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  STRATA

  Terry Pratchett

  CORGI BOOKS

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Strata

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407035536

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  STRATA

  A CORGI BOOK : 9780552133258

  Originally published in Great Britain by Colin Smythe Ltd

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Colin Smythe edition published 1981

  NELedition published 1982

  Corgi edition published 1988

  23 25 27 29 30 28 26 24

  Copyright © Colin Smythe Ltd 1981

  The right of Terry Pratchett to be identifed as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Condition of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Set in 11/13pt Palatino by Kestrel Data, Exeter, Devon.

  Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers, 61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA, A Random House Group Company.

  Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at:www.randomhouse.co.uk.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX.

  The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at: www.rbooks.co.uk/environment.

  Terry Pratchett is the acclaimed creator of the Discworld series, started in 1983 with The Colour of Magic, and which has now reached 38 novels. Worldwide sales of his books are now 60 million, and they have been translated into 37 languages. Terry Pratchett was knighted for services to literature in 2009.

  The Discworld Series is a continuous history of a world not totally unlike our own except that it is a flat disc carried on the backs of four elephants astride a giant turtle floating through space, and that it is peopled by, among others, wizards, dwarves, policemen, thieves, beggars, vampires and witches. Within the history of Discworld there are many individual stories, which can be read in any order, but reading them in sequence can increase your enjoyment through the accumulation of all the fine detail that contributes to the teeming imaginative complexity of this brilliantly conceived world.

  1. THE COLOUR OF MAGIC

  2. THE LIGHT FANTASTIC

  3. EQUAL RITES

  4. MORT

  5. SOURCERY

  6. WYRD SISTERS

  7. PYRAMIDS

  8. GUARDS! GUARDS!

  9. ERIC

  (illustrated by Josh Kirby)

  10. MOVING PICTURES

  11. REAPER MAN

  12. WITCHES ABROAD

  13. SMALL GODS

  14. LORDS AND LADIES

  15. MEN AT ARMS

  16. SOUL MUSIC

  17. INTERESTING TIMES

  18. MASKERADE

  19. FEET OF CLAY

  20. HOGFATHER

  21. JINGO

  22. THE LAST CONTINENT

  23. CARPE JUGULUM

  24. THE FIFTH ELEPHANT

  25. THE TRUTH

  26. THIEF OF TIME

  27. THE LAST HERO

  (illustrated by Josh Kirby)

  28. THE AMAZING MAURICE &

  HIS EDUCATED RODENTS (for younger readers)

  29. NIGHT WATCH

  30. THE WEE FREE MEN (for younger readers)

  31. MONSTROUS REGIMENT

  32. A HAT FULL OF SKY (for younger readers)

  33. GOING POSTAL

  34. THUD!

  35. WINTERSMITH (for younger readers)

  36. MAKING MONEY

  37. UNSEEN ACADEMICALS

  38. I SHALL WEAR MIDNIGHT (for younger readers)

  ----------Other books about Discworld----------

  THE SCIENCE OF DISCWORLD

  (with Ian Stewart and Jack Cohen)

  THE SCIENCE OF DISCWORLD II: THE GLOBE

  (with Ian Stewart and Jack Cohen)

  THE SCIENCE OF DISCWORLD III:

  DARWIN’S WATCH

  (with Ian Stewart and Jack Cohen)

  THE NEW DISCWORLD COMPANION

  (with Stephen Briggs)

  NANNY OGG’S COOKBOOK

  (with Stephen Briggs, Tina Hannan and Paul Kidby)

  THE PRATCHETT PORTFOLIO

  (with Paul Kidby)

  THE DISCWORLD ALMANAK

  (with Bernard Pearson)

  THE UNSEEN UNIVERSITY CUT-OUT BOOK

  (with Alan Batley and Bernard Pearson)

  WHERE’S MY COW?

  (illustrated by Melvyn Grant)

  THE ART OF DISCWORLD

  (with Paul Kidby)

  THE WIT AND WISDOM OF DISCWORLD

  (compiled by Stephen Briggs)

  THE FOLKLORE OF DISCWORLD

  (with Jacqueline Simpson)

  ----------Discworld Maps----------

  THE STREETS OF ANKH-MORPORK

  (with Stephen Briggs, painted by Stephen Player)

  THE DISCWORLD MAPP

  (with Stephen Briggs, painted by Stephen Player)

  A TOURIST GUIDE TO LANCRE –

  A DISCWORLD MAPP

  (with Stephen Briggs, illustrated by Paul Kidby)

  DEATH’S DOMAIN

  (with Paul Kidby)

  A complete list of Terry Pratchett ebooks and audio books as well as other books based on the Discworld series – illustrated screenplays, graphic novels, comics and plays – can be found on www.terrypratchett.co.uk

  ----------Non-Discworld books----------

  THE DARK SIDE OF THE SUN

  STRATA

  THE UNADULTERATED CAT

  (illustrated by Gray Jolliffe)

  GOOD OMENS

  (with Neil Gaiman)

  --Non-Discworld novels for younger readers--

  THE CARPET PEOPLE

  TRUCKERS

  DIGGERS

  WINGS

  ONLY YOU CAN SAVE MANKIND*

  JOHNNY AND THE DEAD

  JOHNNY AND THE BOMB

  NATION

  *www.ifnotyouthenwho.com

  STRATA

  I met a mine foreman who has a piece of coal with a 1909 gold sovereign embedded in it. I saw an ammonite, apparently squashed in the fossil footprint of a sandal.

