Truckers (9 page)

Some of the lesser Stationeri ushered them hurriedly through the doorway. It was done quite expertly, without any of them actually touching Masklin's people or even looking them in the face. Several of them scattered hastily away from Torrit when he picked up the Thing and held it protectively.

Finally Granny Morkie's temper, which was never particularly long, shortened to vanishing point. She grabbed the nearest monk by his black robe and held him up inches in front of her nose. His eyes crossed frantically with the effort of not seeing her. She poked him violently in the chest.

“Do you feel my finger?” she demanded. “Do you feel it? Not here, am I?”

“Indigenous!” said Torrit.

The monk solved his immediate problem by giving a little whimper and fainting.

“Let's get away from here,” said Dorcas hurriedly. “I suspect it's only a small step between not seeing people and making sure they don't exist.”

“I don't understand,” said Grimma. “How can people not see us?”

“Because they know we're from Outside,” said Masklin.

“But other nomes can see us!” said Grimma, her voice rising. Masklin didn't blame her. He was beginning to feel a bit unsure too.

“I think that's because they don't know,” he said, “or don't believe, we really
are
Outsiders!”

“I ain't an Outsider!” said Torrit. “They're all Insiders!”

“But that means that the Abbot really does think we're from Outside!” said Grimma. “That means he believes we're here and he can't see us! Where's the sense in that?”

“That's nomish nature for you,” said Dorcas.

“Don't see that it matters much,” said Granny grimly. “Come three weeks and they'll
all
be Outsiders. Serve them right. They'll have to go around not looking at themselves. See how they like that, eh?” She stuck her nose in the air. “Ho, hexcuse me, Mr. Abbot, went and tripped over hyou there, didn't see hyou hi'am sure. . . .”

“I'm sure they'd understand if only they'd listen,” said Masklin.

“Shouldn't think so,” said Dorcas, kicking at the dust. “Silly of me to think they would, really. The Stationeri never listen to new ideas.”

“Excuse me,” said a quiet voice behind them.

They turned and saw one of the Stationeri standing there. He was young, and quite plump, with curly hair and a worried expression. In fact he was nervously twisting the corner of his robe.

“You want me?” said Dorcas.

“Er. I was, er, I wanted to talk to the, er, Outsiders,” said the little man carefully. He bobbed a curtsey in the direction of Torrit and Granny Morkie.

“You've got better eyesight than most, then,” said Masklin.

“Er, yes,” said the Stationeri. He looked back down the corridor. “Er, I'd like to talk to you. Somewhere private.”

They shuffled around a floor joist.

“Well?” said Masklin.

“That, er, thing that spoke,” said the Stationeri. “Do you believe it?”

“I think it can't actually tell lies,” said Masklin.

“What is it, exactly? Some kind of radio?”

Masklin gave Dorcas a hopeful look.

“That's a thing for making noise,” Dorcas explained loftily.

“Is it?” asked Masklin, and shrugged. “I don't know. We've just had it a long time. It says it came with nomes from a long way away, a long time ago. We've looked after it for generations, haven't we, Torrit?”

The old man nodded violently. “My dad had it before me, and his father before him, and his father before him, and his brother at the same time as him, and their uncle before them—” he began.

The Stationeri scratched his head.

“It's very worrying,” he said. “The humans are acting very strangely. Things aren't being replaced in the Store. There's signs we've never seen before. Even the Abbot's worried—he can't work out what Arnold Bros (est. 1905) expects us to do. So, er . . .” He bunched up his robe, untwisted it hurriedly, and went on. “I'm the Abbot's assistant, you see. My name is Gurder. I have to do the things he can't do himself. So, er . . .”

“Well, what?” said Masklin.

“Could you come with me? Please?”

“Is there food?” said Granny Morkie, who could always put her finger on the important points.

“We'll certainly have some sent up,” said Gurder hurriedly. He backed off through the maze of joists and wiring. “Please, follow me. Please.”

I. Yet there were some who said, We have seen Arnold Bros (est. 1905)'s new Signs in the Store, and we are Troubled for we Understand them not
.

II. For this is the Season that should be Christmas Fayre, and yet the Signs are not the Signs of Christmas Fayre;

III. Nor are they January Sales, or Back-to-School Week, or Spring Into Spring Fashions, or Summer Bargains, or other Signs we know in their Season;

IV. For the Signs say Clearance Sale. We are sorely Troubled
.

From
The Book of Nome, Complaints v. I–IV

G
URDER, BOBBING AND
curtseying, led them deeper into Stationeri territory. It had a musty smell. Here and there were stacks of what Masklin was told were books. He didn't fully understand what they were for, but Dorcas obviously thought they were important.

“Look at 'em,” he said. “Powerful lot of stuff in there that we could find useful, and the Stationeri guard it like, like—”

“Like something well guarded?” said Masklin.

“Right. Right. That's exactly right. They keep looking hard at 'em. Reading, they call it. But they don't understand any of it.”

There was a whirr from the Thing in Torrit's arms, and a few lights lit up.

“Books are repositories of knowledge?”
it said.

