Thief of Time

“I do milk and milk products,” said Ronnie, but a muscle twitched under his eye. “Also eggs by arrangement. It's a good steady business. I'm thinking of taking on more staff for the shop.”

“Why?” said Lu-Tze. “There won't be anything for them to do.”

“And expand the cheese side,” said Ronnie, not looking at the sweeper. “Big market for cheese. And I thought maybe I could get a c-mail address, people could send in orders, it could be a big market.”

“All the rules have won, Ronnie. Nothing moves any more. Nothing is unexpected because nothing happens.”

Ronnie sat staring at nothing.

“I can see you've found your niche, then, Ronnie,” said Lu-Tze soothingly. “And you keep this place like a new pin, there's no doubt about it. I expect the rest of the lads'd be really pleased to know that you're, you know, getting on all right. Just one thing, uh… Why did you rescue me?”

“What? Well, it was my charitable duty—”

“You're the Fifth Horseman, Mr Soak. Charitable duty?” Except, Lu-Tze thought, you've been human-shaped a long time. You want me to find out… You want me to. Thousands of years of a life like this. It's curled you in on yourself. You'll fight me all the way, but you want me to drag your name out of you.

Ronnie's eyes glowed. “I look after my own, Sweeper.”

“I'm one of yours, am I?”

“You have… certain worthwhile points.”

They stared at one another.

“I'll take you back to where I found you,” said Ronnie Soak. “That's all. I don't do that other stuff any more.”

The Auditor lay on its back, mouth open. Occasionally it made a weak little noise, like the whimper of a gnat.

“Try again, Mr—”

“Dark Avocado, Mr White.”

“Is that a real colour?”

“Yes, Mr White!” said Mr Dark Avocado, who wasn't entirely sure that it was.

“Try again, then, Mr Dark Avocado.”

Mr Dark Avocado, with great reluctance, reached down towards the supine figure's mouth. His fingers were a few inches away when, apparently of its own volition, the figure's left hand moved in a blur and gripped them. There was a crackle of bone.

“I feel extreme pain, Mr White.”

“What is in its mouth, Mr Dark Avocado?”

“It appears to be cooked fermented grain product, Mr White. The extreme pain is continuing.”

“A foodstuff?”

“Yes, Mr White. The sensations of pain are really quite noticeable at this point.”

“Did I not give an order that there should be no eating or drinking or unnecessary experimentation with sensory apparatus?”

“Indeed you did, Mr White. The sensation known as extreme pain, which I mentioned previously, is now really quite acute. What shall I do now?”

The concept of “orders” was yet another new and intensely unfamiliar one for any Auditor. They were used to decisions by committee, reached only when the possibilities of doing nothing whatsoever about the matter in question had been exhausted. Decisions made by everyone were decisions made by no one, which therefore precluded any possibility of blame.

But the bodies understood orders. This was clearly something that made humans human, and so the Auditors went along with it in a spirit of investigation. There was no choice, in any case. All kinds of sensations arose when they were given instructions by a man holding an edged weapon. It was surprising how smoothly the impulse to consult and discuss metamorphosed into a pressing desire to do what the weapon said.

“Can you not persuade him to let go of your hand?”

“He appears to be unconscious, Mr White. His eyes are bloodshot. He is making a little sighing noise. Yet the body seems determined that the bread should not be removed. Could I raise again the issue of the unbearable pain?”

Mr White signalled to two other Auditors. With considerable effort, they pried Mr Dark Avocado's fingers loose.

“This is something we will have to learn more about,” said Mr White. “The renegade spoke of it. Mr Dark Avocado?”

“Yes, Mr White?”

“Do the sensations of pain persist?”

“My hand feels both hot and cold, Mr White.”

“How strange,” said Mr White. “I see that we will need to investigate pain in greater depth.” Mr Dark Avocado found that a little voice in the back of his head screamed at the thought of this, while Mr White went on: “What other foodstuffs are there?”

“We know the names of three thousand, seven hundred and nineteen foods,” said Mr Indigo-Violet, stepping forward. He had become the expert on such matters, and this was another new thing for the Auditors. They had never had experts before. What one knew, all knew. Knowing something that others did not know marked one as, in a small way, an individual. Individuals could die. But it also gave you power and value, which meant that you might not die quite so easily. It was a lot to deal with, and like some of the other Auditors he was already assembling a number of facial tics and twitches as his mind tried to cope.

“Name one,” said Mr White.

“Cheese,” said Mr Indigo-Violet smartly. “It is rotted bovine lactation.”

“We will find some cheese,” said Mr White.

Three Auditors went past.