Hogfather - Terry Pratchett [72]
“It’s going to be you, isn’t it?” said Susan. She was almost hypnotized. The man even had a fringe of worried hair and a small, worried mustache. And the voice suggested exactly that here was a man who, at the end of the world, would worry that it would be blamed on him.
“That’s right,” he said, but in a slightly grudging voice. He was not about to allow a bit of understanding to lighten his day. “And the girls all go on about the job but I tell them they’ve got it easy, it’s just basic’ly ladder work, they don’t have to spend their evenings knee-deep in paper and making shortfalls good out of their own money, I might add—”
“You employ the tooth fairies?” said Susan quickly. The oh god was still vertical but his eyes had glazed over.
The little man preened slightly. “Sort of,” he said. “Basic’ly I run Bulk Collection and Dispatch—”
“Where to?”
He stared at her. Sharp, direct questions weren’t his forte.
“I just sees to it they gets on the cart,” he mumbled. “When they’re on the cart and Ernie’s signed the GV19 for ’em, that’s it done and finished, only like I said he ain’t turned up this week and—”
“A whole cart for a handful of teeth?”
“Well, there’s the food for the guards, and—’ere, who are you, anyway? What’re you doing here?”
Susan straightened up. “I don’t have to put up with this,” she said sweetly, to no one in particular. She leaned forward again.
“WHAT CART ARE WE TALKING ABOUT HERE, CHARLIE?” The oh god jolted away. The man in the brown coat shot backward and splayed against the corridor wall as Susan advanced.
“Comes Tuesdays,” he panted. “’ere, what—”
“AND WHERE DOES IT GO?”
“Dunno! Like I said, when he’s—”
“Signed the GV19 for them it’s you done and finished,” said Susan, in her normal voice. “Yes. You said. What’s Violet’s full name? She never mentioned it.”
The man hesitated.
“I SAID—”
“Violet Bottler!”
“Thank you.”
“An’ Ernie’s gorn, too,” said Charlie, continuing more or less on autopilot. “I call that suspicious. I mean, he’s got a wife and everything. Won’t be the first man to get his head turned by thirteen dollars and a pretty ankle and, o’ course, no one thinks about muggins who has to carry the can, I mean, supposing we was all to get it in our heads to run off with young wimmin?”
He gave Susan the stern look of one who, if it was not for the fact that the world needed him, would even now be tiring of painting naked young ladies on some tropical island somewhere.
“What happens to the teeth?” said Susan.
He blinked at her. A bully, thought Susan. A very small, weak, very dull bully, who doesn’t manage any real bullying because there’s hardly anyone smaller and weaker than him, so he just makes everyone’s lives just that little bit more difficult…
“What sort of question is that?” he managed, in the face of her stare.
“You never wondered?” said Susan, and added to herself, I didn’t. Did anyone?
“Well, ’s not my job, I just—”
“Oh, yes. You said,” said Susan. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you very much.”
The man stared at her, and then turned and ran down the stairs.
“Drat,” said Susan.
“That’s a very unusual swearword,” said the oh god nervously.
“It’s so easy,” said Susan. “If I want to, I can find anybody. It’s a family trait.”
“Oh. Good.”
“No. Have you any idea how hard it is to be normal? The things you have to remember? How to go to sleep? How to forget things? What doorknobs are for?”
Why ask him, she thought, as she looked at his shocked face. All that’s normal for him is remembering to throw up what someone else drank.
“Oh, come on,” she said, and hurried toward the stairs.
It was so easy to slip into immortality, to ride the horse, to know everything. And every time you did, it brought closer the day when you could never get off and never forget.
Death was hereditary.
You got it from your ancestors.
“Where are we going now?” said the oh god.
“Down to the YMPA,” said Susan.