Truckers (8 page)

“Possibly best if we don't draw attention to ourselves,” he added. “People tend to leave me alone, but it's not a wise thing for people to wander around outside their department without good reason. And since you haven't got a department at all . . .”

He shrugged. He managed, in one shift of his shoulders, to hint at all the unpleasant things that could happen to departmentless wanderers.

It meant using the lift again. It led into a dusty underfloor area dimly lit by well-spaced, weak bulbs. No one seemed to be around. After the bustle of the other departments, it was almost unpleasantly quiet. Even quieter, Masklin thought, than the big fields. After all, they were
meant
to be quiet. The underfloor spaces should have nomes in them.

They all sensed it. They drew closer to one another.

“What dear little lights,” said Grimma, to break the silence. “Nome size. All different colors, look. And some of them flash on and off.”

“We steal boxes of 'em every year, around Christmas Fayre,” said Dorcas, without looking around. “Humans put them on trees.”

“Why?”

“Search me. To see 'em better, I suppose. You can never tell, with humans,” said Dorcas.

“But you know what trees are, then,” said Masklin. “I didn't think you'd have them in the Store.”

“Of course I know,” said Dorcas. “Big green things with plastic prickles on. Some of 'em are made of tinsel. You can't move for the damn things every Christmas Fayre, I told you.”

“The ones we have outside are huge,” Masklin ventured. “And they have these leaves, which fall off every year.”

Dorcas gave him an odd look.

“What do you mean, fall off?” he said.

“They just curl up and fall off,” said Masklin. The other nomes nodded. There were a lot of things lately they weren't certain about, but they were experts on what happened to leaves every year.

“And this happens every year?” said Dorcas.

“Oh, yes.”

“Really?” said Dorcas. “Fascinating. And who sticks them back on?”

“No one,” said Masklin. “They just turn up again, eventually.”

“All by themselves?”

They nodded. When there's one thing you're certain of, you hang on to it. “They seem to,” said Masklin. “We've never really found out why. It just happens.”

The Store nome scratched his head. “Well, I don't know,” he said uncertainly. “It sounds like very sloppy management to me. Are you sure—”

There were suddenly figures surrounding them. One minute dust heaps, the next minute people. The one right in front of the party had a beard, a patch over one eye, and a knife clutched in his teeth. It somehow made his grin so much worse.

“Oh, dear,” said Dorcas.

“Who're they?” hissed Masklin.

“Bandits. That's always a problem in Corsetry,” said Dorcas, raising his hands.

“What's bandits?” said Masklin blankly.

“What's Corsetry?” said Grimma.

Dorcas pointed a finger at the floorboards overhead. “It's up there,” he said. “A department. Only no one's really interested in it because there's nothing in it of any use. It's mainly pink,” he added. “Sometimes the elastic—”

“Orr ossessionz orr orr ife,” said the head bandit impatiently.

“Pardon?” said Grimma.

“I edd, orr ossessionz orr orr ife!”

“I think it's the knife,” said Masklin. “I think we'd understand you if you took the knife out.”

The bandit glared at them with his one good eye, but took the knife blade out of his mouth.

“I
said
, your possessions or your life!” he repeated.

Masklin gave Dorcas a questioning look. The old nome waved his hands.

“He wants you to give him everything you have,” he said. “He won't kill you, of course, but they can be rather unpleasant.”

The Outside nomes went into a huddle. This was something beyond their experience. The idea of stealing was a new one to them. Back home there had never been anyone to steal from. If it came to that, there had never been anything to steal.

“Don't they understand plain Nome?” said the bandit.

Dorcas gave him a sheepish grin. “You'll have to excuse them,” he said. “They're new here.”

Masklin turned around.

“We've decided,” he said. “If it's the same to you, we'll keep what we have. Sorry.”

He gave Dorcas and the bandit a bright smile.

The bandit returned it. At least, he opened his mouth and showed a lot of teeth.

“Er,” said Dorcas, “you can't say that, you know. You can't say you don't want to be robbed!” He saw Masklin's look of complete bewilderment. “Robbed,” he repeated. “It means having your things taken away from you. You just can't say you don't want it to happen!”

“Why not?” said Grimma.

“Because—” The old nome hesitated. “I don't know, really. Tradition, I suppose.”

The bandit chief tossed his knife from one hand to the other. “Tell you what I'll do,” he said, “you being new and everything. We'll hardly hurt you at all. Get them!”

Two bandits grabbed Granny Morkie.

This turned out to be a mistake. Her bony right hand flashed out and there were two ringing slaps.

“Cheeky!” she snapped as the nomes staggered sideways, clutching their ears.

A bandit who tried to hold old Torrit got a pointed elbow in his stomach. One waved a knife at Grimma, who caught his wrist; the knife dropped from his hand and he sank to his knees, making pathetic bubbling noises.

Masklin leaned down, grabbed a handful of the chief's shirt in one hand, and lifted him up to eye level.

“I'm not sure we fully understand this custom,” he said. “But nomes shouldn't hurt other nomes, don't you think?”

“Ahahaha,” said the chief, nervously.

“So I think perhaps it would be a good idea if you go away, don't you?”

He let go. The bandit scrabbled on the floor for his knife, gave Masklin another anxious grin, and ran for it. The rest of the band hurried after him, or at least limped fast.

Masklin turned to Dorcas, who was shaking with laughter.

“Well,” he said, “what was that all about?”

Dorcas leaned against a wall for support.

“You really don't know, do you?” he said.

“No,” said Masklin patiently. “That's why I asked, you see.”

