The Bromeliad Trilogy

by Terry Pratchett

  "And she's been reading some of the words," Masklin agreed. He couldn't help noticing that this fact interested the Baroness.

  "And that is all there is to it?" said the Count.

  "Er," said Masklin. He'd been worrying about this himself. He had an obscure feeling that it couldn't be as easy as that, but this was no time to worry about details that could be sorted out later. What was it the Abbot had said? The important thing about being a leader was not so much being right or wrong as being certain. Being right helped, of course.

  "Well, I went and looked in the truck nest, I mean the garage, this morning," he said. "You can see inside them if you climb up. There's levers and wheels and things, but I suppose we can find out what they do." He took a deep breath. "It can't be very difficult, otherwise humans wouldn't be able to do it."

  The nomes had to concede this.

  "Most intriguing," said the Count. "May I ask what it is you require from us now?"

  "People," said Masklin simply. "As many as you can spare. Especially the ones you can't spare.

  "And they'll need to be fed."

  The Baroness glanced at the Count. He nodded, so she nodded.

  "I'd just like to ask the young gel," she said, "whether she feels all right. With this reading, I mean."

  "I can only do some words," said Grimma quickly. "Like Left and Right and Bicycle."

  "And you haven't experienced any feelings of pressure in the head?" said the Baroness carefully.

  "Not really, ma'am."

  "Hmm. That's extremely interesting," said the Baroness, staring fixedly at Gurder.

  The new Abbot was sitting down now.

  Masklin groaned inwardly. He'd thought it would be difficult, learning to drive, learning how a truck worked, learning to read, but they were, well, just tasks. You could see all the difficulties before you started. If you worked at them for long enough, then you were bound to succeed. He'd been right. The difficult thing was going to be all the people.

  There turned out to be twenty-eight.

  "Not enough," said Grimma.

  "It's a start," said Masklin. "I think there will be more by and by. They all need to be taught to read. Not well, but enough. And then five of the best of them must be taught how to teach people to read."

  "How did you work that out?" said Grimma.

  "The Thing told me," said Masklin. "It's something called critical path analysis. It means there's always something you should have done first. For example, if you want to build a house you need to know how to make bricks, and before you can make bricks you need to know what kind of clay to use. And so on."

  'What's clay?"

  "Don't know."

  "What're bricks?"

  "Not sure."

  "Well, what's a house?" she demanded.

  "Haven't quite worked it out," said Masklin. "But anyway, it's all very important. Critical path analysis. And there's something else called progress chasing."

  "What's that?"

  "I think it means shouting at people, 'Why haven't you done it yet?' " Masklin looked down at his feet. "I think we can get Granny Morkie to do that," he said. "I don't reckon she will be interested in learning to read, but she knows how to shout."

  "What about me?"

  "I want you to learn to read even more."

  "Why?"

  "Because we need to learn how to think," said Masklin.

  "I know how to think!"

  "Dunno," said Masklin. "I mean, yes, you do, but there's some things we can't think because we don't know the words. Like the Store nomes. They don't even know what the wind and rain are really like!"

  "I know, and I tried to tell the Baroness about snow and –"

  Masklin nodded. "There you are, then. They don't know, and they don't even know they don't know. What is it that we don't know? We ought to read everything that we can. Gurder doesn't like it. He says only the Stationeri should read. But the trouble is, they don't try to understand things."

  Gurder had been furious.

  "Reading," he'd said. "Every stupid nome coming up here and wearing all the printing out with looking at it! Why don't you give away all our skills while you're about it? Why don't we teach everyone to write, eh?"

  "We can do that later," said Masklin mildly.

  "What!"

  "It isn't so important, you see."

  Gurder thumped the wall. "Why in the name of Arnold Bros (est. 1905) didn't you ask my permission first?"

  "Would you have given it?"

  "No!"

  "That's why, you see," said Masklin.

  "When I said I'd help you I didn't expect this!" shouted Gurder.

  "Nor did I!" snapped Masklin.

