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The rest of you fellows had better see if there’s any fresh water. And food. Knock down a few coconuts. That sort of thing. ” “And what will you do, Archchancellor?” said the Senior Wrangler nastily. “I shall be the Protein Acquisition Committee,” said Ridcully, waving his fishing rod. “You going to stand here and fish again? What good’s that going to do?” “It might result in a fish dinner, Senior Wrangler. ” “Has anyone got any tobacco?” said the Dean. “I’m dying for a smoke. ” The wizards went off about their tasks, complaining and blaming one another. And just inside the forest, in the leafy debris, roots unfolded and a number of very small plants began to grow like hell… “This is the last continent,” said Scrappy. “It was…put together last, and…differently. ” “Looks pretty old to me,” said Rincewind. “Ancient. Those hills look as old as the hills. ” “They were made thirty thousand years old,” said the kangaroo. “Come on! They look millions of years old!” “Yep. Thirty thousand years ago they were made a million years ago. Time here is,” the kangaroo shrugged, “not the same. It was…glued together differently, right?” “Search me,” said Rincewind. “I’m a man sitting here listening to a kangaroo. I’m not arguing. ” “I’m trying to find words you might understand,” said the kangaroo reproachfully. “Good, keep going, you’ll get there. Want a jam sandwich? It’s gooseberry. ” “No. Strictly herbivore, mate. Listen—” “Unusual, gooseberry jam. I mean, you don’t often see it. Raspberry and strawberry, yes, even blackcurrant. I shouldn’t think more than one jar of jam in a hundred is gooseberry. Sorry, do go on. ” “You’re taking this seriously, are you?” “Am I smiling?” “Have you ever noticed how time goes slower in big spaces?” The sandwich stopped halfway to Rincewind’s mouth. “Actually, that is true. But it only seems slower. ” “So? When this place was made there wasn’t much space and time left over to work with, see? He had to bodge them together to make them work harder. Time happens to space and space happens to time—” “You know, I think there could be plum in it, too?” said Rincewind, with his mouth full. “And maybe some rhubarb. You’d be amazed how often they do that sort of thing. You know, stuff cheaper fruit in. I met this man in an inn once, he worked for a jam-maker in Ankh-Morpork, and he said they put in any old rubbish and some red dye, and I said what about the raspberry pips, and he said they make them out of wood. Wood! He said they’d got a machine for stamping ’em out. Can you believe that?” “Will you stop talking about jam and be sensible for a moment!” Rincewind lowered the sandwich. “Good grief, I hope not,” he said. “I’m sitting in a cave in a country where everything bites you and it never rains and I’m talking, no offense, to a herbivore that smells of a carpet in a house where there are a lot of excitable puppies, and I’ve suddenly got this talent for finding jam sandwiches and inexplicable fairy cakes in unexpected places, and I’ve been shown something very odd in a picture on some old cave wall, and suddenly said kangaroo tells me time and space are all wrong and wants me to be sensible ? What, when you get right down to it, is in it for me?” “Look, this place wasn’t finished, right? It wasn’t fitted in…turned around…” The kangaroo looked at Rincewind as if reading his mind, which was the case. “You know like with a jigsaw puzzle? The last piece is the right shape but you have to turn it round to fit? Right? Now think of the piece as a bloody big continent that’s got to be turned around through about nine dimensions and you’re home and…” “Dry?” said Rincewind. “Bloody right!” “Er…I know this may seem like a foolish question,” said Rincewind, trying to dislodge a gooseberry pip from a tooth cavity, “but why me?” “It’s your fault. You arrived here and suddenly things had always been wrong. ” Rincewind looked back towards the wall. The earth trembled again. “Can you hop that past me again?” he said. “Something went wrong in the past. ” The kangaroo looked at Rincewind’s blank, jam-smeared expression, and tried again. “Your arrival caused a wrong note,” it ventured. “What in?” The creature waved a paw vaguely. “All this,” it said. “You could call it a bloody multidimensional knuckle of localized phase space, or maybe you could just call it the song. ” Rincewind shrugged. “I don’t mind putting my hand up to killing a few spiders,” he said. “But it was me or them. I mean some of those come at you at head height—” “You changed history. ” “Oh, come on , a few spiders don’t make that much difference, some of them were using their webs as trampolines , it was a case of ‘boing’ and next moment—” “No, not history from now on, history that’s already happened,” said the kangaroo. “I’ve changed things that already happened long ago?” “Right. ” “By arriving here I changed what’s already happened ?” “Yep. Look, time isn’t as straightforward as you think—” “I never thought it was,” said Rincewind. “And I’ve been round it few times…” The kangaroo waved a paw expansively. “It’s not just that things in the future can affect things in the past,” he said. “Things that didn’t happen but might have happened can…affect things that really happened. Even things that happened and shouldn’t have happened and were removed still have, oh, call ’em shadows in time, things left over which interfere with what’s going on. Between you and me,” it went on, waggling its ears, “it’s all just held together by spit now. No one’s ever got round to tidying it up. I’m always amazed when tomorrow follows today, and that’s the truth. ” “Me too,” said Rincewind. “Oh, me too. ” “Still, no worries, eh?” “I think I’ll lay off the jam,” said Rincewind. He put the sandwich down. “Why me?” The kangaroo scratched its nose. “’s got to be someone,” it said. “And what’m I supposed to do?” said Rincewind. “Wind it into the world. ” “There’s a key ?” “Might be. Depends. ” Rincewind turned and looked at the rock pictures again, the pictures that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago and then suddenly had always been there. Figures holding long sticks. Figures in long robes. The artist had done a pretty good job of drawing something quite unfamiliar. And in case there was any doubt, you only had to look at what was on their heads. “Yeah. We call them The Pointy-Heads ,” said the kangaroo. “He’s started catching fish,” said the Senior Wrangler. “That means he’ll come over all smug and start asking what plans we’ve got for making a boat at any minute, you know what he’s like. ” The Dean looked at some sketches he’d made on a rock. “How hard can it be to build a boat?” he said. “People with bones in their noses build boats. And we are the end product of thousands of years of enlightenment. Building a boat is not beyond men like us, Senior Wrangler. ” “Quite, Dean. ” “All we have to do is search this island until we find a book with a title like Practical Boat-Building for Beginners. ” “Exactly. It’ll be plain sailing after that, Dean. Ahaha. ” He glanced up, and swallowed hard. Mrs. Whitlow was sitting on a log in the shade, fanning herself with a large leaf. The sight stirred things in the Senior Wrangler. He was not at all sure what they were, but little details like the way something creaked when she moved twanged bits of the Senior Wrangler as well. “You all right, Senior Wrangler? You look as if the heat is getting to you. ” “Just a little…warm, Dean. ” The Dean looked past him as he loosened his collar. “Well, they haven’t been long,” he said. The other wizards were walking down the beach. One advantage of a long wizarding robe is that it can be held like an apron, and the Chair of Indefinite Studies was bulging at the front even more than usual. “Found anything to eat?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Er…yes. ” “Fruit and nuts, I suppose,” grumbled the Dean. “Er…yes, and then again, no,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Um…it’s rather odd…” The Chair of Indefinite Studies let his burden spill out on to the sand.

There were coconuts, other nuts of various sizes, and assorted hairy or knobbly vegetable things. “All rather primitive,” said the Dean. “And probably poisonous. ” “Well, the Bursar’s been eating things like there’s no tomorrow,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. The Bursar burped happily. “That doesn’t mean there will be,” said the Dean. “What’s up with you fellows? You keep looking at one another. ” “Er…we’ve tasted a few things too, Dean,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Ah, I see the gatherers have returned!” roared Ridcully happily, walking towards them. He waved three fish on a string. “Anything resembling potatoes in there, chaps?” “You’re not going to believe any of this,” mumbled the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “You’re going to accuse us of trickery. ” “What are you talking about?” said the Dean. “They don’t look very tricky to me. ” The Chair of Indefinite Studies gave a sigh. “Have a coconut,” he said. “Do they go off bang or something?” “No, nothing like that at all. ” The Dean picked up a nut, gave it a suspicious look, and banged it on a stone. It fell into two exact halves. There was no milk to spill out. Inside the husk was a brown inner shell, full of soft white fibers. Ridcully picked up a bit of it and sniffed. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “That’s not natural. ” “So?” said the Dean. “It’s a coconut full of coconut. What’s odd about that?” The Archchancellor broke off a piece of the shell and handed it over. It was soft and slightly crumbly. The Dean tasted it. “Chocolate?” he said. Ridcully nodded. “Dairy milk, by the taste of it. With a creamy coconut filling. ” “Thaf’s nod poffible,” said the Dean, his cheeks bulging. “Spit it out, then. ” “I think I might perhaps try a little more,” said the Dean, swallowing. “In a spirit of enquiry, you understand. ” The Senior Wrangler picked up a knobbly bluish nut about the size of a fist and tapped it experimentally. It shattered but was held together because of the gooey contents. The smell was very familiar. A careful taste confirmed it. The wizards regarded the nut’s innards in shocked silence. “It’s even got the blue veins,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Yes, we know, we tried one,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies weakly. “And, after all, there is such a thing as a bread fruit—” “I’ve heard of it,” said Ridcully. “And I might believe there’s such a thing as a nat’rally chocolate-covered coconut, because chocolate’s a kind of potato—” “A bean, possibly,” said Ponder Stibbons. “Whatever. But I damn well don’t believe there’s such a thing as a mature Lancre Blue runny cheese nut!” He prodded the thing. “But nature does come up with some very funny coincidences, Archchancellor,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Why, I myself, as a child, once dug up a carrot which, ahaha, most amusingly looked just like a man with a—” “Er…” said the Dean. It was only a little sound, but it had a certain portentous quality. They turned to look at him. He’d been peeling away the yellowing husk from something like a small bean pod. What he now held— “Hah, yes, good joke,” said Ridcully. “ They certainly don’t grow on—” “I didn’t do anything! Look, it’s still got bits of pith and stuff on it!” said the Dean, waving the thing wildly. Ridcully took it, sniffed it, held it up to his ear and shook it, and then said quietly: “Show me where you found it, will you?” The bush was in a small clearing. Dozens of the little green shoots hung down between its tiny leaves. Each was tipped by a flower, but the flowers were curling up and falling off. The crop was ripe. Multicolored beetles zoomed away from the bush as the Dean selected a pod and peeled it open, revealing a slightly damp white cylinder. He examined it for a few seconds, then put one end in his mouth, took a box of matches from a pocket in his hat, and lit up. “Quite a smooth smoke,” he said. His hand shook slightly as he took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew a smoke ring. “Cork filter, too,” he said. “Er…well, both tobacco and cork are naturally occurring vegetable products,” quavered the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Chair?” said Ridcully. “Yes, Archchancellor?” “Shut up, will you?” “Yes, Archchancellor. ” Ponder Stibbons broke open a cork tip. There was a tiny ring of what well might have been— “Seeds,” he said. “But that can’t be right, because—” The Dean, wreathed in blue smoke, had been staring at the nearby vines. “Has it occurred to anyone else that those pods are remarkably rectangular?” he said. “Go for it, Dean,” said Ridcully. A brown outer husk was pulled aside. “Ah,” said the Dean. “Biscuits. Just the thing with cheese. ” “Er…” said Ponder. He pointed. Just beyond the bush a couple of boots lay on the ground. Rincewind ran his fingers over the cave wall. The ground shook again. “What’s causing that?” he said. “Oh, some people say it’s an earthquake, some say it’s the country drying up, others say it’s a giant snake rushing through the ground,” said Scrappy. “Which is it?” “The wrong sort of question. ” They definitely looked like wizards, thought Rincewind. They had that basic cone shape familiar to anyone who had been to Unseen University. They were holding staffs. Even with the crude materials available to them the ancient artists had managed to portray the knobs on the ends. But UU hadn’t even existed thirty thousand years ago… Then he noticed, for the first time, the drawing right at the end of the cave. There were a lot of the ochre handprints on top of it, almost—and the thought expanded in his mind in a sneaky way—as though someone had thought that they could hold it down on to the rock, prevent it—this was a silly thought, he knew—prevent it from getting out. He brushed away some dust. “Oh, no ,” he mumbled. It was an oblong box. The artist hadn’t got the hang of conventional perspective, but there was no doubt that he’d tried to paint hundreds of little legs. “That’s my Luggage!” “Always the same, right?” said Scrappy, behind him. “You arrive okay and your luggage ends up somewhere else. ” “Thousands of years in the past?” “Could be a valuable antique. ” “It’s got my clothes in it!” “They’ll probably be back in style, then. ” “You don’t understand! It’s a magical box! It’s supposed to end up where I am!” “It probably is where you are. Just not when. ” “What? Oh. ” “I told you time and space were all stirred up, didn’t I? You wait till you’re on your journey. There’s places where there’s several times happening at once and places where there’s hardly any time at all, and times when there’s hardly any place. You’ve got to sort it out, right?” “What, like shuffling cards?” said Rincewind. He made a mental note about “on your journey. ” “Yep. ” “That’s impossible!” “Y’know, I’d have said so too. But you will do it. Now, you’ll have to concentrate about this bit, right?” Scrappy took a deep breath. “I know you’re going to do it because you’ve already done it. ” Rincewind put his head in his hands. “I told you about time and space here being mixed up,” said the kangaroo. “I’ve already saved the country, have I?” “Yep. ” “Oh, good. Well, that wasn’t so difficult. I don’t want much—a medal, perhaps, the grateful thanks of the population, maybe a small pension and a ticket home…” He looked up. “I’m not going to get any of that, though, am I?” “No, because—” “—I haven’t already done it yet ?” “Exactly! You’re getting the hang of it! You have to go and do what we know you’re going to do because you’ve already done it. In fact, if you hadn’t done it already I wouldn’t be here to make sure it gets done. So you’d better do it. ” “Facing terrible dangers?” The kangaroo waved a paw. “Slightly terrible,” it said. “And go for many miles over parched and trackless terrain?” “Well, yeah. We haven’t got any of the other sort. ” Rincewind brightened up slightly. “And I’ll meet comrades whose strengths and skills will be a great help to me?” “Don’t bet on it. ” “Any chance of a magic sword?” “What would you do with a magic sword?” “Fair enough. Fair enough. Forget the magic sword. But I’ve got to have something.

Cloak of invisibility, potion of strength, something like that…” “That stuffs for people who know how to use them, mister. You’ll have to rely on your native wit. ” “I’ve got nothing ? What sort of quest is that? Can’t you give me any hints?” “You may have to drink some beer,” said the kangaroo. It cringed back for a moment, as if confident of facing a storm of objections. Rincewind said: “Oh. Right. Well, I know how to do that. What direction am I supposed to go?” “Oh, you’ll find it. ” “And when I get to where I’m going, what am I supposed to do?” “It’ll…be obvious, right?” “And how will I know I’ve done it?” “The Wet will come back. ” “The wet what ?” “It’ll rain. ” “I thought it never rained here,” said Rincewind. “See? I knew you were smart. ” The sun was setting. The rocks around the edge of the cave glowed red. Rincewind stared at them for a while, and reached a brave decision. “I’m not the man to shirk when the fate of whole countries is in the balance,” he said. “I will make a start at dawn to complete this task which I have already completed, by hoki, or my name isn’t Rincewand!” “Rincewind,” said the kangaroo. “Indeed!” “Well said, mate. Then I should get some sleep, if I were you. Could be a busy day tomorrow. ” “I’ve not been found wanting when duty calls,” said Rincewind. He reached into a hollow log and, after some rummaging around, pulled out a plate of egg and chips. “See you at dawn, then. ” Ten minutes later he stretched out on the sand with the log as his pillow, and looked up at the purple sky. Already a few stars were coming out. Now, there was something…Oh, yes. The kangaroo was lying down on the other side of the water-hole. Rincewind raised his head. “You said something about when ‘he’ created this place, and you talked about ‘him’…” “Yep. ” “Only…I’m pretty sure I’ve met the Creator. Short bloke. Does all his own snowflakes. ” “Yeah? And when did you meet him ?” “When he was making the world, as a matter of fact. ” Rincewind decided to refrain from mentioning that he’d dropped a sandwich into a rockpool at the time. People don’t like to hear that they may have evolved from somebody’s lunch. “I get around quite a lot,” he added. “Are you coming the raw prawn?” “What? Oh, no. Certainly not. Coming a raw prawn? Not me. That’s something I never do. Or even cooked prawns. Or crustaceans of any sort, especially in rockpools. Not me. Er…what was it that you actually meant?” “Well, he didn’t create this place,” said Scrappy, ignoring him. “This was done after. ” “Can that happen?” “Why not?” “Well, it’s not like, you know, building on over the stables, is it?” said Rincewind. “Someone just wanders along when a world’s all finished and slings down an extra continent?” “Happens all the time, mate,” said Scrappy. “Bloody hell, yeah. Why not, anyway? If other creators go around leaving ruddy great empty oceans, someone’s bound to fill ’em up, right? Does a world good, too, having a fresh look, new ideas, new ways. ” Rincewind stared up at the stars. He had a mental vision of someone walking from world to world, sneaking in extra lands when no one was looking. “Yes indeed,” he said. “I for one would not have thought of making all the snakes deadly, and all the spiders deadlier than the snakes. And putting pockets on everything? Great idea. ” “There you go, then,” said Scrappy. He was hardly visible now, as the dark filled up the cave. “Made a lot of them, has he?” “Yep. ” “Why?” “So’s maybe at least one of them won’t get mucked up. Always puts kangaroos on ’em, too. Sort of a signature, you might say. ” “Does this Creator have a name?” “Nope. He’s just the man who carries the sack that contains the whole universe. ” “A leather sack?” “Sounds like him,” the kangaroo agreed. “The whole universe in one small sack?” “Yep. ” Rincewind settled back. “I’m glad I’m not religious,” he said. “It must be very complicated. ” After another five minutes he began to snore. After half an hour he moved his head slightly. The kangaroo didn’t seem to be around. With almost super-Rincewind speed he was upright and scrambling up the fallen rocks, over the lip of the cave and into the dark oven of the night. He sighted on a random star and got into his stride, ignoring the bushes that lashed at his bare legs. Hah! He was not going to be found wanting when duty called. He did not intend to be found at all. In the cave the water in the pool rippled under the starlight, the expanding circles lapping against the sand. On the wall was an ancient drawing of a kangaroo, in white and red and yellow. The artist had tried to achieve on stone what might better have been attempted with eight dimensions and a large particle accelerator; he’d tried to include not just the kangaroo now but also the kangaroo in the past, and the kangaroo in the future and, in short, not what the kangaroo looked like but what the kangaroo was. Among other things, as it faded, it was grinning. Among the complexities that made up the intelligent biped known to the rest of the world as Mrs. Whitlow was this: there was no such thing as an informal meal in Mrs. Whitlow’s world. If Mrs. Whitlow made sandwiches even just for herself she would put a sprig of parsley on the top. She placed a napkin on her lap to drink a cup of tea. If the table could have a vase of flowers and a placemat with a tasteful view of something nice, so much the better. It was unthinkable that she should eat a meal balanced on her knees. In fact it was unthinkable to think of Mrs. Whitlow as having knees, although the Senior Wrangler had to fan himself with his hat occasionally. So the beach had been scoured to find enough bits of driftwood to make a very rough table, and some suitable rocks to use as seats. The Senior Wrangler dusted one off with his hat. “There we are, Mrs. Whitlow…” The housekeeper frowned. “Ai’m really sure it’s Not Done for the staff to eat with the gentlemen,” she said. “Be our guest, Mrs. Whitlow,” said Ridcully. “Ai really can’t. It does not Do to get ideas above one’s station,” said Mrs. Whitlow. “Ai would never be able to look you in the face again, sir. Ai hope Ai know my Place. ” Ridcully looked blank for a moment, and then said quietly: “Faculty meeting, gentlemen?” The wizards went into another huddle a little way along the beach. “What are we supposed to do about that ?” “I think it’s very commendable of her. Her world is Below Stairs, after all. ” “Yes, very well, but it’s not as if there’re any stairs on this island. ” “Could we build some?” “We can’t let the poor woman sit off by herself somewhere, that is my point. ” “We spent ages on that table!” “And did you notice something about the driftwood, Archchancellor?” “Looked like perfectly ordinary wood to me , Stibbons. Branches, treetrunks and whatnot. ” “That’s the strange thing, sir, because—” “It’s very simple, Ridcully. I hope that, as gentlemen, we know how to treat a woman—” “ Lady. ” “Let me just say that was unnecessarily sarcastic, Dean,” said Ridcully. “Very well. If the Prophet Ossory won’t go to the mountain, the mountain must go to the Prophet Ossory. As they say in Klatch. ” He paused. He knew his wizards. “I believe, in fact, that it’s in Omnia that—” Ponder began. Ridcully waved a hand. “Something like that, anyway. ” And that is why Mrs. Whitlow dined alone at the table, while the wizards sat around the fire a little way away, except that very frequently one of them would lumber over to offer her some choice bit of nature’s bounty. It was obvious that starvation would not be a problem on this island, although dyspepsia and gout might be. Fish was the main course. Frenzied searching had failed to locate a steak bush so far but had found, in addition to numerous more conventional fruits, a pasta bush, a sort of squash that contained something very much like custard and, to Ridcully’s disgust, a pineapple-like plant the fruit of which was, when the husk had been stripped away, a large plum pudding. “Obviously it’s not really a plum pudding,” he protested.

“We just think it’s like a plum pudding because it tastes exactly like a…plum pudding…” His voice trailed off. “It’s got plums and currants in it,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Pass the custard squash, will you?” “My point is that we only think they look like currants and plums—” “No, we also think they taste like currants and plums,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Look, Archchancellor, there’s no mystery. Obviously wizards have been here before. This is the result of perfectly ordinary magic. Perhaps our lost geographer did a bit of experimenting. Or it’s sorcery, perhaps. Some of the things that got created in the old days, well, a cigarette bush is very small beer by comparison, eh?” “Talking of small beer…” said the Dean, waving his hand, “pass me the rum, will you?” “Mrs. Whitlow doesn’t approve of strong liquor,” said the Senior Wrangler. The Dean glanced at the housekeeper, who was daintily eating a banana, a feat which is quite hard to do. He put down the coconut shell. “Well, she…I am…I don’t see…well, damn it all, that’s all I’ve got to say. ” “Or bad language,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “I vote we take some of those bees back with us,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Marvelous little creatures. No footling around being content with making boring honey. You just reach up and pick one of these handy little wax containers and bob’s your uncle. ” “She takes all the peel off slowly before she eats it. Oh, dear…” “Are you all right, Senior Wrangler? Is the heat getting to you?” “What? Eh? Hmm? Oh, nothing. Yes. Bees. Wonderful things. ” They glanced up at a couple of the bees, who were busying themselves around a flowering bush in the last of the light. They were leaving little black smoke trails. “Shooting around like little rockets,” said the Archchancellor. “Amazing. ” “I’m still worried about those boots,” said the Senior Wrangler. “You’d think the man had been pulled right out of them. ” “It’s a tiny island, man,” said Ridcully. “All we’ve seen is birds, a few little squeaky things and a load of insects. You don’t get big fierce animals on islands you can practically throw a stone across. He must’ve just…felt a bit carefree. It’s a bit hot for boots here, anyway. ” “So why haven’t we seen him?” “Hah! He’s probably lying low,” said the Dean. “Ashamed to face us. Keeping a nice sunny island in your study is against University rules. ” “Is it?” said Ponder. “I’ve never seen it mentioned. How long has it been a rule?” “Ever since I’ve had to sleep in a freezing bedroom,” said the Dean, darkly. “Pass the bread-and-butter-pudding fruit, will you?” “Ook,” said the Librarian. “Ah, nice to see you your old shape, old chap,” said Ridcully. “Try and keep it up for longer this time, eh?” “Ook. ” The Librarian was sitting behind a pile of fruit. Normally he wouldn’t question such a perfect piece of positioning, but now even the bananas were bothering him. There was the same sensation of wrongness. There were long yellow ones, and stubby ones, and red ones, and fat brown ones— He stared at the remains of the fish. There was a big silver one, and a fat red one, and a small gray one, and a flat one a bit like a plaice— “Obviously some sorcerer landed here and wanted to make the place more homely,” the Senior Wrangler was saying, but he sounded far off. The Librarian was counting. The plum-pudding plant, the custard-squash vine, the chocolate coconut—He turned his head to look at the trees. And now he knew what he was looking for, he couldn’t see it anywhere. The Senior Wrangler stopped talking as the ape scrambled to his knuckles and sped back to the high-tide line. The wizards watched in silence as he scrabbled through the heaped-up seashells. He came back with a double handful, which he dropped triumphantly in front of the Archchancellor. “Ook!” “What’s that, old chap?” “ Ook !” “Yes, very pretty, but what’s—” “OOK!” The Librarian seemed to remember what kind of intellects he was dealing with. He held up a finger and looked at Ridcully enquiringly. “Ook?” “Still not quite with you—” Two fingers went up. “Ook ook?” “Not sure I fully—” “Ook ook ook!” Ponder Stibbons looked at the three fingers now raised. “I think he’s counting, sir. ” The Librarian handed him a banana. “Ah, the old ‘How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up?’ game,” said the Dean. “But usually we all have to have a bit more to drink first—” The Librarian waved his hand at the fish, at the meal, at the shells and at the background of trees. One finger stabbed at the sky. “Ook!” “It’s all one to you?” said Ridcully. “It’s one big place? It’s one to remember?” The Librarian opened his mouth again, and then sneezed. A very large red seashell lay on the sand. “Oh, dear,” said Ponder Stibbons. “That’s interesting,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “He’s turned into quite a good specimen of the giant conch. You can get a marvelous sound out of one of them if you blow in the pointy end…” “Volunteers?” said the Dean, almost under his breath. “Oh, dear,” said Ponder again. “What’s up with you?” said the Dean. “There’s only one,” said Ponder. “That’s what he was trying to tell us. ” “One what?” said Ridcully. “Of everything, sir. There’s only one of everything. ” It was, he thought later, a good dramatic line. People ought to have looked at one another in growing and horrified realization and said things like, “By George, you know, he’s right!” But these were wizards, capable of thinking very big thoughts in very small chunks. “Don’t be daft, man,” said Ridcully. “There’s millions of the damn shells, for a start. ” “ Yes , sir, but look, they’re all different , sir. All the trees we found…there was only one of each sort, sir. Lots of banana trees, but they all produce different types of bananas. There was only one cigarette tree, wasn’t there?” “Lots of bees, though,” said Ridcully. “But only one swarm,” said Ponder. “ Millions of beetles,” said the Dean. “I don’t think I’ve seen two alike , sir. ” “Well, that’s interesting ,” said Ridcully, “but I don’t see—” “One of anything doesn’t work , sir,” said Ponder. “It can’t breed. ” “Yes, but they’re only trees , Stibbons. ” “Trees need males and females too, sir. ” “They do?” “Yes, sir. Sometimes they’re different bits of the same tree, sir. ” “ What ? You sure?” “Yes, sir. My uncle grew nuts, sir. ” “Keep it down, boy, keep it down! Mrs. Whitlow might hear you!” Ponder was taken aback. “What, sir? But…well…she is Mrs. Whitlow, sir…” “What’s that got to do with the price of feet?” “I mean…presumably there was a Mr. Whitlow, sir?” Ridcully’s face went wooden for a moment and his lips moved as he tried out various responses. Finally he settled, weakly, for: “That’s as maybe, but it all sounds pretty mucky to me. ” “I’m afraid that’s nature for you, sir. ” “I used to like walking through the woods on a nice spring morning, Stibbons. You mean to say the trees were at it like knives the whole time?” Ponder’s horticultural knowledge found itself a little exhausted at this point. He tried to remember what he could about his uncle, who’d spent most of his life up a ladder. “I, er, think camel-hair brushes are sometimes involved—” he began, but Ridcully’s expression told him that this wasn’t a welcome fact, so he went on, “Anyway, sir, ones don’t work. And there’s another thing, sir. Who smokes the cigarettes? I mean, if the bush just hopes that butts are going to be dropped around the place, who does it think is going to smoke them?” “What?” Ponder sighed. “The point about fruit, sir, is that it’s a kind of lure. A bird’ll eat the fruit and then, er, drop the seeds somewhere. It’s the way the plant spreads its seeds around. But we’ve only seen birds and a few lizards on this island, so how—” “Ah, I see what you mean,” said Ridcully. “You’re thinking: what kind of bird stops flyin’ around for a quick smoke?” “A puffin,” said the Bursar. “Glad to see you’re still with us, Bursar,” said Ridcully, without looking round. “Birds don’t smoke, sir.

