Thief of Time

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 anymore.”

    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 color?”
    “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 toward the prone figure’s mouth. Its 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 signaled 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.
    Susan peered out of a doorway.
    “Are you sure we’re going the right way?” she said. “We’re leaving the city center.”
    “This is the way I should be going,” said Lobsang.
    “All right, but I don’t like these narrow streets. I don’t like hiding . I’m not a hiding kind of person.”
    “Yes, I’ve noticed.”
    “What’s that place ahead?”
    “That’s the back of the Royal Art Museum. Broad Way’s on the other side,” said Lobsang. “And that’s the way we need to go.”
    “You know your way around, for a man from the mountains.”
    “I grew up here. I know five different ways to break into the museum, too. I used to be a thief.”
    “I used to be able to walk