The first nomes aboard had dragged up one end of a thin piece of wood, which was acting as a gangplank. The rest were scrambling up it now.
Masklin had put Granny Morkie in charge of this. The old woman had a natural talent for making frightened people do things.
“Steep?” she was shouting at a fat nome, who had got halfway up and was clinging there in fright. “Call this steep? It ain’t steep, it’s a stroll! Want me to come down there and help you?”
The mere threat budged him from his perch and he nearly ran the rest of the way, ducking gratefully into the shadows of the cargo.
“Everyone had better try to find somewhere soft to lie down,” said Masklin. “It could be a rough journey. And you must send all the strongest nomes up toward the cab. We’re going to need everyone we can get, believe me.”
She nodded, and then shouted at a family that was blocking the gangway.
Masklin looked down at the endless stream of people climbing into the truck, many of them staggering under the weight of possessions.
Funny, but now he felt he’d done everything he could. Everything was ticking along like a, like a, like something that went tick. Either all the plans would work or they wouldn’t. Either the nomes could act together or they couldn’t.
He recalled the picture of Gulliver. It probably wasn’t real, Gurder had said. Books often had things in them that weren’t really real. But it would be nice to think that nomes could agree on something long enough to be like the little people in the book. . . .
“Well, it’s all going well, then,” he said vaguely.
“Well enough.” Granny nodded.
“It would be a good idea if we found out exactly what was in all these boxes and things,” Masklin ventured, “because we might have to get out quickly when we stop and—”
“I tole Torrit to see to it,” said Granny. “Don’t you worry about it.”
“Oh,” said Masklin weakly. “Good.”
He hadn’t left himself anything to do.
He went back to the cab out of sheer—well, not boredom, because his heart was pounding like a drum—but out of restlessness.
Dorcas’s nomes had already built a wooden platform above the steering wheel and right in front of the big window. Dorcas himself was back down on the floor of the cab, drilling the driving teams.
“Right!” he shouted. “Give me . . . First Gear!”
“Pedal Down . . . two, three . . .” chorused the team on the clutch pedal.
“Pedal Up . . . two, three . . .” shouted the accelerator team.
“Lever Up . . . two, three . . .” echoed the nomes by the gear lever.
“Pedal Up . . . two, three, four!” The leader of the clutch team threw Dorcas a salute. “Gear all changed, sir!” he shouted.
“That was terrible. Really terrible,” said Dorcas. “What’s happened to the accelerator team, eh? Get that pedal down!”
“Sorry, Dorcas.”
Masklin tapped Dorcas on the shoulder.
“Keep doing it!” Dorcas commanded. “I want you dead smooth all the way up to fourth. Yes? What? Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me. Everyone’s nearly on,” said Masklin. “When will you be ready?”
“This lot won’t be ready ever.”
“Oh.”
“So we might as well start whenever you like and pick it up as we go along. We can’t even try steering until it’s moving, of course.”
“We’re going to send a lot more people to help you,” said Masklin.
“Oh, good,” said Dorcas. “Just what I need, lots more people who don’t know their right from their left.”
“How are you going to know which way to steer?”
“Semaphore,” said Dorcas firmly.
“Semaphore?”
“Signaling with flags. You just tell my lad up on the platform what you want done, and I’ll watch the signals. If we’d had one more week, I reckon I could have rigged up some sort of telephone.”
“Flags,” said Masklin. “Will that work?”
“It’d better, hadn’t it. We can give it a try later on.”
And now it was later on. The last nome scouts had climbed aboard. In the back of the truck most of the people made themselves as comfortable as possible and lay, wide awake, in the darkness.
Masklin was up on the platform with Angalo, Gurder, and the Thing. Gurder knew even less about trucks than Masklin, but it was felt best to have him there, just in case. After all, they were stealing Arnold Bros (est. 1905)’s truck. Someone might have to do some explaining. But he’d drawn the line about having Bobo in the cab. The rat was back with everyone else.
Grimma was there, too. Gurder asked her what she was doing there. She asked him what he was doing there. They both looked at Masklin.
“She can help me with the reading,” he said, secretly relieved. He wasn’t, despite lots of effort, all that good at it. There seemed to be a knack he couldn’t get the hang of. Grimma, on the other hand, seemed to do it now without thinking. If her brain was exploding, it was doing it in unnoticeable ways.
She nodded smugly and propped The High Way Code open in front of him.
“There’s things you’ve got to do,” he said uncertainly. “Before you start, you’ve got to look in a mur—”
“—mirror—” said Grimma.
“—mirror. That’s what it says here. Mirror,” said Masklin, firmly.
He looked inquiringly at Angalo, who shrugged.
“I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “My driver used to look at it, but I don’t know why.”
“Do you have to look for anything special? I mean, perhaps you have to make a face in it or something,” said Masklin.
“Whatever it is, we’d better do things properly,” said Gurder firmly. He pointed. “There’s a mirror up there, near the ceiling.”
“Daft place to put it,” said Masklin. He managed to hook it with a grapnel and, after some effort, pulled himself up to it.
“Can you see anything?” Gurder called out.
“Just me.”