You’ve got to ask yourself what’s in it for the bush, you see? If there were people here, well, I suppose you might get a sort of nicotine tree eventually, because they’d smoke the cigarettes—I mean,” he corrected himself, because he prided himself on his logical thought, “these things that look like cigarettes, and stub them out around the place, thus spreading the seeds which are in the filter. Some seeds need heat to germinate, sir. But if there aren’t any people, the bush doesn’t make any sense. ” “ We’re people,” said the Dean. “And I like a smoke after supper. Everyone knows that. ” “Yes, but with respect, sir, we’ve only been here a couple of hours and I doubt whether the news has spread all the way to small islands,” said Ponder patiently, and with, as it turned out, one hundred percent inaccuracy. “That’s probably not long enough for one to evolve. ” “Are you tellin’ me,” said Ridcully, like a man with something on his mind, “that you think when you eat an apple you’re helping it to…” He stopped. “It was bad enough about the trees. ” He sniffed. “I shall stick to eating fish. At least they make their own arrangements. At a decent distance, I understand. And you know what I think about evolution, Mister Stibbons. If it happens, and frankly I’ve always considered it a bit of a fairy story, it has to happen fast. Look at lemmings, for one thing. ” “Lemmings, sir?” “Right. The little blighters keep chargin’ over cliffs, right? And how many have ever changed into birds on the way down, eh? Eh?” “Well, none, of cou—” “There’s my point,” said Ridcully triumphantly. “And it’s no good one of them on the way down thinking, ‘Hey, maybe I should waggle my claws a bit,’ is it? No, what it ought to do is decide really positively about growing some real wings. ” “What, in a couple of seconds? While they’re plunging towards the rocks?” “Best time. ” “But lemmings don’t just turn into birds, sir!” “Lucky for them if they could, though, eh?” There was a roar, far off in the little jungle. It sounded rather like a foghorn. “Are you sure there aren’t any dangerous creatures on this island?” said the Dean. “I think I saw some prawns,” said the Senior Wrangler nervously. “No, the Archchancellor was right, it’s far too small,” said Ponder, trying to dismiss the thought of flying lemmings. “It couldn’t possibly support anything that could hurt us, sir. After all, what would it eat?” Now they could all hear something crashing through the trees. “Us?” said the Dean hesitantly. A creature blundered out on to the sunset sands. It was large and seemed to be mainly head—one huge, reptilian head that looked almost as big as the body below it. It walked on two long hind legs. There was a tail, but given the amount of teeth now showing at the other end the wizards weren’t inclined to take in too much additional detail. The creature sniffed the air and roared again. “Ah,” said Ridcully. “The solution to the mystery of the disappearing geographer, I suspect. Well done, Senior Wrangler. ” “I think I’ll just—” the Dean began. “Stay still, sir!” hissed Ponder. “A lot of reptiles can’t see you if you don’t move!” “I can assure you, at the speed I intend nothing is going to see me…” The monster turned its head this way and that, and began to lumber forward. “Can’t see things that don’t move?” said the Archchancellor. “You mean we just have to wait for it to walk into a tree?” “Mrs. Whitlow’s still sitting there!” said the Senior Wrangler. She was in fact spreading some runny cheese on a biscuit in a ladylike fashion. “I don’t think she’s seen it!” Ridcully rolled up his sleeve. “I think a round of fireballs, gentlemen,” he said. “Hold on,” said Ponder. “This may be an endangered species. ” “So is Mrs. Whitlow. ” “But do we have the right to wipe out what—” “Absolutely,” said Ridcully. “If its creator had meant it to survive he would have given it a fireproof skin. That’s your evolution for you, Stibbons. ” “But perhaps we ought to study it…?” The thing was beginning to get up speed now. It was amazing how fast it could move, considering how big it was. “Er…” said Ponder nervously. Ridcully raised his arm. The creature stopped, jerked into the air, and then went flat, like a rubber ball that had been stepped on, and indeed when it sprang back into shape it was with a noise akin to the sound made when a bad conjurer is having trouble twisting the back legs on to the balloon animal. Insofar as it had an expression at all, it looked more astonished than hurt. Little flashes of lightning crackled around it. It went flat again, rolled up into a cylinder, twisted into a range of interesting but probably painful shapes, shrank to a ball the size of a grapefruit and then, with a final and rather sad little noise that might well have been spelled prarp , dropped back on to the sand. “Now that was pretty good,” said Ridcully. “Which of you fellows did that?” The wizards looked at one another. “Not us,” said the Dean. “It was going to be fireballs all the way. ” Ridcully nudged Ponder. “Go on, then,” he said. “Study it. ” “Er…” Ponder looked at the bewildered creature on the sand. “Er…the subject appears to have turned into a large chicken. ” “Good, well done,” said Ridcully, as if to wrap things up. “Shame to waste this fireball, then. ” He hurled it. It was a road. At least, it was a long flat piece of desert with wheel ruts in it. Rincewind stared at it. A road. Roads went somewhere. Sooner or later they went everywhere. And when you got there, you generally found walls, buildings, harbors…boats. And incidentally a shortage of talking kangaroos. That was practically one of the hallmarks of civilization. It wasn’t that he was against anyone saving the world, or whatever subset of it apparently wanted saving. He just felt that it didn’t need saving by him. Which way to go? He picked a direction at random and jogged along for a while, as the sun came up. After a while there was a cloud of dust in the dawn, coming closer. Rincewind stood hopefully by the track. What eventually appeared at the inverted apex of the cloud was cart, pulled by a string of horses. The horses were black. So was the cart. And it didn’t seem to be slowing down. Rincewind waved his hat in the air, just as the horses came past. After a while the dust settled. He got back on to his feet and walked unsteadily through the bushes until he found the cart where it had come to rest. The horses watched him warily. It wasn’t a huge cart to be pulled by eight horses, but both they and the cart were covered with so much wood, leather and metal they probably didn’t have much energy to spare. Spikes and studs covered every surface. The reins led not to the usual seat, but into holes in the front of the cart itself. This was roofed over with more wood and ironmongery—bits of old stove, hammered-out body armor, saucepan lids, and tin cans that had been stamped flat and nailed on. Above the slot where the reins went in was something like a piece of bent stovepipe, poking through the cart’s roof. It had a watchful look. “Er…hello?” said Rincewind. “Sorry if I scared your horses…” In the absence of any reply he climbed up an armored wheel and looked at the top of the cart. There was a round lid that had been pushed open. Rincewind didn’t even consider looking inside. That’d mean his head would be outlined against the sky, a sure way of getting your body outlined against the dirt. A twig cracked behind him. He sighed, and got down slowly, taking great care not to turn around. “I surrender totally,” he said, raising his hands. “That’s right,” said a level voice. “This is a crossbow, mate. Let’s have a look at your ugly mug. ” Rincewind turned. There was no one behind him. Then he looked down. The crossbow was almost vertical. If it were fired, the bolt would go right up his nose. “A dwarf?” he said. “You’ve got something against dwarfs?” “Who, me? No! Some of my best friends would be dwarfs. If I had any friends, I mean. Er. I’m Rincewind. ” “Yeah? Well, I’m short-tempered,” said the dwarf. “Most people call me Mad.

” “Just ‘Mad’? That’s an…unusual name. ” “It ain’t a name. ” Rincewind stared. There was no doubt that his captor was a dwarf. He didn’t have the traditional beard or iron helmet, but there were other little ways that you could tell. There was the chin that you could break coconuts on, the fixed expression of ferocity, and the certain bullet-headedness that meant its owner could go through walls face first. And, of course, if all else failed, the fact that the top of it was about level with Rincewind’s stomach was a clue. Mad wore a leather suit but, like the cart, it had metal riveted on to it wherever possible. Where there weren’t rivets there was weaponry. The word “friend” jumped into the forefront of Rincewind’s brain. There are many reasons for being friends with someone. The fact that he’s pointing a deadly weapon at you is among the top four. “Good description,” said Rincewind. “Easy to remember. ” The dwarf cocked his head on one side and listened. “Blast, they’re catching me up. ” He looked back up at Rincewind and said, “Can you fire a crossbow?” in a way that indicated that answering “no” was a good way to contract immediate sinus trouble. “Absolutely,” said Rincewind. “Get on the cart, then. Y’know, I’ve been travelin’ this road for years and this is the first time anyone’s ever dared to hitch a lift?” “Amazing,” said Rincewind. There was not much room under the hatch, and most of it was taken up by more weapons. Mad pushed Rincewind aside, grasped the reins, peered into the periscope stovepipe and urged the horses into motion. Bushes scraped against the wheels and the horses dragged back on to the track and began to get up speed. “Beaut, aren’t they?” said Mad. “They can outrun anything, even with the armor. ” “This is certainly a very… original cart,” said Rincewind. “Got a few modifications of my own,” said Mad. He grinned evilly. “You a wizard, mister?” “Broadly speaking, yes. ” “Any good?” Mad was loading another crossbow. Rincewind hesitated. “No,” he said. “Lucky for you,” said Mad. “I’d have killed you if you were. Can’t stand wizards. Bunch of wowsers, right?” He grasped the handles of the bent stovepipe and swiveled it around. “Here they come,” he muttered. Rincewind peered over the top of Mad’s head. There was a piece of mirror in the bend of the pipe. It showed the road behind, and half a dozen dots under another cloud of red dust. “Road gang,” said Mad. “After my cargo. Steal anything, they will. All bastards are bastards, but some bastards is bastards. ” He pulled a handful of nosebags from under the seat. “Right, you get up on top with a couple of crossbows, and I’ll fix the supercharger. ” “What? You want me to start shooting at people?” “You want me to start shooting at people?” said Mad, pushing him up the ladder. Rincewind crawled out on to the top of the cart. It was swaying and bouncing. Red dust choked him and the wind tried to blow his robe over his head. He hated weapons, and not just because they’d so often been aimed at him. You got into more trouble if you had a weapon. People shot you instantly if they thought you were going to shoot them. But if you were unarmed, they often stopped to talk. Admittedly, they tended to say things like, “You’ll never guess what we’re going to do to you, pal,” but that took time. And Rincewind could do a lot with a few seconds. He could use them to live longer in. The dots in the distance were other carts, designed for speed rather than cargo. Some had four wheels, some had two. One had…just one, a huge one between narrow shafts, with a tiny saddle on top. The rider looked as though he’d bought his clothes in the scrapmetal yards of three continents and, where they wouldn’t fit, had strapped on a chicken. But not one as big as the chicken pulling his wheel. It was bigger than Rincewind and most of what wasn’t leg was neck. It was covering the ground as fast as a horse. “What the hell’s that ?” he yelled. “Emu!” shouted Mad, who was now hanging among the harnesses. “Try and pick it off, they’re a good feed!” The cart jolted. Rincewind’s hat whirled away into the dust. “Now I’ve lost my hat!” “Good! Bloody awful hat!” An arrow twanged off a metal plate by Rincewind’s foot. “And they’re shooting at me!” A cart rattled out of the dust. The man beside the driver whirled something around his head. A grapnel bit into the woodwork by Rincewind’s other foot and ripped off a metal plate. “And they’re—” he began. “You’ve got a bow, right?” yelled Mad, who was balancing on the back of one of the horses. “And find something to hold onta, they’re gonna go at any minute—” The cart had been moving at the gallop, but now it suddenly shot forward and almost jolted Rincewind right off. Smoke poured out of the axles. The landscape blurred. “What the hell is that?” “Supercharger!” shouted Mad, pulling himself on to the cart inches from the frantically pounding hooves. “Secret recipe! Now hold ’em off, right, ’cos someone’s gotta steer!” The emu emerged from the dust cloud with a few of the faster carts rattling behind it. An arrow buried itself in the cart right between Rincewind’s legs. He flung himself flat on the swaying roof, held out the crossbow, shut his eyes and fired. In accordance with ancient narrative practice, the shot ricocheted off someone’s helmet and brought down an innocent bird some distance away, whose only role was to expire with a suitably humorous squawk. The man driving the emu drew alongside. From under a familiar hat with “Wizzard” dimly visible in the grime he gave Rincewind a grin. Every tooth had been sharpened to a point, and the front six had “Mother” engraved on them. “G’day!” he shouted cheerfully. “Hand over your cargo and I promise you that you won’t be killed all in one go. ” “That’s my hat! Give me back my hat!” “You’re a wizard, are you?” The man stood up on the saddle, balancing easily as the wheel bounced over the sand. He waved his hands over his head. “Look at me, mates! I’m a bloody wizard! Magic, magic, magic!” A very heavy arrow, trailing a rope, smashed into the back of the cart and stuck fast. There was a cheer from the riders. “You give me back my hat or there’ll be trouble!” “Oh, there’s gonna be trouble anyway ,” said the rider, aiming his crossbow. “Tell you what, why not turn me into somethin’ bad ? Oh, I’m all afrai—” His face went green. He pitched backwards. The crossbow bolt hit the driver of the cart beside him, which veered wildly into the path of another, which swerved and crashed into a camel. That meant the carts behind were suddenly faced with a pile-up which, together with the absence of brakes on any vehicle, immediately got bigger. Part of it was kicking people as well. Rincewind, hands over his head, watched until the last wheel had rolled away, and then walked unsteadily along the swaying cart to where Mad was leaning on the reins. “Er, I think you can slow down now, Mr. Mad,” he ventured. “Yeah? Killed ’em all, didja?” “Er…not all of them. Some of them just ran away. ” “You kiddin’ me?” The dwarf looked round. “Stone me, you ain’t! Here, pull that lever as hard as you can!” He waved at a long metal rod beside Rincewind, who tugged it obediently. Metal screamed as the brakes locked against the wheels. “Why’re they going so fast?” “It’s a mixture of oats and lizard glands!” shouted Mad, against the red-hot squealing. “Gives ’em a big jolt!” The cart had to circle for a few minutes until the adrenaline wore off, and then they went back along the track to look at the wreckage. Mad swore again. “What happened ?” “He shouldn’t’ve stolen my hat,” Rincewind mumbled. The dwarf jumped down and kicked a broken cartwheel. “You did this to people because they stole your hat ? What do you do if they spit in your eye, blow up the country?” “’s my hat,” said Rincewind sullenly. He wasn’t at all sure what had happened. He wasn’t any good at magic, that he knew.

The only curses of his that stood a chance of working were on the lines of “May you get rained on at some time in your life,” and “May you lose some small item despite the fact that you put it there only a moment ago. ” Going pale green…he looked down…oh, yes, and slightly yellow in blotches, now…was not the usual effect. Mad wandered purposefully among the wreckage. He picked up a few weapons and tossed them aside. “Want the camel?” he said. The creature was standing a little way off, eyeing him suspiciously. It looked quite unscathed, having been the cause of considerable scathe in other people. “I’d really rather stick my foot in a bacon slicer,” said Rincewind. “Sure? Well, hitch it onta the cart, it’ll fetch a good price in Dijabringabeeralong,” said Mad. He looked at a homemade repeating crossbow, grunted and tossed it aside. Then he looked at another cart and his face brightened. “Ah! Now we’re cooking with charcoal!” he said. “It’s our lucky day, mate!” “Oh. A bag of hay,” said Rincewind. “Give us a hand to get it on the wagon, willya?” said Mad, unbolting the rear of his own cart. “What’s so special about hay?” The cart opened. It was full of hay. “Life or death out here, mate. There’s people’d slit yew from here to breakfast for a bale of hay. Man without hay is a man without a horse, and out here a man without a horse is a corpse. ” “Sorry? I went through all that for a load of hay ?” Mad waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially. “ And two sacks of oats in the secret compartment, mate. ” He slapped Rincewind on the back. “An’ to think I thought yew was some back-stabbin’ drongo I ort to toss over the rail! Turns out you’re as mad as me!” There are times when it does not pay to declare one’s sanity, and Rincewind realized that he’d be mad to do so now. Anyway, he could talk to kangaroos and find cheese and chutney rolls in the desert. There were times when you had to look wobbly facts in the face. “Mental as anything,” he said, with what he hoped was disarming modesty. “Good bloke! Let’s load up their weapons and grub and get goin’!” “What do we want their weapons for?” “Fetch a good price. ” “And what about the bodies?” “Nah, worthless. ” While Mad was nailing salvaged bits of scrap metal to his cart, Rincewind sidled over to the green and yellow corpse…and, oh yes, large black areas now…and, using a stick, levered his hat from its head. A small eight-legged ball of angry black fur sprang out and locked its fangs on to the stick, which began to smolder. He put it down very carefully, grabbed the hat and ran. Ponder sighed. “I wasn’t questioning your authority, Archchancellor,” he said. “I just feel that if a huge monster evolves into a chicken right in front of you, the considered response should not be to eat the chicken. ” The Archchancellor licked his fingers. “What would you have done, then?” he said. “Well…studied it,” said Ponder. “So did we. Postmortem examination,” said the Dean. “Minutely,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, happily. He belched. “Pardon me , Mrs. Whitlow. Will you have a little more br…” He caught Ridcully’s steely glance, and went on, “…front part of the chicken, Mrs. Whitlow?” “And we’ve discovered that it’ll no longer be any menace to visiting wizards,” said Ridcully. “It’s just that I think proper research should involve more than having a look to see if you can find a sage-and-onion bush,” said Ponder. “You saw how quickly it changed, didn’t you?” “Well?” said the Dean. “That can’t be natural. ” “ You’re the one who says things naturally change into other things, Mister Stibbons. ” “But not that fast!” “Have you ever seen any of this evolution happening?” “Well, of course not, no one has ever—” “There you are, then,” said Ridcully, in a closing-the-argument voice. “That might be the normal speed. As I said, it makes perfect sense. There’s no point in turning into a bird a bit at a time, is there? A feather here, a beak there…You’d see some damn stupid creatures wandering around, eh?” The other wizards laughed. “Our monster probably simply thought, Oh, there’s too many of them, perhaps I’d better turn into something they’d like. ” “Enjoy,” said the Dean. “Sensible survival strategy,” said Ridcully. “Up to a point. ” Ponder rolled his eyes. These things always sounded fine when he worked them out in his head. He’d read some of the old books, and sit and think for ages , and a little theory would put itself together in his head in a row of little shiny blocks, and then when he let it out it’d run straight into the Faculty and one of them, one of them, would always ask some bloody stupid question which he couldn’t quite answer at the moment. How could you ever make any progress against minds like that? If some god somewhere had said, “Let there be light,” they’d be the ones to say things like “Why? The darkness has always been good enough for us. ” Old men, that was the trouble. Ponder was not totally enthusiastic about the old traditions, because he was well into his twenties and in a moderately important position and therefore, to some of the mere striplings in the University, a target. Or would have been, if they weren’t getting that boiled eyeball feeling by sitting up all night tinkering with Hex. He wasn’t interested in promotion, anyway. He’d just be happy if people listened for five minutes, instead of saying, “Well done, Mister Stibbons, but we tried that once and it doesn’t work,” or, “We probably haven’t got the funding,” or, worst of all, “You don’t get proper fill-in-nouns these days—remember old ‘nickname’ ancient-wizard-who-died-fifty-years-ago-who-Ponder-wouldn’t-possibly-be-able-to-remember? Now there was a chap who knew his fill-in-nouns. ” Above Ponder, he felt, were a lot of dead men’s shoes. And they had living men’s feet in them, and were stamping down hard. They never bothered to learn anything, they never bothered to remember anything apart from how much better things used to be, they bickered like a lot of children and the only one who ever said anything sensible said it in orangutan. He prodded the fire viciously. The wizards had made Mrs. Whitlow a polite rude hut out of branches and big woven leaves. She bade them goodnight and demurely pulled some leaves across the entrance behind her. “A very respectable lady, Mrs. Whitlow,” said Ridcully. “I think I’ll turn in myself, too. ” There were already one or two sets of snores building up around the fire. “I think someone ought to stand guard,” said Ponder. “Good man,” muttered Ridcully, turning over. Ponder gritted his teeth and turned to the Librarian, who was temporarily back in the land of the bipedal and was sitting gloomily wrapped in a blanket. “At least I expect this is a home from home for you, eh, sir?” The Librarian shook his head. “Would you be interested in hearing what else is odd about this place?” said Ponder. “Ook?” “The driftwood. No one listens to me, but it’s important. We must have dragged loads of stuff for the fire, and it’s all natural timber, do you notice that? No bits of plank, no old crates, no tatty old sandals. Just…ordinary wood. ” “Ook?” “That means we must be a long way off the normal shipping…oh, no…don’t…” The Librarian wrinkled his nose desperately. “Quickly! Concentrate on having arms and legs! I mean living ones!” The Librarian nodded miserably, and sneezed. “Awk?” he said, when his shape had settled down again. “Well,” said Ponder sadly. “At least you’re animate. Possibly rather large for a penguin, though. I think it’s your body’s survival strategy. It keeps trying to find a stable shape that works. ” “Awk?” “Funny it can’t seem to do anything about the red hair…” The Librarian glared at him, shuffled a little way along the beach, and sagged into a heap. Ponder looked around the fire. He seemed to be the man on watch, if only because no one else intended to do it. Well, wasn’t that a surprise. Things twittered in the trees. Phosphorescence glimmered on the sea. The stars were coming out. He looked up at the stars. At least you could depend— And, suddenly, he saw what else was wrong.

“Archchancellor!” So how long have you been mad? No, not a good start, really…It was quite hard to know how to open the conversation. “So…I didn’t expect dwarfs here,” Rincewind said. “Oh, the family blew in from NoThingfjord when I was a kid,” said Mad. “Meant to go down the coast a bit, storm got up, next thing we’re shipwrecked and up to our knees in parrots. Best thing that could’ve happened. Back there I’d be down some freezing cold mine picking bits of rock out of the walls but, over here, a dwarf can stand tall. ” “Really,” said Rincewind, his face carefully blank. “But not too bloody tall!” Mad went on. “Certainly not. ” “So we settled down, and now my dad’s got a chain of bakeries in Bugarup. ” “Dwarf bread?” said Rincewind. “Too right! That’s what kept us going across thousands of miles of shark-infested ocean,” said Mad. “If we hadn’t had that sack of dwarf bread we’d—” “—never have been able to club the sharks to death?” said Rincewind. “Ah, you’re a man who knows your breads. ” “Big place, Bugarup? Has it got a harbor?” “People say so. Never been back there. I like the outdoor life. ” The ground trembled. The trees by the track shook, even though there was no wind. “Sounds like a storm,” said Rincewind. “What’s one of them?” “You know,” said Rincewind. “Rain. ” “Aw, strain the flaming cows, you don’t believe all that stuff, do you? My granddad used to go on about that when he’d been at the beer. It’s just an old story. Water falling out of the sky? Do me a favor!” “It never does that here?” “Course not!” “Happens quite a lot where I come from,” said Rincewind. “Yeah? How’s it get up into the sky, then? Water’s heavy. ” “Oh, it…it…I think the sun sucks it up. Or something. ” “How?” “I don’t know. It just happens. ” “And then it drops out of the sky?” “Yes!” “For free?” “Haven’t you ever seen rain?” “Look, everyone knows all the water’s deep underground. That’s only sense. It’s heavy stuff, it leaks down. I never seen it floating around in the air, mate. ” “Well, how do you think it got on the ground in the first place?” Mad looked astonished. “How do mountains get on the ground?” he said. “What? They’re just there!” “Oh, so they don’t drop out of the sky?” “Of course not! They’re much heavier than air!” “And water isn’t? I’ve got a coupla drums of it under the cart and you’d sweat to lift ’em. ” “Aren’t there any rivers here?” “ Course we’ve got rivers! This country’s got everything, mate!” “Well, how do you think the water gets into them?” Mad looked genuinely puzzled. “What’d we want water in the rivers for? What’d it do?” “Flow out to sea—” “Bloody waste! That’s what you let it do where you come from, is it?” “You don’t let it, it…happens…it’s what rivers do!” Mad gave Rincewind a long hard look. “Yep. And they call me mad,” he said. Rincewind gave up. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. But the ground shook again. Archchancellor Ridcully glared at the sky as if it was doing this to upset him personally. “What, not one ?” he said. “Technically, not a single familiar constellation,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies frantically. “We’ve counted three thousand, one hundred and ninety-one constellations that could be called the Triangle, for example, but the Dean says some of them don’t count because they use the same stars—” “There’s not a single star I recognize,” said the Senior Wrangler. Ridcully waved his hands in the air. “They change a bit all the time,” he said. “The Turtle swims through space and—” “Not this fast!” said the Dean. The disheveled wizards looked up at the rapidly crowding night. Discworld constellations changed frequently as the world moved through the void, which meant that astrology was cutting-edge research rather than, as elsewhere, a clever way of avoiding a proper job. It was amazing how human traits and affairs could so reliably and continuously be guided by a succession of big balls of plasma billions of miles away, most of whom have never even heard of humanity. “We’re marooned on some other world!” moaned the Senior Wrangler. “Er…I don’t think so,” said Ponder. “You’ve got a better suggestion, I suppose?” “Er…you see that big patch of stars over there?” The wizards looked at the large cluster twinkling near the horizon. “Very pretty,” said Ridcully. “Well?” “I think it’s what we call the Small Boring Group of Faint Stars. It’s about the right shape,” said Ponder. “And I know what you’re going to say, sir, you’re going to say, ‘But they’re just a blob in the sky, not a patch on the blobs we used to get,’ sir, but, you see, that’s what they might have looked like when Great A’Tuin was much closer to them, thousands of years ago. In other words, sir,” Ponder drew a deep breath, in dread of everything that was to come, “I think we’ve traveled backwards in time. For thousands of years. ” And that was the other side of the odd thing about wizards. While they were quite capable of spending half an hour arguing that it could not possibly be Tuesday, they’d take the outrageous in their pointy-shoed stride. The Senior Wrangler even looked relieved. “Oh, is that it?” he said. “Bound to happen eventually,” said the Dean. “It’s not written down anywhere that these holes connect to the same time, after all. ” “Going to make gettin’ back a bit tricky,” said Ridcully. “Er…” Ponder began. “It might not be so simple as that, Archchancellor. ” “You mean as simple as finding a way to move through time and space?” “I mean there might not be any there to go back to ,” said Ponder. He shut his eyes. This was going to be difficult, he knew it. “Of course there is,” said Ridcully. “We were there only this morn—Only yesterday. That is to say, yesterday thousands of years in the future, naturally. ” “But if we’re not careful we might alter the future, you see,” said Ponder. “The mere presence of us in the past might alter the future. We might already have altered history. It’s vital that I tell you this. ” “He’s got a point, Ridcully,” said the Dean. “Was there any of that rum left, by the way?” “Well, there isn’t any history happening here,” said Ridcully. “It’s just an odd little island. ” “I’m afraid tiny actions anywhere in the world may have huge ramifications, sir,” said Ponder. “We certainly don’t want any ramifications. Well, what’s your point? What do you advise?” It had been going so well. They almost seemed up to speed. This may have been what caused Ponder to act like the man who, having so far fallen a hundred feet without any harm, believes that the last few inches to the ground will be a mere formality. “To use the classic metaphor, the important thing is not to kill your own grandfather,” he said, and smacked into the bedrock. “What the hell would I want to do that for?” said Ridcully. “I quite liked the old boy. ” “No, of course, I mean accidentally,” said Ponder. “But in any case—” “Really? Well, as you know, I accidentally kill people every day,” said Ridcully. “Anyway, I don’t see him around—” “It’s just an illustration, sir. The problem is cause and effect, and the point is—” “The point, Mister Stibbons, is that you suddenly seem to think everyone comes over all fratricidal when they go back in time. Now, if I’d met my grandfather I’d buy him a drink and tell him not to assume that snakes won’t bite if you shout at them in a loud voice, information which he might come to thank me for in later life. ” “Why?” said Ponder. “Because he would have some later life,” said Ridcully. “No, sir, no! That’d be worse than shooting him!” “It would?” “Yes, sir!” “I think there may be one or two steps in your logic that I have failed to grasp, Mister Stibbons,” said the Archchancellor coldly. “I suppose you’re not intending to shoot your own grandfather, by any chance?” “Of course not!” snapped Ponder. “I don’t even know what he looked like. He died before I was born. ” “Ah- hah !” “I didn’t mean—” “Look, we’re a lot further back in time than that,” said the Dean. “Thousands of years, he says. No one’s grandfather is alive. ” “That’s a lucky escape for Mister Stibbons senior, then,” said Ridcully.

