The Long Earth

by Terry Pratchett

  Maybe his head was clearing, a bit. It occurred to him for the first time that he ought to have a good look at his kit.

  He opened up his kit bag and emptied out the contents on the green ground. And he found that somebody had robbed him! His canteen had gone, his bayonet blade had gone, as had the blade of his entrenching tool. Come to that, his helmet was nowhere to be found; he didn’t remember having that when he woke up, although he did find the strap around his neck. Blimey, they’d even taken the aglets off his boots and the nails out of the heels! All the bits of steel. And what was very odd was that even though his canteen had gone, what was actually missing was the steel flask – there was the stitched-leather container lying on the grass, intact. But his pay-book was untouched, and nobody had bothered about the few pennies in his kit bag, and even the glass bottle containing his rum ration was still here. It must have been a funny sort of thief! And he still had his paints – but the metal box that had contained the little tubes had vanished. Not only that, somebody had even taken the trouble to unwrap the metal bands around the bristles of his paint brushes, so that the little bits of stubble were left lying at the bottom of the canvas bag. Why?

  And what about his weapons? He checked the pistol at his belt. All that was left of that was the wooden stock. Again, why? Steal a pistol, yes, but you would have a devil of a job to use it without the stock. It made no sense. But then, what did? Where, on the western front, had good sense ever played a part?

  The Russians watched, silent, apparently baffled by his fiddling about with all this stuff.

  Memory came trickling back from whatever foxhole it had been hiding in.

  Private Percy had been seconded to the camouflage corps after his leg wound. This was because, amazingly enough, the Army had recognized that he had once been a draftsman, and sometimes this Army who needed men who could hold a gun, and even more men who could take a bullet, also needed men who could wield a pencil, and select from God’s good rainbow just the right hue of paint to turn a Mark I tank into a harmless haystack, albeit with a wisp of smoke coming out of it if the lads were having a quick drag behind it. He’d been happy for the respite. And that was why he carried a paint box, for colour matching, and for bits of fine work after the usual application of daubs of camouflage green.

  What else could he remember? The very last thing before the shelling? Oh yes, the sergeant roasting the new kid because he had one of those wretched Testaments that fitted into his breast pocket, the kind of thing mothers and sweethearts sent to the front in the hope that the holy words would keep their boys safe, and maybe, if words alone did not do the trick, then the gunmetal coating might achieve what mere faith could not. And Percy, packing up his gear to go on to the next job, remembered the sergeant was apoplectic, waving the offending article in front of the kid and screaming, ‘You bloody, bloody idiot, ain’t your bloody mother ever heard of shrapnel? There was a sapper once, a good lad, and a round hit his bloody iron Testament and it drove the living heart right out of his body, poor devil!’

  And then he had been rudely interrupted by the shelling. Why had the red-faced kid and the sergeant disappeared into the incandescence of a bomb which hit only a little way away from Percy, who was now sitting here in this peaceful world, in the company of these friendly-looking Russians, and still managing to hear the wonderful birdsong? Deep inside, Percy knew he was never going to get answers to such questions.

  Best not to ask, then.

  The Russians, sitting there in the green, watched him patiently as he struggled to climb out of the black pit inside his head.

  When the two Russian hunters returned, one of them was carrying a freshly killed deer, a big floppy animal, with apparent ease.

  Having the carcass of a deer dropped right in front of him by a huge furry Russian might have perplexed a lesser man. But Private Percy’s brief adolescence as a poacher, and years of near malnutrition on the front line, combined firmly around one purpose. The butchery was a messy job without steel, but the button rod in his small pack was thin brass and helped a little, and so did smashing the bottle that had contained the last of his rum ration to make a few more cutting edges.

  He was disconcerted by the way the Russians ate with their bare hands, and carefully picked out the creature’s guts and the lungs, what Percy had grown up calling the lights, and crammed them into their mouths, but he took the charitable view that the poor souls probably knew no better. He saw no steel, and certainly not any rifles, and that was odd. After all, the Russians had come to fight alongside the English, yes? Surely they would have had guns of some sort, because what was a soldier without a weapon?

