“Going to be in this orange-colored juice, so I’m given to understand,” said Dorcas doubtfully, “running slowly on a ball and jetting, whatever that is. And liking it, apparently.”
The nomes fell silent while they thought about this.
“Holy utterances are often difficult to understand,” said Gurder gravely.
“This must be a powerful holy one,” said Dorcas.
“I think it’s just a coincidence,” said Angalo loftily. “This is just a story about a human being, like in some of the books we read.”
“And how many humans could even stand on a ball, let alone run slowly on it?” demanded Gurder.
“All right,” said Angalo, “but what are we going to do, then?”
Gurder’s mouth opened and shut a few times. “Why, it’s obvious,” he said uncertainly.
“Tell us, then,” said Angalo sourly.
“Well, er. It’s, er, obvious. We must go to, er, the place where the orange juice is—”
“Yes?” said Angalo.
“And, er, and find Grandson Richard, 39, which should be easy, you see, because we’ve got this picture—”
“Yes?” said Angalo.
Gurder gave him a haughty look. “Remember the commandment that Arnold Bros (est. 1905) put up in the Store,” he said. “Did it not say, If You Do Not See What You Require, Please Ask?”
The nomes nodded. Many of them had seen it. And the other commandments: Everything Must Go, and, by the Moving Stairs, Dogs and Strollers Must be Carried. They were the words of Arnold Bros (est. 1905). You couldn’t really argue with them. . . . But on the other hand, well, that had been the Store, and this was here.
“And?” said Angalo.
Gurder began to sweat. “Well, er, and then we ask him to let us be left alone in the quarry.”
There was an awkward silence.
Then Angalo said, “That sounds like about the most half-baked—”
“What does jetting mean?” said Grimma. “Is it anything to do with jet?”
“A jet is a kind of aircraft,” said Angalo, the transport expert.
“So jetting means to go like an aircraft. Or in an aircraft?” said Grimma.
Everyone turned to Masklin, whose fascination with the airport was well known to one and all.
He wasn’t there.
Masklin pulled the Thing from its niche in the wall and padded back out into the open. The Thing didn’t have to be attached to any wires. It was enough to put it near them.
There was electricity in the old manager’s office. He ran across the empty alley between the tumbledown buildings and squeezed his way in through a crack in the sagging door.
Then he placed the box in the middle of the floor and waited.
It took some time for the Thing to wake up. Its lights flickered at random and it made odd beeping noises. Masklin supposed it was the machine’s equivalent of a nome getting up in the morning.
Eventually it said, “Who is there?”
“It’s me,” said Masklin, “Masklin. Look, I need to know what the words ‘communications satellite’ mean. I’ve heard you use the word ‘satellite’ before. You said the moon is one, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But communications satellites are artificial moons. They are used for communications. Communications means the transferring of information. In this case, by radio and television.”
“What’s television?” said Masklin.
“A means of sending pictures through the air.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“All the time.”
Masklin made a mental note to look out for any pictures in the air.
“I see,” he lied. “So these satellites—where are they, exactly?”
“In the sky.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one,” said Masklin doubtfully. There was an idea forming in his mind. He wasn’t quite sure yet. Bits and pieces of things he’d read and heard were coming together. The important thing was to let them take their own time, and not frighten them away.
“They are in orbit, many miles up. There are a great many above this planet,” said the Thing.
“How do you know that?”
“I can detect them.”
“Oh.”
Masklin stared at the flickering lights.
“If they are artificial, does that mean they’re not real?” he said.
“They are machines. They are usually built on the planet and then launched into space.”
The idea was nearly there now. It was rising like a bubble. . . .
“Space is where our Ship is, you said.”
“That is correct.”
Masklin felt the idea explode quietly, like a dandelion. “If we knew where one of these things was going to be flown into space,” he said, speaking quickly before the words had time to escape, “and we could sort of hang on to the sides or whatever, or maybe drive it like the Truck, and we took you with us, then we could jump off when we got up there and go and find this Ship of ours, couldn’t we?”
The lights on top of the Thing moved oddly, into patterns Masklin had never seen before. This went on for quite a while before it spoke again. When it did, it sounded almost sad.
“Do you know how big space is?” it said.
“No,” said Masklin politely. “It’s pretty big, is it?”
“Yes. However, it might be possible for me to detect and summon the Ship if I were taken above the atmosphere. But do you know what the words ‘oxygen supply’ mean?”
“No.”
“‘Space suit’?”
“No.”
“It is very cold in space.”
“Well, couldn’t we sort of jump around a bit to keep warm?” said Masklin desperately.
“I think you do not appreciate what it is that space contains.”
“What’s that, then?”
“Nothing. It contains nothing. And everything. But there is very little everything and more nothing than you could imagine.”
“It’s still worth a try, though, isn’t it?”
“What you are proposing is an extremely unwise endeavor,” said the Thing.