“ No , sir,” said Ponder. “Please! What I was trying to get across, sir, is that anything you do in the past changes the future. The tiniest little actions can have huge consequences. You might…tread on an ant now and it might entirely prevent someone from being born in the future!” “Really?” said Ridcully. “Yes, sir!” Ridcully brightened up. “That’s not a bad wheeze. There’s one or two people history could do without. Any idea how we can find the right ants?” “No, sir!” Ponder struggled to find a crack in his Archchancellor’s brain into which could be inserted the crowbar of understanding, and for a few vain seconds thought he had found one. “Because…the ant you tread on might be your own, sir!” “You mean…I might tread on an ant and this’d affect history and I wouldn’t be born?” “Yes! Yes! That’s it ! That’s right , sir!” “How?” Ridcully looked puzzled. “I’m not descended from ants. ” “Because…” Ponder felt the sea of mutual incomprehension rising around him, but he refused to drown. “Well…er…well, supposing it…bit a man’s horse, and he fell off, and he was carrying a very important message, and because he didn’t get there in time there was a terrible battle, and one of your ancestors got killed—no, sorry, I mean didn’t get killed—” “How did this ant get across the sea?” said Ridcully. “Clung to a piece of driftwood,” said the Dean promptly. “It’s amazing what can get even on to remote islands by clinging to driftwood. Insects, lizards, even small mammals. ” “And then got up the beach and all the way to this battle?” said Ridcully. “Bird’s leg,” said the Dean. “Read it in a book. Even fish eggs get transported from pond to pond on a bird’s leg. ” “Pretty determined ant, then, really,” said Ridcully, stroking his beard. “Still, I must admit stranger things have happened. ” “Practically every day,” said the Senior Wrangler. Ponder beamed. They had successfully negotiated an extended metaphor. “Only one thing I don’t understand, though,” Ridcully added. “ Who’ll tread on the ant ?” “What?” “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” said the Archchancellor. “If I tread on this ant, then I won’t exist. But if I don’t exist, then I can’t have done it, so I won’t, so I will. See?” He prodded Ponder with a large, good-natured finger. “You’ve got some brains, Mister Stibbons, but sometimes I wonder if you really try to apply logical thought to the subject in hand. Things that happen stay happened. It stands to reason. Oh, don’t look so downcast,” he said, mistaking—possibly innocently—Ponder’s expression of futile rage for shameful dismay. “If you get stuck with any of this compl’cated stuff, my door’s always open. * I am your Archchancellor, after all. ” “Excuse me, can we tread on ants or not?” said the Senior Wrangler peevishly. “If you like. ” Ridcully swelled with generosity. “Because, in fact, history already depends on your treading on any ants that you happen to step on. Any ants you tread on, you’ve already trodden on, so if you do it again it’ll be for the first time, because you’re doing it now because you did it then. Which is also now. ” “Really?” “Yes indeed. ” “So we should have worn bigger boots?” said the Bursar. “Try to keep up, Bursar. ” Ridcully stretched and yawned. “Well, that seems to be it,” he said. “Let’s try to get back to sleep, shall we? It’s been rather a long day. ” Someone was keeping up. After the wizards got back to sleep, a faint light, like burning marsh gas, circled over them. He was an omnipresent god, although only in a small area. And he was omnicognizant, but just enough to know that while he did indeed know everything it wasn’t the whole Everything, just the part of it that applied to his island. Damn! He’d told himself the cigarette tree would cause trouble. He should have stopped it the moment it started growing. He’d never meant it to get out of hand like this. Of course, it had been a shame about the other…pointy creature, but it hadn’t been his fault, had it? Everything had to eat. Some of the things that were turning up on the island were surprising even him. And some of them never stayed stable for five minutes together. Even so, he allowed himself a little smirk of pride. Two hours between the one called the Dean dying for a smoke and the bush evolving, growing and fruiting its first nicotine-laden crop. That was evolution in action. Trouble was, now they’d start poking around and asking questions. The god, almost alone among gods, thought questions were a good thing. He was in fact committed to people questioning assumptions, throwing aside old superstitions, breaking the shackles of irrational prejudice and, in short, exercising the brains their god had given them, except of course they hadn’t been given them by any god, lord knows, so what they really ought to do was exercise those brains developed over millennia in response to the external stimuli and the need to control those hands with their opposable thumbs, another damn good idea that he was very proud of. Or would have been, of course, if he existed. However, there were limits. Freethinkers were fine people, but they shouldn’t go around thinking just anything. The light vanished and reappeared, still circling, in the sacred cave on the mountain. Technically, he knew, it wasn’t in fact sacred, since you needed believers to make a place sacred and this god didn’t actually want believers. Usually, a god with no believers was as powerful as a feather in a hurricane, but for some reason he’d not been able to fathom he was able to function quite happily without them. It may have been because he believed so fervently in himself. Well, obviously not in himself , because belief in gods was irrational. But he did believe in what he did. He considered, rather guiltily, making a few more thunder lizards in the hope that they might eat the intruders before they got too nosy, but then dismissed the thought as being unworthy of a modern, forward-thinking deity. There were racks and racks of seeds in this part of the cave. He selected one from among the pumpkin family, and picked up his tools. These were unique. Absolutely no one else in the world had a screwdriver that small. A green shoot speared up from the forest litter in response to the first light of dawn, unfolded into two leaves, and went on growing. Down among the rich compost of fallen leaves, white shoots writhed like worms. This was no time for half-measures. Somewhere far down, a questing tap root found water. After a few minutes, the bushes around the by now large and moving plant began to wilt. The lead shoot dragged itself onwards, towards the sea. Tendrils just behind the advancing stem wound around handy branches. Larger trees were used as support, bushes were uprooted and tossed aside and a tap root sprouted to take possession of the newly vacated hole. The god hadn’t had much time for sophistication. The plant’s instructions had been put together from bits and pieces lying around, things he knew would work. At last the first shoot crossed the beach and reached the sea. Roots drove into the sand, leaves unfolded, and the plant sprouted one solitary female flower. Small male ones had already opened along the stem. The god hadn’t programmed this bit. The whole problem with evolution, he’d told himself, was that it wouldn’t obey orders. Sometimes, matter thinks for itself. A thin prehensile tendril bunched itself for a moment, then sprang up and lassoed a passing moth. It curved back, dipped the terrified insect waist deep in the pollen of a male flower, then coiled back with whiplash speed and slam-dunked it into the embracing petals of the female. A few seconds later the flower dropped off and the small green ball below it began to swell, just as the horizon began to blush with the dawn. Argo nauticae uniquo was ready to produce its first, and only, fruit. There was a huge windmill, squeaking around on top of a metal tower. A sign attached to the tower read: “Dijabringabeeralong: Check your Weapons. ” “Yep, still got all mine, no worries,” said Mad, urging the horses forward.

They crossed a wooden bridge, although Rincewind couldn’t see why anyone had bothered to build it. It seemed a lot of effort just to cross a stretch of dry sand. “Sand?” said Mad. “That’s the Lassitude River, that is!” And, indeed, a small boat went past. It was being towed by a camel and was making quite good time on its four wide wheels. “A boat,” said Rincewind. “Never seen one before?” “Not one being pedaled, no,” said Rincewind, as a tiny canoe went past. “They’d hoist the sail if the wind was right. ” “But…this might sound a strange question…Why is it a boat shape?” “It’s the shape boats are. ” “Oh, right. I thought it’d be a good reason like that. How did the camels get here?” “They cling to driftwood, people say. The currents wash a lot of stuff up, down on the coast. ” Dijabringabeeralong was coming into view. It was just as well there had been the sign, otherwise they might have ridden through it without noticing. The architecture was what is known professionally as “vernacular,” a word used in another field to mean “swearing” and this was quite appropriate. But then, Rincewind thought, it’s as hot as hell and it never rains—all you need a house for is to mark some kind of boundary between inside and outside. “You said this was a big town,” he said. “It’s got a whole street. And a pub. ” “Oh, that’s a street , is it? And that logpile is a pub?” “You’ll like it. It’s run by Crocodile. ” “Why do they call him Crocodile?” A night sleeping on the sand hadn’t helped the Faculty very much. And the Archchancellor didn’t help even more. He was an early morning man as well as being, most unfairly, a late-night man. Sometimes he went from one to the other without sleeping in between. “Wake up, you fellows! Who’s game for a brisk trot around the island? There’ll be a small prize for the winner, eh?” “Oh, my gods,” moaned the Dean, rolling over. “He’s doing push-ups. ” “I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m advocating a return to the bad old days,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, trying to dislodge some sand from his ear, “but once upon a time we used to kill wizards like him. ” “Yes, but we also used to kill wizards like us, Chair,” said the Dean. “Remember what we’d say in those days?” said the Senior Wrangler. “‘Never trust a wizard over sixty-five’? Whatever happened?” “We got past the age of sixty-five, Senior Wrangler. ” “Ah, yes. And it turned out that we were trustworthy after all. ” “Good thing we found out in time, eh?” “There’s a crab climbing that tree,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, who was lying on his back and staring straight upwards. “An actual crab. ” “Yes,” said the Senior Wrangler. “They’re called Tree-climbing Crabs. ” “Why?” “I had this book when I was a little lad,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “It was about this man who was shipwrecked on an island such as this and he thought he was all alone and then one day he found a footprint in the sand. There was a woodcut,” he added. “One footprint?” said the Dean, sitting up, clutching his head. “Well…yes, and when he saw it he knew that he—” “—was alone on an island with a crazed one-legged long-jump champion?” said the Dean. He was feeling testy. “Well, obviously he found some other footprints later on…” “I wish I was on a desert island all alone,” said the Senior Wrangler gloomily, watching Ridcully running on the spot. “Is it just me,” the Dean asked, “or are we marooned thousands of miles and thousands of years from home?” “Yes. ” “I thought so. Is there any breakfast?” “Stibbons found some soft-boiled eggs. ” “What a useful young man he is,” the Dean groaned. “Where did he find them?” “On a tree. ” Bits of last night came back to the Dean. “A soft-boiled-egg tree?” “Yes,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Nicely runny. They’re quite good with breadfruit soldiers. ” “You’ll be telling me next he found a spoon tree…” “Of course not. ” “Good. ” “It’s a bush. ” The Senior Wrangler held up a small wooden spoon. It had a few small leaves still attached to it. “A bush that fruits spoons…” “Young Stibbons said it makes perfect sense, Dean. After all, he said, we’d picked them because they’re useful, and then spoons are always getting lost. Then he burst into tears. ” “He’s got a point, though. Honestly, this place is like Big Rock Candy Mountain. ” “I vote we leave it as soon as possible,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “We’d better have a serious look at this boat idea today. I don’t want to meet another of those horrible lizards. ” “One of everything, remember?” “Then probably there’s a worse one. ” “Building some sort of boat can’t be very hard,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Even quite primitive people manage it. ” “Now look ,” snapped the Dean, “we’ve searched everywhere for a decent library on this island. There simply isn’t one! It’s ridiculous. How is anyone supposed to get anything done?” “I suppose…we could… try things?” said the Senior Wrangler. “You know…see what floats, that sort of thing. ” “Oh, well, if you want to be crude about it…” The Chair of Indefinite Studies looked at the Dean’s face and decided it was time to lighten the atmosphere. “I was, aha, just wondering,” he said, “as a little mental exercise…if you were marooned on a desert island, eh, Dean…what kind of music would you like to listen to, eh?” The Dean’s face clouded further. “I think, Chair, that I would like to listen to the music in the Ankh-Morpork Opera House. ” “Ah. Oh? Yes. Well…very…very…very direct thinking there, Dean. ” Rincewind grinned glassily. “So…you’re a crocodile, then. ” “Thif worrying you?” said the barman. “No! No! Don’t they call you anything else, though?” “Well…there’f a nickname they gave me…” “Oh, yes?” “Yeah. Crocodile Crocodile. But in here moft people call me Dongo. ” “And…er…this stuff? What do you call this ?” “We call it beer,” said the crocodile. “What do you call it?” The barman wore a grubby shirt and a pair of shorts, and until he’d seen a pair of shorts tailored for someone with very short legs and a very long tail Rincewind hadn’t realized what a difficult job tailoring must be. Rincewind held the beer glass up to the light. And that was the point. You could see light all the way through it. Clear beer. Ankh-Morpork beer was technically ale, that is to say, gravy made from hops. It had texture. It had flavor, even if you didn’t always want to know what of. It had body. It had dregs. You could eat the last half-inch of it with a spoon. This stuff was thin and sparkly and looked as though someone had already drunk it. Tasted all right, though. Didn’t sit on your stomach the way the beer at home did. Weak stuff, of course, but it never did to insult someone else’s beer. “Pretty good,” he said. “Where’d you blow in from?” “Er…I floated here on a piece of driftwood. ” “Was there room with all the camels?” “Er…yes. ” “Good on yer. ” Rincewind needed a map. Not a geographical map, although one of those would be a help, but one that showed him where his head was at. You didn’t usually get crocodiles serving behind a bar, but everyone else in this cavern of a place seemed to think it was perfectly normal. Mind you, the people in the bar included three sheep in overalls and a couple of kangaroos playing darts. And they weren’t exactly sheep. They looked more like, well…human sheep. Sticking-out ears, white curls, a definite sheepish look, but standing upright, with hands. And he was pretty sure that there was no way you could get a cross between a human and a sheep. If there was, people would definitely have found out by now, especially in the more isolated rural districts. Something similar had happened with the kangaroos. There were the pointy ears and they definitely had snouts, but now they were leaning on the bar drinking this thin, strange beer. One of them was wearing a stained vest with the legend “Wagga Hay—it’s the Rye Grass!” just visible under the dirt. In short, Rincewind had the feeling he wasn’t looking at animals at all. He took another sip of the beer. He couldn’t raise the subject with Crocodile Dongo.

There was a philosophical wrongness about drawing a crocodile’s attention to the fact that there were a couple of kangaroos in the bar. “Youse wanta nother beer?” said Dongo. “Yeah, right,” said Rincewind. He looked at the sign on the beer pump. It was a picture of a grinning kangaroo. The label said: Roo Beer. He raised his eyes to a torn poster on the wall. It also advertised Roo Beer. There was the same kangaroo, holding a pint of said beer and wearing the same knowing grin. It looked familiar, for some reason. “I can’t help nossisting…” He tried again. “I can’t help noticing ,” he said, “that some people in this barrardifferentshap from other p’ple. ” “Well, old Hollowlog Joe over there’f put on a bit of weight lately,” said Dongo, polishing a glass. Rincewind looked down at his legs. “Whose legsare dese?” “You okay, mifter?” “Prob’ly been bitten by so’thing,” said Rincewind. A sudden urgent need gripped him. “It’f out the back,” said Dongo. “Out back in the outback,” said Rincewind, staggering forward. “Hahahaha—” He walked into an iron pillar, which picked him up in a fist and held him at arm’s length. He looked along the arm to a large angry face and an expression that said a lot of beer was looking for a fight and the rest of the body was happy to go along with it. Rincewind was muzzily aware that in his case a lot of beer wanted to run away. And at a time like this, it’s always the beer talking. “I bin lisnin ’ to you. Where’re you from, mister?” said the giant’s beer. “Ankh-M’pork…” At a time like this, why lie? The bar went quiet. “An’ you’re gonna come here and make a lot of cracks about us all drinkin’ beer and fightin’ and talkin’ funny, right?” Some of Rincewind’s beer said, “No worries. ” His captor pulled him so they were face to face. Rincewind had never seen such a huge nose. “An’ I expect you don’t even know that we happen to produce some partic’ly fine wines, our Chardonnays bein’ ’specially worthy of attention and compet’tively priced, not to mention the rich, firmly structur’d Rusted Dunny Valley Semillons, which are a tangily refreshin’ discovery for the connesewer… yew bastard ?” “Jolly good, I’ll have a pint of Chardonnay, please. ” “You takin’ the piss?” “No, I’d like to leave it here—” “How about you putting my mate down?” said a voice. Mad was in the doorway. There was a general scuffle to get out of the way. “Oh, you looking for a fight too, stubby?” Rincewind was dropped as the huge creature turned to face the dwarf, fists clenching. “I don’t look for them. I just walk into pubs and there they are,” said Mad, pulling out a knife. “Now, you going to leave him alone, Wally?” “You call that a knife?” The giant unsheathed one that’d be called a sword if it had been held in a normal-sized hand. “ This is what I call a knife!” Mad looked at it. Then he reached his hand around behind his back, and it came back holding something. “Really? No worries. This ,” he said, “is what I call a crossbow. ” “It’s a log,” said Ridcully, inspecting the boat-building committee’s work to date. “Rather more than a log—” the Dean began. “Oh, you’ve made a mast and tied the Bursar’s bathrobe to it, I can see that. It’s a log, Dean. There’s roots on one end and bits of branch at the other. You haven’t even hollowed it out. It’s a log. ” “It took us all hours ,” said the Senior Wrangler. “And it does float,” the Dean pointed out. “I think the term is more like wallows,” said Ridcully. “And we’d all get on it, would we?” “This is the one-man version,” said the Dean. “We thought we’d test it out and then try it with a lot of them together…” “Like a raft, you mean?” “I suppose so,” said the Dean, with considerable reluctance. He would have preferred a more dynamic name for it. “Obviously these things take time. ” The Archchancellor nodded. He was impressed, in a strange way. The wizards had succeeded in recapitulating, in a mere day, a technological development that had probably taken mankind several hundred years. They might be up to coracles by Tuesday. “Which of you is going to test it?” he said. “We thought perhaps the Bursar could assist at this point in the development program. ” “Volunteered, has he?” “We’re sure he will. ” In fact the Bursar was some distance away, wandering aimlessly but happily through the beetle-filled jungle. The Bursar was, as he would probably be the first to admit, not the most mentally stable of people. He would probably be the first to admit that he was a tea-strainer. But he was, as it were, only insane on the outside. He’d never been very interested in magic as a boy, but he had been good at numbers, and even somewhere like Unseen University needed someone who could add up. And he had indeed survived many otherwise exciting years by locking himself in a room somewhere and conscientiously adding up, while some very serious division and subtraction was going on outside. Those were still the days when magical assassination was still a preferred and legal route to high office, but he’d been quite safe because no one had wanted to be a bursar. Then Mustrum Ridcully had been appointed, and he’d put a stop to the whole business by being unkillable and had been, in his own strange way, a modernizer. And the senior wizards had gone along with him because he tended to shout at them if they didn’t and it was, after some exhilarating times in the University’s history, something of a relief to enjoy your dinner without having to watch someone else eat a bit of it first or having to check your shape the moment you got out of bed. But it was hell for the Bursar. Everything about Mustrum Ridcully rasped across his nerves. If people were food, the Bursar would have been one of life’s lightly poached eggs, but Mustrum Ridcully was a rich suet pudding with garlic gravy. He spoke as loudly as most people shouted. He stamped instead of walking. He roared around the place, and lost important bits of paper which he then denied he’d ever seen, and shot his crossbow at the wall when he was bored. He was aggressively cheerful. Never sick himself, he tended to the belief that sickness in other people was caused by sloppy thinking. And he had no sense of humor. And he told jokes. It was odd that this affected the Bursar so much, since he did not have a sense of humor either. He was proud of it. He was not the kind of man to laugh. But he did know, in a mechanical sort of way, how jokes were supposed to go. Ridcully told jokes like a bullfrog did accountancy. They never added up. So the Bursar found it much more satisfying to live inside his own head, where he didn’t have to listen and where there were clouds and flowers. Even so, something must have filtered in from the world outside, because occasionally he’d jump up and down on an ant, just in case he was supposed to. Part of him rather hoped that one of the ants was, in some unimaginably distant way, related to Mustrum Ridcully. It was while he was thus engaged in changing the future that he noticed what looked like a very thick green hosepipe on the ground. “Hmm?” It was slightly transparent and seemed to be pulsating rhythmically. When he put his ear to it he heard a sound like gloop. Mildly deranged though he was, the Bursar had the true wizard’s instinct to amble aimlessly into dangerous places, so he followed the throbbing stem. Rincewind awoke, because sleep was so hard with someone kicking him in the ribs. “Wzt?” “You want I should pour a bucket of water on yez?” Rincewind recognized the chatty tones. His eyes unglued. “Oh, not you! You’re a figment of my imagination!” “I should kick you in the ribs again, then?” said Scrappy. Rincewind pulled himself upright. It was dawn, and he was lying in some bushes out behind the pub. Memory played its silent movie across the tattered sheets of his eyelids. “There was a fight…Mad shot that…that…shot him with a crossbow !” “Only through the foot so’s he’d stand still to be hit. Wombats can’t hold their drink, that’s their trouble. ” More recollections flickered across the smoky darkness of Rincewind’s brain.