  Light dawned, for Private Percy. Of course, some might say that he was a deserter, although heaven only knew what had really happened to him. Maybe these Russians were deserters. They had surely flung their weapons away and kept only their enormous hairy greatcoats. And if that was so, why should Percy worry? That was their business, and the Czar’s.

  So he took a venison steak for himself, diplomatically walked away to avoid staring at the Russians’ table manners, found some dry grass, pulled some dried twigs off some half-rotted branches of a fallen tree, and used one more precious lucifer to light another fire.

  Five minutes later, as the steak cooked, they were sitting around him as if he had become King himself.

  And later, when they walked away with him, singing as they went, he regaled them with every music-hall song he knew.

  22

  ‘HOW DO YOU KNOW all this, Lobsang?’

  ‘About Private Percy? Mostly from that chronicle of the unexplained, the Fortean Times. The December 1970 issue recounted the story of an elderly man wearing antiquated British battledress being admitted to a French hospital some years before. He appeared to be trying to communicate by whistling. According to the British Army pay-book still in his blouse he was Private Percy Blakeney of a Kent regiment, recorded as missing in action after the battle of Vimy Ridge. Nevertheless, he appeared well nourished and in good, if somewhat puzzled spirits – although severely injured, having been run over by the tractor driven by the farmer who brought him into the hospital. The farmer protested to the police that the man had just stood there in the middle of the field, as if he’d never seen such a vehicle before, and the farmer had been unable to stop in time.

  ‘Despite the efforts of the hospital staff, Percy died of wounds from the collision. An ironic end! But not before one of the nurses who spoke English heard him say something like, “In the end I told the Russians that I wanted to go back, to see how the war was getting on. They were good lads, found me a way home. Good lads, loved singing. Very kind…” And so forth.

  ‘The fact that the man was wearing the remains of a British Army uniform and mentioned the word “Russians” raised sufficient security concerns to cause the gendarmerie to be called to investigate. Well, according to the British Legion, there was indeed a Percy Blakeney involved in the fighting on Vimy Ridge, who was reported missing after the opening bombardment. There appears to have been no attempt at an official explanation as to why his pay-book should show up decades later in the hands of a mysterious itinerant now buried in a graveyard in central France.’

  ‘But you have an explanation, I take it.’

  ‘I’m sure you can see it, Joshua.’

  ‘He stepped there? Into the forest with his Russians?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Lobsang, ‘or perhaps one of the trolls found itself in the trenches by accident, and helped him away.’

  ‘ “Trolls”?’

  ‘That seems the mythological term that best describes these creatures, extrapolating from legends that must derive from even older sightings: creatures glimpsed in our world only to vanish again, entirely misunderstood, the seeds of legend … a term that already has become current in some parts of the Long Earth, Joshua. Percy’s wasn’t the only sighting.’

  ‘So you anticipated finding these – stepping humanoids, did you?’

  ‘From
logical extrapolation. And I anticipated the singing from Percy’s own account. Consider: humans can step; chimps can’t – there have been experiments to establish that. But perhaps our hominid relatives of the past, or rather their modern descendants, were, or are, able to step. Why not? To have encountered such beings so early in our journey is of course the achievement of a major goal. And we must expect, we must hope at least, to meet many more such groups as we continue. What an intellectual thrill this is, Joshua!’

  ‘So they kept Percy alive, all those years?’

  ‘It seems so. These “Russians” found Percy wandering in a France which had no Frenchmen living in it, and they were kind to him, for decades. Over several of their generations, perhaps. Remarkable. As far as I know, he never understood the truth about his friends. But Percy probably had never seen anybody from another country before being shipped to France, and, of course, being English and unlettered, was probably half prepared to believe that a foreigner could look like just about anything. Why shouldn’t a Russian look like a big hairy ape?