  The new Abbot paused.

  "What do you mean?" he said.

  "I thought you'd help," said Masklin, simply.

  Gurder sagged. "All right, all right," he said. "You know I can't forbid it now, not in front of everyone. Do whatever is necessary. Take whatever people you must."

  "Good," said Masklin, "when can you start?"

  "Me? But –"

  "You said yourself that you're the best reader."

  Well, yes, of course, this is the case, but –"

  "Good."

  They grew used to that word, later. Masklin developed a way of saying it that indicated that everything was all sorted out, and there was no point in saying anything more.

  Gurder waved his hands wildly. "What do you want me to do?" he said. "How many books are there?" said Masklin.

  "Hundreds! Thousands!"

  "Do you know what they're all about?"

  Gurder looked at him blankly. "Do you know what you're saying?" he said.

  "No. But I want to find out."

  "They're about everything! You'd never believe it! They're full of words even I don't understand!"

  "Can you find a book which tells you how to understand words you don't understand?" said Masklin. This is critical path analysis, he thought. Gosh, I'm doing it without thinking.

  Gurder hesitated. "It's an intriguing thought," he said.

  "I want to find out everything about trucks, and electric, and food," said Masklin. "And then I want you to find a book about, about..."

  "Well?"

  Masklin looked desperate. "Is there a book that tells you how nomes can drive a truck built for humans?" he said.

  "Don't you know?"

  "Not... exactly. I was sort of hoping we could work it out as we went along."

  "But you said all we needed to do was learn The High Way Code!"

  "Ye-ss," said Masklin uncertainly, "and it says you have to know The High Way Code before you can drive. But somehow I get the feeling that it might not be as simple as that."

  "Bargains Galore preserve us!"

  "I hope so," said Masklin. "I really do."

  And then it was time to put it all to the test. It was cold in the truck nest, and stank of all. It was also a long way to the ground if they fell off the girder. Masklin tried not to look down. There was a truck below them. It looked much bigger indoors. Huge, red and terrible in the gloom.

  "This is about far enough," he said. "We're right over the sticking-out bit where the driver sit."

  "The cab," said Angalo.

  "Right. The cab."

  Angalo had been a surprise. He'd turned up in the Stationery Department, breathing heavily, his face red, and demanding to be taught to read.

  So he could learn about trucks. They fascinated him.

  "But your father objects to the whole idea," Masklin had said.

  "That doesn't matter," said Angalo shortly. "It's all right for you, you've been there! I want to see all those things, I want to go Outside, I want to know if it's real!"

  He hadn't been very good at reading, but he'd tried until his brain hurt when the Stationeri found him some books with trucks on the front.

  Now he probably knew more about them than any other nome. Which wasn't a lot, Masklin had to admit.

  He listened to Angalo m
uttering to himself as he struggled into the straps.

  "Gear," he said. "Shift. Steering Wheel. Wipers. Auto Transmission. Breaker Break Good Buddy. Smoky. Double Egg And Chips And Beans. Yorkiebar. Truckers." He looked up and smiled thinly at Masklin. "Ready," he said.

  "Now remember," said Masklin, "they don't always leave the windows open, so if they're closed, one pull on the rope and we'll pull you back up, okay?"

  "Ten-four."

  "What?"

  "It's Truck driver for 'yes'," explained Angalo. "Oh. Fine. Now, when you're in, find somewhere to hide so you can watch the driver –"

  "Yes, yes. You explained it all before," said Angalo impatiently.

  "Yes. Well. Have you got your sandwiches?" Angalo patted the package at his waist. "And my notebook," he said. "Ready to go. Put the Pedal to the Metal."

  "What?"

  "It means 'go' in Truck."

  Masklin looked puzzled. "Do we have to know all this to drive one?"

  "Negatory," said Angalo proudly.

  "Oh? Well, so long as you understand yourself, that's the main thing."

  Dorcas, who was in charge of the rope detail, tapped Angalo on the shoulder.

  "You sure you won't take the Outside suit?" he said hopefully.