“That’s right, there were animals drinking in there!” “Yes and no,” said the kangaroo. “I tried to explain…” “I’m all ears,” said Rincewind. His eyes glazed for a moment. “No, I’m not, I’m all bladder. Back in a minute. ” The buzz of flies and a sort of universal smell drew Rincewind into a nearby hut. Some people would have liked to think of it as “the bathroom,” although not after going inside. He came out again, hopping up and down urgently. “Er…there’s a great big spider on the toilet seat…” “What’re you gonna do, wait till it’s finished? Fan it with yer hat!” It was odd, Rincewind thought as he shooed the spider out, that a human being would, er, use the bathroom behind a bush in the middle of a thousand miles of howling wilderness but would fight for a dunny if there was one available. “And stay out,” he muttered, when he was confident the spider was out of earshot. But the human brain often feels incapable of concentrating on the job in hand, and Rincewind found his gaze wandering. And here, as in private places everywhere, men had found the urge to draw on the walls. Perhaps it was the way the light hit the ancient woodwork, but under the usual minutiae from people who needed people, and drawings done from overheated hope rather than memory, was a deeply scored drawing of men in pointy hats. He sidled out thoughtfully and edged away through the bushes. “No worries,” said the kangaroo, so close to his ear that Rincewind was quite pleased that he’d already relieved himself. “I don’t believe it!” “You’ll see them everywhere. They’re built in. They find their way into people’s thoughts. You can’t outrun your destiny, mate. ” Rincewind didn’t even bother to argue. “You’re going to have to sort this out,” said Scrappy. “You’re the cause. ” “I’m not! Things happen to me , not the other way around!” “I could disembowel you with a kick, you know. Would you like to see?” “Er…no. ” “Haven’t you noticed that by running away you end up in more trouble?” “Yes, but, you see, you can run away from that , too,” said Rincewind. “That’s the beauty of the system. Dead is only for once, but running away is for ever. ” “Ah, but it is said that a coward dies a thousand deaths, while a hero dies only one. ” “Yes, but it’s the important one. ” “Aren’t you ashamed?” “No. I’m going home. I’m going to find this city called Bugarup, find a boat, and go home. ” “Bugarup?” “Don’t tell me the place doesn’t exist. ” “Oh, no. It’s a big place. And that’s where you’re going?” “And don’t try to stop me!” “I can see you’ve made up your mind,” said Scrappy. “Read my lips!” “Your moustache is in the way. ” “Read my beard, then!” The kangaroo shrugged. “In that case, I’ve got no choice but to carry on helping you, I suppose. ” Rincewind drew himself up. “I’ll find my own way,” he said. “You don’t know the way. ” “I’ll ask someone!” “What about food? You’ll starve. ” “Ahah, that’s where you’re wrong!” Rincewind snapped. “I’ve got this amazing power. Watch!” He lifted up a nearby stone, extracted what was underneath, and flourished it. “See? Impressed, eh?” “Very. ” “Ahah!” Scrappy nodded. “I’ve never seen anyone do that with a scorpion before. ” The god was sitting high up in a tree working on a particularly promising beetle when the Bursar ambled past far below. Well, at last. One of them had found it! The god had spent some time watching the wizards’ attempts at boat-building, although he had been unable to fathom out what it was they were trying to do. As far as he could tell, they were showing some interest in the fact that wood floated. Well, it did float, didn’t it? He threw the beetle into the air. It hummed into life at the top of the arc and flew away, a smear of iridescence among the tree-tops. The god drifted out of his tree and followed the Bursar. The god hadn’t made up his mind about these creatures yet, but the island was, unfortunately and against all his careful planning, throwing up all sorts of odd things. These were obviously social creatures, with some of the individuals designed for specific tasks. The hairy red one was designed for climbing trees, and the dreamy ant-stamping one for walking into them. Possibly the reasons for this would become apparent. “Ah, Bursar!” said the Dean heartily. “How would you like a brief trip around the lagoon?” The Bursar looked at the soaking log and sought for words. Sometimes, when he really needed to, it was possible to get Mr. Brain and Mr. Mouth all lined up together. “I had a boat once,” he said. “Well done! And here’s another one, just for—” “It was green. ” “Really? Well, we can—” “I’ve found another green boat,” said the Bursar. “It’s floating in the water. ” “Yes, yes, I’m sure you have,” said Ridcully kindly. “A big boat with lots of sails, I expect. Now then, Dean—” “Just one sail,” said the Bursar. “And a bare naked lady on the front. ” Hovering immanently, the god cursed. He’d never intended the figurehead. Sometimes, he really wanted to just break down and cry. “Bare naked lady?” said the Dean. “Settle down, Dean,” said the Senior Wrangler. “He’s probably just had too many dried frog pills. ” “It’s going up and down in the water,” said the Bursar. “Up and down, up and down. ” The Dean looked at their own creation. Contrary to all expectations, it did not go up and down in the water. It stayed exactly where it was and the water went up and down over it. “This is an island,” he said. “I suppose someone could have sailed here, couldn’t they? What kind of bare naked lady? A dusky one?” “Really, Dean!” “Spirit of enquiry, Senior Wrangler. Important bio-geographical information. ” The Bursar waited until his brain came around again. “Green,” he volunteered. “That is not a natural color for a human being, clothed or not,” said the Senior Wrangler. “She might be seasick,” said the Dean. There was only the vaguest of wistful longings in his head, but he did not want to let go of it. “Going up and down,” said the Bursar. “I suppose we could have a look,” said the Dean. “What about Mrs. Whitlow? She hasn’t been out of her hut yet. ” “She can come too if she likes,” said the Dean. “I don’t think we can expect Mrs. Whitlow to go looking at a bare naked lady, even if this one is green,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Why not? She must have seen at least one. Not green, of course. ” The Senior Wrangler drew himself up. “There’s no call for that sort of imputation,” he said. “What? Well, obviously she—” The Dean stopped. The big leaves on Mrs. Whitlow’s hut were pushed aside, and she emerged. It was probably the flower in her hair. That was certainly the crowning glory. But she’d also done things to her dress. There was, for a start, less of it. Since the word is derived from an island that did not exist on the Discworld, the wizards had never heard of a bikini. In any case, what Mrs. Whitlow had sewn together out of her dress was a lot more substantial than a bikini. It was more a newzealand —two quite large respectable halves separated by a narrow channel. She’d also tied some of the spare cloth around her waist, sarong style. In short, it was a very proper item of clothing. But it looked as if it wasn’t. It was as if Mrs. Whitlow was wearing a figleaf six feet square. It was still just a figleaf. “Ai thought this might be a leetle more suitable for the heat,” she said. “Of course, Ai wouldn’t dream of wearing it in the University, but since we appear to be here for a little while Ai remembered a picture Ai saw of Queen Zazumba of Sumtri. Is there anywhere Ai could have a bath, do you think?” “Mwaaa,” said the Senior Wrangler. The Dean coughed. “There’s a little pool in the jungle. ” “With waterlilies in it,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Pink ones. ” “Mwaaa,” said the Senior Wrangler. “And there’s a waterfall,” said the Dean. “Mwaaa. ” “And a soap bush, as a matter of fact. ” They watched her walk away. “Up and down, up and down,” said the Bursar. “A fine figure of a woman,” said Ridcully.

“She walks differently without her shoes on, doesn’t she? Are you all right, Senior Wrangler?” “Mwaa?” “I think the heat’s getting to you. You’ve gone very red. ” “I’m a mwaa…I’m…gosh, it is hot, isn’t it…? I think perhaps I should have a dip too…” “In the lagoon,” said Ridcully, meaningfully. “Oh, the salt’s very bad for the skin, Archchancellor. ” “Quite so. Nevertheless. Or you can go looking for the pool when Mrs. Whitlow comes back. ” “I find it rather insulting, Archchancellor, that you should appear to think that—” “Well done,” said Ridcully. “Now, shall we go and look at this boat?” Half an hour later all the wizards were assembled on the opposite shore. It was green. And it bobbed up and down. It was clearly a ship, but built perhaps by someone who’d had a very detailed book of ship-building which nevertheless didn’t have any pictures in it. There was a blurriness of the detail. The figurehead, for example, was certainly vaguely female, although to the Dean’s disappointment it had the same detail as a half-sucked jellybaby. It put the Senior Wrangler in mind of Mrs. Whitlow, although currently rocks, trees, clouds and coconuts also reminded him of Mrs. Whitlow. And then there was the sail. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, a leaf. And once you realized that it was a leaf, then a certain marrow or pumpkin quality about the rest of the vessel began to creep over you. Ponder coughed. “There are some plants which rely for propagation on floating seeds,” he said, in a small voice. “The common coconut, for example, has…” “Does it have a figurehead?” said Ridcully. “Er, one variety of mangrove fruit has a sort of keel which…” “And a sail with what looks very much like rigging?” said Ridcully. “Er…no…” “And what are those flowers on the top?” Ridcully demanded. Where a crow’s nest would be was a cluster of trumpet-shaped flowers, like green daffodils. “Who cares?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “It’s a ship, even if it is a giant pumpkin, and it looks as though there’s room for all of us. ” He brightened up. “Even if it is a bit of a squash,” he added. “It has appeared very fortuitously,” said Ridcully. “I wonder why?” “I said, ‘Even if it is a bit of a squash,’” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Because, a squash, you see, is another name for—” “Yes, I know,” said Ridcully, looking thoughtfully at the bobbing vessel. “I was only attempting to—” “Thank you for sharing, Chair. ” “Actually it does look pretty roomy,” said the Dean, ignoring the Chair’s pained expression. “I vote we load up with provisions and go. ” “Where to?” said Ridcully. “Somewhere where fearsome reptiles don’t suddenly turn into birds!” the Dean snapped. “You’d prefer it the other way around?” said Ridcully. He started to wade out into the water until, armpit deep, he was able to bang on the side of the hull with his staff. “I think you are being a little obtuse, Mustrum,” said the Dean. “Really? How many types of carnivorous plants are there, Mister Stibbons?” “Dozens, sir. ” “And they eat prey up to—?” “No upper limit in the case of the Sapu tree of Sumtri, sir. The Sledgehammer Plant of Bhang-bhangduc takes the occasional human victim who doesn’t see the mallet hidden in the greenery. There’s quite a few that can take anything up to rat size. The pyramid Strangler Vine really only preys on other more stupid plants, but—” “I just think that there’s something very odd about a boat-shaped plant turning up just when we want a boat,” said Ridcully. “I mean, chocolate coconuts, yes , and even filter-tipped cigarettes, but a boat with a figurehead?” “It’s not a proper boat without a figurehead,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Yes, but how does it know that?” said Ridcully, wading ashore gain. “Well, I’m not falling for it. I want to know what’s going on here. ” “ Damn !” They all heard the voice—thin, reedy and petulant. It came from everywhere around them. Small soft white lights appeared in the air, spun around one another with increasing speed, and then imploded. The god blinked, and rocked back and forth as he tried to steady himself. “Oh, my goodness,” he said. “What do I look like?” He held up a hand in front of his face and flexed his fingers experimentally. “Ah. ” The hand patted his face, his bald head, and lingered for a moment on the long white beard. He seemed puzzled. “What’s this?” he said. “Er…a beard?” said Ponder. The god looked down at his long white robe. “Oh. Patriarchality? Oh, well…let me see, now…” He seemed to pull himself together, focused his gaze on Ridcully, and his huge white eyebrows met like angry caterpillars. “Begone from This Place Or I Will Smite Thee!” he commanded. “Why?” The god looked taken aback. “Why? You can’t ask why in this situation!” “Why not?” The god looked slightly panicky. “Because…Thou Must Go from This Place Lest I Visit Thee with Boils!” “Really? Most people would bring a bottle of wine,” said Ridcully. The god hesitated. “What?” he said. “Or cake,” said the Dean. “Cake is a good present if you’re visiting someone. ” “It depends on what kind of cake,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Sponge cake, I’ve always thought, is a bit of an insult. Something with a bit of marzipan is to be preferred. ” “Begone from this place lest I visit you with cake?” said the god. “It’s better than boils,” said Ridcully. “Provided it’s not sponge,” said the Senior Wrangler. The problem faced by the god was that, while he had never encountered wizards before, the wizards had in their student days met, more or less on a weekly basis, things that threatened them horribly as a matter of course. Boils didn’t hold much of a menace when rogue demons had wanted to rip your head off and do terrible things down the hole. “Listen,” said the god, “I happen to be the god in these parts, do you understand? I am, in fact, omnipotent!” “ I’d prefer that, what is it, you know, the cake with the pink and yellow squares —” muttered the Senior Wrangler, because wizards tend to follow a thought all the way through. “You’re a bit small, then,” said the Dean. “ And the sugary marzipan on the outside, marvelous stuff …” The god finally realized what else had been bothering him. Scale was always tricky in these matters. Being three feet high was not adding anything to his authority. “Damn!” he said again. “Why am I so small?” “Size isn’t everything,” said Ridcully. “People always smirk when they say that. I can’t think why. ” “You’re absolutely right!” snapped the god, as if Ridcully had triggered an entirely new train of thought. “Look at amoebas, except that of course you can’t because they’re so small. Adaptable, efficient and practically immortal. Wonderful things, amoebas. ” His little eyes misted over. “Best day’s work I ever did. ” “Excuse me, sir, but exactly what kind of god are you?” said Ponder. “And is there cake or not?” said the Senior Wrangler. The god glared up at him. “I beg your pardon?” he said. “I meant, what is it that you’re the god of ?” said Ponder. “I said , what about this cake you’re supposed to have?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Senior Wrangler?” “Yes, Archchancellor?” “Cake is not the issue here. ” “But he said—” “Your comments have been taken on board, Senior Wrangler. And they will be thrown over the side as soon as we leave harbor. Do continue, god, please. ” For a moment the god looked in a thunderbolt mood, and then sagged. He sat down on a rock. “All that smiting talk doesn’t really work, does it?” he said gloomily. “You don’t have to be nice about it. I could tell. I could give you boils, you understand, it’s just that I can’t really see the point. They clear up after a while, anyway. And it is rather bullying people, isn’t it? To tell you the truth, I’m something of an atheist. ” “Sorry?” said Ridcully. “You are an atheist god?” The god looked at their expressions. “Yes, I know,” he said. “It’s a bit of a bottomer, isn’t it?” He stroked his long white beard. “Why exactly have I got this?” “You didn’t shave this morning?” said Ridcully.

“I mean, I simply tried to appear in front of you in a form that you recognize as godly,” said the god. “A long beard and a nightshirt seem to be the thing, although the facial hair is a little puzzling. ” “It’s a sign of wisdom,” said Ridcully. “Said to be,” said Ponder, who’d never been able to grow one. “Wisdom: insight, acumen, learning,” said the god thoughtfully. “Ah. The length of the hair improves the operation of the cognitive functions? Some sort of cooling arrangement, perhaps?” “Never really thought about it,” said Ridcully. “The beard gets longer as more wisdom is acquired?” said the god. “I’m not sure it’s actually a case of cause and effect,” Ponder ventured. “I’m afraid I don’t get about as much as I should,” said the god sadly. “To be frank, I find religion rather offensive. ” He heaved a big sigh and seemed to look even smaller. “Honest, I really do try but there are some days when life just gets me down…Oh, excuse me, liquid seems to be running out of my breathing tubes…” “Would you like to blow your nose?” said Ponder. The god looked panicky. “Where to?” “I mean, you sort of hold…Look, here’s my handkerchief, you just sort of put it over your nose and sort of…well, snuffle into it. ” “Snuffle,” said the god. “Interesting. And what a curiously white leaf. ” “No, it’s a cotton handkerchief,” said Ponder. “It’s…made. ” He stopped there. He knew that handkerchiefs were made, and cotton was involved, and he had some vague recollection of looms and things, but when you got right down to it you obtained handkerchiefs by going into a shop and saying, “I’d like a dozen of the reinforced white ones, please, and how much do you charge for embroidering initials in the corners?” “You mean…created?” said the god, suddenly very suspicious. “Are you gods too?” Beside his foot a small shoot pushed through the sand and began to grow rapidly. “No, no,” said Ponder. “Er…you just take some cotton and…hammer it flat, I think…and you get handkerchiefs. ” “Oh, then you’re tool-using creatures,” said the god, relaxing a little. The shoot near his foot was already a plant now, and putting out leaves and a flowerbud. He blew his nose loudly. The wizards drew closer. They were not, of course, afraid of gods, but gods tended to have uncertain tempers and a wise man kept away from them. However, it’s hard to be frightened of someone who’s having a good blow. “You’re really the god in these parts?” said Ridcully. The god sighed. “Yes,” he said. “I thought it would be so easy, you know. Just one small island. I could start all over again. Do it properly. But it’s all going completely wrong. ” Beside him the little plant opened a nondescript yellow flower. “Start all over again?” “Yes. You know…godliness. ” The god waved a hand in the direction of the Hub. “I used to work over there,” he said. “Basic general godding. You know, making people out of clay, old toenails, and so on? And then sitting on mountaintops and casting thunderbolts and all the rest of it. Although,” he leaned forward and lowered his voice, “very few gods can actually do that, you know. ” “Really?” said Ridcully, fascinated. “Very hard thing to steer, lightning. Mostly we waited until a thunderbolt happened to hit some poor soul and then spake in a voice of thunder and said it was his fault for being a sinner. I mean, they were bound to have done something , weren’t they?” The god blew his nose again. “Quite depressing, really. Anyway…I suppose the rot set in when I tried to see if it was possible to breed a more inflammable cow. ” He looked at the questioning expressions. “Burnt offerings, you see. Cows don’t actually burn all that well. They’re naturally rather soggy creatures and frankly everyone was running out of wood. ” They carried on staring at him. He tried again. “I really couldn’t see the point of the whole business, to tell you the truth. Shouting, smiting, getting angry all the time…don’t think anyone was getting anything out of it, really. But the worst part…You know the worst part? The worst part was that if you actually stopped the smiting, people wandered off and worshipped someone else. Hard to believe, isn’t it? They’d say things like, ‘Things were a lot better when there was more smiting,’ and, ‘If there was more smiting, it’d be a lot safer to walk the streets. ’ Especially since all that’d really happened was that some poor shepherd who just happened to be in the wrong place during a thunderstorm had caught a stray bolt. And then the priests would say, ‘Well, we all know about shepherds, don’t we, and now the gods are angry and we could do with a much bigger temple, thank you. ’” “Typical priestly behavior,” sniffed the Dean. “But they often believed it!” the god almost wailed. “It was really so depressing. I think that before we made humanity, we broke the mold. There’d be a bad weather front, a few silly shepherds would happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and next thing you know it was standing room only on the sacrificial stones and you couldn’t see for the smoke. ” He had another good blow on a piece of Ponder’s handkerchief that had so far remained dry. “I mean, I tried. God knows I tried, and since that’s me, I know what I’m talking about. ‘Thou Shalt Lie Down Flat in Thundery Weather,’ I said. ‘Thou Shalt Site the Midden a Long Way from the Well,’ I said. I even told them, ‘Thou Shalt Really Try to Get Along with One Another. ’” “Did it work?” “I can’t say for sure. Everyone was slaughtered by the followers of the god in the next valley who told them to kill everyone who didn’t believe in him. Ghastly fellow, I’m afraid. ” “And the flaming cows?” said Ridcully. “The what?” said the god, sunk in misery. “The more inflammable cow,” said Ponder. “Oh, yes. Another good idea that didn’t work. I just thought, you know, that if you could find the bit in, say, an oak tree which says ‘Be inflammable’ and glue it into the bit of the cow which says ‘Be soggy’ it’d save a lot of trouble. Unfortunately, that produced a sort of bush that made distressing noises and squirted milk, but I could see the principle was sound. And frankly, since my believers were all dead or living in the next valley by then I thought, to hell with it all, I’d come back here and get to grips with it and do it all more sensibly. ” He brightened up a bit. “You know, it’s amazing what you get if you break even the common cow down into very small bits. ” “Soup,” said Ridcully. “Because, sooner or later, everything is just a set of instructions,” the god went on, apparently not listening. “That’s just what I’ve always said!” said Ponder. “Have you?” said the god, peering at him. “Well, anyway…that’s how it all began. I thought it would be a much better idea to create creatures that could change their own instructions when they needed to, you see…” “Oh, you mean evolution,” said Ponder Stibbons. “Do I?” The god looked thoughtful. “‘Changing over time’…Yes, that’s actually quite a good word, isn’t it? Evolution. Yes, I suppose that’s what I do. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be working properly. ” Beside him, there was a pop. The little plant had fruited. Its pod had sprung open and there appeared to be, bunched up like a chrysanthemum, a fresh white hankie. “You see?” he said. “That’s the sort of thing I’m up against. Everything is so completely selfish about it. ” He took the handkerchief in an absentminded way, blew his nose on it, crumpled it up, and dropped it on the ground. “I’m sorry about the boat,” he continued. “It was a bit of a rush job, you see. I just didn’t want anyone upsetting everything, but I really don’t believe in smiting, so I thought that since you wanted to leave here I should help you do so as soon as possible. I think I did rather a good job, in the circumstances. It’ll find new land automatically, I think. So why didn’t you go?” “The bare naked lady on the front was a bit of a giveaway,” said Ridcully. “The what?” The god peered in the direction of the boat. “These eyes are not particularly efficient…Oh, dear, yes. The figure. Morphic bloody resonance again.

Will you stop doing that!” The handkerchief plant had just put forth another fruit. The god narrowed his eyes, pointed his finger and incinerated it. As one man the wizards stepped back. “I stop concentrating for five minutes and everything loses any sense of discipline,” said the god. “Everything wants to make itself damn useful ! I can’t think why!” “Sorry? Am I getting this right? You’re a god of evolution ?” said Ponder. “Er…is that wrong?” said the god anxiously. “But it’s been happening for ages, sir!” “Has it? But I only started a few years ago! Do you mean someone else is doing it?” “I’m afraid so, sir,” said Ponder. “People breed dogs for fierceness and racehorses for speed and…well, even my uncle can do amazing things with his nuts, sir—” “And everyone knows that you can cross a river with a bridge, ahaha,” said Ridcully. “Can you?” said the god of evolution seriously. “I’d have thought that you simply get some very soggy wood. Oh dear. ” Ridcully winked at Ponder Stibbons. Gods were often not good at humor, and this one was even worse than Ridcully. “We’re back in time, Mister Stibbons,” he said. “It may not have happened already yet , eh?” “Oh. Yes,” said Ponder. “Anyway, two gods of evolution wouldn’t be a bad thing, would they?” said Ridcully. “Makes it a lot more interestin’. The one who’s best at it would win. ” The god stared at him with his mouth open. Then he shut it just enough to mouth Ridcully’s words to himself, snapped his fingers, and vanished in a puff of little white lights. “ Now you’ve done it,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “No cake for you ,” said the Bursar. “All I said was the one who’s best at it would win,” said Ridcully. “Actually, he didn’t look upset,” said Ponder. “He looked as if he’d suddenly realized something. ” Ridcully looked up at the small mountain in the center of the island, and appeared to reach a decision. “All right, we’ll leave,” he said. “The reason this island’s so odd is that some rather daft god is messing around with it. That’s a pretty good explanation as far as I’m concerned. ” “But, sir—” Ponder began. “See that little vine just by the Senior Wrangler there? It’s only been growing for the last ten minutes,” said the Dean. It looked like a small cucumber vine, except that the fruits were yellow and oblong. “Pass me your penknife, Mister Stibbons,” said Ridcully. Ridcully sliced the fruit in half. It wasn’t fully ripe yet, but the pattern of pink and yellow squares was clearly visible, surrounded by a layer of something sticky and sweet. “But I only thought about that cake ten minutes ago!” said the Senior Wrangler. “Seems perfectly logical to me ,” said Ridcully, “I mean, here we are, wizards, we move about, we want to leave the island…What will we take with us? Anyone?” “Food, obviously,” said Ponder. “But—” “Right! If I was a vegetable, I’d want to make myself useful in a hurry, yes? No good hanging around for a thousand years just growing bigger seeds! No fear! All those other plants might come up with a better idea in the meantime! No, you see an opportunity and you go for it! There might not be another boat along for years!” “Millennia,” said the Dean. “Even longer,” Ridcully agreed. “Survival of the fastest, eh? So I suggest we load up and go, gentlemen. ” “What, just like that?” said Ponder. “Certainly. Why not?” “But…but…but think of the things we could learn here!” said Ponder. “The possibilities are breathtaking! At last there’s a god who’s actually got the right idea! At last we can get some answers to all the important questions! We could…we can…Look, we can’t just go. I mean, not go ! I mean…we’re wizards, aren’t we?” He was aware that he had their full attention, something that wizards did not often give. Usually they defined “listening” as a period in which you worked out what you were going to say next. It was disconcerting. Then the spell broke. The Senior Wrangler shook his head. “Curious way of looking at things,” he said, turning away. “So…I vote we take plenty of those cheese nuts, Archchancellor. ” “Good provisioning is the essence of successful exploration,” said the Dean. “Quite a roomy vessel, too, so we needn’t stint. ” Ridcully pulled himself aboard via a trailing tendril, and sniffed. “Smells rather like pumpkin,” he said. “Always liked pumpkin. A very versatile vegetable. ” Ponder put a hand over his eyes. “Oh, really?” he said, wearily. “A group of Unseen University wizards are seriously considering putting to sea on an edible boat?” “Fried, boiled, a good base for a soup stock and, of course, excellent in pies,” said the Archchancellor happily. “Also the seeds are a tasty snack. ” “Good with butter,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “I suppose there isn’t a butter plant anywhere, is there?” “There will be soon,” said the Dean. “Give us a hand up, will you, Archchancellor?” Ponder exploded. “I don’t believe this!” he said. “You’re turning your back on an astonishing god-given opportunity—” “Absolutely, Mister Stibbons,” said Ridcully, from above. “No offense meant, of course, but if the choice is a trip on the briny deep or staying on a small island with someone trying to create a more inflammable cow then you can call me Salty Sam. ” “Is this the poop deck?” said the Dean. “I hope not,” said Ridcully briskly. “You see, Stibbons—” “Are you sure?” said the Dean. “I’m sure, Dean. You see , Stibbons, when you’ve had a little more experience in these matters you’ll learn that there’s nothing more dangerous than a god with too much time on his hands—” “Except an enraged mother bear,” said the Senior Wrangler. “No, they’re far more dangerous. ” “Not when they’re really close. ” “If it was the poop deck, how would we know?” said the Dean. Ponder shook his head. There were times when the desire to climb the thaumaturgical ladder was seriously blunted, and one of them was when you saw what was on top. “I…I just don’t know what to say,” he said. “I am frankly astonished. ” “Well done, lad. So run along and get some bananas, will you? Green ones will keep better. And don’t look so upset. When it comes to gods, I have to say, you can give me one of the make-’em-out-of-clay-and-smite-’em brigade any day of the week. That’s the kind of god you can deal with. ” “The practically human sort,” said the Dean. “Exactly. ” “Call me overly picky,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, “but I’d prefer not to be around a god who might suddenly decide I’d run faster with three extra legs. ” “Exactly. Is there something wrong, Stibbons? Oh, he’s gone. Oh well, no doubt he’ll be back. And…Dean?” “Yes, Archchancellor?” “I can’t help thinking you’re working up to some sort of horrible joke about a poop deck. I’d prefer not, if it’s all the same to you. ” “You all right, mate?” No one in the world had ever been so pleased to see Crocodile Crocodile before. Rincewind let himself be pulled upright. His hand, against all expectation, was not blue and three times its normal size. “That bloody kangaroo…” he muttered, using the hand to wave away the eternal flies. “What kangaroo waf that, mate?” said the crocodile, helping him back towards the pub. Rincewind looked around. There were just the normal components of the local scenery—dry-looking bushes, red dirt and a million circling flies. “The one I was talking to just now. ” “I was juft fweeping up and I faw you dancing around yellin’,” said Crocodile. “I didn’t fee no kangaroo. ” “It’s probably a magic kangaroo,” said Rincewind wearily. “Oh, right , a magic kangaroo,” said Crocodile. “No worrieth. I think maybe I’d better make you up the cure for drinking too much beer, mate. ” “What’s the cure?” “More beer. ” “How much beer did I have last night, then?” “Oh, about twenty pinth. ” “Don’t be silly, no one can even hold that much beer!” “Oh, you didn’t hang on to much of it at all, mate. No worrieth. We like a man who can’t hold hif beer. ” In the fetid fleapit of Rincewind’s brain the projectionist of memory put on reel two. Recollection began to flicker. He shuddered. “Was I…singing a song?” he said. “Too right.