“Well, come on back down. You’ve done it, that’s the main thing.”
Masklin slid back down to the decking, which wobbled under him.
Grimma peered at the Code.
“Then you’ve got to signal your intentions,” she said. “That’s clear, anyway. Signaler?”
One of Dorcas’s assistants stepped forward a bit uncertainly, holding his two white flags carefully downward.
“Yes, sir ma’am?” he said.
“Tell Dorcas—” Grimma looked at the others. “Tell him we’re ready to start.”
“Excuse me,” said Gurder. “If it’s anyone’s job to tell them when we’re ready to start, it’s my job to tell them we’re ready to start. I want it to be quite clear that I’m the person who tells people to start.” He looked sheepishly at Grimma. “Er. We’re ready to start,” he said.
“Right you are, ma’am.” The signaler waved his arms briefly. From far below, the engineer’s voice boomed back: “Ready!”
“Well, then,” said Masklin. “This is it, then.”
“Yes,” said Gurder, glaring at Grimma. “Is there anything we’ve forgotten?”
“Lots of things, probably,” said Masklin.
“Too late now, at any rate,” said Gurder.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Right then.”
“Right.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Shall you give the order, or shall I?” asked Masklin.
“I was wondering whether to ask Arnold Bros (est. 1905) to watch over us and keep us safe,” said Gurder. “After all, we may be leaving the Store, but this is still his truck.” He grinned wretchedly and sighed. “I wish he’d give us some sort of sign,” he said, “to show he approved.”
“Ready when you are, up there!” shouted Dorcas.
Masklin went to the edge of the platform and leaned on the flimsy ra
il.
The whole of the floor of the cab was covered in nomes, holding ropes in readiness or waiting by their levers and pulleys. They stood in absolute silence in the shadows, but every face was turned upward, so Masklin was looking down at a sea of frightened and excited blobs.
He waved his hand.
“Start the engine,” he said, and his voice sounded unnaturally loud in the expectant silence.
He walked back and looked out into the bright emptiness of the garage. There were a few other trucks parked against the opposite wall, and one or two of the small yellow loading trucks stood where the humans had left them. To think he’d once called it a truck nest! Garage, that was the word. It was amazing, the feeling you got from knowing the right names. You felt in control. It was as if knowing what the right name was gave you a sort of lever.
There was a whirring noise from somewhere in front of them, and then the platform shook to a thunder roll. Unlike thunder, it didn’t die away. The engine had started.
Masklin grabbed hold of the rail before he was shaken off and felt Angalo tug on his sleeve.
“It always sounds like this!” he shouted above the din. “You get used to it after a while!”
“Good!” It wasn’t a noise. It was too loud to be called a noise. It was more like solid air.
“I think we’d better practice a bit! To get the hang of it! Shall I tell the signaler that we want to move forward very slowly?”
Masklin nodded grimly. The signaler thought for a moment and then waved his flags.
Masklin could distantly hear Dorcas yelling orders. There was a grinding noise, followed by a jolt that knocked him over. He managed to land on his hands and knees and looked into Gurder’s frightened face.
“We’re moving!” shouted the Stationeri.
Masklin stared out of the windshield.
“Yes, and you know what?” he yelled, springing up. “We’re moving backward!”
Angalo staggered over to the signaler, who had dropped one of his flags.
“Forward slowly, I said! Forward slowly! Not backward! Forward!”
“I signaled Forward!”
“But we’re going backward! Signal them to go forward!”
The signaler scrabbled for his other flag and waved frantically at the teams below.
“No, don’t signal forward, just signal them to sto—” Masklin began.
There was a sound from the far end of the truck. The only word to describe it was “crunch,” but that’s far too short and simple a word to describe the nasty, complicated, metallic noise and the jolt that threw Masklin onto his stomach again. The engine stopped.
The echoes died away.
“Sorree!” Dorcas called out, in the distance. They heard him talking in a low, menacing voice to the teams: “Satisfied? Satisfied, are we? When I said move the Gear Lever up and left and up, I meant up and left and up, not up and right and up! Right?”
“Your right or our right, Dorcas?”
“Any right!”
“No, but—”
“Don’t you ‘but’ me!”
“Yes, but—”
Masklin and the others sat down as the argument skidded back and forth below them. Gurder was still lying on the planks.
“We actually moved!” he was whispering. “Arnold Bros (est. 1905) was right. Everything Must Go!”
“I’d like it to go a little farther, if it’s all right by him,” said Angalo grimly.
“Hello up there!” Dorcas’s voice boomed with mad cheerfulness. “Little bit of teething trouble down here. All sorted out now. Ready when you are!”
“Should I look in the mirror again, what do you think?” said Masklin to Grimma. She shrugged.
“I shouldn’t bother,” said Angalo. “Let’s just go forward. And as soon as possible, I think. I can smell dies-all. We must have knocked over some drums of it or something.”
“That’s bad, is it?” said Masklin.
“It burns,” said Angalo. “It just needs a spark or something to set it off.”
The engine roared into life again. This time they did inch forward, after some grinding noises, and rolled across the floor until the truck was in front of the big steel door. It stopped with a slight jerk.
