve us
!”

There was a light. It skewered down on the two of them, white and searing, so that they stood over a black pool of their own shadows.

Gurder looked up in terror at the brilliant globe that had appeared above them.

“Sorry, I think that was me,” said Masklin's voice from the shadows. “I found this sort of lever thing, and when I pushed it, it went click. Sorry.”

“Ahaha,” said Gurder mirthlessly. “An electric light. Of course. Ahaha. Gave me quite a start for a moment.”

Masklin appeared in the circle of brightness and looked at the paper.

“I heard you reading,” he said. “Anything interesting?”

Gurder pored over the print again.

“‘Notice to all Staff,'” he read. “‘I am sure we are all aware of the increasingly poor financial performance of the store in recent years. This rambling old building, while quite suitable for the leisured shopper of 1905, is not appropriate in the exciting world of the twenty-first century, and as we all know, there have unfortunately been marked stock losses and a general loss of custom following the opening of newer major outlets in the town. I am sure our sorrow at the closure of Arnold Bros, which as you know was the foundation of the Arnco fortunes, will be lessened by the news of plans by the Group to replace it with an Arnco Super Saverstore in the Neil Armstrong Shopping Mall. To this end, the store will close at the end of the month, and will shortly be demolished to make way for an exciting new Arnco Leisure Complex. . . .'”

Gurder fell silent, and put his head in his hands.

“There's those words again,” said Masklin slowly. “Closure. Demolished.”

“What's leisure?” said Grimma.

The Stationeri ignored her.

Masklin took her gently by the arm.

“I think he wants to be alone for a while,” he said. He pulled the tip of his spear across the broad sheet of paper, creasing it, and folded it up until it was small enough to carry.

“I expect the Abbot will want to see it,” he said. “He'll never believe us if we—”

He stopped. Grimma was staring over his shoulder. He turned and looked out through the glass part of the great door into the corridor beyond. There was a shadow out there. Human shaped. And growing bigger.

“What
is
it?” she said.

Masklin gripped the spear. “I think,” he said, “it may be Prices Slashed.”

They turned and hurried over to Gurder.

“There's someone coming,” Masklin whispered. “Get down to the floor, quickly!”

“Demolished!” moaned Gurder, hugging himself and rocking from side to side. “Everything Must Go! Final Reductions! We're all doomed!”

“Yes, but do you think you could go and be doomed on the floor?” said Masklin.

“He's not himself—you can see that,” said Grimma. “Come on,” she added in a horribly cheerful voice. “Upsy-daisy.”

She lifted him up bodily and helped him toward the rope of clips. Masklin followed them, walking backward with his eye on the door.

He thought: He has seen the light. It should be dark in here now, and he has seen the light. But I'll never get it off in time, and anyway it won't make any difference. I don't believe in any demon called Prices Slashed, and now here he comes. What a strange world.

He sidled into the shade of a pile of paper and waited.

He could hear Gurder's feeble protests, down around floor level, suddenly stop. Perhaps Grimma had hit him with something. She had a way of taking obvious action in a crisis.

The door drifted open, very slowly. There
was
a figure there. It looked like a human in a blue suit. Masklin wasn't much of a judge of human expressions, but the man didn't look very happy. In one hand he held a metal tube. Light shone out of one end.
His terrible flashlight
, Masklin thought.

The figure came closer, in that slow-motion, sleepwalking way that humans had. Masklin peered around the paper, fascinated despite himself. He looked up into a round, red face, felt the breath, saw the peaked hat.

He'd learned that humans in the Store had their names on little badges, because—he'd been told—they were so stupid they wouldn't remember them otherwise. This man had his name on his hat. Masklin squinted and made out the shape of the letters: S . . . E . . . C . . . . U . . . R . . . I . . . T . . . Y. He had a white mustache.

The man straightened up and started to walk around the room. They're not stupid, Masklin told himself. He's bright enough to know there shouldn't be a light on, and he wants to find out why. He's bound to see the others if he just looks in the right place. Even a human could see them.

He gripped his spear. The eyes, he thought, I'd have to go for the eyes. . . .

Security drifted dreamily around the room, examining cupboards and looking in corners. Then he headed back toward the door.

Masklin dared to breathe, and at that moment, Gurder's hysterical voice came from somewhere below him.