You kept pointing to the Roo Beer pofter and finging…” Crocodile’s huge jaws moved as he tried to remember, “Tie my kangaroo up. ’ Bloody good fong. ” “And then I…?” “Then you loft all your money playing Two Up with Daggy’s shearing gang. ” “That’s…I…there were these two coins, and the bloke’d toss them in the air, and you…had to bet on how they’d come down…” “Right. And you kept bettin’ they wouldn’t come down at all. Faid it was bound to happen fooner or later. You got good odds, though. ” “I lost all the money Mad gave me?” “Yep. ” “How was I paying for my beer, then?” “Oh, the blokes were queueing up to buy it for you. They faid you were better than a day at the races. ” “And then I…there was something about sheep…” He looked horrified. “Oh, no…” “Oh, yeah. You faid, ‘Ftrain the fraying crones, a dollar a time for giving fheep a haircut? I could do a beaut foft job like that with my eyes fhut, too right no flaming worries by half bonza fhoot through ye gods this if good beer…’” “Oh, gods. Did anyone hit me?” “Nah, mate, they reckoned you were a good sport, ‘specially when you wagered five hundred fquids that you could beat their best man at shearin’. ” “I couldn’t’ve done that, I’m not a betting man!” “Well, I am, and if you’ve been fhootin’ a line I wouldn’t give tuppence for your chances, Rinfo. ” “Rinso?” said Rincewind weakly. He looked at his beerglass. “What’s in this stuff?” “Your mate Mad faid you were this big wizard and could kill people just by pointing at ’em and shoutin’,” said Crocodile. “I wouldn’t mind feein’ that. ” Rincewind looked up desperately and his eye caught the Roo Beer poster. It showed some of the damn silly trees they had here, and the arid red earth and—nothing else. “Huh?” “What’s that?” said Crocodile. “What happened to the kangaroo?” Rincewind said hoarsely. “What kangaroo?” “There was a kangaroo on that poster last night…wasn’t there?” Crocodile peered at the poster. “I’m better at smell,” he admitted at last. “But I got to admit, it smells like it’s gorn. ” “Something very strange is going on here,” said Rincewind. “This is a very strange country. ” “We’ve got an opera house,” Crocodile volunteered. “That’s cultcher. ” “And ninety-three words for being sick?” “Yeah, well, we’re a very…vocal people. ” “Did I really bet five hundred…What was it?” “Squids. ” “…squids I haven’t got?” “Yup. ” “So I’ll probably get killed if I lose, right?” “No worries. ” “I wish people’d stop saying that—” He caught sight of the poster again. “That kangaroo’s back!” Crocodile turned around awkwardly, walked up to the poster and sniffed. “Could be,” he said cautiously. “And it’s facing the wrong way!” “Take it easy, mate!” said Crocodile Dongo, looking concerned. Rincewind shuddered. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s the heat and the flies getting to me. It must be. ” Dongo poured him another beer. “Ah well, beer’s good for the heat,” he said. “Can’t do anythin’ about the bloody flies, though. ” Rincewind started to nod, and stopped. He removed his hat and looked at it critically. Then he waved a hand up and down in front of his face, temporarily dislodging a few flies. Finally, he looked thoughtfully at a row of bottles. “Got any string?” he said. After a few experiments, and some mild concussion, Dongo advanced the opinion that it’d be better with just the corks. The Luggage was lost. Usually, it could find its way anywhere in time and space, but trying to do that now was like a man trying to keep his footing on two moving walkways heading in opposite directions, and it simply couldn’t cope. It knew it had been stuck underground for a long time, but it also knew that it had been stuck underground for about five minutes. The Luggage had no brain as such, even though an outsider might well get the impression that it could think. What it did do was react, in quite complex ways, to its environment. Usually this involved finding something to kick, as is the case with most sapient creatures. Currently it was ambling along a dusty track. Occasionally its lid would snap at flies, but without much enthusiasm. Its opal coating glowed in the sunlight. “Oaaw! Isn’t that pretty ! Fetch it here, you two!” It paid no attention to the brightly colored cart that stopped a little way along the track. It was possibly aware at some level that people had got out and were staring at it, but it didn’t resist when they appeared to reach a decision and lifted it on to the cart. It didn’t know where it had to go, and since it also didn’t know where this cart was going perhaps it would take it there. It waited a decent while after it had been put down, and then took in its surroundings. It had been stacked up by a lot of other boxes and suitcases, which was comforting. After five minutes spent being underground for millions of years the Luggage felt that it was due some quality time. And it didn’t even resist when someone opened its lid and filled it up with shoes. Quite large shoes, the Luggage noticed, and many of them with interesting heels and inventive ways with silk and sequins. They were clearly ladies’ shoes. That was good, the Luggage thought (or emoted, or reacted). Ladies tended to lead quieter lives. The purple cart rumbled off. Painted crudely on the back were the words: Petunia, The Desert Princess. Rincewind looked hard at the shears that the head shearer was waving. They looked sharp. “You know what we do to people who go back on a bet round here?” said Daggy, the gang boss. “Er…but I was drunk. ” “So were we. So what?” Rincewind looked out across the sheep pens. He knew what sheep were, of course, and had come into contact with them on many occasions, although normally in the company of mixed vegetables. He’d even had a toy stuffed lamb as a child. But there is something hugely unlovable about sheep, a kind of mad, eyerolling brainlessness smelling of damp wool and panic. Many religions extol the virtues of the meek, but Rincewind had never trusted them. The meek could turn very nasty at times. On the other hand…they were covered in wool, and the shears looked pretty keen. How hard could it be? His radar told him that trying and failing was probably a lot less of a crime than not trying at all. “Can I have a trial run?” he said. A sheep was dragged out of the pens and flung down in front of him. Rincewind gave Daggy what he hoped was the smile of one craftsman to another, but smiling at Daggy was like throwing meringues against a cliff. “Er, can I have a chair and a towel and two mirrors and a comb?” he said. Daggy’s look of intense suspicion deepened. “What’s this? What d’you want all that for?” “Got to do it properly, haven’t I?” Away out of sight at the back of the shearing shed, on the sun-bleached boards, the outline of a kangaroo began to form. And then, the white lines drifting across the wood like wisps of cloud across a clear sky, it began to change shape … Rincewind hadn’t had a proper haircut in a long time, but he knew how it was done. “So…have you had your holidays this year, then?” he said, clipping away. “Mnaaarrrhh!” “What about this weather, eh?” Rincewind said, desperately. “Mnaaarrrhh!” The sheep wasn’t even trying to struggle. It was an old one, with fewer teeth than feet, and even in the very limited depths of its extremely shallow mind it knew that this wasn’t how shearing was supposed to go. Shearing was supposed to be a brief struggle followed by glorious cool freedom back in the paddock. It wasn’t supposed to include searching questions about what it thought of this weather or enquiries as to whether it required something for the weekend, especially since the sheep had no concept of the connotations of the term “weekend” or, if it came to that, of the word “something” either. People weren’t supposed to splash lavender water in its ear. The shearers watched in silence. There was quite a crowd of them, because they’d gone and fetched everyone else on the station. They knew in their souls that here was something to tell their grandchildren.

Rincewind stood back, looked critically at his handiwork, and then showed the sheep the back of its head in the mirror, at which point the creature cracked, managed to get its feet under it and made a run for the paddock. “Hey, wait till I take the curlers out!” Rincewind shouted after it. He became aware of the shearers watching him. Finally one of them said, in a stunned voice, “That’s sheep-shearing where yew come from, is it?” “Er…what did you think?” said Rincewind. “It’s a bit slow, innit?” “How fast was I supposed to go?” “Weell, Daggy here once did nearly fifty in an hour. That’s what you’ve got to beat, see? None of that fancy rubbish. Just short back, front, top and sides. ” “Mind yew,” said one of the shearers, wistfully, “that was a beautiful lookin’ sheep. ” There was an outbreak of bleating from the sheep corrals. “Ready to give it a real go, Rinso?” said Daggy. “Ye gawds, what’s that ?” said one of his mates. The fence shattered. A ram stood in the gap, shaking its head to dislodge bits of post from its horns. Steam rose from its nostrils. Most of the things Rincewind had associated with sheep, apart from the gravy and mint sauce, had to do with…sheepishness. But this was a ram, and the word association was suddenly… rampage. It pawed the ground. It was a lot bigger than the average sheep. In fact, it seemed to fill Rincewind’s entire future. “That’s not one of mine !” said the flock’s owner. Daggy placed his shears in Rincewind’s other hand and patted him on the back. “This one’s yours, mate,” he said, and backed away. “You’re here to show us how it’s done, eh, mate?” Rincewind looked down at his feet. They weren’t moving. They remained firmly fixed to the ground. The ram advanced, snorting and looking Rincewind in the bloodshot eye. “Okay,” it whispered, when it was very close. “You just make with the shears and the sheep’ll do the rest. No worries. ” “Is that you ?” said Rincewind, glancing at the distant ring of watchers. “Hah, good one. Ready? They’ll do what I do. They’re like sheep, okay?” The shearers watched as wool fell like rain. “That’s somethin’ you don’t often see,” said one of them. “Them standin’ on their heads like that…” “The cartwheels is good,” said another shearer, lighting his pipe. “I mean, for sheep. ” Rincewind just hung on to the shears. They had a life of their own. The sheep flung themselves against the clippers as if in a real hurry to get into something more comfortable. Fleeces curled around his ankles, then around his knees, rose above his waist…and then the shears were slicing the air, and sizzling as they cooled down. Several dozen dazed sheep were watching him very suspiciously. So were the sheep-shearers. “Er…have we started the competition yet?” he said. “You just sheared thirty sheep in two minutes!” roared Daggy. “Is that good?” “Good? No one takes two minutes for thirty sheep. ” “Well, I’m sorry , but I can’t go any faster. ” The shearers went into a huddle. Rincewind looked around for the ram, but it didn’t seem to be there any more. Finally, something seemed to have been settled. The shearers approached him in the cautious, oblique way of men trying to hang back and walk forward at the same time. Daggy stepped forward, but only comparatively; in fact, his mates had all, without discussion, taken one step backwards in the choreography of caution. “G’day!” he said nervously. Rincewind gave him a friendly wave, and it was only halfway through when he remembered that he was still holding the shears. Daggy hadn’t forgotten about them. “Er…we ain’t got five hundred squids till we get paid—” Rincewind wasn’t certain how to deal with this. “No worries,” he said. This covered most things. “…so if yew’re gonna be around…” “I just want to get to Bugarup as soon as possible,” said Rincewind. Daggy kept smiling but turned around and went into another huddle with the rest of the shearers. Then he turned back. “…maybe we could sell a few things…” “I’m not bothered about the money, actually,” said Rincewind loudly. “Just point me in the direction of Bugarup. No worries. ” “Yew don’t want the money?” “No worries. ” There was another huddle. Rincewind heard hissed comments of “Get him outta here right now. ” Daggy turned back. “I got a horse you can have,” he said. “It’s worth a squid or two. ” “No worries. ” “And then you’ll be able to ride away…?” “She’ll be right. No worries. ” It was an amazing phrase. It was practically magical all by itself. It just…made things better. A shark’s got your leg? No worries. You’ve been stung by a jellyfish? No worries! You’re dead? She’ll be right! No worries! Oddly enough, it seemed to work. “No worries,” he said again. “Got to be worth a squid or two, that horse,” Daggy said again. “Practically a bloody racehorse. ” There was some sniggering from the crowd. “No worries?” said Rincewind. Daggy looked for a moment as if he was entertaining the suggestion that maybe the horse was worth more than five hundred squid, but Rincewind was still dreamily holding on to the shears and he thought better of it. “Get you to Bugarup in no time, that horse,” he said. “No worries. ” A couple of minutes later it was obvious even to Rincewind’s inexperienced eye that while you could race this horse, it wouldn’t be sensible to race it against other horses. At least, ones that were alive. It was brown, stubby, mostly a thatch of mane, with hooves the size of soup bowls, and it had the shortest legs Rincewind had ever seen on anything with a saddle. The only way you could fall off would be to dig a hole in the ground first. It looked ideal. It was Rincewind’s kind of horse. “No worries,” he said. “Actually…one small worry. ” He dropped the shears. The shearers took a step back. Rincewind went over to the corral and looked down at the ground, which was churned from the hoofprints of the sheep. Then he looked at the back of the shearing shed. For a moment he was sure there was the outline of a kangaroo… The shearers approached him cautiously as he banged on the sun-bleached planks, shouting, “I know you’re in there!” “Er, that’s what we call wood,” said Daggy. “Woo-od,” he added, for the hard-of-thinking. “Made into a wa-all. ” “Did you see a kangaroo walk into this wall?” Rincewind demanded. “Not us, boss. ” “It was a sheep at the time!” Rincewind added. “I mean, it’s normally a kangaroo but I’ll swear it turned into that sheep!” The shearers shuffled uneasily. “You’re not going to say anything about woolly jumpers, are you?” said one, almost timorously. “What? What’s knitwear got to do with it?” “That’s a mercy, anyway,” the small shearer mumbled. “You know, it’s been doing that all the time ,” said Rincewind. “I thought there was something wrong with that beer poster!” “Something wrong with the beer, too?” “I’m not putting up with any more kangaroo nonsense. I’m off home,” said Rincewind. “Where’s that horse?” It was standing where they’d left it. He waved a finger at it. “And no talking!” he said, as he swung his leg over it. This simply resulted in him standing over the horse. He was sure that somewhere under the overhanging mane something sniggered. “Yew got to kinda sag down,” said Daggy. “And then you kinda lift your legs kinda up. ” Rincewind did so. It was like sitting on an armchair. “You sure this is a horse?” “Won it in a game of Two Up from a bloke from Goolalah,” said Daggy. “Got to be tough, coming from the mountains. They breeds ’em special to be sure-footed. He said it won’t fall off anything. ” Rincewind nodded. His type of horse, all right. The quiet, dependable type. “Which way’s Bugarup?” The men pointed. “Right. Thank you. Giddyup…What’s this horse called?” Daggy seemed to think for a moment and then said, “Snowy. ” “Why Snowy? That’s an odd name for a horse. ” “I…used to have a dog called Snowy. ” “Oh, right. That makes sense. Sense for here, anyway. I suppose. Well…g’day, then. ” The shearers watched him go, which, at Snowy’s pace, took some time. “Had to get rid of him,” said Daggy. “He could put us on the dole in a day.

” One of the men said, “Why din’t you tell him about the drop-bears over that way?” “He’s a wizard, ain’t he? He’ll find out. ” “Yeah, but only when they bloody drop on his head. ” “Quickest way,” said Daggy. “Daggy?” “Yup?” “How long did you say you’d had that horse?” “Ages. Won it off a bloke. ” “Right?” “Right. ” “Right…” “What?” “Only…did yew always have it ages half an hour ago?” Daggy’s wide brow furrowed a little. He took off his hat and wiped his head with his arm. He looked at the disappearing horse, and then at the sheds, and then at the other men. Several times he started to speak, shut his mouth before he could get the first word out, and glared around him again. “Yew all know I’ve had it for bloody ages, right?” he demanded. “’s right. ” “Ages. ” “Won it off’f a bloke. ” “Right. Yeah. Right. You must’ve done. ” Mrs. Whitlow sat on a rock, combing her hair. A bush had sprouted several twigs with rows of blunt, closely set thorns just when she needed them. Large, pink and very clean, she relaxed by the water like an amplified siren. Birds sang in the trees. Sparkling beetles hummed to and fro across the water. If the Senior Wrangler had been present someone could have scraped him up and carried him away in a bucket. Mrs. Whitlow did not feel in any danger. The wizards were around, after all. She was mildly worried that the maids would be getting lazy since she wasn’t there, but she could look forward to making their lives a living hell when she got back. The possibility of not getting back never entered her head. A lot of things never entered Mrs. Whitlow’s head. She’d decided a long time ago that the world was a lot nicer that way. She had a very straightforward view of foreign parts, or at least those more distant than her sister’s house in Quirm where she spent a week’s holiday every year. They were inhabited by people who were more to be pitied than blamed because, really, they were like children. * And they acted like savages. † On the other hand, the scenery was nice and the weather was warm and nothing smelled very bad. She was definitely feeling the benefit, as she’d put it. Not to put too fine a point on it, Mrs. Whitlow had left her corsets off. The thing that the Senior Wrangler insisted on calling the “melon boat” was, even the Dean admitted, very impressive. There was a big space below deck, dark and veined and lined with curved black boards, very like giant sunflower seeds. “Boat seeds,” said the Archchancellor. “Probably make good ballast. Senior Wrangler, don’t eat the wall, please. ” “I thought perhaps we could do with more cabin space,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Cabins possibly, staterooms no,” said Ridcully, heaving himself back on to the deck. “Avast shipmate!” shouted the Dean, throwing a bunch of bananas on to the boat and climbing up behind them. “Quite so. How do we sail this vegetable, Dean?” “Oh, Ponder Stibbons knows all about that sort of thing. ” “And where is he?” “Didn’t he go off to fetch some bananas?” They looked down at the beach, where the Bursar was stock-piling seaweed. “He did seem a bit…upset,” said Ridcully. “Can’t imagine why. ” Ridcully glanced up at the central mountain, glowing in the afternoon sun. “I suppose he wouldn’t have done anything stupid, would he?” he said. “Archchancellor, Ponder Stibbons is a fully trained wizard!” said the Dean. “Thank you for that very concise and definite answer, Dean,” said Ridcully. He leaned down into the cabin. “Senior Wrangler! We’re going to look for Stibbons. And we ought to go and fetch Mrs. Whitlow, too. ” There was a shriek from below. “Mrs. Whitlow! How could we have forgotten her!” “In your case, only by having a cold bath, Senior Wrangler. ” As horses went, this one went slowly. It moved in a stolid, I-can-do-this-all-day manner that clearly said the only way you get me to go faster will be to push me off a cliff. It had a curious gait, somewhere faster than a trot but slower than a canter. The effect was a jolting slightly out of synchronization with the moment of inertia in any known human organ, causing everything inside Rincewind to bounce off everything else. Also, if he forgot for a second and lowered his legs, Snowy went on without him, and this meant that he had to run ahead and stand there like a croquet hoop until he caught him up. But Snowy didn’t bite, buck, roll over or gallop insanely away, which were the traits Rincewind had hitherto associated with horses. When Rincewind stopped for the night the horse wandered off a little way and ate a bush covered with leaves the thickness, smell and apparent edibility of linoleum. He camped beside what he had heard called a “billybong,” which was just an expanse of churned earth with a tiny puddle of water welling up in the middle. Little green and blue birds were clustered around it, cheeping happily in the late afternoon light. They scattered when Rincewind lay down to drink, and scolded him from the trees. When he sat up, one of them landed on his finger. “Who’s a pretty boy, then?” said Rincewind. The noise stopped. Up on the branches the birds looked at one another. There wasn’t much room in their heads for a new idea, but one had just turned up. The sun dropped towards the horizon. Rincewind poked very cautiously inside a hollow log and found a ham sandwich and a plate of cocktail sausages. Up in the trees the budgerigars were in a huddle. One of them said, very quietly, “Wh…?” Rincewind lay back. Even the flies were merely annoying. Things began to sizzle in the bushes. Snowy went and drank from the tiny pool with a noise like an inefficient suction pump trying to deal with an unlucky turtle. It was, nevertheless, very peaceful. Rincewind sat bolt upright. He knew what was about to happen when things were peaceful. Up in the darkening branches a bird muttered, “…pre’y b’y…?” He relaxed, but only a little. “…‘sa prit’ b’y…?” Suddenly the birds stopped. A branch creaked. The drop-bear…dropped. It was a close relative of the koala, although this doesn’t mean very much. After all, the closest relative of the common elephant is about the size and shape of a rabbit. The drop-bear’s most notable feature was its posterior, thick and heavily padded to provide the maximum shock to the victim with the minimum shock to the bear. The initial blow rendered the prey unconscious, and then the bears could gather round to feed. It was a magnificent method of killing, since in other respects the bears were not very well built to be serious predators, and it was therefore particularly unfortunate for this bear that it chose, on this night, to drop on a man who might well have had “Victim” written all over him but also had “Wizard” written on his hat, and that this hat, most significantly, came to a point. Rincewind lumbered to his feet and ran into a few trees while he tried, with both hands on the brim, to lift his hat off his head. He managed it at last, stared in horror at the bear and its peculiarly confused expression, and shook it off and into the bushes. There were thumps around him as more bears, disoriented by this turn of events, hit the ground and bounced wildly. In the trees the budgerigars woke up and, the simple message by now having had time to work its way into their brain cells, shrieked, “Who’s a pri’y boy, den?” A madly tumbling bear whirled past Rincewind’s face. Rincewind turned and ran towards Snowy, landing astride the horse’s back, or where its back would have been had it been taller. Snowy obediently broke into his arrhythmical trot and headed into the darkness. Rincewind looked down, swore and ran after his horse. He held on tight as Snowy ran on like some small engine, leaving the bouncing bears behind, and didn’t slow down until he was well away along the track and among bushes that were shorter than he was. Then he slid off. What a bloody country! There was a flurry of wings in the night and suddenly the bush was full of little birds. “Wh’sa pri’ boyden?” Rincewind waved his hat at them and screamed a little, just to relieve his feelings. It didn’t work.

The budgerigars thought this was some sort of entertainment. “Bug’roff!” they twittered. Rincewind gave up, stamped on the ground a few times, and tried to sleep. When he awoke, it was to a sound very much like a donkey being sawn in half. It was a kind of rhythmic scream of pain, anguished and forlorn, setting the teeth of the world on edge. Rincewind raised his head cautiously over the scrub. A windmill was spinning in the breeze, turning this way and that as stray gusts batted its tail fin. Rincewind was seeing more of these, dotted across the landscape, and thought: If all the water’s underground, that’s a good idea… There was a mob of sheep hanging around the base of this one. They didn’t back off, but watched him carefully as he approached. He saw why. The trough below the pump was empty. The fan was spinning, grinding out its mournful squeak, but no water was coming out of the pipe. The thirsty sheep looked up at him. “Er…don’t look at me,” he mumbled. “I’m a wizard. We’re not supposed to be good at machinery. ” No, but we are supposed to be good at magic, said an accusing voice in his head. “Maybe I can see if something’s come loose, though. Or something,” he muttered. Impelled by the vaguely accusing woolly stares, he clambered up the rickety tower and tried to look efficient. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong, except that the metallic groaning was getting louder. “Can’t see any—” Something that had finally been tortured beyond endurance broke, somewhere down in the tower. It shook, and the windmill spun free, dragging a broken rod which smashed heavily on the windmill’s casing with every revolution. Rincewind half fell, half slid back down to the ground. “Seems to be a bit of a technical fault,” he mumbled. A lump of cast iron smashed into the sand by his feet. “Probably needs to be seen to by a qualified artificer. Probably invalidates the warranty if I mess around—” A cracking noise from overhead made him dive for cover, which in this case was a rather surprised sheep. When the racket had died away the windmill’s fan was bowling over through the scrub. As for the rest of it, if there had ever been any user-serviceable parts inside they very clearly weren’t in there any more. Rincewind took off his hat to mop his brow, but he wasn’t quick enough. A pink tongue rasped across his forehead like damp sandpaper. “Ow! Good grief! You lot really are thirsty, aren’t you…?” He pulled the hat back on, right down to his ears just to be on the safe side. “I could do with a drink myself, to tell the truth…” He managed, after pushing a few sheep aside, to find a piece of broken windmill. Wading with some difficulty through the press of silent bodies, he made his way to an area that was a little lower than the surrounding scrub, and contained a couple of trees whose leaves looked slightly fresher than the rest. “Ow! G’d gr’f!” chattered the birds around him. Two or three feet should do it, he thought as he shoveled the red soil aside. Amazing, really, all this water underground when it never rained at all. The whole place must be floating on water. At three feet down the soil was barely damp. He sighed, and kept going. He was more than chest deep before a trickle oozed out between his toes. The sheep fought for the damp soil as he threw it up to the surface. As he watched, the puddle sank into the ground. “Hey, come back!” “H’y, c’m bik!” screamed the birds in the bushes. “Shut up!” “Sh’tup! Wh’spr’boyden?” He flailed at the ground with his makeshift shovel in an effort to catch up, and overtook the descending water after another few inches. He splashed on until he was knee deep, dragged his hat through the muddy liquid, pulled himself out of the hole and ran, water dribbling over his feet, until he could tip it into the trough. The sheep clustered around it, struggling silently to get at the film of moisture. Rincewind got two more hatfuls before the water sank out of sight. He wrenched the ladder off the stricken windmill, threw it down the hole and jumped in after it. Damp soil fountained out as he dug, and each dripping lump attracted a mass of flies and small birds as soon as it hit the ground. He managed another dozen or so hatfuls before the hole was deeper than the ladder. By now some cattle had lumbered up to the trough as well, and it was impossible to see the water for heads. The sound was that of a straw investigating the suds of the biggest milkshake in the world. Rincewind took a final look down the hole, and as he did so the last drop of water winked out of sight. “Weird country,” he muttered. He wandered over to where Snowy was standing patiently in the sparse shade of a bush. “You’re not thirsty?” he said. Snowy snorted and shook his mane. “Oh, well. Maybe you’ve got a bit of camel in you. You certainly can’t be all horse, I know that. ” Snowy moved aimlessly sideways and trod on Rincewind’s foot. By noon the track crossed another one, which was much wider. Hoofprints and wheel ruts suggested that it got a lot of traffic. Rincewind brightened up, and followed it through thickening trees, glad of the shade. He passed another groaning windmill surrounded by a cluster of patiently waiting cattle. There were more bushes and the land was rising into ancient, crumbling hills of orange rock. At least it gets the wind up here, he thought. Ye gods, is a drop of rain too much to ask? You can’t never have any rain. Everywhere gets rained on sometimes. It has to drop out of the sky in order to get underground in the first place, doesn’t it? He stopped when he heard the sound of many hoof beats on the track behind him. A mob of riderless horses appeared round the bend at full gallop. As they swept past Rincewind he saw one horse out in front of the others, built on the sleekest lines he’d ever seen, a horse that moved as though it had a special arrangement with gravity. The pack divided and flowed around Rincewind as if he were a rock in a stream. Then they were just a disappearing noise in a cloud of red dust. Snowy’s nostrils flared, and the jolting increased as he speeded up. “Oh, yes?” said Rincewind. “Not a chance, mate. You can’t play with the big boys. No worries. ” The cloud of dust had barely settled before there were more hoof beats and a bunch of horsemen came around the curve. They galloped past without taking any notice of Rincewind, but a rider at the rear slowed down. “You seen a mob of horses go by, mate?” “Yes, mate. No worries, no worries, no worries. ” “A big brown colt leadin’ ’em?” “Yes, mate. No worries, no worries. ” “Old Remorse says he’ll give a hundred squids to the man who catches him! No chance of that, it’s canyon country ahead!” “No worries?” “What’s that you’re riding, an ironing board?” “Er, excuse me,” Rincewind began, as the man set off in pursuit, “but is this the right road to Bugar—?” The dust swirled across the road. “What happened to the well-known Ecksian reputation for good-hearted friendliness, eh?” shouted Rincewind to empty air. He heard shouts and the cracking of whips from the trees on the high slopes as he wound into the hills. At one point the wild horses burst out on to the track again, not even noticing him in their flight, and this time Snowy ambled off the track and followed the trail of broken bushes. Rincewind had learned that hauling on the reins only had the effect of making his arms ache. The only way to stop the little horse when he didn’t want to be stopped was probably to get off, run ahead, and dig a trench in front of him. Once again the riders came up behind Rincewind and thudded past, foam streaming from the horses’ mouths. “Excuse me. Am I on the right road for—?” And they were gone. He caught up with them ten minutes later in a thicket of mountain ash, milling around uncertainly while their leader shouted at them. “I say, can anyone tell me—” he ventured. Then he saw why they had stopped. They’d run out of forwards. The ground fell away into a canyon, a few patches of grass and a handful of bushes clinging to the very nearly sheer drop.