  ‘For much of the rest of his life Private Percy travelled with his “Russians” across a calm, well-wooded, well-watered world where they kept him fed with meat and vegetables, and were in all respects considerate in their treatment of him, right up until the day when he made it clear – and I must say that I don’t know how he communicated this to them – that he wanted to go back to the place where he had come from.’

  ‘Songs can be very expressive, Lobsang. You can sing your homesickness.’

  ‘Perhaps. And, as we’ve experienced ourselves, they learned those songs well, and remember them. They must have been passed between generations of trolls, perhaps even from group to group… Intriguing. We must learn something of the social lives of these creatures. Well – in the end the trolls took him home, as good fairies should, back to France, but fortunately not in an era when man was disassembling man with high explosives.’

  Now the ambulant unit strolled through the blue door at the rear of the deck, and seamlessly, and rather eerily, took up the conversation from its disembodied counterpart. ‘You have further questions, Joshua?’

  ‘I’ve read about that war. It didn’t last all that long. Why didn’t he go back earlier?’

  The ambulant unit put a cold hand on Joshua’s shoulder. ‘Would you have done? It was a terrible, inhuman conflict, a war that had become a machine for killing young men as efficiently, if as horribly, as possible. How keen would he be to walk back into that? And don’t forget he didn’t really know he was a stepper. He thought that he had been blown into another part of France. Besides, his “Russians” were happy to know him. I suspect it was the songs that clinched it. He says they loved hearing him sing. He taught them all the songs that he knew – and you, Joshua Valienté, heard one of them today.

  ‘So – our first field trip. Perhaps we need an operational debrief. You thought I’d put you in harm’s way, didn’t you? Please believe me, I would not do that. It would not be in my own interest, would it?’

  ‘You know a hell of a lot about what we’re encountering, even before we’ve encountered it. You might have warned me what was coming.’

  ‘Yes. I accept that. We must work on our communication. Look – we have barely begun our epic journey; we barely know each other. What would you say to some quality time together?’

  Sometimes, the only thing you can do is stare blankly. Quality time, said the artificial man! Joshua knew the term, of course, if only because Sister Agnes went into a rage every time she heard it. As rages went they were not volcanic: few bad words were said – apart from ‘Republican’, which was an extremely bad word to Sister Agnes – and certainly nothing was ever thrown, at least not very hard, and never anything that could hurt. But terms like ‘me time’ and ‘quality time’ lit her fuse. ‘Terms cut out of fog! Watering down the currency of expression, causing anything to mean whatever you want it to mean, until nothing is meant and nothing is precise!’ He remembered the day when someone on the television used the fatal term, ‘Think outside the box.’ Some of the kids went and hid in advance of the explosion.

  Quality time, with Lobsang.

  Joshua looked at the ambulant’s simulated face. He looked oddly weary, or stressed, in as much as his expression could be reliably read at all. ‘Do you ever sleep, Lobsang?’

  Now that face assumed an affronted expression. ‘All my components have a downtime cycle, with secondary systems taking the load as required. I assume this could be considered sleeping. I see you frowning. Is the answer not sufficient?’

  Joshua was aware of all the subtle sounds of the ship, its organic creaking and groaning, its subsystems’ humming – Lobsang, constantly at work. How must that level of continual consciousness feel? As if Joshua had to control each individual breath he took, or regulate every heartbeat. Lobsang certainly had to control the stepping, an artifact of consciousness. ‘Is there anything specific bothering you, Lobsang?’

  The visage broke into a smile. ‘Of course there is. Everything bothers me, especially the things I don’t know, and can’t control. To know is after all my job, my task, my reason for existing. My mental health is optimal, however. I think this needs to be said. I don’t know where I could even find a bicycle made for two, although I am certain that I could fabricate a reasonably speedy tandem within a couple of hours… You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Tonight we will try out the cinema option, and 2001 will be the lead feature. We must complete your education, Joshua.’

