Truckers Read Free Page A

the burrow and lay down. He could hear the old ones whispering as he sank into a deep, chilly sleep.
    I should have been here, he thought.
    They depend on me.
    We’re going. All of us.
    It had seemed a good idea, then.
    It looked a bit different, now.
    Now the nomes clustered at one end of the great dark space inside the truck. They were silent. There wasn’t any room to be noisy. The roar of the engine filled the air from edge to edge. Sometimes it would falter and start again. Occasionally the whole truck lurched.
    Grimma crawled across the trembling floor.
    â€œHow long is it going to take to get there?” she said.
    â€œWhere?” said Masklin.
    â€œWherever we’re going.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œThey’re hungry, you see.”
    They always were. Masklin looked hopelessly at the huddle of old ones. One or two of them were watching him expectantly.
    â€œThere isn’t anything I can do,” he said. “I’m hungry too, but there’s nothing here. It’s empty.”
    â€œGranny Morkie gets very upset when she’s missed a meal,” said Grimma.
    Masklin gave her a long, blank stare. Then he crawled his way to the group and sat down between Torrit and the old woman.
    He’d never really talked to them, he realized. When he was small, they were giants who were no concern of his, and then he’d been a hunter among hunters, and this year he’d either been out looking for food or deep in an exhausted sleep. But he knew why Torrit was the leader of the tribe. It stood to reason—he was the oldest nome. The oldest was always leader; that way there couldn’t be any arguments. Not the oldest woman , of course, because everyone knew this was unthinkable; even Granny Morkie was quite firm about that. Which was a bit odd, because she treated him like an idiot and Torrit never made a decision without looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Masklin sighed. He stared at his knees.
    â€œLook, I don’t know how long—” he began.
    â€œDon’t you worry about me, boy,” said Granny Morkie, who seemed to have quite recovered. “This is all rather excitin’, ain’t it?”
    â€œBut it might take ages,” said Masklin. “I didn’t know it was going to take this long. It was just a mad idea . . .”
    She poked him with a bony finger. “Young man,” she said, “I was alive in the Great Winter of 1999. Terrible, that was. You can’t tell me anything about going hungry. Grimma’s a good girl, but she worries.”
    â€œBut I don’t even know where we’re going!” Masklin burst out. “I’m sorry!”
    Torrit, who was sitting with the Thing on his skinny knees, peered shortsightedly at him.
    â€œWe have the Thing,” he said. “It will show us the Way, it will.”
    Masklin nodded gloomily. Funny how Torrit always knew what the Thing wanted. It was just a black square thing, but it had some very definite ideas about the importance of regular meals and how you should always listen to what the old folk said. It seemed to have an answer for everything.
    â€œAnd where does this Way take us?” said Masklin.
    â€œYou knows that well enough. To the Heavens.”
    â€œOh. Yes,” said Masklin. He glared at the Thing. He was pretty certain that it didn’t tell old Torrit anything at all; he knew he had pretty good hearing, and he never heard it say anything. It never did anything, it never moved. The only thing it ever did was look black and square. It was good at that.
    â€œOnly by followin’ the Thing closely in all particulars can we be sure of going to the Heavens,” said Torrit uncertainly, as if he’d been told this a long time ago and hadn’t understood it even then.
    â€œYes, well,” said Masklin. He stood up on the swaying floor and made his way to the tarpaulin. Then he paused to screw up his courage and