Snowy’s nostrils flared and, without even pausing, he continued down the slope. He should have skidded, Rincewind saw. In fact he should have dropped. The slope was almost vertical. Even mountain goats would only try it roped together. Stones bounced around him and a few of the larger ones managed to hit him on the back of the neck, but Snowy trotted downward at the same deceptive speed that he used on the flat. Rincewind settled for hanging on and screaming. Halfway down, he saw the wild herd gallop along the canyon, skid around a rock and disappear between the cliffs. Snowy reached the bottom in a shower of pebbles and paused for a moment. Rincewind risked opening an eye. The little horse’s nostrils flared again as it looked down the narrow canyon. It stamped a hoof uncertainly. Then it looked at the vertiginous far wall, only a few meters away. “Oh, no ,” moaned Rincewind. “Please, no…” He tried to untangle his legs but they had met right under the horse’s stomach and twisted their ankles together. He must be able to do something to gravity, he told himself, as Snowy trotted up the cliff as though it wasn’t a wall but merely a sort of vertical floor. The corks on his hat brim banged against his nose. And ahead… above …was an overhang… “No, please , no, please don’t…” He shut his eyes. He felt Snowy draw to a halt, and breathed a sigh of relief. He risked a look down, and the huge hooves were indeed standing on solid, flat rock. There were no corks hanging in front of Rincewind’s hat. In dread and slowly mounting terror, he turned his eyes to what they’d always thought of as upwards. There was solid rock above him, as well. Only it was a long way up, or down. And the corks were all hanging upwards, or downwards. Snowy was standing on the underside of the overhang, apparently enjoying the view. He flared his nostrils again, and shook his mane. He’ll fall off, Rincewind thought. Any minute now he’ll realize he’s upside down and he’ll fall off and from this height a horse’ll splat. On top of me. Snowy appeared to reach a decision, and set off again, around the curve of the overhang. The corks swung back and hit Rincewind in the face but, hey, all the trees had the green bits pointing up, except that they were the gray bits. Rincewind looked across the chasm at the horsemen. “G’day!” he said, waving his hat in the air as Snowy set off again. “I think I’m about to have a technicolor snake!” he added, and threw up. “’ere, mistah?” someone shouted back. “Yes?” “That was a chunder!” “Right! No worries!” It turned out that this piece of land was only a narrow spur between canyons. Another sheer drop loomed up, or down. But to Rincewind’s relief the horse turned aside at the brink and trotted along the edge. “Oh, no, please…” A tree had fallen down and bridged the gulf. It was very narrow, but Snowy wheeled on to it without slowing. Both ends of the tree drummed up and down on the lip of the cliff. Pebbles began to fall away. Snowy bounced across the gap like a small ball and stepped off on the far side just before the tree trunk teetered and dropped on to the rocks. “Please, no…” There wasn’t a cliff here, just a long slope of loose rocks. Snowy landed among them, and flared his nostrils as the entire slope of scree began to move. Rincewind saw the herd gallop past in the narrow canyon bottom, far below. Large rocks bounded alongside him as the horse continued down in his own personal landslide. One or two jumped and bounced ahead, smashing on to the canyon floor just behind the last of the herd. Numb with fear and the shaking, Rincewind looked further along the canyon. It was blind. The end was another cliff… Stone piled into stone, building a rough wall across the canyon floor. As the last boulder slammed into place Snowy landed on top of it, almost daintily. He looked down at the penned herd, milling in confusion, and flared his nostrils. Rincewind was pretty sure horses couldn’t snigger, but this one radiated an air of sniggerruity. It was ten minutes later that the horsemen rode up. By then the herd was almost docile. They looked at the horses. They looked at Rincewind, who grinned horribly and said, “No worries. ” Very slowly, he didn’t fall off Snowy. He simply swiveled sideways, with his feet still twisted together, until his head banged gently on the ground. “That was bloody great riding, mate!” “Could someone separate my ankles, please? I fear they may have fused together. ” A couple of the riders dismounted and, after some effort, pulled him free. The leader looked down at him. “Name your price for that little battler, mate!” said Remorse. “Er…three…er…squids?” said Rincewind, muzzily. “What? For a wiry little devil like that? He’s got to be worth a coupla hundred at least!” “Three squids is all I’ve got…” “I reckon a few of them rocks hit him on the head,” said one of the stock men who were holding Rincewind up. “I mean I’ll buy him off’f you , mister,” said Remorse, patiently. “Tell you what—two hundred squids, a bag of tucker and we’ll set you right on the road to…Where was it he wanted to go, Clancy?” “Bugarup,” murmured Rincewind. “Oh, you don’t wanna go to Bugarup,” said Remorse. “Nothing in Bugarup but a bunch of wowsers and pooftahs. ” “’s okay, I like parrots,” mumbled Rincewind, who was just hoping that they would let him go so that he could hold on to the ground again. “Er…what’s Ecksian for going mad with terrified fatigue and collapsing in a boneless heap?” The men looked at one another. “Isn’t that ‘snagged as a wombat’s tonker’?” “No, no, no, that’s when you chuck a twister, isn’t it?” said Clancy. “What? Strewth, no. Chucking a twister’s when…when you…yeah, it’s when you…yeah, it’s when your nose…Hang on, that’s ‘bend a smartie’…” “Er—” said Rincewind, clutching his head. “What? ‘Bend a smartie’ is when your ears get blocked underwater. ” Clancy looked uncertain, and then seemed to reach a decision. “Yeah, that’s right!” “Nah, that’s ‘gonging like a possum’s armpit,’ mate. ” “Excuse me—” said Rincewind. “That ain’t right. ‘Gonging like a possum’s armpit’ is when you crack a crusty. When your ears are stuffed like a Mudjee’s kettle after a week of Fridays, that’s ‘stuck up like Morgan’s mule. ’” “No, you’re referrin’ to ‘happier than Morgan’s mule in a choccy patch’—” “You mean ‘as fast as Morgan’s mule after it ate Ma’s crow pie. ’” “How fast was that? Exactly?” said Rincewind. They all stared at him. “Faster’n a eel in a snake pit, mate!” said Clancy. “Don’t you understand plain language?” “Yeah,” said one of the men, “he might be a fancy rider but I reckon he’s dumber than a—” “ Don’t anyone say anything !” shouted Rincewind. “I’m feeling a lot better, all right? Just…all right, all right?” He straightened his ragged robe and adjusted his hat. “Now, if you could just set me on the right road to Bugarup, I will not trespass further on your time. You may keep Snowy. He can bed down on a ceiling somewhere. ” “Oh, no, mister,” said Remorse. He reached into a shirt pocket, pulled out a bundle of notes and licked his thumb to count off twenty. “I always pays me debts. You want to stay with us a while first? We could use another rider and it’s tough going on the road by yourself. There’s bush rangers about. ” Rincewind rubbed his head again. Now that his various bodily organs had wobbled their way back into their approximate positions he could get back to general low-key generalized dread. “They won’t have to worry about me,” he mumbled. “I promise not to light fires or feed the animals. Well, I say promise —most of the time they’re trying to feed off me. ” Remorse shrugged. “Just so long as there’s no more of those damn dropping bears,” said Rincewind. The men laughed. “Drop-bears? Who’s been feedin’ you a line about drop-bears?” “What do you mean?” “There’s no such thing as drop-bears! Someone must’ve seen you coming, mate!” “Huh? They’ve got…they went,” Rincewind waved his arm, “boing…all over the place…great big teeth…” “I reckon he madder’n Morgan’s mule, mate!” said Clancy. The group went silent.

“How mad is that, then?” said Rincewind. Clancy leaned on his saddle and looked nervously at the other men. He licked his lips. “Well, it’s…” “Yes?” “Well, it’s…it’s…” His face twisted up. “It’s…” “Ver’…?” Rincewind hinted. “Ver’…” Clancy mumbled, clutching the syllable like a lifeline. “Hmm?” “Ver…ry…” “Keep going, keep going…” “Ver…ry…mad?” said Clancy. “Well done! See? So much easier,” said Rincewind. “Someone mentioned something about food?” Remorse nodded to one of the men, who handed Rincewind a sack. “There’s beer and veggies and stuff and, ’cos you’re a good sport, we’re giving you a tin of jam, too. ” “Gooseberry?” “Yep. ” “And I’m wondering about your hat,” said Remorse. “Why’s there all corks round it?” “Knocks the flies out,” said Rincewind. “That works, does it?” “’Course not,” said Clancy. “If’n it does, someone’d have thought of it by now. ” “Yes. Me,” said Rincewind. “No worries. ” “Makes you look a bit of a drongo, mate,” said Clancy. “Oh, good,” said Rincewind. “Which way’s Bugarup?” “Just turn left at the bottom of the canyon, mate. ” “That’s all?” “You can ask again when you meet the bush rangers. ” “They’ve got some sort of cabin or station, have they?” “They’ve…Well, just remember they’ll find you if you get lost. ” “Really? Oh, well, I suppose that’s part of their job. Good day to you. ” “G’day. ” “No worries. ” The men watched Rincewind until he was out of sight. “Didn’t seem very bothered, did he?” “He’s a bit gujeroo, if you ask me. ” “Clancy?” “Yes, boss?” “You made that one up, didn’t you…?” ’Well…” “You bloody did, Clancy. ” Clancy looked embarrassed, but then rallied. “All right, then,” he said hotly. “What about that one you used yesterday, ‘as busy as a one-armed carpenter in Smackaroo’?” “What about it?” “I looked it up in the atlas and there’s no such place, boss. ” “There damn well is!” “There isn’t. Anyway, no one’d employ a one-armed carpenter, would they? So he wouldn’t be busy, would he?” “Listen, Clancy—” “He’d go fishing or something, wouldn’t he?” “Clancy, we’re supposed to be carving a new language out of the wilderness here—” “Probably’d need someone to help him bait the line, but—” “Clancy, will you shut up and go and get the horses?” It took twenty minutes to roll enough of the rocks away, and five minutes after that Clancy reported back. “Can’t find the little bastard, boss. And we looked underneath all the others. ” “It couldn’t have got past us!” “Yes it could, boss. You saw it goin’ up those cliffs. Probably miles away by now. You want I should go after that bloke?” Remorse thought about it, and spat. “No, we got the colt back. That’s worth the money. ” He stared reflectively down the canyon. “You all right, boss?” “Clancy, after we get back to the station, go on into town and call in at the Pastoral Hotel and bring back as many corks as they’ve got, willya?” “Think it’ll work, boss? He was as weird as…” Clancy was pulled up by the look in his boss’s eye. “He was pretty weird,” he said. “Weird, yeah. But smart, too. No flies on him. ” Behind them, in the jumble of rocks and bushes at the end of the canyon, a drawing of a small horse became a drawing of a kangaroo and then faded into the stone. The worst thing about losing your temper with Mustrum Ridcully was that he never noticed when you did. Wizards, when faced with danger, would immediately stop and argue amongst themselves about exactly what kind of danger it was. By the time everyone in the party understood, either it had become the sort of danger where your options are so very, very clear that you instantly take one of them or die, or it had got bored and gone away. Even danger has its pride. When he was a boy, Ponder Stibbons had imagined that wizards would be powerful demi-gods able to change the whole world at the flick of a finger, and then he’d grown up and found that they were tiresome old men who worried about the state of their feet and, in harm’s way, would even bicker about the origin of the phrase “in harm’s way. ” It had never struck him that evolution works in all kinds of ways. There were still quite deep scars in old buildings that showed what happened when you had the other kind of wizard. His footsteps took him, almost without his being aware, along the gently winding path up the mountain. Strange creatures peered at him from the undergrowth on either side. Some of them looked like— Wizards think in terms of books, and, now, one crept out from the shelves of Ponder’s memory. It had been given to him when he was small. In fact, he’d still got it somewhere, filed away in a cardboard box. * It had consisted of lots of small pages on a central spiral. Each one showed the head, body or tail of some bird, fish or animal. It was possible for the sufficiently bored to shuffle and turn them so that you got, say, a creature with the head of a horse, the body of a beetle and the tail of a fish. The cover promised “hours of fun” although, after the first three minutes, you couldn’t help wondering what kind of person could make that kind of fun last for hours, and whether suffocating him as kindly as possible now would save the Serial Crimes Squad a lot of trouble in years to come. Ponder, however, had hours of fun. Some of the creat— things in the undergrowth looked like the pages of that book. There were birds with beaks as long as their bodies. There were spiders the size of hands. Here and there the air shimmered like water. It resisted very gently as Ponder tried to walk through it, and then let him pass, but the birds and insects didn’t seem inclined to follow him. There were beetles everywhere. Eventually, by easy stages, the winding path reached the top of the mountain. There was a tiny valley there, just below the peak. At the far end was a large cave mouth, lit by a blue glow within. A large beetle sang past Ponder’s ear. The cave mouth opened into a cavern, filled with misty blue fog. There was a suggestion of complex shadows. And there were sounds—whistles, little zipping noises, the occasional thud or clang that suggested work going on somewhere in the mist. Ponder brushed aside a beetle that had landed on his cheek and stared at the shape right in front of him. It was the front half of an elephant. The other half of the elephant, balancing against all probability on the two legs at the rear end, stood a few yards away. In between was…the rest of the elephant. Ponder Stibbons told himself that if you cut an elephant in half and scooped out the middle, what you would get would be…well, mess. There wasn’t much mess here. Pink and purple tubes had uncoiled neatly on to a workbench. A small step-ladder led up into another complexity of tubes and bulky organs. There was a general feel of methodical work in progress. This wasn’t the horror of an elephant in an explosive death. This was an elephant under construction. Little clouds of white light spiraled in from all corners of the cavern, spun for a moment, and became the god of evolution, who was standing on the stepladder. He blinked at Ponder. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “One of the pointy creatures. Can you tell me what happens when I do this?” He reached inside the echoing depths of the front half. The elephant’s ears flapped. “The ears flapped,” squeaked Ponder. The god emerged, beaming. “It’s amazing how difficult that is to achieve,” he said. “Anyway…what do you think of it?” Ponder swallowed. “It’s…very good,” he managed. He took a step back, bumped into something, and turned and looked into the gaping maw of a very large shark. It was in the middle of another…well, he had to think of it as a sort of biological scaffolding. It rolled an eye at him. Behind it, a much bigger whale was being assembled. “It is, isn’t it?” said the god. Ponder tried to concentrate on the elephant. “Although—” he said. “Yes?” “Are you sure about the wheels?” The god looked concerned. “You think they’re too small? Not quite suitable for the veldt?” “Er, probably not…” “It’s very hard to design an organic wheel, you know,” said the god reproachfully. “They’re little masterpieces.

” “You don’t think just, you know, moving the legs about would be simpler?” “Oh, we’d never get anywhere if I just copied earlier ideas,” said the god. “Diversify and fill all niches, that’s the ticket. ” “But is lying on your side in a mud hole with your wheels spinning a very important niche?” said Ponder. The god looked at him, and then stared glumly at the half-completed elephant. “Perhaps if I made the tires bigger?” he said, hopefully yet in a hopeless voice. “I don’t think so,” said Ponder. “Oh, you’re probably right. ” The little god’s hands twitched. “I don’t know, I do try to diversify, but sometimes it’s so difficult…” Suddenly he ran across the crowded cave towards a huge pair of doors at the far end, and flung them open. “I’m sorry, but I just have to do one,” said the god. “They calm me down, you know. ” Ponder caught up. The cave beyond the doors was bigger than this one, and brilliantly lit. The air was full of small, bright things, hovering in their millions like beads on invisible strings. “Beetles?” said Ponder. “There’s nothing like a beetle when you’re feeling depressed!” said the god. He’d stopped by a large metal desk and was feverishly opening drawers and pulling out boxes. “Can you pass me that box of antennae? It’s just on the shelf there. Oh yes, you can’t beat a beetle when you’re feeling down. Sometimes I think it’s what it’s all about, you know. ” “What all ?” said Ponder. The god swept an arm in an expansive gesture. “Everything,” he said cheerfully. “The whole thing. Trees, grass, flowers…What did you think it was all for?” “Well, I didn’t think it was for beetles,” said Ponder. “What about, well, what about the elephant, for a start?” The god already had a half-finished beetle in one hand. It was green. “Dung,” he said triumphantly. No head, when screwed on to a body, ought to make a sound like a cork being pushed into a bottle, but the beetle’s did in the hands of the god. “What?” said Ponder. “That’s rather a lot of trouble to go to just for dung, isn’t it?” “That’s ecology for you, I’m afraid,” said the god. “No, no, that can’t be right, surely?” said Ponder. “What about the higher life forms?” “Higher?” said the god. “You mean like…birds?” “No, I mean like—” Ponder hesitated. The god had seemed remarkably incurious about the wizards, possibly because of their lack of resemblance to beetles, but he could see a certain amount of theological unpleasantness ahead. “Like…apes,” he said. “Apes? Oh, very amusing, certainly, and obviously the beetles have to have something to entertain them, but…” The god looked at him, and a celestial penny seemed to drop. “Oh dear, you don’t think they’re the purpose of the whole business, do you?” “I’d rather assumed—” “Dear me, the purpose of the whole business, you see, is in fact to be the whole business. Although,” he sniffed, “if we can do it all with beetles I shan’t complain. ” “But surely the purpose of—I mean, wouldn’t it be nice if you ended up with some creature that started to think about the universe—?” “Good gravy, I don’t want anything poking around!” said the god testily. “There’s enough patches and stitches in it as it is without some clever devil trying to find more, I can assure you. No, the gods on the mainland have got that right at least. Intelligence is like legs—too many and you trip yourself up. Six is about the right number, in my view. ” “But surely, ultimately, one creature might—” The god let go of his latest creation. It whirred up and along the rows and rows of beetles and slotted itself in between two that were almost, but not exactly, quite like it. “Worked that one out, have you?” he said. “Well, of course you’re right. I can see you have quite an efficient brain—Damn. ” There was a little sparkle in the air and a bird appeared alongside the god. It was clearly alive but entirely stationary, hanging in frozen flight. A flickering blue glow hovered around it. The god sighed, reached into a pocket and pulled out the most complex-looking tool Ponder had ever seen. The bits that you could see suggested that there were other, even stranger bits that you couldn’t and that this was probably just as well. “However,” he said, slicing the bird’s beak off, the blue glow simply closing over the hole, “if I’m going to get any serious work done I’m really going to have to find some way of organizing the whole business. All I’m faced with these days is bills. ” “Yes, it must be quite expens—” “Big bills, short bills, bills for winkling insects out of bark, bills for cracking nuts, bills for eating fruit,” the god went on. “They’re supposed to do their own evolving. I mean, that’s the whole point. I shouldn’t have to be running around all the time. ” The god waved his hand in the air and a sort of display stand of beaks appeared beside him. He selected one that, to Ponder, hardly looked any different from the one he’d removed, and used the tool to attach it to the hanging bird. The blue glow covered it for a moment, and then the bird vanished. In the moment that it disappeared, Ponder thought he saw its wings begin to move. And in that moment he knew that, despite the apparent beetle fixation, here was where he’d always wanted to be, at the cutting edge of the envelope in the fast lane of the state of the art. He’d become a wizard because he’d thought that wizards knew how the universe worked, and Unseen University had turned out to be stifling. Take that business with the tame lightning. It had demonstrably worked. He made the Bursar’s hair stand on end and sparks crackle out of his fingers, and that was by using only one cat and a couple of amber rods. His perfectly reasonable plan to use several thousand cats tied to a huge wheel that would rotate against hundreds of rods had been vetoed on the ridiculous grounds that it would be too noisy. His carefully worked out scheme to split the thaum, and thus provide endless supplies of cheap clean magic, had been quite unfairly sat upon because it was felt that it might make the place untidy. And that was even after he had presented figures to prove that the chances of the process completely destroying the entire world were no greater than being knocked down while crossing the street, and it wasn’t his fault he said this just before the six-cart pile-up outside the University. Here was a chance to do something that made sense. Besides, he thought he could see where the god was going wrong. “Excuse me,” he said, “but do you need an assistant?” “Frankly, the whole thing is getting out of hand,” said the god, who was a wizard-class non-listener. “It’s really getting to the point where I need an—” “I say, this is a pretty amazing place!” Ponder rolled his eyes. You could say that for wizards. When they walked into a place that was pretty amazing, they’d tell you. Loudly. “Ah,” said the god, turning around, “this is the rest of your…swarm, isn’t it?” “I’d better go and stop them,” said Ponder as the wizards fanned out like small boys in an amusement arcade, ready to press anything in case there was a free game left. “They poke things and then say, ‘What does this do?’” “Don’t they ask what things do before they poke them?” “No, they say you’ll never find out if you don’t give them a poke,” said Ponder darkly. “Then why do they ask?” “They just do. And they bite things and then say, ‘I wonder if this is poisonous,’ with their mouths full. And you know the really annoying thing? It never is. ” “How odd. Laughing in the face of danger is not a survival strategy,” said the god. “Oh, they don’t laugh,” said Ponder gloomily. “They say things like, ‘You call that dangerous? It’s not a patch on the kind of danger you used to get when we were lads, eh, Senior Wrangler, what what? Remember when old “Windows” McPlunder…’” He shrugged. “When old ‘Windows’ McPlunder what?” said the god. “I don’t know! Sometimes I think they make up the names! Dean, I really don’t think you should do that!” The Dean turned away from the shark, whose teeth he’d been examining. “Why not, Stibbons?” he said. Behind him, the jaw snapped shut.

Only the Archchancellor’s legs were visible in the exploded elephant. There were muffled noises from inside the whale; they sounded very much like the Lecturer in Recent Runes saying, “Look at what happens when I twist this bit…See, that purple bit wobbles. ” “Amazin’ piece of work,” said Ridcully, emerging from the elephant. “Very good wheels. You paint these bits before assembly, do you?” “It’s not a kit, sir,” said Ponder, taking a kidney out of his hands and wedging it back in. “It’s a real elephant under construction!” “Oh. ” “Being made , sir,” said Ponder, since Ridcully didn’t seem to have got the message. “Which is not usual. ” “Ah. How are they normally made, then?” “By other elephants, sir. ” “Oh, yes…” “Really? Are they?” said the god. “How? Those trunks are pretty nimble, even if I say so myself, but not really very good for delicate work. ” “Oh, not made like that, sir, obviously. By…you know…sex…” said Ponder, feeling a blush start. “Sex?” Then Ponder thought: Mono Island. Oh dear … “Er…males and females…” he ventured. “What are they, then?” said the god. The wizards paused. “Do go on, Mister Stibbons,” said the Archchancellor. “We’re all ears. Especially the elephant. ” “Well…” Ponder knew he was going red. “Er…well, how do you get flowers and things at the moment?” “I make them,” said the god. “And then I keep an eye on them and see how they function and then when they wear out I make an improved version based on experimental results. ” He frowned. “Although the plants seem to be acting very oddly these days. What’s the point of these seeds they keep making? I try to discourage it but they don’t seem to listen. ” “I think…er…they’re trying to invent sex, sir,” said Ponder. “Er…sex is how you can…they can…creatures can…they can make the next…creatures. ” “You mean…elephants can make more elephants?” “Yes, sir. ” “My word! Really?” “Oh, yes. ” “How do they go about that? Calibrating the ear-waggling is particularly time-consuming. Do they use special tools?” Ponder saw that the Dean was staring straight up at the ceiling, while the other wizards were also finding something apparently fascinating to look at that meant they could avoid one another’s gaze. “Um, in a way,” said Ponder. He knew that a sticky patch lay ahead and decided to give up. “But really I don’t know much about—” “And workshops, presumably,” said the god. He took a book from his pocket and a pencil from behind his ear. “Do you mind if I make notes?” “They…er…the female…” Ponder tried. “Female,” said the god obediently, writing this down. “Well, she…one popular way…she…sort of makes the next one…inside her. ” The god stopped writing. “Now I know that’s not right,” he said. “You can’t make an elephant inside an elephant—” “Er…a smaller version…” “Ah, once again I have to point out the flaw. After a few such constructions you’d end up with an elephant the size of a rabbit. ” “Er, it gets bigger later…” “Really? How?” “It sort of…builds itself…er…from the inside…” “And the other one, the one that is not the, uh, female? What is its part in all this? Is your colleague ill?” The Senior Wrangler hammered the Dean hard on the back. “It’s all right,” squeaked the Dean, “…often have…these…coughing fits…” The god scribbled industriously for a few seconds, and then stopped and chewed the end of his pencil thoughtfully. “And all this, er, this sex is done by unskilled labor?” he said. “Oh, yes. ” “No quality control of any description?” “Er, no. ” “How does your species go about it?” said the god. He looked questioningly at Ponder. “It…er…we…er…” Ponder stuttered. “We avoid it,” said Ridcully. “Nasty cough you’ve got there, Dean. ” “Really?” said the god. “That’s very interesting. What do you do instead? Split down the middle? That works beautifully for amoebas, but giraffes find it extremely difficult, I do know that. ” “What? No, we concentrate on higher things,” said Ridcully. “And take cold baths, healthy morning runs, that sort of thing. ” “My goodness, I’d better make a note of that,” said the god, patting his robe. “How does the process work, exactly? Do the females accompany you? These higher things…How high, precisely? This is a very interesting concept. Presumably extra orifices are required?” “What? Pardon?” said Ponder. “Getting creatures to make themselves, eh? I thought this whole seed business was just high spirits but, yes, I can see that it would save a lot of work, a lot of work. Of course, there’d have to be some extra effort at the design stage, certainly, but afterwards I suppose it’d practically run itself…” The god’s hand blurred as he wrote, and he went on, “Hmm, drives and imperatives, they’re going to be vital…er…How does it work with, say, trees?” “You just need Ponder’s uncle and a paintbrush,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Sir!” said Ponder hotly. The god gave them both a look of intelligent bewilderment, like a man who had just heard a joke told in a completely foreign language and isn’t sure if the speaker has got to the punch line yet. Then he shrugged. “The only thing I think I don’t quite understand,” he said, “is why any creature would want to spend time on all this…” he peered at his notes, “this sex , when they could be enjoying themselves…Oh dear, your associate seems to be choking this time, I’m afraid…” “Dean!” shouted Ridcully. “I can’t help noticing,” said the god, “that when sex is being discussed your faces redden and you tend to shift uneasily from one foot to the other. Is this some sort of signal?” “Erm…” “If you could just tell me how it all works…” Embarrassment filled the air, huge and pink. If it were rock, you could have carved great hidden rose-red cities in it. Ridcully smiled a petrified smile. “Excuse us,” he said. “Faculty meeting, gentlemen?” Ponder watched the wizards go into a huddle. He could hear a few phrases above the susurration. “… my father said, but of course I didn’t believe…never raised its ugly head…Dean, will you shut up? We can’t very well…cold showers, really …” Ridcully turned back and flashed the stony smile again. “Sex is, er, not something we talk about,” he said. “Much,” said the Dean. “Oh, I see,” said the god. “Well, a practical demonstration would be so much more comprehendible. ” “Er, we weren’t, er…planning a…” “Coo-eee! There you are, gentlemen!” Mrs. Whitlow entered the cave. The wizards went suddenly quiet, sensing in their wizardly minds that the introduction of Mrs. Whitlow at this point was an electric fire in the swimming pool of life. “Oh, another one of you,” said the god brightly. He focused. “Or a different species, perhaps?” Ponder felt that he had to say something. Mrs. Whitlow was giving him a Look. “Mrs. , er, Whitlow is, er, a lady,” he said. “Ah, I shall make a note of it,” said the god. “And what sort of thing do they do?” “They’re, um, the same species as, er, us,” said Ponder, miserably. Um…the…um…” “Weaker sex,” Ridcully supplied. “Sorry, you’ve lost me there,” said the god. “Er…she’s, um, er, a…of the female persuasion,” said Ponder. The god smiled happily. “Oh, how very convenient,” he said. “Excuse me ” said Mrs. Whitlow, in as sharp a tone as she cared to use around the wizards, “but will someone introduce this gentleman to me?” “Oh, yes, of course,” said Ridcully. “Do excuse me. God, this is Mrs. Whitlow. Mrs. Whitlow, this is God. A god. God of this island, in fact. Uh…” “Charmed, Ai’m sure,” said Mrs. Whitlow. In Mrs. Whitlow’s book, gods were socially very acceptable, at least if they had proper human heads and wore clothes; they rated above High Priests and occupied the same level as Dukes. “Should Ai kneel?” she said. “Mwaaa,” whimpered the Senior Wrangler. “Genuflection of any sort is not required,” said the god. “He means no,” said Ponder. “Oh, as you wish,” said Mrs. Whitlow. She extended a hand. The god grasped it and waggled her thumb backwards and forward. “ Very practical,” he said. “Opposable, I see. I think I should make a note of this. Do you brachiate? Are you bipedal by habit? Oh, I notice your eyebrows go up, too.