  It was cone-shaped, made out of heavy cloth over a sort of umbrella frame of sticks so that it folded up, and had a little window to look out of. Dorcas had insisted on building it, to protect Outsidegoers.

  "After all," he'd said to Masklin, "you might be used to the Rain and the Wind, perhaps your heads have grown specially hard. Can't be too careful."

  "I don't think so, thank you," said Angalo politely. "It's so heavy, and I don't expect I'll go outside the truck this trip."

  "Good," said Masklin. "Well, let's not hang about. Except for you, Angalo. Haha. Ready to take the strain, lads? Over you go, Angalo," he said, and then, because it paid to be on the safe side and you never knew, it might help, he added, "May Arnold Bros (est. 1905) watch over you."

  Angalo eased himself over the edge and slowly became a small spinning shape in the gloom as the team carefully let the thread out. Masklin prayed that they'd brought enough of it, there hadn't been time to come and measure. There was a desperate tugging on the thread. Masklin peered down. Angalo was a small shape a meter or so below him.

  "If anything should happen to me, no one is to eat Bobo," he called up.

  "Don't you worry," said Masklin. "You're going to be all right."

  "Yes, I know. But if I'm not, Bobo is to go to a good home," said Angalo.

  "Right you are. A good home. Yes."

  "Where they don't eat rat. Promise?"

  "No rat-eating. Fine," said Masklin.

  Angalo nodded. The gang started to pay out the thread again.

  Then Angalo was down, and hurrying across the sloping roof to the side of the cab. It made Masklin dizzy just to look down at him.

  The figure disappeared. After a while came two tugs, meaning "pay out more thread". They let it slip past gradually. And then there were three tugs, faint but – well, three. And a few seconds later they came again.

  Masklin let out his breath in a whoosh.

  "Angalo has landed," he said. "Pull the thread back up. We'll leave it here, in case I mean, for when he comes back."

  He risked another look at the forbidding bulk of the truck. The trucks went out, the trucks came back, and it was the considered opinion of nomes like Dorcas that they were the same trucks. They went out loaded with goods, and they came back loaded with goods, and why Arnold Bros (est. 1905) felt the need to let goods out for the day was beyond anyone's understanding. All that was known with any certainty was that they were always back within a day, or two at the outside.

  Masklin looked down at the truck which now contained the explorer. Where would it go, what would happen to it? What would Angalo see, before he came back again? If he didn't come back, what would Masklin tell his parents? That someone had to go, that he'd begged to go, that they had to see how a truck was driven, that everything depended on him? Somehow, he knew, it wouldn't sound very convincing in those circumstances.

  Dorcas leaned over next to him.

  "It'll be a job and a half getting everyone down this way," he said.

  "I know. We'll have to think of some better way."

  The inventor pointed down towards one of the other silent trucks. "There's a little step there," he said, "just by the driver's door, look. If we could get to that and get a rope around the handle –"

  Masklin shook his head.

  "It's too far up," he said. "It's a small step for a man, but a giant leap for nomekind."

  9

  V. Thus the Outsider said, Those who believe not in the Outside, see, one will be sent Outside to Prove This Thing;

  VI. And one went upon a Truck, and went Outside, to see where there may be a new Home;

  VII. And there was much waiting, for he did not return.

  From The Book of Nome, Goods Outwards v. V–VII

  Masklin had taken to sleeping in an old shoebox in the Stationery Department, where he could find a little peace. But when he got back there was a small deputation of nomes waiting for him. They were holding a book between them.

  Masklin was getting a bit disillusioned with the books. Maybe all the things he wanted to know were written down somewhere, but the real problem was to find them. The books might have been put together especially to make it difficult to find things out. There seemed to be no sense in them. Or, rather, there was sense, but in nonsensical ways.

  He recognized Vinto Pimmie, a very young Ironmongri. He sighed. Vinto was one of the keenest and fastest readers, just not a particularly good one, and he tended to get carried away.

  "I've cracked it," said the boy proudly.