  ‘Accepting for the moment that you are in fact human, with human weaknesses, is it possible you get stressed out? If so it would do you some good to get out of yourself every so often. Sure, let’s spend some “quality time” together. Just don’t tell Sister Agnes I said so.’ A bizarre thought occurred to him. ‘Can you fight?’

  ‘Joshua, I could lay waste to whole landscapes.’

  ‘No, no. I meant hand to hand.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘A bit of sparring every now and again tones you up. Back home some of us lads would spar just to keep our hand in, you know, on the street. Even having a workout with a punch-bag seems to pull you back together. Might be fun, too. What do you say? It’s a very human thing. And it would be a chance for you to explore the responses of this body of yours.’

  There was no immediate reply.

  ‘Come on, how about it?’

  Lobsang smiled. ‘Sorry. I was watching the Rumble in the Jungle.’

  ‘You were what?’

  ‘Yes, between George Foreman and Muhammad Ali. I always do my research, Joshua. I see Ali won with the use of guile, being the older and more experienced fighter. Excellent!’

  ‘Are you telling me that you have every single televised boxing match in some portable memory?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why not? Anticipating and extrapolating, I have now begun the fabrication of two pairs of sparring gloves, the associated hand wraps, two pairs of shorts, two gum shields for the look of the thing, and one plastic protective for your genitals.’

  Joshua could hear accelerated activity on the fabrication decks, and, with the protection of his genitals very much at the forefront of his mind, he said, ‘The Rumble in the Jungle wasn’t a sparring match, you understand, Lobsang. It was more like a small war. I’ve seen it a couple of times. Sister Simplicity watches the great bouts occasionally. We all think she has a thing about big sweaty men—’

  ‘I have studied the rules of sparring for an adequate time,’ said Lobsang, standing up. ‘Two millionths of a second, to be precise. Sorry, did that sound smug?’

  Joshua sighed. ‘Actually, it sounded like exaggeration for humorous effect.’

  ‘Good!’ said Lobsang. ‘That’s exactly what I intended.’

  ‘That sounds smug.’

  ‘Well, it must be said that I have a lot to be smug about, don’t you think? And if you’ll excuse me…’

  Lobsang walked away. When Joshua had first seen the ambulant
unit move it was rather jerky, obviously artificial, and he couldn’t help noticing that now it moved like an athlete. Lobsang clearly believed in self-improvement. He reappeared after a few minutes, dressed in a heavy white robe, and handed Joshua a kit. Joshua turned his back and began to get changed.

  Lobsang recited, ‘Sparring: a healthy way of getting exercise while at the same time honing those parts of the brain responsible for observation, deduction and anticipation, and, not least, developing the spirit of fair play. I suggest that we use the rules devised for a training session rather than an all-out fight, as laid down in 1891 by Brigadier General Houseman. Who, I notice, was shortly afterwards accidentally shot in the head by one of his own men in the Sudan, an incident from which no level of sparring expertise could have saved him. Ironic! Subsequent to this I have since picked up several thousand other allusions to the sport. Really, Joshua, I commend your modesty in turning your back on me when pulling on your shorts, although it is not really required.’

  Joshua turned – and saw a new Lobsang. When he slipped off the robe, under boxing vest and shorts was a body that would scare Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  ‘You do take things seriously, don’t you, Lobsang?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Never mind. OK,’ he said. ‘The idea is to touch gloves, step back, and we’ll go for it…’ He glanced out of the window at worlds scrolling past. ‘But shouldn’t you also be keeping an eye on the Mark Twain? I’m not sure I like the idea of the two of us exchanging blows while the ship steps on blindly.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I have autonomous sub-units that will take care of the ship for a while. And, by the way, Mark Twain himself would find this situation remarkably fitting! I will tell you about that after I have won. Shall we dance, Joshua?’

  Joshua was not surprised to find that he could still spar pretty well. After all, out in the Long Earth, you either kept up good reflexes and stamina, or you died. So now he seemed to be laying more glove on Lobsang than Lobsang was laying on him. He said, as he blocked the next blow, ‘Are you sure you are giving it all you’ve got, Lobsang?’