Is this a signal of some sort? I also note that you are a different shape from the others and don’t have a beard. I assume that means you are less wise?” Ponder saw Mrs. Whitlow’s eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. “Is there some sort of problem, sirs?” she said. “Ai followed your footprints to that funny boat, and this was the only other path, so—” “We were discussing sex,” said the god enthusiastically. “It sounds very exciting, don’t you think?” The wizards held their breath. This was going to make the Dean’s sheets look very minor. “It’s not a subject on which Ai would venture an opinion,” said Mrs. Whitlow carefully. “Mwaa,” squeaked the Senior Wrangler. “No one seems to want to tell me,” said the god irritably. A spark leapt from his fingers and blew a very small crater in the floor, and that seemed to shock him as much as it did the wizards. “Oh dear, what can you think of me? I’m so sorry!” he said. “I’m afraid it’s a sort of natural reaction if I get a bit, you know…testy. ” Everyone looked at the crater. The rock bubbled gently by Ponder’s feet. He didn’t dare move his sandal, just in case he fainted. “That was just…testy, was it?” said Ridcully. “Well, it may have been more…vexed, I suppose,” said the god. “I can’t really help it, it’s a god-given reflex. I’m afraid as a…well, species, we’re not good with, you know, defiance. I’m so sorry. So sorry. ” He blew his nose, and sat down on a half-finished panda. “Oh, dear. There I go again…” A tiny bolt of lightning flashed off his thumb and exploded. “I hope it’s not going to be the city of Quint all over again. Of course, you know what happened there…” “I’ve never heard of the city of Quint,” said Ponder. “Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t have,” said the god. “That’s the whole point, really. It wasn’t much of a city. It was mostly made of mud. Well, I say mud. Afterwards, of course, it was mainly ceramics. ” He turned a wretched face to them. “You know those days you get when you just snap at everyone?” Out of the corner of his eye Ponder had noticed that the wizards, in a rare show of unanimity, were shuffling sideways, very slowly, towards the door. A much bigger thunderbolt blew a hole in the floor near the cave entrance. “Oh dear, where can I put my face?” said the god. “It’s all subconscious, I’m afraid. ” “Could you get treatment for premature incineration?” “Dean! This is not the time!” “Sorry, Archchancellor. ” “If only they hadn’t turned up their noses at my inflammable cows,” said the god, sparks fizzing off his beard. “All right, I would agree that on hot days, in certain rare circumstances, they would spontaneously combust and burn down the village, but is that any excuse for ingratitude?” Mrs. Whitlow had been giving the god a long, cool stare. “What exactly is it you wish to know?” she said. “Huh?” said Ridcully. “Well, Ai mean no offense, but Ai for one would like to get out of here without mai hair on fire,” said the housekeeper. The god looked up. “This male and female concept seems really rather promising,” he said, sniffing. “But no one seems to want to go into detail…” “Oh, that ,” said Mrs. Whitlow. She glanced at the wizards, and then gently pulled the god to his feet. “If you will excuse me for one moment, gentlemen…” The wizards watched them in even more shock than had attended the lightning display, and then the Chair of Indefinite Studies pulled his hat over his eyes. “I daren’t look,” he said, and added, “What are they doing?” “Er…just talking…” said Ponder. “Talking?” “And she’s…sort of…waving her hands about. ” “Mwaa!” said the Senior Wrangler. “Quick, someone, give him some air,” said Ridcully. “Now she’s laughing , isn’t she?” Both the housekeeper and the god looked around at the wizards. Mrs. Whitlow nodded her head as if to reassure him that what she’d just told him was true, and they both laughed. “ That looked more like a snigger,” said the Dean severely. “I’m not sure I actually approve of this,” said Ridcully, haughtily. “Gods and mortal women, you know. You hear stories. ” “Gods turning themselves into bulls,” said the Dean. “Swans, too,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Showers of gold,” said the Dean. “Yes,” said the Chair. He paused for a second. “You know, I’ve often wondered about that one—” “What’s she describing now?” “I think I’d rather not know, quite frankly. ” “Oh, look, someone please do something for the Senior Wrangler, will you?” said Ridcully. “Loosen his clothing or something!” They heard the god shout, “It what ?” Mrs. Whitlow glanced around at the wizards and appeared to lower her voice. “Did anyone ever meet Mr. Whitlow?” said the Archchancellor. “Well…no,” said the Dean. “Not that I remember. I suppose we’ve all assumed that he’s dead. ” “Anyone know what he died of?” Ridcully went on. “Ah, quieten down…they’re coming back…” The god nodded cheerfully at them as he approached. “Well, that’s all sorted out,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I can’t wait to see how it works in practice. You know, if I’d sat here for a hundred years I’d never have…well, really, no one could serious believe…I mean…” He started to chuckle at their frozen faces. “That bit where he…and then she…Really, I’m amazed that anyone stops laughing long enough to…Still, I can see how it could work, and it certainly opens the door to some very interesting possibilities indeed…” Mrs. Whitlow was looking intently at the ceiling. There was perhaps just a hint in her stance and the way her rather expressive bosom moved that she was trying not to laugh. It was disconcerting. Mrs. Whitlow never usually laughed at anything. “Ah? Oh?” said Ridcully, edging towards the door. “Really? Well done, then. So, I expect you don’t need us any more, eh? Only we’ve got a boat to catch…” “Yes, certainly, don’t let me hold you up,” said the god, waving a hand vaguely. “You know, the more I think about it, the more I can see that ‘sex’ will solve practically all my problems. ” “Not everyone can say that,” said Ridcully gravely. “Are you, er…joining us, Mrs. , er, Whitlow?” “Certainly, Archchancellor. ” “Er…jolly good. Well done. Ahem. And you, of course, Mister Stibbons…” The god had wandered over to a workbench and was rummaging in boxes. The air glittered. Ponder looked up at the whale. It was clearly alive but…not at the moment. His gaze swept across the elephant-under-construction and past mysteriously organic-looking gantries, where shimmering blue light surrounded shapes as yet unrecognized, although one did appear to contain half a cow. He carefully removed an exploring beetle from his ear. The point was, if he left now he’d always wonder… “I think I’d like to stay,” he said. “Good…er…” said the god, without looking around. “Man,” said Ponder. “Good man,” said the god. “Are you sure ?” said Ridcully. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a holiday,” said Ponder. “I’d like to apply for time off to do research, sir. ” “But we’re lost in the past, man!” “Basic research, then,” said Ponder firmly. “There’s just so much to learn here, sir!” “Really?” “You’ve only got to look around, sir!” “Well, I suppose I can’t stop you if your mind’s made up,” said the Archchancellor. “We’ll have to dock your pay, of course. ” “I don’t think I’ve ever been paid, sir,” said Ponder. The Dean nudged Ridcully and whispered in his ear. “And we need to know how the boat works,” Ridcully went on. “What? Oh, it shouldn’t be a problem,” said the god, looking up from his bench. “It’ll find somewhere with a different biogeographical signature, you see. It’s all automatic. No sense in coming back to where you started from!” He waved a beetle leg in the air. “There’s a new continent going up turn-wise of here. The boat’ll probably head straight for a landmass that size. ” “New?” said Ridcully. “Oh, yes. I’ve never been interested in that sort of thing myself, but you can hear the construction noises all night. It’s certainly causing a mess. ” “Stibbons, are you sure you want to stay?” the Dean demanded.

“Er, yes…” “I’m sure Mister Stibbons will uphold the fine traditions of the University!” said Ridcully heartily. Ponder, who knew all about the traditions of the University, nodded very slightly. His heart was pounding. He hadn’t even felt like this when he’d first worked out how to program Hex. At last he’d found his proper place in the world. The future beckoned. Dawn was breaking when the wizards ambled back down the mountain. “Not a bad god, I thought,” said the Senior Wrangler. “As gods go. ” “That was good coffee he made us,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “And didn’t he grow the bush fast, once we explained what coffee was,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. They strolled on. Mrs. Whitlow was walking some way ahead, humming to herself. The wizards took care to remain at a respectful distance. They were aware that in some kind of obscure way she’d won, although they hadn’t a clue what the game was. “Funny of young Ponder to want to stay,” said the Senior Wrangler, desperately trying to think of anything except a vision in pink. “The god seemed happy about it,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “He did say that designing sex was going to involve redesigning practically everything else. ” “I used to make snakes out of clay when I was a little boy,” said the Bursar happily. “Well done, Bursar. ” “Doing the feet was the hard part. ” “I can’t help thinking, though, that we may have…tinkered with the past, Archchancellor,” said the Senior Wrangler. “I don’t see how,” said Ridcully. “After all, the past happened before we got here. ” “Ye, but now we’re here, we’ve changed it. ” “Then we changed it before. ” And that, they felt, pretty well summed it up. It is very easy to get ridiculously confused about the tenses of time travel, but most things can be resolved by a sufficiently large ego. “It’s jolly impressive to think that a University man will be helping to create a whole new approach to designing lifeforms,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Indeed, yes,” said the Dean. “Who says education is a bad thing, eh?” “I can’t imagine,” said Ridcully. “Who?” “Well, if they did, we could point to Ponder Stibbons and say, look at him, worked hard at his studies, paid attention to his tutors, and now he’s sitting on the right hand of a god. ” “Won’t that make it rather difficult for—” the Lecturer in Recent Runes began, but the Dean got there first. “That means on the right-hand side of the god, Runes,” he said. “Which, I suspect, makes him an angel. Technically. ” “Surely not. He’s scared of heights. Anyway, he’s made of flesh and blood, and I’m sure angels have to be made of…light or something. He could be a saint, though, I suppose. ” “Can he do miracles, then?” “I’m not sure. When we left they were talking about redesigning male baboons’ behinds to make them more attractive. ” The wizards thought about this for a while. “That’d be a miracle in my book, certainly,” said Ridcully. “Can’t say that’s how I’d choose to spend an afternoon, though,” said the Senior Wrangler, in a thoughtful voice. “According to the god it’s all to do with making creatures want to have…to engage in…to get to grips with making a new generation, when they could otherwise be spending their time in more…profitable activity. Apparently, a lot of animals will need a complete rebuild. ” “From the bottom up. Ahaha. ” “Thank you for your contribution, Dean. ” “So exactly how does it work, then?” said the Senior Wrangler. “A female baboon sees a male baboon and says, ‘My word, that’s a very colorful bottom and no mistake, let us engage in…nuptial activity’?” “I must say I’ve often wondered about that sort of thing myself,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Take frogs. Now, if I was a lady frog looking for a husband, I’d want to know about, well, size of legs, competence at catching flies—” “Length of tongue,” said Ridcully. “Dean, will you please take something for that cough?” “Quite so,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Has he got a good pond, and so on. I can’t say I’d base my choice on his ability to inflate his throat to the same size as his stomach and go rabbit, rabbit. ” “I believe it’s ribbit, ribbit , Runes. ” “Are you sure?” “I believe so, yes. ” “Which ones go rabbit, rabbit , then?” “Rabbits, I believe. ” “Oh. Yes. Constantly, as I recall. ” “I’ve always thought sex was really a rather tasteless way of ensuring the continuity of the species,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, as they reached the beach. “I’m sure there could be something better. It’s all very…old-fashioned, to my mind. And far too energetic. ” “Well, I’m generally in agreement, but what would you suggest instead?” said Ridcully. “Bridge,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies firmly. “Really? Bridge?” “You mean the game with cards?” said the Dean. “I don’t see why not. It can be extremely exciting, very sociable, and requires no special equipment. ” “But you do need four people,” Ridcully pointed out. “Ah, yes. I had not considered that. Yes, I can see that there could be problems. All right, then. How about…croquet? You can do that with two. Indeed, I’ve often enjoyed a quiet knock-about all by myself. ” Ridcully let a little more space come between him and the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “I fail to see how it could be utilized for the purpose of procreation,” he said carefully. “Recreation, yes, I’ll grant you that. But not procreation. I mean, how would it work?” “ He’s the god,” sniffed the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “He’s supposed to sort out the details, isn’t he?” “But you think women would really decide to spend their life with a man just because he can swing a big mallet?” said the Dean. “I suppose, when you come to think about it, that’s no more ridic—” Ridcully began, and then stopped. “I think we should leave this subject,” he said. “I played croquet with him only last week,” hissed the Dean to Ridcully, as the Chair wandered off. “I shan’t be happy now until I’ve had a good bath!” “We’ll lock up his mallets when we get back, depend upon it,” Ridcully whispered. “He’s got books and books about croquet in his room, did you know that? Some of them have got colored illustrations !” “What of?” “Famous croquet strokes,” said the Dean. “I think we ought to take his mallet away. ” “Close to what I was thinking, Dean. Close,” said Ridcully. Once a moderately jolly wizard camped by a dried-up waterhole under the shade of a tree that he was completely unable to identify. And he swore as he hacked and hacked at a can of beer, saying, “What kind of idiots put beer in tins ?” By the time he managed to make a hole with a sharp stone the beer came out as high-speed froth, but he fielded as much as he could. Apart from the beer, though, things were looking up. He’d checked the trees for drop-bears and, best of all, there was no sign of Scrappy. He managed to pierce another tin, more carefully this time, and sucked thoughtfully at the contents. What a country! Nothing was exactly what it turned out to be, even the sparrows talked, or at least tried to say, “Who’s a pretty boy, then?” and it never ever rained. And all the water hid underground, so they had to pump it out with windmills. He’d passed another one as he left the canyon country. This one was still managing a trickle of water, but it had dried up to an occasional drip even as he watched it. Damn! He should’ve picked up some water to take away while he was there. He looked at the food in the sack. There was a loaf of bread the size and weight of a cannonball, and some vegetables. But at least they were recognizable vegetables. There was even a potato. He held it up against the sunset. Rincewind had eaten in many countries on the Disc, and sometimes he’d been able to complete an entire meal before having to run away. And they’d always lacked something. Oh, people did great things with spices and olives and yams and rice and whatnot, but what he’d come to crave was the humble potato. Time was when a plate of mash or chips would have been his for the asking. All he’d needed to do was wander down to the kitchens and ask.

Food was always available for the asking at Unseen University, you could say that for the place, even if you said it with your mouth full. And, ridiculous though it sounded now, he’d hardly ever done that. The dish of potatoes’d come past at mealtimes and he’d probably have a spoonful but, sometimes, he wouldn’t! He’d…let…the…dish…go…by. He’d have rice instead. Rice! All very nutritious in its way, but basically only grown where potatoes would’ve floated to the surface. He’d remember those times, sometimes, usually in his sleep, and wake up shouting, “Will you pass the potatoes, please!” Sometimes he remembered the melted butter. Those were the bad days. He placed the potato reverentially on the ground and tipped out the rest of the bag. There was an onion and some carrots. A tin of…tea, by the smell of it, and a little box of salt. A flash of inspiration struck him with all the force and brilliance that ideas have when they’re traveling through beer. Soup! Nutritious and simple! You just boiled everything up! And, yes, he could use one of the empty beer tins, and make a fire, and chop up the vegetables, and the damp patch over there suggested there was water… He walked unsteadily over to have a look. There was a circular depression in the ground that looked as though it might have been some sort of pond once, and there was the usual cluster of slightly healthier than usual trees which you got in such places, but there was no sign of any water and he was too tired to dig. Then another insight struck him at the speed of beer. Beer! It was only water, really, with stuff in it. Wasn’t it? And most of what was in it was yeast, which was practically a medicine and definitely a food. In fact, when you thought about it, beer was only a kind of runny bread, in fact , it’d be better to use some of the beer in the soup! Beer soup! A few brain cells registered their doubt, but the rest of them grabbed them by the collar and said hoarsely, people cooked chicken in wine, didn’t they? It took him some time to hack one end off a tin, but eventually he had it standing in the fire with the chopped-up vegetables floating in the froth. A few more doubts assailed him at this point, but they were elbowed aside, especially when the smell that floated up made his mouth water and he’d opened another tin of beer as a pre-prandial appetizer. After a while he poked the vegetables with a stick. They were still pretty hard, even though a lot of the beer seemed to have boiled away. Was there something else he hadn’t done? Salt! Yes, that was it! Salt, marvelous stuff. He’d read where you went totally up the pole if you didn’t have any salt for a couple of weeks. That was probably why he was feeling so odd at the moment. He fumbled for the salt box and dropped a pinch in the tin. It was a medicinal herb, salt. Good for wounds, wasn’t it? And back in the really old days, hadn’t soldiers been paid in salt? Wasn’t that where the word salary came from? Must’ ve been good, then. You went on a forced march all week, building your road as you went, then you fought the maddened blue-painted tribesmen of the Vexatii, and you force-marched all the way back home, and on Friday the centurion would turn up with a big sack and say, “Well done, lads! Here’s some salt!” It was amazing how well his mind was working. He peered at the salt box again, shrugged, and tipped it all in. When you thought about it like that, salt must really be an amazing food. And he hadn’t had any for weeks, so that was probably why his eyesight was acting up and he couldn’t feel his legs. He topped up the beer, too. He lay back with his head on a rock. Keep out of trouble and don’t get involved, that was the important thing. Look at those stars up there, with nothing to do all the time but sit there and shine. No one ever told them what to do, the lucky bastards… He woke up shivering. Something horrible had crawled into his mouth, and it was no great relief to find out that it was his tongue. It was chilly, and the horizon suggested dawn. There was also a pathetic sucking noise. Some sheep had invaded his camp during the night. One of them was trying to get its mouth around an empty beer tin. It stopped when it saw that he had woken up, and backed away a bit, but not too far, while fixing him with the penetrating gaze of a domesticated animal reminding its domesticator that they had a deal. His head ached. There had to be some water somewhere. He lurched to his feet and blinked at the horizon. There were…windmills and things, weren’t there? He remembered the stricken windmills from yesterday. Well, there was bound to be some water around, no matter what anyone said. Ye gods, he was thirsty. His gummed-up gaze fell upon last night’s magnificent experiment in cookery. Yeasty vegetable soup, what a wonderful idea. Exactly the sort of idea that sounds really good around one o’clock in the morning when you’ve had too much to drink. Now he remembered, with a shudder, some of the great wheezes he’d had on similar occasions. Spaghetti and custard, that’d been a good one. Deep-fried peas, that’d been another triumph. And then there’d been the time when it had seemed a really good idea to eat some flour and yeast and then drink some warm water, because he’d run out of bread and after all that was what the stomach saw , wasn’t it? The thing about late-night cookery was that it made sense at the time. It always had some logic behind it. It just wasn’t the kind of logic you’d use around midday. Still, he’d have to eat something and the dark brown goo that half filled the tin was the only available food in this vicinity that didn’t have at least six legs. He didn’t even think about eating mutton. You couldn’t, when it was looking at you so pathetically. He poked the goo with the stick. It gripped the wood like glue. “Gerroff!” A blob eventually came loose. Rincewind tasted it, gingerly. It was just possible that if you mixed yeasty beer and vegetables together you’d get— No, what you got was salty-tasting beery brown gunk. Odd, though…It was kind of horrible, but nevertheless Rincewind found himself having another taste. Oh, gods. Now he was really thirsty. He picked up the tin and staggered off towards some trees. That’s where you found water…you looked at where the trees were and, tired or not, you dug down. It took him half an hour to squash an empty beer tin and use it to dig a hole waist deep. His toes felt damp. Another half an hour took him to shoulder depth and a pair of wet ankles. Say what you like—that brown muck was good stuff. It was the runny equivalent of dwarf bread. You didn’t really believe what your mouth said you’d just tasted, so you had some more. Probably full of nourishing vitamins and minerals. Most things you couldn’t believe the taste of generally were… By the time he raised his head he was surrounded by sheep, eyeing him cautiously in between longing glances into the damp depths. “It’s no good you lot looking at me like that,” he said. They paid no attention. They carried on looking at him. “It’s not my fault,” Rincewind muttered. “I don’t care what any kangaroo says. I just arrived here. I’m not responsible for the weather , for heaven’s sake. ” They went on looking. He cracked. Practically anyone will crack before a sheep cracks. A sheep hasn’t got much that’s crackable. “Oh, hell, maybe I can rig up some kind of bucket and pulley arrangement,” he said. “It’s not as though I’ve got any appointments today. ” He was digging a bit further, in the hope of getting deep enough before the water ran away completely, when he heard someone whistling. He looked up, through the legs of the sheep. A man was creeping down across the dried-up water-hole, whistling tunelessly between his teeth. He’d failed to notice Rincewind because his gaze was fixed so intently on the milling sheep. He dropped the pack he’d been carrying, pulled out a sack, sidled towards a sheep all by itself, and leapt. It barely had time to bleat.

As he was stuffing it into the sack a voice said: “That probably belongs to someone, you know. ” The man looked around hurriedly. The voice was coming from a group of sheep. “I reckon you could get into serious trouble, stealing sheep. You’ll regret it later on, I’m sure. Probably someone really cares about that sheep. Come on, let it go. ” The man stared around wildly. “I mean, think about it,” the voice went on. “You’ve got this nice country here, parrots and everything, and you’re going to spoil it all by stealing someone’s sheep that they’ve worked so hard to grow. I bet you wouldn’t like to be remembered as a sheep-stealer—Oh. ” The man had dropped the sack and was running away very fast. “Well, you didn’t have to waltz off like that, I was only trying to appeal to your better nature!” said Rincewind, pulling himself up out of the hole. He cupped his hands. “And you’ve forgotten your camping stuff!” he shouted, after the disappearing dust. The sack baa-ed. Rincewind picked it up, and a noise behind him made him look round. There was another man watching him from the back of a horse. He was glaring. Behind him were three men wearing identical helmets and jerkins and humorless expressions that had “watchman” written all over them in slow handwriting. And all three were pointing crossbows at him. That bottomless feeling that he had once again wandered into something that didn’t concern him and was going to find it hard to wander out again grew within Rincewind. He tried to smile. “G’day!” he said. “No worries, eh? I must say I’m really glad to see you drongos and no two ways about it!” Ponder Stibbons cleared his throat. “Where would you like me to start?” he said. “I could probably finish off the elephant…” “How are you at slime?” Ponder hadn’t considered a future as a slime designer, but everyone had to start somewhere. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. ” “Of course, slime just splits down the middle,” said the god, as they walked along rows of glowing, life-filled cubes while beetles sizzled overhead. “Not a lot of future in that, really. It works all right for lower lifeforms but, frankly, it’s a bit embarrassing for the more complicated creatures and positively lethal for horses. No, sex is going to be very, very useful, Ponder. It’ll keep everything on its toes. And that will give us time to work on the big project. ” Ponder sighed. Ah…he knew there had to be a big project. The big project. A god wasn’t going to do all this sort of thing just to make life better for inflammable cows. “Could I help with that?” he said. “I’m sure I could make a contribution. ” “Really? I thought perhaps animals and birds would be more up your…up your…” The god waved his hands vaguely. “Up whatever you walk on. Where you live. ” “Well, yes, but they’re a bit limited, aren’t they?” said Ponder. The god beamed. There’s nothing like being near a happy god. It’s like giving your brain a hot bath. “Exactly!” he said. “Limited! The very word! Each one stuck in some desert or jungle or mountain, relying on one or two foods, at the mercy of every vagary of the universe and wiped out by the merest change of climate. What a terrible waste!” “That’s right!” said Ponder. “What you need is a creature that is resourceful and adaptable, am I right?” “Oh, very well put, Ponder! I can see you’ve turned up at just the right time!” A pair of huge doors swung open in front of them, revealing a circular room with a shallow pyramid of steps in the center. At the summit was another cloud of blue mist, in which occasional lights flared and died. The future unrolled in front of Ponder Stibbons. His eyes were so bright that his glasses steamed, that he could probably scorch holes in thin paper. Oh, right …what more could any natural philosopher dream of? He’d got the theories, now he could do the practice. And this time it’d be done properly. To hell with messing up the future! That’s what the future was for. Oh, he’d been against it, that was true, but it’d been…well, when someone else was thinking of doing it. But now he’d got the ear of a god, and maybe some intelligence could be applied to the task of creating intelligence. For a start, it ought to be possible to put together the human brain so that long beards weren’t associated with wisdom, which would instead be seen to reside in those who were young and skinny and required glasses for close work. “And…you’ve finished this?” he said, as they climbed the steps. “Broadly, yes,” said the god. “My greatest achievement. Frankly, it makes the elephants look very flimsy by comparison. But there’s plenty of fine detail left to do, if you think you’re up to it. ” “It’d be an honor,” said Ponder. The blue mist was right in front of him. By the look of the sparks, something very important was happening in there. “Do you give them any instructions before you let them out?” he said, his breathing shallow. “A few simple ones,” said the god. He waved a wrinkled hand, and the glowing ball began to contract. “Mostly they work things out themselves. ” “Of course, of course,” said Ponder. “And I suppose if they go wrong we could always put them right with a few commandments. ” “Not really necessary,” said the god, as the blue ball vanished and revealed the pinnacle of creation. “I find very simple instructions are quite sufficient. You know…‘Head for dark places,’ that sort of thing. There! Isn’t it perfect? What a piece of work! The sun will burn out, the seas will dry up, but this chap will be there, you mark my—Hello? Ponder?” The Dean wet a finger and held it up. “We have the wind on our starboard beam,” he said. “That’s good, is it?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Could be, could be. Let’s hope it can take us to this continent he mentioned. I’m getting nervous of islands. ” Ridcully finished hacking through the stem of the boat and threw it overboard. At the top of the green mast the trumpet-like blooms appeared to tremble in the wind. The leaf sail creaked slowly into a different position. “I’d say this was a miracle of nature,” said the Dean, “if we hadn’t just met the person who did it. Rather spoils it, that. ” While wizards were not generally adventurous, they did understand that a vital part of any great undertaking is the securing of adequate provisions, which is why the boat was noticeably heavier in the water. The Dean selected a natural cigar, lit it, and made a face. “Not the best,” he said. “Rather green. ” “We’ll just have to rough it,” said Ridcully. “What are you doing, Senior Wrangler?” “Just preparing a little tray for Mrs. Whitlow. A few choice things. ” The wizards glanced towards the crude awning they’d erected towards the prow. It wasn’t that she’d actually asked for it. It was simply that she’d made some remark about how hot the sun was, as anyone might, and suddenly wizards were getting in each other’s way as they vied with one another to cut poles and weave palm leaves. Perhaps never has so much intellectual effort gone into building a sunshade, which might have accounted for the wobble. “I thought it was my turn to do that,” said the Dean, coldly. “No, Dean, you took her the fruit drink, if you remember,” said the Senior Wrangler, cutting a cheese nut into dainty segments. “That was just one small drink!” the Dean snapped. “You’re doing a whole tray. Look, you’ve even done a flower arrangement in a coconut shell!” “Mrs. Whitlow likes that sort of thing,” said the Senior Wrangler calmly. “But she did say it was still a bit warm, so possibly you can fan her with a palm leaf while I peel these grapes for her. ” “Once again it is left to me to point out the elementary unfairness,” said the Dean. “Merely waving a leaf is a very menial activity compared to removing grape skins, and I happen to outrank you, Senior Wrangler.