“Yes, but, you see,” said Masklin firmly, “if I don’t try, then it’s always going to be like this. We’re always going to escape, and find somewhere new, and just when we’re getting the hang of it all, we’ll have to go again. Sooner or later we must find somewhere that we can know really belongs to us. Dorcas is right. Humans get everywhere. Anyway, you were the one who told me that our Home was . . . up there somewhere.”
“This is not the right time. You are ill prepared.”
Masklin clenched his fists. “I’ll never be well prepared! I was born in a hole, Thing! A muddy hole in the ground! How can I ever be well prepared for anything? That’s what being alive is, Thing! It’s being badly prepared for everything! Because you only get one chance, Thing! You only get one chance and then you die and they don’t let you go round again after you’ve got the hang of it! Do you understand, Thing! So we’ll try it now! I order you to help! You’re a machine and you must do what you’re told!”
The lights formed a spiral.
“You’re learning fast,” said the Thing.
4
III. And in a voice like Thunder, the Great Masklin said unto the Thing, Now is the Time to go back to our Home in the Sky;
IV. Or we will Forever be Running from Place to Place.
V. But None must know what I Intend, or they will say, Ridiculous, Why go to the Sky when we Have Problems Right Here?
VI. Because that is how People are.
From The Book of Nome,
Quarries Chap. 2, v. III–VI
GURDER AND ANGALO were having a blazing row when Masklin got back.
He didn’t try to interrupt. He just put the Thing down on the floor and sat down next to it, and watched them.
Funny how people needed to argue. The whole secret was not to listen to what the other person was saying, Masklin had noticed.
Gurder and Angalo had really got the hang of that. The trouble was that neither of them was entirely certain he was right, and the funny thing was that people who weren’t entirely certain they were right always argued much louder than other people, as if the main person they were trying to convince were themselves. Gurder was not certain, not entirely certain, that Arnold Bros (est. 1905) really existed, and Angalo wasn’t entirely certain that he didn’t.
Eventually Angalo noticed Masklin.
“You tell him, Masklin,” he said. “He wants to go and find Grandson Richard, 39!”
“Do you? Where do you think we should look?” Masklin asked Gurder.
“The airport,” said Gurder. “You know that. Jetting. In a jet. That’s what he’ll do.”
“But we know the airport!” said Angalo. “I’ve been right up to the fence several times! Humans go in and out of it all day! Grandson Richard, 39, looks just like them! He could have gone already. He could be in the juice by now! You can’t believe words that just drop out of the sky!” He turned to Masklin again. “Masklin’s a steady lad,” he said. “He’ll tell you. You tell him, Masklin,” he said. “You listen to him, Gurder. He thinks about things, Masklin does. At a time like this—”
“Let’s go to the airport,” said Masklin.
“There,” said Angalo, “I told you, Masklin isn’t the kind of nome—what?”
“Let’s go to the airport and watch.”
Angalo’s mouth opened and shut silently.
“But . . . but . . .” he managed.
“It must be worth a try,” said Masklin.
“But it’s all just a coincidence!” said Angalo.
Masklin shrugged. “Then we’ll come back. I’m not suggesting we all go. Just a few of us.”
“But supposing something happens while we’re gone?”
“It’ll happen anyway, then. There’s thousands of us. Getting people to the old barn won’t be difficult, if we need to do it. It’s not like the Long Drive.”
Angalo hesitated. “Then I’ll go,” he said. “Just to prove to you how, how superstitious you’re being.”
“Good,” said Masklin.
“Provided Gurder comes, of course,” Angalo added.
“What?” said Gurder.
“Well, you are the Abbot,” said Angalo sarcastically. “If we’re going to talk to Grandson Richard, 39, then it’d better be you who does it. I mean, he probably won’t want to listen to anyone else.”
“Aha!” shouted Gurder. “You think I won’t come! It’d be worth it just to see your face—”
“That’s settled, then,” said Masklin calmly. “And now, I think we’d better see about keeping a special watch on the road. And some teams had better go to the old barn. And it would be a good idea to see what people can carry. Just in case, you know.”
Grimma was waiting for him outside. She didn’t look happy.
“I know you,” she said. “I know the kind of expression you have when you’re getting people to do things they don’t want to do. What are you planning?”
They strolled into the shadow of a rusting sheet of corrugated iron. Masklin occasionally squinted upward. This morning he’d thought the sky was just a blue thing with clouds. Now it was something that was full of words and invisible pictures and machines whizzing around. Why was it that the more you found out, the less you really knew?
Eventually he said, “I can’t tell you. I’m not quite sure myself.”
“It’s to do with the Thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Look, if I’m away for, er, a little bit longer than—”
She stuck her hands on her hips. “I’m not stupid, you know,” she said. “Orange-colored juice indeed! I’ve read nearly every book we brought out of the Store. Florida is a, a place. Just like the quarry. Probably even bigger. And it’s a long way away. You have to go across a lot of water to get there.”
“I think it might even be farther away than we came on the Long Drive,” said Masklin quietly. “I know, because one day when we went to look at the airport, I saw water on the other side, by the road. It looked as though it went on forever.”
“I told you,” said Grimma smugly. “It was probably an ocean.”