“There's said to be a lot in them,” said Dorcas.

“It is vital that you obtain books,”
said the Thing.

“Stationeri hold on to 'em,” said Dorcas. “Unless you know how to read books properly, they inflame the brain, they say.”

“In here, please,” said Gurder, shifting a cardboard barrier.

Someone was waiting for them, sitting stiffly on a pile of cushions with his back to them.

“Ah. Gurder,” he said. “Come in. Good.”

It was the Abbot. He didn't turn around.

Masklin prodded Gurder. “It was bad enough just now,” he said. “Why are we doing this again?”

Gurder gave him a look that seemed to say: Trust me, this is the only way.

“Have you arranged for some food, Gurder?” said the Abbot.

“My lord, I was just—”

“Go and do it now.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Gurder gave Masklin another desperate look and scurried away.

The nomes stood sheepishly, wondering what was going to happen next.

The Abbot spoke.

“I am nearly fifteen years old,” he said. “I am older even than some departments in the Store. I have seen many strange things, and soon I am going to meet Arnold Bros (est. 1905) in the hope that I have been a good and dutiful nome. I am so old that there are nomes who think that in some way I
am
the Store, and fear that when I am gone, the Store will end. Now you tell me this is so. Who is in charge?”

Masklin looked at Torrit. But everyone else looked at him.

“Well, er,” he said. “Me. I suppose. Just for the moment.”

“That's right,” said Torrit, relieved. “Just for the moment I'm puttin' him in charge, see. Because I'm the leader.”

The Abbot nodded.

“A very wise decision,” he said. Torrit beamed.

“Stay here with the talking box,” said the Abbot to Masklin. “The rest of you, please go. There will be food brought to you. Please go and wait.”

“Um,” said Masklin, “no.”

There was a pause.

Then the Abbot said, quite softly, “Why not?”

“Because, you see, um, we're all together,” said Masklin. “We've never been split up.”

“A very commendable sentiment. You'll find, however, that life doesn't work like that. Come, now. I can hardly harm you, can I?”

“You talk to him, Masklin,” said Grimma. “We won't be far away. It's not important.”

He nodded reluctantly.

When they had left, the Abbot turned around. Close to, he was even older than he had looked before. His face wasn't just wrinkled, it was one big wrinkle. He was middle-aged when old Torrit was born, Masklin told himself. He's old enough to be Granny Morkie's grandfather!

The Abbot smiled. It was a difficult smile. It was as if he'd had smiling explained to him but had never had the chance to practice.

“Your name, I believe, is Masklin,” he said.

Masklin couldn't deny it.

“I don't understand!” he said. “You can see me! Ten minutes ago you said I didn't even exist, and now you're talking to me!”

“There is nothing strange about it,” said the Abbot. “Ten minutes ago it was official. Goodness me, I can't go around letting people believe that I've been wrong all along, can I? The Abbots have been denying there is anything Outside for generations. I can't suddenly say they were all wrong. People would think I've gone mad.”

“Would they?” said Masklin.

“Oh, yes. Politics, you see. Abbots can't go changing their minds all the time. You'll find this out. The important thing about being a leader is not being right or wrong, but being
certain
. Otherwise people wouldn't know what to think. Of course, it helps to be right as well,” the Abbot conceded. He leaned back.

“There were terrible wars in the Store once,” he said. “Terrible wars. A terrible time. Nome against nome. Decades ago, of course. It seemed that there was always some nome who thought his family should rule the Store. The Battle of the Freight Elevator, the Goods Inward Campaign, the dreadful Mezzanine Wars . . . But that's past, now. And do you know why?”

“No,” said Masklin.

“We
stopped it. The Stationeri. By cunning and common sense and diplomacy. We made them see that Arnold Bros (est. 1905) expects nomes to be at peace with one another.
Now
then. Supposing that I, in there, had said I believed you. People would have thought, The old boy has gone off his head.” The Abbot chuckled. “And then they'd have said, Have the Stationeri been wrong all this time? They would have panicked. Well, of course, that would never do. We must hold the nomes together. You know how they bicker at every opportunity.”

“That's true,” said Masklin. “And they always blame you for everything and say, What're you going to do about it?”

“You've noticed, have you?” said the Abbot, smiling. “It seems to me that you have exactly the right qualification for being a leader.”

“I don't think so!”

“That's what I mean. You don't want to be one.
I
didn't want to be Abbot.” He drummed his fingers on his walking stick and then looked sharply at Masklin.

“People are always a lot more complicated than you think,” he said. “It's very important to remember that.”

“I will,” said Masklin, not knowing what else to say.

“You don't believe in Arnold Bros (est. 1905), do you?” said the Abbot. It was more a statement than a question.

“Well, er—”

“I've seen him, you know. When I was a boy. I climbed all the way up to Consumer Accounts, by myself, and hid, and I saw him at his desk writing.”

“Oh?”

“He had a beard.”

“Oh.”

The Abbot drummed his fingers on his stick. He seemed to be making up his mind about something. Then he said, “Hmm. Where was your home?”