Free Truckers by Terry Pratchett

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.
    â€œLook at ’em,” he said. “Powerful lot of stuff in there that we could find useful, and the Stationeri guard it like, like—”
    â€œLike something well guarded?” said Masklin.
    â€œRight. 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.
    â€œBooks are repositories of knowledge?” it said.
    â€œThere’s said to be a lot in them,” said Dorcas.
    â€œIt is vital that you obtain books,” said the Thing.
    â€œStationeri hold on to ’em,” said Dorcas. “Unless you know how to read books properly, they inflame the brain, they say.”
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œAh. 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.
    â€œHave you arranged for some food, Gurder?” said the Abbot.
    â€œMy lord, I was just—”
    â€œGo and do it now.”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWell, er,” he said. “Me. I suppose. Just for the moment.”
    â€œThat’s right,” said Torrit, relieved. “Just for the moment I’m puttin’ him in charge, see. Because I’m the leader.”
    The Abbot nodded.
    â€œA very wise decision,” he said. Torrit beamed.
    â€œStay 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.”
    â€œUm,” said Masklin, “no.”
    There was a pause.
    Then the Abbot said, quite softly, “Why not?”
    â€œBecause, you see, um, we’re all together,” said Masklin. “We’ve never been split up.”
    â€œA very commendable sentiment. You’ll find, however, that life doesn’t work like that. Come, now. I can hardly harm you, can I?”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œYour name, I believe, is Masklin,” he said.
    Masklin couldn’t deny it.
    â€œI don’t