Diggers by Terry Pratchett

useful bit of wire or something.
    So he’d rummaged around in the shadows, straightened up, glanced above him and there Big John was .
    With his mouth open.
    It had been a terrible few seconds until Dorcas’s eyes adjusted to the distance.
    After that, he’d spent a lot of time with Big John, poking around, finding out about it. Or him . Big John was definitely a him. A terrible him, perhaps, and old and wounded, like a dragon that had come here for one last final sleep. Or perhaps it was like one of those big animals Grimma had showed him in a book once. Diner soars.
    But Big John didn’t grumble, and he didn’t keep on asking Dorcas why he hadn’t got around to inventing radio yet . Dorcas had spent many a peaceful hour getting to know Big John. He was someone to talk to. He was the best kind of person to talk to, in fact, because you didn’t have to listen to him back.
    Dorcas shook his head. There was no time for that sort of thing now. Everything was going wrong.
    Instead, he went to find Grimma. She seemed to have her head screwed on right, even if she was a girl.
    The school hole was under the floor of the old shed with Canteen on the door. It was Grimma’s personal world. She’d invented schools for children, on the basis that since reading and writing were quite difficult, it was best to get them over with early.
    The library was also kept there.
    In those last hectic hours, the nomes had managed to rescue about thirty books from the Store. Some were very useful— Gardening All the Year Round was well thumbed, and Dorcas knew Essential Theory for the Amateur Engineer almost by heart—but some were, well, difficult, and not opened much.
    Grimma was standing in front of one of these when he wandered in. She was biting her thumb, which she always did when she was concentrating.
    He had to admire the way she read. Not only was Grimma the best reader among the nomes, she also had an amazing ability to understand what she was reading.
    â€œNisodemus is causing trouble,” he said, sitting down on a bench.
    â€œI know,” said Grimma vaguely. “I’ve heard.” She grabbed the edge of the page in both hands and turned it over with a grunt of effort.
    â€œI don’t know what he’s got to gain,” said Dorcas.
    â€œPower,” said Grimma. “We’ve got a power vacuum , you see.”
    â€œI don’t think we have,” said Dorcas uncertainly. “I’ve never seen one here. There were plenty in the Store. Sixty-Nine Ninety-Five With Range Of Attachments For Round-The-House Cleanliness ,” he added, remembering with a sigh the familiar signs.
    â€œNo, it’s not a thing like that,” said Grimma. “It’s what you get when no one’s in charge. I’ve been reading about them.”
    â€œ I’m in charge, aren’t I?” said Dorcas plaintively.
    â€œNo,” said Grimma, “because no one really listens to you.”
    â€œOh. Thank you very much.”
    â€œIt’s not your fault. People like Masklin and Angalo and Gurder can make people listen to them, but you don’t seem to keep their attention.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œBut you can make nuts and bolts listen to you. Not everyone can do that.”
    Dorcas thought about this. He would never have put it like that himself. Was it a compliment? He decided it probably was.
    â€œWhen people are faced with lots of troubles and they don’t know what to do, there’s always someone ready to say anything, just to get some power,” said Grimma.
    â€œNever mind. When the others get back, I’m sure they’ll sort it all out,” said Dorcas, more cheerfully than he felt.
    â€œYes, they’ll—” Grimma began, and then stopped. After a while Dorcas realized that her shoulders were shaking.
    â€œIs there anything the matter?” he said.
    â€œIt’s been more than three whole days!” sobbed