  "Can you repair it?" said Masklin.

  "I mean, I know how we can get a human to drive the truck for us!"

  Masklin sighed. "We've thought about this, but it really won't work. If we show ourselves to a human –"

  "Don't matter! Don't matter! He won't do anything, the reason being, we'll have – you'll like this – we'll have a gnu!"

  Vinto beamed at him, like a dog who's just done a difficult trick.

  "A gnu," repeated Masklin weakly.

  "Yes! It's in this book!" Vinto proudly displayed it. Masklin craned to see. He was picking reading up as he went along, a little bit at a time, but as far as he could make out the book was about Host Age at 10,000 Feet.

  "It's got something to do with lots of shoes?" he said hopefully.

  "No, no, no, what you do is, you get a gnu, then you point it at the driver and someone says, 'Look out, he's got a gnu!' and you say, 'Take us where we want to go or I'll fire this gnu at you!' and then he –"

  "Right, right. Fine," said Masklin, backing away. "Jolly good. Splendid idea. We'll definitely give it some thought. Well done."

  "That was clever of me, wasn't it," said Vinto, jumping from one foot to the other.

  "Yes. Certainly. Er. You don't think you might be better reading a more practical kind of –" Masklin hesitated. Who knew what kind of books were best?

  He staggered inside his box and pulled the cardboard over the door and leaned against it.

  "Thing?" he said.

  "I hear you, Masklin," said the Thing, from the heap of rags that was Masklin's bed.

  "What's a gnu?"

  There was a brief pause. Then the Thing said:

  "The gnu, a member of the genus Connochaetes and the family Bovidae, is an African antelope with down-curving horns. Body length is up to 2m (6.5 ft), the shoulder height is about 140cm (4.5 ft), and weight is up to 270kg (600lb). Gnus inhabit grassy plains in central and southern Africa."

  "Oh. Could you threaten someone with one?"

  "Quite possibly."

  "Would there be one in the Store?"

  There was another pause. "Is there a Pet Department?"

  Masklin knew what that was. The subject had come up yesterday, w
hen Vinto had suggested taking a herd of guinea pigs to raise for meat.

  "No," he said.

  "Then I should think the chance is remote."

  "Oh. Just as well, really." Masklin sagged down on his bed. "You see," he said, "we've got to be able to control where we're going. We need to find somewhere a little way from humans. But not too far. Somewhere safe."

  "You must look for an atlas or map."

  "What do they look like?"

  "They may have the words 'atlas' or 'map' written on them."

  "I'll ask the Abbot to have a search made." Masklin yawned.

  "You must sleep," said the Thing.

  "People always want me to do things. Anyway, you don't sleep."

  "It's different for me."

  "What I need," said Masklin, "is a way. We can't use a gnu. They all think I know the way to do it and I don't know the way. We know what we need, but we'll never get it all into a truck in one night. They all think I know all the answers, but I don't. And I don't know the way..."

  He fell asleep, and dreamed of being human-sized. Everything was so easy, if you were human-sized.

  Two days went past. The nomes kept watch from the girder over the garage. A small plastic telescope was rolled down from the Toy Department, and with its help the news came back that the big metal doors to the garage opened themselves when a human pressed a red button next to them. How could you press a button ten times higher than your head? It went down on Masklin's list of problems to solve.

  Gurder found a map. It was in quite a small book.

  "That was no trouble," he said. "We have dozens of these every year. It's called –" he read the gold lettering slowly "– Pocket Diary. And it has this map all at the back, look."

  Masklin stared down at the small pages of blue and red blobs. Some of the blobs had names, like Africa and Asia.

  "We-ell," he said, and "Ye-ss. I suppose so. Well done. Where are we, exactly?"

  "In the middle," said Gurder promptly. "That's logical."

  And then the truck returned.

  Angalo didn't.

  Masklin ran along the girder without thinking of the drop on either side. The little knot of figures told him everything he didn't want to know. A young nome who had just been lowered over the edge was sitting down and getting his breath back.