“There was a sign by it,” said Masklin. “Can’t remember everything on it—I’m not as good at the reading as you. One of the words was res . . . er . . . voir, I think.”
“There you are, then.”
“But it must be worth a try.” Masklin scowled. “There’s only one place where we can ever be safe, and that’s where we belong,” he said. “Otherwise we’ll always have to keep running away.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” said Grimma.
“But you said you didn’t like running away,” said Masklin. “There isn’t an alternative, is there? Let me just try something. If it doesn’t work, then we’ll come back.”
“But supposing something goes wrong? Supposing you don’t come back? I’ll . . .” Grimma hesitated.
“Yes?” said Masklin hopefully.
“I’ll have a terrible time explaining things to people,” she said firmly. “It’s a silly idea. I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”
“Oh.” Masklin looked disappointed but defiant. “Well, I’m going to try anyway. Sorry.”
5
V. And he said, What are these frogs of which you speak?
VI. And she said, You wouldn’t understand.
VII. And he said, You are right.
From The Book of Nome,
Strange Frogs Chap. 1, v. V–VII
THERE WAS A busy night. . . .
It would be a journey of several hours to the barn. Parties went on to mark the path and generally prepare the way, besides watching out for foxes. Not that they were often seen, these days; a fox might be quite happy to attack a solitary nome, but thirty well-armed, enthusiastic hunters were a different proposition, and it would be a very stupid fox indeed that even showed an interest. The few that did live near the quarry tended to wander off hurriedly in the opposite direction whenever they saw a nome. They’d learned that nomes meant trouble.
It had been a hard lesson for some of them. Not long after the nomes moved into the quarry, a fox was surprised and delighted to come across a couple of unwary berry gatherers, which it ate. It was even more surprised that night when two hundred grim-faced nomes tracked it to its lair, lit a fire in the entrance, and speared it to death when it ran out, eyes streaming.
There are a lot of animals that would like to dine off nome, Masklin had said. They’d better learn: It’s us or them. And they’d better learn right now that it’s going to be them. No animal is going to get a taste for nome. Not anymore.
Cats were a lot brighter. No cats came anywhere near the quarry.
“Of course, it might all be nothing to worry about,” said Angalo nervously, around dawn. “We might never have to do it.”
“Just when we were beginning to get settled down, too,” said Dorcas. “Still, I reckon that if we keep a proper lookout, we can have everyone on the move in five minutes. And we’ll start moving some food stores up there this morning. No harm in that. Then they’ll be there if we need them.”
Nomes sometimes went as far as the airport. There was a trash dump on the way, which was a prime source of bits of cloth and wire, and the flooded gravel pits farther on were handy if anyone had the patience to fish. It was a pleasant enough journey, largely along badger tracks. There was a main road to be crossed, or rather, to be burrowed under; for some reason pipes had been carefully put underneath it just where the track needed to cross it. Presumably the badgers had done it. They certainly used it a lot.
Masklin found Grimma in her school hole under one of the old sheds, supervising a class in writing. She glared at him, told the children to get on with it—and would Nicco Haberdasheri like to share the joke with the rest of the class? No? Then he could jolly well get on with things—and came out into the passage.
“I’ve just
come to say we’re off,” said Masklin, twiddling his hat in his hands. “There’s a load of nomes going over to the dump, so we’ll have company the rest of the way. Er.”
“Electricity,” said Grimma, vaguely.
“What?”
“There’s no electricity at the old barn,” said Grimma. “You remember what that meant? On moonless nights, there was nothing to do but stay in the burrow. I don’t want to go back to that.”
“Well, maybe we were better nomes for it,” mumbled Masklin. “We didn’t have all the things we’ve got today, but we were—”
“Cold, frightened, ignorant, and hungry!” snapped Grimma. “You know that. You try telling Granny Morkie about the Good Old Days and see what she says.”
“We had each other,” said Masklin.
Grimma examined her hands.
“We were just the same age and living in the same hole,” she said vaguely. She looked up. “But it’s all different now! There’s . . . well, there’s the frogs, for one thing.”
Masklin looked blank. And, for once, Grimma looked unsure.
“I read about them in a book,” she said. “There’s this place, you see. Called Southamerica. And there’s these hills where it’s hot and rains all the time, and in the rainforests there are these very tall trees and right in the top branches of the trees there are these like great big flowers called bromeliads and water gets into the flowers and makes little pools and there’s a type of frog that lays eggs in the pools and tadpoles hatch and grow into new frogs and these little frogs live their whole lives in the flowers right at the top of the trees and don’t even know about the ground and the world is full of things like that and now I know about them and I’m never ever going to be able to see them and then you,” she gulped for breath, “want me to come and live with you in a hole and wash your socks!”
Masklin ran this sentence through his head again, in case it made any sense when you listened to it a second time.
“But I don’t wear socks,” he pointed out.
This was apparently not the right thing to say. Grimma prodded him in the stomach.
“Masklin,” she said, “you’re a good nome and bright enough in your way, but there aren’t any answers up in the sky. You need to have your feet on the ground, not your head in the air!”
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