“The Corsetri are bandits. They take things that don't belong to them. They hide out in Corsetry because it's more trouble than it's worth to anyone to drag them out,” said Dorcas. “Usually they just try to frighten people. They're really just a bit of a nuisance.”

“Why'd that one have his knife in his mouth?” said Grimma.

“It's supposed to make him look tough and devil-may-care, I think.”

“I think it makes him look silly,” said Grimma flatly.

“He'll feel the back of my hand if he comes back here,” said Granny Morkie.

“I don't think they'll be back. I think they were a bit shocked to have people hit them, in fact,” said Dorcas. He laughed. “You know, I'm really looking forward to seeing what effect you lot have on the Abbot. I don't think we've ever seen anything like you. You'll be like a— a—what's that stuff you said there's a lot of Outside?”

“Fresh air?” said Masklin.

“That's right. Fresh air.”

And so they came, eventually, to the Stationeri.

Go to the Stationeri or go Outside, the Duke had said, meaning that he didn't see a lot of difference between the two. And there was no doubt that the other great families distrusted the Stationeri, who they reckoned had strange and terrifying powers.

After all, they could read and write. Anyone who can tell you what a piece of paper is saying
must
be strange.

They also understood Arnold Bros (est. 1905)'s messages in the sky.

But it is very hard to meet someone who believes you don't exist.

Masklin had always thought that Torrit looked old, but the Abbot looked so old that he must have been around to give Time itself a bit of a push. He walked with the aid of two sticks, and a couple of younger nomes hovered behind him in case he needed support. His face was a bag of wrinkles, out of which his eyes stared like two sharp black holes.

The tribe clustered up behind Masklin, as they always did now when they were worried.

The Abbot's guest hall was an area walled with cardboard, near one of the lifts. Occasionally one went past, shaking down some dust.

The Abbot was helped to his chair and sat down slowly, while his assistants fussed around him. Then he leaned forward.

“Ah,” he said, “del Icatessen, isn't it? Invented anything lately?”

“Not lately, my lord,” said Dorcas. “My lord, I have the honor to present to you—”

“I can't see anyone,” said the Abbot, smoothly.

“Must be blind,” sniffed Granny.

“And I can't hear anyone, either,” said the Abbot.

“Be quiet,” Dorcas hissed. “Someone's told him about you! He won't let himself see you! My lord,” he said loudly, turning back, “I bring strange news. The Store is going to be demolished!”

It didn't have quite the effect Masklin had expected. The Stationeri priests behind the Abbot sniggered to themselves, and the Abbot permitted himself a faint smile.

“Dear me.” He said, “And when is this terrible event likely to occur?”

“In twenty-one days, my lord.”

“Well, then,” said the Abbot in a kindly voice. “You run along now and, afterward, tell us what it was like.”

This time the priests grinned.

“My lord, this is no—”

The Abbot raised a gnarled hand. “I'm sure you know a great deal about electricity, Dorcas, but you must know that every time there is a Grand Final Sale, excitable people say, ‘The end of the Store is nigh.' And, strangely enough, life goes on.”

Masklin felt the Abbot's gaze on him. For someone who was invisible, he seemed to be attracting considerable attention.

“My lord, it is rather more than that,” said Dorcas stiffly.

“Oh? Did the
electricity
tell you?” said the Abbot mockingly.

Dorcas nudged Masklin in the ribs. “Now,” he said.

Masklin stepped forward and put the Thing down on the floor.

“Now,” he whispered.

“Am I in the presence of community leaders?”
asked the Thing.

“About as much as you ever will be,” said Dorcas. The Abbot stared at the box.

“I will use small words,”
said the Thing.
“I am the Flight Recording and Navigation Computer. A computer is a machine that thinks. Think, computer, think. See the computer think. I use electricity. Sometimes electricity can carry messages. I can hear the messages. I can under-stand the messages. Sometimes the messages go along wires called telephone wires. Sometimes they are in other computers. There is a computer in the Store. It pays humans their wages. I can hear it think. It thinks: No more Store soon, no more payroll, no more accounts. The telephone wires, they say, Is that Blackbury Demolition Co.? Can we discuss final arrangements for the demolition, all stock will be out by the twenty-first—”

“Very amusing,” said the Abbot. “How did you make it?”

“I didn't make it, my lord. These people brought it here—”

“Which people?” said the Abbot, looking straight through Masklin.

“What happens if I go and pull his nose?” whispered Granny, in a hoarse whisper.

“It would be extremely painful,” said Dorcas.

“Good.”

“I mean for you.”

The Abbot rose hesitantly to his feet.

“I am a tolerant nome,” he said. “You speculate about things Outside, and I do not mind, I say it is good mental exercise. We wouldn't be nomes if we didn't sometimes allow our minds to wander. But to insist that it is
real
, that is not to be tolerated. Little tricksy toys . . .” He hobbled forward and brought one stick down sharply on the Thing, which buzzed. “Intolerable! There is nothing Outside, and no one to live in it! Life in other Stores, pah! Audience concluded! Be off with you.”

“I can stand an impact of two thousand five hundred tons,”
said the Thing smugly, although no one took much notice.

“Away! Away!” shouted the Abbot, and Masklin saw that he was trembling.

That was the strange thing about the Store. Only a few days ago, there weren't that many things you needed to know, and they mainly involved big hungry creatures and how to avoid them. Fieldcraft, Torrit had called it. Now it was beginning to dawn on Masklin that there was a different sort of knowledge, and it consisted of the things you needed to understand in order to survive among other nomes. Things like: Be very careful when you tell people things they don't want to hear. And: The thought that they may be wrong makes people very angry.