  There is a room in the basement of the Natural History Museum which they keep locked. Among other oddities in there are the tyrannosaurus with a wristwatch and the Neanderthal skull with gold fillings in three teeth.

  What are you going to do about it?

  Dr Carl Untermond

  The Overcrowded Eden

  It was, of course, a beautiful day – a Company brochure day. At the moment Kin’s office overlook
ed a palm-fringed lagoon. White water broke over the outer reef, and the beach was of crushed white coral and curious shells.

  No brochure would have shown the nightmare bulk of the pontoon-mounted strata machine, the small model for islands and atolls under fifteen kilometres. As Kin watched, another metre of beach spilled out of the big back hopper.

  She wondered about the pilot’s name. There was genius in that line of beach. A man who could lay down a beach like that, with the shells just right, deserved better things. But then, perhaps he was a Thoreau type who just liked islands. You got them sometimes; shy silent types who preferred to drift across the ocean after the volcano teams, dreamily laying complicated archipelagos with indecent skill. She’d have to ask.

  She leant over her desk and called up the area engineer.

  ‘Joel? Who’s on BCF3?’

  The engineer’s lined brown face appeared over the intercom.

  ‘Guday, Kin. Let me see now. Aha! Good, is it? You like it?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘It’s Hendry. The one who’s the subject of all those nasty depositions you’ve got on your desk. You know, the one who put the fossil dino in—’

  ‘I read it.’

  Joel recognized the edge to her voice. He sighed.

  ‘Nicol Plante, she’s his mixer, she must have been in on it too. I put them on island duty because, well, with a coral island there is not the temptation—’

  ‘I know.’ Kin thought for a while. ‘Send him over. And her. It’s going to be a busy day, Joel. It’s always like this at the end of a job, people start to play around.’

  ‘It’s youth. We’ve all done it. With me it was a pair of boots in a coal measure. Not so imaginative, I admit.’

  ‘You mean I should excuse him?’

  Of course he did. Everyone was allowed just one unscripted touch, weren’t they? Checkers always spotted them, didn’t they? And even if one went unnoticed, couldn’t we rely on future paleontologists to hush it up? Huh?

  Trouble was, they might not …

  ‘He’s good, and later on he’ll be great,’ said Joel. ‘Just gnaw one ball off, eh?’

  A few minutes later Kin heard the machine’s roar stutter and stop. Soon one of the outer office robots came in, leading—

  —a squat fair-haired youth, tanned lobster pink, and a skinny bald girl hardly out of her teens. They stood staring at Kin with a mixture of fear and defiance, dripping coral dust onto the carpet.

  ‘All right, sit down. Want a drink? You both look dehydrated. I thought they had air conditioning in those things.’

  The pair exchanged glances. Then, the girl said, ‘Frane likes to get the feel of his work.’

  ‘Well, okay. The freezer’s that round thing hovering right behind you. Help yourself.’

  They jerked away as the freezer bumped into their shoulders, then grinned nervously and sat down.

  They were in awe of Kin, which she found slightly embarrassing. According to the files they were both from colony planets so new the bedrock had hardly dried, while she was manifestly from Earth. Not Whole, New, Old, Real or Best Earth. Just Earth, cradle of humanity, just like it said in their history books. And the double century mark on her forehead was probably something they’d only heard of before joining John Company. And she was their boss. And she could fire them.

  The freezer drifted back to its alcove, describing a neat detour around a patch of empty air at the back of the room. Kin made a mental note to get a tech to look at it.

  They sat gingerly on the float chairs. Colony worlds didn’t have them, Kin recalled. She glanced at the file, gave them an introductory glare, and switched on the recorder.

  ‘You know why you’re here,’ she said. ‘You’ve read the regulations, if you’ve got any sense. I’m bound to remind you that you can either choose to accept my judgement as senior executive of the sector, or go before a committee at Company HQ. If you elect for me to deal with it, there’s no appeal. What do you say?’

  ‘You,’ said the girl.

  ‘Can he speak?’

  ‘We elect to be tried by you, Mizz,’ said the boy in a thick Creed accent.

  Kin shook her head. ‘It’s not a trial. If you don’t like my decision you can always quit – unless of course I fire you.’ She let that sink in. Behind every Company trainee was a parsec-long queue of disappointed applicants. Nobody quit.

  ‘Right, it’s on record. Just for the record, then, you two were on strata machine BVN67 on Julius 4th last, working a line on Y-continent? You’ve got the detailed charge on the notice of censure you were given at the time.’

  ‘Tis all correct,’ said Hendry. Kin thumbed a switch.