“Like to try a few practice turns,” shouted Dorcas. “Smooth out a few rough edges!”
“I really think it would be a very bad idea to stay here,” said Angalo urgently.
“You’re right,” said Masklin. “The sooner we get out of here the better. Signal Dorcas to open the door.”
The signaler hesitated. “I don’t think we’ve got a signal for that,” he said. Masklin leaned over the rail.
“Dorcas!”
“Yes?”
“Open the door! We’ve got to get out now!”
The distant figure cupped his hand to its ear.
“What?”
“I said open the door! It’s urgent!”
Dorcas appeared to consider this for a while and then raised his megaphone.
“You’ll laugh when I tell you this,” he said.
“What was that?” said Grimma.
“He said we’re going to laugh,” said Angalo.
“Oh. Good.”
“Come on!” shouted Masklin. Dorcas’s reply was lost in the din from the engine.
“What?” shouted Masklin.
“What?”
“What did you say?”
“I said, in all this rush I clean forgot about the door!”
“What’d he say?” said Gurder.
Masklin turned and looked at the door. Dorcas had been very proud of the way he’d stopped it opening. Now it had an extremely closed look. If something with no face could look smug, the door had managed it.
He turned back in exasperation, and also in time to see the small door to the rest of the Store swing slowly open. There was a figure there, behind a little circle of sharp white light.
His terrible flashlight, Masklin thought again.
It was Prices Slashed.
Masklin felt his mind begin to think very clearly and slowly.
It’s just a human, it said. It’s nothing scary. Just a human, with its name on it in case it forgets who it is, like all those female humans in the Store with names like “Tracy” and “Sharon” and “Mrs. J. E. Williams, Supervisor.” This is just old “Security” again. He lives down in the boiler room and drinks tea. He’s heard the noise.
He’s come to find out what made it.
That is, us.
“Oh, no,” whispered Angalo, as the figure lurched across the floor. “Do you see what it’s got in its mouth?”
“It’s a cigarette. I’ve seen humans with it before. What about it?” said Masklin.
“It’s alight,” said Angalo. “Do you think it can’t even smell the dies-all?”
“What happens if it catches alight, then?” said Masklin, suspecting that he knew the answer.
“It goes whoomph,” said Angalo.
“Just whoomph?”
“Whoomph is enough.”
The human came nearer. Masklin could see its eyes now. Humans weren’t very good at seeing nomes even when they were standing still, but even a human would wonder why a truck was driving itself around its garage in the middle of the night.
Security arrived at the cab and reached out slowly for the door handle. His light shone in through the side window, and at that moment Gurder reared up, trembling with rage.
“Begone, foul fiend!” he yelled, illuminated as by a spotlight. “Heed ye the Signs of Arnold Bros (est. 1905)! No Smoking! Exit This Way!”
The human’s face wrinkled in ponderous astonishment and then, as slowly as the drift of clouds, became an expression of panic. It let go of the door handle, turned, and began to head for the little door at what, for a human, was high speed. As it did so, the glowing cigarette fell from its mouth and, turning over and over, dropped slowly toward the floor.
Masklin and Angalo looked at each other, and then at the signa
ler.
“Go fast!” they shouted.
A moment later the entire truck shuddered as the teams tackled the complicated process of changing gear. Then it rolled forward.
“Fast! I said fast!” Masklin shouted.
“What’s going on?” shouted Dorcas. “What about the door?”
“We’ll open the door! We’ll open the door!” shouted Masklin.
“How?”
“Well, it didn’t look very thick, did it?”
The world of nomes is, to humans, a rapid world. They live so fast that the things that happen around them seem quite slow, so the truck seemed to drift across the floor, drive up the ramp, and hit the door in a leisurely way. There was a long-drawn-out boom and the noise of bits of metal being torn apart, a scraping noise across the roof of the cab, and then there was no door at all, only darkness studded with lights.
“Left! Go left!” Angalo screamed.
The truck skidded around slowly, bounced lazily off a wall, and rolled a little way down the street.
“Keep going! Keep going! Now straighten up!”
A bright light shone briefly on the wall outside the cab.
And then, behind them, a sound like whoomph.
13
I. Arnold Bros (est. 1905) said, All is now Finished;
II. All Curtains, Carpeting, Bedding, Lingerie, Toys, Millinery, Haberdashery, Ironmongery, Electrical;
III. All walls, floors, ceilings, lifts, moving stairs;
IV. Everything Must Go.
From The Book of Nome, Exits Chap. 3, v. I–IV
LATER ON, WHEN the next chapters of The Book of Nome came to be written, they said the end of the Store started with a bang. This wasn’t true but was put in because “bang” sounded more impressive. In fact, the ball of yellow and orange fire that rolled out of the garage, carrying the remains of the door with it, just made a noise like a giant dog gently clearing its throat.
Whoomph.
The nomes weren’t in a position to take much notice of it at the time. They were more concerned with the noise made by other things nearly hitting them.
Masklin had been prepared for other vehicles on the road. The High Way Code had a lot to say about it. It was important not to drive into them. What was worrying him was the way they seemed determined to run into the truck. They emitted long blaring noises, like sick cows.
Truckers Page 14