Diggers by Terry Pratchett Page A

Grimma. “ No one’s ever been away that long before! Something must have happened to them!”
    â€œEr,” said Dorcas, “well, they were going to look for Grandson Richard, 39, and we can’t be sure that—”
    â€œAnd I was so nasty to him before he went! I told him about the frogs and all he could think of was socks!”
    Dorcas couldn’t quite see how frogs had got involved. When he sat and talked to Big John, frogs were never dragged into the conversation.
    â€œEr?” he said.
    Grimma, in between sobs, told him about the frogs.
    â€œAnd I’m sure he didn’t even begin to understand what I meant,” she mumbled. “And you won’t either.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know,” said Dorcas. “You mean that the world was once so simple, and suddenly it’s full of amazingly interesting things that you’ll never ever get to the end of as long as you live. Like biology. Or climatology. I mean, before all you Outsiders came, I was just tinkering with things and I really didn’t know anything about the world.”
    He stared at his feet. “I’m still very ignorant,” he said, “but at least I’m ignorant about really important things. Like what the sun is, and why it rains. That’s what you’re talking about.”
    She sniffed and smiled a bit, but not too much, because if there is one thing worse than someone who doesn’t understand you, it’s someone who understands perfectly, before you’ve had a chance to have a good pout about not being understood.
    â€œThe thing is ,” she said, “that he still thinks I’m the person he used to know when we all lived in the old hole in the bank. You know, running around. Cooking things. Bandaging up people when they’d been hur-hur-hur—”
    â€œNow then, now then,” said Dorcas. He was always at a loss when people acted like this. When machines went funny, you just oiled them or prodded them or, if nothing else worked, hit them with a hammer. Nomes didn’t respond well to this treatment.
    â€œSupposing he never comes back?” she said, dabbing at her eyes.
    â€œOf course he’ll come back,” said Dorcas reassuringly. “What could have happened to him, after all?”
    â€œHe could have been eaten or run over or trodden on or blown away or fallen down a hole or trapped,” said Grimma.
    â€œEr, yes,” said Dorcas. “Apart from that, I meant.”
    â€œBut I shall pull myself together,” said Grimma, sticking out her chin. “When he does come back, he won’t be able to say, ‘Oh, I see everything’s gone to pieces while I’ve been away.’”
    â€œJolly good,” said Dorcas. “That’s the spirit. Keep yourself occupied, that’s what I always say. What’s the book called?”
    â€œIt’s A Treasury of Proverbs and Quotations ,” said Grimma.
    â€œOh. Anything useful in it?”
    â€œThat,” said Grimma distantly, “depends.”
    â€œOh. What’s ‘Proverbs’ mean?”
    â€œNot sure. Some of them don’t make much sense. Do you know, humans think the world was made by a sort of big human?”
    â€œGet out!”
    â€œIt took a week.”
    â€œI expect it had some help, then,” said Dorcas. “You know. With the heavy stuff.” Dorcas thought of Big John. You could do a lot in a week, with Big John helping.
    â€œNo. All by himself, apparently.”
    â€œHmm.” Dorcas considered this. Certainly bits of the world were rough, and things like grass seemed simple enough. But from what he’d heard, it all broke down every year and had to be started up again in the spring, and—“I don’t know,” he said. “Only humans could believe something like that. There’s a good few months’ work, if I’m any judge.”
    Grimma turned the page. “Masklin