  One wall of the office became a screen. They got an aerial view of grey datum rock, broken off sharply by a kilometre-high wall of strata like God’s own mad sandwich. The strata machine had been severed from its cliff and moved to one side. Unless a really skilled jockey lined it up next time, this world’s geologists were going to find an unexplained fault.

  The camera zoomed in to an area halfway up the cliff, where some rock had been melted out. There was a gantry and a few yellow-hatted workmen who shuffled out of camera field, except for one who stood holding a measuring rod against Exhibit A and grinning. Hi there, all you folks out there in Company Censure Tribunal Land.

  ‘A plesiosaur,’ said Kin. ‘All wrong for this stratum, but what the hell.’ The camera floated over the half-excavated skeleton, focusing now on the distorted rectangles by its side. Kin nodded. Now it was quite clear. The beast had been holding a placard. She could just make out the wording.

  ‘“End Nuclear Testing Now”,’ she said levelly.

  It must have taken a lot of work. Weeks, probably, and then a very complicated program to be fed into the machine’s main brain.

  ‘How did you find out?’ asked the girl.

  Because there was a telltale built into every machine, but that was an official secret. It was welded into the ten-kilometre output slot to detect little unofficial personal touches, like pacifist dinosaurs and mammoths with hearing aids – and it stayed there until it found one. Because sooner or later everyone did it. Because every novice planetary designer with an ounce of talent felt like a king atop the dream-device that was a strata machine, and sooner or later yielded to the delicious temptation to pop the skulls of future paleontologists. Sometimes the Company fired them, sometimes the Company promoted them.

  ‘I’m a witch,’ she said. ‘Now, I take it you admit this?’

  ‘Yarss,’ said Hendry. ‘But may I make, uh, a plea in mitigation?’

  He reached into his tunic and brought out a book, its spine worn with use. He ran his thumb down it until the flickering pages stopped at his reference.

  ‘Uh, this is one of the authorities on planetary engineering,’ he said. ‘May I go ahead?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Well, uh. “Finally, a planet is not a world. Planet? A ball of rock. World? A four-dimensional wonder. On a world there must be mysterious mountains. Let there be bottomless lakes peopled with antique monsters. Let there be strange footprints in high snowfields, green ruins in endless jungles, bells beneath the sea; echo valleys and cities of gold. This is the yeast in the planetary crust, without which the imagination of men will not rise.” ’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Mr Hendry,’ asked Kin, ‘did I say anything there about nuclear-disarmament dinosaurs?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘We build worlds, we don’t just terraform planets. Robots could do that. We build places where the imagination of human beings can find an anchor. We don’t bugger about planting funny fossils. Remember the Spindles. Supposing the colonists here turn out like them? Your fossil would kill them, blow their minds. Docked three months’ labour. You too, Miss Plante, and I don’t even want to know for what reasons you were helping this nitwit. You may go.’

  She switched off the recorder.

  ‘Where are you going? Sit down.
All that was for the benefit of the tape. Sit down, you look dreadful.’

  He was no fool. She saw the embryo hope in his eyes. Best to scotch that now.

  ‘I meant it about the sentence. Three months’ enforced vacation. It’s on the tape, so you won’t talk me out of it. Not’, she added, ‘that you could.’

  ‘But we’ll have finished this job by then,’ he said, genuinely hurt.

  Kin shrugged. ‘There’ll be others. Don’t look so worried. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t yield to temptation. If you feel bad, ask Joel Chenge about the boots he tried to lay down in a coal seam. They didn’t ruin his career.’

  ‘And what did you do, Miss?’

  ‘Hmm?’ The boy was looking at her sidelong.

  ‘You sort of give the impression I’ve done something everyone else has done. Did you do it too?’

  Kin drummed her fingers on the desk. ‘Built a mountain range in the shape of my initials,’ she said.

  ‘Whee!’

  ‘They had to rerun almost half a strip. Nearly got fired.’

  ‘And now you’re Sec-exec and—’

  ‘You might be too one day. Another few years they might let you loose on an asteroid of your very own. Some billionaire’s pleasure park. Two words of advice; don’t fumble it, and never, never try to quote people’s words against them. I, of course, am marvellously charitable and understanding, but some other people might have made you eat the book a page at a time under threat of sacking. Right? Right. Now go, the pair of you. For real this time. It’s going to be a busy day.’

  They hurried out, leaving a coral trail. Kin watched the door slide across, staring into space for a few minutes. Then she smiled to herself, and went back to work.

  Consider Kin Arad, now inspecting outline designs for the TY-archipelago:

  Twenty-one decades lie on her shoulders like temporal dandruff. She carries them lightly. Why not? People were never meant to grow old. Memory surgery helped.

  On her forehead, the golden disc that multiple centenarians often wore – it inspired respect, and often saved embarrassment. Not every woman relished attempted seduction by a man young enough to be her great-to-the-power-of-seven grandson. On the other hand, not every elderly woman wore a disc, on purpose … Her skin was presently midnight-black, like her wig – for some reason hair seldom survived the first century – and the baggy black all-suit.