” “Indeed, Dean? And exactly how do you work that out?” “It’s not my opinion , man, it’s written into the Faculty structure!” “Of where, precisely?” “Have you gone totally Bursar? Unseen University, of course!” “And where is that, exactly?” said the Senior Wrangler, carefully arranging some lilies in a pleasing design. “Ye gods, man, it’s…it’s…” The Dean flapped a hand in the direction of the horizon, and his voice trailed off as certain facts of time and space bore in on him. “I’ll leave you to work it out, shall I?” said the Senior Wrangler, getting off his knees and raising the tray reverentially. “I’ll help!” shouted the Dean, lumbering to his feet. “It’s very light, I assure you—” “No, no, I can’t let you do it all by yourself!” Each holding the tray with one hand, and trying to push the other man away with the spare hand, they lurched forward, leaving a trail of spilt coconut milk and petals. Ridcully rolled his eyes. It must be the heat, he thought. He turned to the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who was trying to tie a short log to a long stick with a piece of creeper. “I was just thinking,” he said, “that everyone’s gone a little bit mad except me and you…Er, what are you doing there?” “I was just wondering whether Mrs. Whitlow might like a game of croquet,” said the Chair. He waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially. The Archchancellor sighed and wandered off along the deck. The Librarian had gone back to being a deckchair as a suitable mode for shipboard life, and the Bursar had gone to sleep on him. The big leaf moved slightly. Ridcully got the feeling that the green trumpets on the mast were sniffing. The wizards were already a little way from shore, but he saw the column of dust come down the track. It stopped at the beach and became a dot, which plunged into the sea. The sail creaked again, and flapped as the wind grew. “Ahoy there!” shouted Ridcully. The distant figure waved for a moment and then continued swimming. Ridcully filled his pipe and watched with interest as Ponder Stibbons caught up with the boat. “Very well swum, if I may say so,” he said. “Permission to come aboard, sir?” said Ponder, treading water. “Could you throw down a creeper?” “Why, certainly. ” The Archchancellor puffed his pipe as the wizard climbed aboard. “Possibly a record time over that distance, Mister Stibbons. ” “Thank you, sir,” said Ponder, dripping water on the deck. “And may I congratulate you on being properly dressed. You are wearing your pointy hat, which is the sine qua non of a wizard in public. ” “Thank you, sir. ” “It is a good hat. ” “Thank you, sir. ” “They say a wizard without his hat is undressed, Mister Stibbons. ” “So I have heard, sir. ” “But in your case, I must point out, you are with your hat but you are still, in a very real sense, undressed. ” “I thought the robe would slow me down, sir. ” “And, while it is good to see you, Stibbons, albeit rather more of you than I would usually care to contemplate, I am moved to ask why you are, in fact, here. ” “I suddenly felt it would be unfair to deprive the University of my services, sir. ” “Really? A sudden rush of nostalgia for the old alma mater, eh?” “You could say that, sir. ” Ridcully’s eyes twinkled behind the smoke and, not for the first time, Ponder suspected that the man was sometimes rather cleverer than he appeared. It would not be hard. The Archchancellor shrugged, removed his pipe, and poked around inside it to remove a particularly obstructive clinker. “The Senior Wrangler’s bathing costume is around somewhere,” he said. “I should put it on, if I were you. I suspect that offending Mrs. Whitlow at the moment will get you hanged. All right? And if there is anything you want to talk about, my door is always open. ” “Thank you, sir. ” “Right now, of course, I don’t have a door. ” “Thank you, sir. ” “Imagine it as being open, nevertheless. ” “Thank you, sir. ” After all, Ponder thought as he slipped gratefully away, the wizards of UU were merely crazy. Not even the Bursar was insane. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could still see the God of Evolution beaming so happily as the cockroach stirred. Rincewind rattled the bars. “Don’t I get a trial?” he shouted. After a while a warder wandered along the corridor. “Wha’d’yew want a trial for, mister?” “What? Well, call me Mister Silly, but it might just prove that I wasn’t trying to steal the damn sheep, mightn’t it?” said Rincewind. “I was in fact rescuing it. If only you people would track down the thief, he’d tell you!” The warder leaned against the wall and stuck his hands in his belt. “Yeah, well, it’s a funny thing,” he said, “but, y’know, we searched and searched and put up notices and everything but, funny thing, yew’ll never believe this, the bastard hasn’t had the decency to come forward? Makes yew despair of human nature, eh?” “So what’s going to happen to me?” The warder scratched his nose. “Gonna hang you by the neck until you’re dead, mate. Tomorrow morno. ” “You couldn’t perhaps just hang me by the neck until I’m sorry?” “No, mate. Got to be dead. ” “Good grief, it was only a sheep when all’s said and done!” The warder grinned widely. “Ah, a lot of men have gone to the gallows sayin’ that in the past,” he said. “s’matterofact, you’re the first sheep-stealer we’ve had here for years. All our big heroes have been sheep-stealers. You’re gonna get a big crowd. ” “Baah!” “Maybe a flock, too,” said the warder. “That’s another thing,” said Rincewind. “Why’s this sheep in my cell?” “Evidence, mate. ” Rincewind looked down at the sheep. “Oh. Well, no worries, then. ” The warder wandered off. Rincewind sat down on the bunk. Well, he could look on the bright side, couldn’t he? This was civilization. He hadn’t seen much of it, what with being tied across the back of a horse and everything, but what he’d been able to see was full of ruts and hoofprints and smelled pretty bad, which civilization often does. They were going to hang him in the morning. This building was the first one made of stone he’d seen in this country. They had watchmen, even. They were going to hang him in the morning. There were the sounds of carts and people filtering in through the high window. They were going to hang him in the morning. He gazed around the cell. It looked as though whoever’d built it had unaccountably forgotten to include any useful trapdoors. Trapdoors…Now there was a word he shouldn’t think about. He’d been in nastier places than this. Much, much nastier. And that made it worse, because he’d been up against nasty, weird and magical things which suddenly seemed a lot easier to contemplate than the fact that he was held in some stone box and in the morning some perfectly nice people who he might quite like if he met them in a bar were going to march him out and make him stand on a really unsafe floor in a very tight collar. “Baah!” “Shut up. ” “Baah?” “Couldn’t you have had a bath, or a dip or something? It’s a bit agricultural in here. ” The wall, now his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, was covered with scrawls, and in particular those little wicket gate tallies drawn by prisoners who were counting the days. They were going to hang him in the morning, so that was one chore he wouldn’t have to…Shut up, shut up. Now he came to look closer, most of the counts went up to one. He lay back with his eyes closed. Of course he’d get rescued, he’d always got rescued. Although, come to think of it, always in circumstances that put him in such a lot more danger than a prison cell usually held. Well, he’d been in enough cells. There were ways to handle these things. The important thing was to be direct. He got up and banged on the bars until the warder sauntered along the corridor. “Yes, mate?” “I just want to get things sorted out,” said Rincewind. “It’s not as though I’ve got time to waste, okay?” “Yep?” “Is there any chance that you’re going to fall asleep in a chair opposite this cell with your keys fully exposed on a table in front of you?” They looked at the empty corridor.

“I’d have to get someone to help me bring a table down here,” said the warder doubtfully. “Can’t see it happening, mister. Sorry. ” “Right. Okay. ” Rincewind thought for a moment. “All right…Is my dinner likely to be brought in by a young lady carrying, and this is important, carrying a tray covered with a cloth ?” “No, ’cos I do the cooking. ” “Right. ” “Bread and water is what I’m good at. ” “Right, just checking. ” “’ere, that sticky brown stuff they brought in with you is top stuff on bread, mister. ” “Be my guest. ” “I can feel the vitamins and minerals doing me a power of good. ” “No worries. Now…ah, yes. Laundry. Are there any big laundry baskets around, which will happily get tipped down a chute to the outside world?” “Sorry, mister. There’s an old washerwoman comes in to collect it. ” “Really?” Rincewind brightened. “Ah, a washerwoman. Big lady, bulky dress, possibly wears a hood which can be pulled down to cover a lot of her face?” “Yep, pretty much. ” “Well then, is she due in—?” “She’s my mum,” said the warder. “Right, fine…” They looked at one another. “I reckon that about covers it, then,” said Rincewind. “I hope you didn’t mind me asking. ” “Bless yew, no! No worries! Happy to help. Worked out what yew’re gonna say on the gallows, have yer? Only some of the ballad-writers want to know, if yew wouldn’t mind. ” “Ballads?” “Oh, yeah. There’s three so far and I reckon there’ll be ten by tomorra. ” Rincewind rolled his eyes. “How many of them have put ‘too-ra-la, too-ra-la addity’ in the chorus?” he asked. “All of them. ” “Oh, gods…” “And yew wouldn’t mind changin’ your name, would yew? Only they’re sayin’ ‘Rincewind’ is a bit tricky to turn a line on. Concernin’ of a bush ranger, Rincewind was his name…’ ’s got the wrong sort of sound…” “Well, I’m sorry. Perhaps you’d better let me go, then?” “Ha, nice one. Now, if you want my advice, you’ll keep it short when yew’re up on the gallows,” said the warder. “The best Famous Last Words are the shortest. Something simple gen’rally works best. Go easy on the swearin’. ” “Look, all I did was steal a sheep! And I didn’t even do that! What’s everyone so excited about?” said Rincewind desperately. “Oh, very notorious crime, sheep-stealing,” said the warder cheerfully. “Strikes a chord. Little man battlin’ against the forces of brutal authority. People like that. You’ll be remembered in song ‘n’ story, ’specially if yew come up with some good Last Words, like I said. ” The warder hitched up his belt. “To tell you the truth, a lot of people these days haven’t even seen a bloody sheep, but hearing that someone’s stolen one makes ’em feel proper Ecksians. It even does me good to have a proper criminal in the cells for once, instead of all these bloody politicians. ” Rincewind sat down on the bunk again, with his head in his hands. “O’ course, a famous escape is nearly as good as gettin’ hanged,” said the warder, in the manner of someone trying to keep up someone else’s spirits. “Really,” said Rincewind. “Yew ain’t asked if the little grille in the floor there leads into the sewers,” the warder prompted. Rincewind peered between his fingers. “Does it?” “We ain’t got any sewers. ” “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. ” The warden strolled off again, whistling. Rincewind lay back on the bunk and closed his eyes again. “Baah!” “Shut up. ” “’scuse me, mister…” Rincewind groaned and sat up again. This time the voice was coming from the high, small, barred window. “Yes, what is it?” “Yew know when you was caught?” “Well? What about it?” “Er…what kind of a tree were you under?” Rincewind looked up at the narrow square of blue the prisoner calls the sky. “What kind of question is that to ask me?” “It’s for the ballad, see? Only it’d help if it was a name with three syllables…” “How do I know? I didn’t stop for a bit of botany!” “All right, all right, fair enough,” said the hidden speaker. “But would you mind telling me what you was doing just before you stole the sheep?” “I didn’t steal the sheep!” “Right, right, okay…What was you doing just before you didn’t steal the sheep…?” “I don’t know, I can’t remember!” “Were you boiling your billy, by any chance?” “I’m not admitting to that! The way you people talk, that could mean anything !” “Means cookin’ something up in a tin. ” “Oh. Well, yes, I had been doing that, as it happens. ” “Good on yer!” Rincewind thought he heard the sound of scribbling. “Shame you didn’t die at the end, but you’re gonna get hung so that’s all right. Got a beaut tune for this one, you just can’t stop whistling it…Well, of course you will, no worries. ” “Thank you for that. ” “Reckon you might be as famous as Tinhead Ned, mate. ” “Really. ” Rincewind went and lay down on his bunk again. “Yeah. They used to lock him up in that very cell you’re in now, in fact. And he always escaped. No one knows how, ’cos that’s a bloody good lock and he didn’t bend any bars. He said they’d never build a jail that could hold him. ” “Thin fellow, was he?” “Nope. ” “So he had a key or something. ” “Nope. Got to go now, mate. Oh, yeah, I remember. Er, do you think your ghost will be heard if people pass by the billybong, or not?” “What?” “It’d be helpful if it did. Makes a good last verse. Top stuff. ” “I don’t know!” “We-ell, I’ll say it will, shall I? No one’s gonna go back and check. ” “Don’t let me stand in your way, then. ” “Bonza. I’ll get these songsheets printed up in time for the hanging, don’t you worry about that. ” “I won’t. ” Rincewind lay back. Tinhead Ned again. That was just a joke, he could spot it. It was some kind of torture, telling him that anyone had ever escaped from a cell like this. They wanted him to run around rattling bars and things, but even he could see they were well set in and very heavy and the lock was bigger than his head. He was just lying back on the bunk again when the warder turned up. There were a couple of men with him. Rincewind was pretty sure there weren’t any trolls here, because it was probably too hot for them and anyway there wouldn’t be enough room for them on the driftwood, what with all those camels, but these men definitely had the heavy-set look of men who occupy the kind of job where the entrance examination is “What is your name?” and they scrape through on the third try. The warder was wearing a big grin and carrying a tray. “Got some dinnah for you,” he said. “I won’t tell you anything, no matter how much you feed me,” Rincewind warned. “You’ll like this,” the warder urged, pushing the tray forward. There was a covered bowl on it. “I done it special for you. It’s a regional specialty, mate. ” “I thought you said bread and water’s what you’re good at. ” “Well, yeah…but I had a bash at this anyway…” Rincewind watched gloomily as the warder lifted the cover. * It looked fairly inoffensive, but they often did. It looked, in fact, like— “Pea soup?” he said. “Yep. ” “The leguminous vegetable? Comes in pods?” “Yep. ” “I thought I’d better check that point. ” “No worries. ” Rincewind looked down at the knobbly green surface. Was it just possible that someone had invented a regional specialty you could eat? And then something rose out of the depths. For a moment Rincewind thought it was a very small shark. It bobbed to the surface and then settled back down, while the soup slopped over it. “What was that ?” “Meat pie floater,” said the warder. “Meat pie floating in pea soup. Best bloody supper on earth, mate. ” “Ah, supper ,” said Rincewind, as realization dawned. “This is another one of those late-night, after-the-pub foods, right? And what kind of meat is in it? No, forget I asked, it’s a stupid question. I know this sort of food. If you have to ask ‘What kind of meat is in it?’ you’re too sober. Ever tried spaghetti and custard?” “Can you sprinkle coconut on top of it?” “Probably. ” “Thanks, mate, I’ll surely give it a go,” said the warder. “Got some other good news for you, too. ” “You’re letting me out?” “Oh, you wouldn’t want that, a hard-bitten larrikin like yourself. Nah, Greg and Vince here will be coming back later to put you in irons.

” He stepped aside. The wall-shaped men were holding a length of chain, several shackles and a small but very, very heavy-looking ball. Rincewind sighed. One door closes, he thought, and another door slams shut. “This is good, is it?” he said. “Oh, yew’ll get an extra verse for that, for sure,” said the warder. “No one’s been hung in irons since Tinhead Ned. ” “I thought there wasn’t a prison cell that could hold him,” said Rincewind. “Oh, he could get out of ’em,” said the warder. “He just couldn’t run very far. ” Rincewind eyed the metal ball. “Oh, gods…” “Vince says how much do you weigh, ’cos he has to add the chains to your weight to get the drop right,” said the warder. “Does that matter?” said Rincewind in a hollow voice. “I mean, I die anyway, don’t I?” “Yeah, no worries there, but if he gets it wrong, see, you either end up with a neck six feet long or, you’ll laugh about this, your head flies off like a perishin’ cork!” “Oh, good. ” “With Larrikin Larry we had to search the roof all arvo!” “Marvelous. All arvo, eh?” said Rincewind. “Well, you won’t have that problem with me. I shall be elsewhere when I’m being hanged. ” “That’s what we like to hear!” said the warder, punching him jovially in the elbow. “A battler to the end, eh?” There was a rumbling from Mt. Vince. “And Vince says he’ll be very privileged if you’d care to spit in his eye when he puts the rope aroun’ your neck,” the warder went on. “That’ll be something to show his grandchildren—” “Will you all please go away!” Rincewind shouted. “Ah, you’ll be wanting some time to plot your getaway,” said the warder knowingly. “No worries. We’ll be leavin’ you alone, then. ” “Thank you. ” “Until about five A. M. ” “Good,” said Rincewind gloomily. “Got any requests for your last breakfast?” “Something that takes a really really long time to prepare?” said Rincewind. “That’s the spirit!” “Go away!” “No worries. ” The men walked off, but the warder strolled back after a while as if he had something on his mind. “There is something that you ought to know about the hanging, though,” he said. “Might brighten up your night. ” “Yes?” “We’ve got a special humanitarian tradition if the trapdoor sticks three times. ” “Yes?” “Sounds a bit odd, but it’s happened once or twice, believe it or not. ” A tiny green shoot rose from the blackened branches of hope. “And what’s the tradition?” said Rincewind. “It’s on account of it being heartless to have a man standing there more than three times, knowing that at any second his—” “Yes, yes—” “—and then all his—” “Yes—” “—and the worst part to my mind is where your—” “Yes, I understand! And so…after the third time…?” “He’s allowed back into his cell while we get a carpenter in to repair the trapdoor,” said the warder. “We even give him his dinner, if it’s gone on a long time. ” “And?” “Well, when the carpenter’s given it a good test, then we take him out again and hang him. ” He saw Rincewind’s expression. “No need to look like that. ’s better than having to stand around in the cold all morning, isn’t it? That wouldn’t be nice. ” When he’d gone, Rincewind sat and stared at the wall. “Baa!” “Shut up. ” So it was down to this, then. One brief night left, and then, if these clowns had anything to do with it, happy people would be wandering the streets to see where his head had come down. There was no justice! G’ DAY, MATE. “Oh, no. Please. ” I JUST THOUGHT I SHOULD ENTER INTO THE SPIRIT OF THE THING. A VERY CONVIVIAL PEOPLE, AREN’T THEY ? said Death. He was sitting beside Rincewind. “You just can’t wait, can you?” said Rincewind bitterly. N O WORRIES. “So this is really it, then. I was supposed to have saved this country, you know. And I’m going to really die. ” O H, YES. T HIS IS CERTAIN , I’ M AFRAID. “It’s the stupidity of it that gets me. I mean, think of all the times I’ve nearly died in the past. I could’ve been flamed by dragons, right? Or eaten by huge things with tentacles. Or even had every single particle of my body fly off in a different direction. ” Y OU HAVE CERTAINLY HAD AN INTERESTING LIFE. “Is it true that your life passes before your eyes before you die?” Y ES. “Ghastly thought, really. ” Rincewind shuddered. “Oh, gods , I’ve just had another one. Suppose I am just about to die and this is my whole life passing in front of my eyes?” I THINK PERHAPS YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. P EOPLE’S WHOLE LIVES DO PASS IN FRONT OF THEIR EYES BEFORE THEY DIE. T HE PROCESS IS CALLED “LIVING. ” W OULD YOU LIKE A PRAWN ? Rincewind looked down at the bucket on Death’s lap. “No, thank you. I really don’t think so. They can be pretty deadly. And I must say it’s a bit much of you to come here and gloat and eat prawns at me. ” I BEG YOUR PARDON ? “Just because I’m being hanged in the morning, I mean. ” A RE YOU ? T HEN I SHALL LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING HOW YOU ESCAPED. I’ M DUE TO MEET A MAN IN … IN …Death’s eyesockets glowed as he interrogated his memory. A H, YES … INSIDE A CROCODILE. S EVERAL HUNDRED MILES AWAY , I BELIEVE. “What? Then why are you here?” O H , I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO SEE A FRIENDLY FACE. A ND NOW I THINK I HAD BETTER BE GOING. Death stood up. V ERY PLEASANT CITY IN MANY RESPECTS. T RY TO SEE THE OPERA HOUSE WHILE YOU’RE HERE. “Hang on…I mean, hold on, you told me I was certainly going to die!” E VERYONE IS. E VENTUALLY. The wall opened and closed around Death as if it wasn’t there, which was, from his lengthy perspective, quite true. “But how ? I can’t walk through—” Rincewind began. He sat down again. The sheep cowered in the corner. Rincewind looked at the untouched meat pie floater and gave the pie a prod. It sank slowly beneath the vivid green soup. The sounds of the city filtered in. After a while the pie rose again like a forgotten continent, sending a very small wave slopping against the edge of the bowl. Rincewind lay back on the thin blanket and stared at the ceiling. Someone had even been writing on that, too. In fact… Gdy mat. Look at the hinjis. Ned. Slowly, as if being raised by invisible strings, Rincewind turned and looked at the door. The hinges were massive. They weren’t screwed into the doorframe so that some clever prisoner might unscrew them. They were huge iron hooks, hammered into the stone itself, so that two heavy rings welded on to the door could drop right down on them. What was the man talking about? He walked over and examined the lock closely. It drove a huge metal rod into the frame on its side and looked quite unpickable. Rincewind stared at the door for some time. Then he rubbed his hands together and, gritting his teeth, tried to lift the door on the hinge side. Yes, there was just enough play… It was possible to lift the rings off the spikes. Then, if you pulled slightly and took a knee-wobbling step this way, you could yank the lock’s rod out of its hole and the entire door into the cell. And then a man could walk through and carefully rehang the door again and quietly wander away. And that, Rincewind thought as he carefully maneuvered the door back on to the hinges, was exactly what a stupid person would do. At moments like this cowardice was an exact science. There were times that called for mindless, terror-filled panic, and times that called for measured, considered, thoughtful panic. Right now he was in a place of safety. It was, admittedly, the death cell, but the point was that it was perhaps the one place in this country where nothing bad was going to happen for a little while. The Ecksians didn’t look like the kind of people who went in for torture, although it was always possible they might make him eat some more of their food. So, for the moment, he had time. Time to plan ahead, to consider his next move, to apply his intellect to the problem at hand. He stared at the wall for a moment, and then stood up and gripped the bars. Right. That seemed to be about long enough. Now to run like hell. The green deck of the melon boat had been divided into a male and female section, for the sake of decency. This meant that most of the deck was occupied by Mrs.

Whitlow, who spent a lot of the time sunbathing behind a screen. Her privacy was assured by the wizards themselves, since at least three of them would probably kill any of the others who ventured within ten feet of the palm leaves. There was definitely what Ponder’s aunt, who’d raised him, would have called An Atmosphere. “I still think I ought to climb the mast,” he protested. “Ah! A peeping torn, eh?” snarled the Senior Wrangler. “No, I just think it would be a good idea to see where the boat is going,” said Ponder. “There’re some big black clouds ahead. ” “Good, we could do with the rain,” snapped the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “In which case, I shall be honored to make Mrs. Whitlow a suitable shelter,” said the Dean. Ponder walked back to the stern, where the Archchancellor was gloomily fishing. “Honestly, you’d think Mrs. Whitlow was the only woman in the world,” he said. “Do you think she might be?” said Ridcully. Ponder’s mind raced, and hit some horrible speed bumps in his imagination. “Surely not, sir!” he said. “We don’t know , Ponder. Still, look on the bright side. We may all be drowned. ” “Er…sir? Have you looked at the horizon?” The everlasting storm was seven thousand miles long but only a mile wide, a great turning, boiling mass of enraged air circling the last continent like a family of foxes circling a henhouse. The clouds were mounded up all the way to the edge of the atmosphere—and they were ancient clouds now, clouds that had rolled around their tortured circuit for years, building up personality and hatred and, above all, voltage. It was not a storm, it was a battle. Mere gales, a few hundred miles long, fought amongst themselves within the cloud wall. Lightning forked from thunderhead to thunderhead, rain fell and flashed into steam half a mile from the ground. The air glowed. And below, emerging from the ocean of potentiality in a rainstorm so thunderous that it was no more than a descending sea, rose the last continent. On the wall of the deserted cell in Bugarup Gaol, among the scratches and stick drawings and tallies of a man’s last few days, a drawing of a sheep became a drawing of a kangaroo and then faded completely into the stone. “So?” said the Dean. “We’re in for a bit of a blow?” The gray line filled the immediate future like a dental appointment. “I think it might be a lot worse,” said Ponder. “Well, let’s steer somewhere else, then. ” “There’s no rudder, sir. And we don’t know where anywhere else is. And we’re low on water anyway. ” “Don’t they say that a big bank of cloud means there’s land ahead?” said the Dean. “Bloody big land, then. EcksEcksEcksEcks, do you think?” “I hope so, sir. ” Above Ponder, the sail flapped and billowed. “Wind’s freshening, sir. I think the storm’s sucking the air towards it. And…there’s something else, I think. I wish I hadn’t left my thaumometer on the beach, sir, because I think here’s a very high level of background magic in this area. ” “What makes you say this, boy?” said the Dean. “Well, for one thing everyone seems to be getting a bit tense, and wizards tend to get stro—to get touchy in the presence of large amounts of magic,” said Ponder. “But my suspicions were first aroused when the Bursar developed planets. ” There were two of them, orbiting his head at a height of a few inches. As was so often the case with magical phenomena, they possessed virtual unreality and passed unscathed through him and one another. They were slightly transparent. “Oh dear, Mugroop’s Syndrome,” said Ridcully. “Cerebral manifestation. Better than a canary down a coalmine, a sign like that. ” A little sub-routine in Ponder’s head began a short countdown. “Remember old ‘Dicky’ Bird?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “He—” “Three! No, I don’t, as a matter of fact. Do tell!” Ponder heard himself bark, louder than he would have done even if he had meant to vocalize his thoughts. “Indeed I shall, Mister Stibbons,” said the Chair calmly. “He was very susceptible to high magical fields, and if his mind wandered, as it might do when he was dozing off, sometimes around his head there’d be, hehehe, there’d be these little—” “Yes, certainly,” said Ponder, quickly. “We’ll have to be very careful to keep an eye open for unusual behavior. ” “Among wizards?” said Ridcully. “Mister Stibbons, unusual behavior is perfectly ordinary for wizards. ” “People acting out of character, then!” Ponder shouted. “Talking sense for two minutes together, perhaps! Acting like normal civilized people instead of a herd of self-regarding village idiots!” “Stibbons, it’s not like you to take that tone,” said Ridcully. “That’s what I mean!” “Now then, Mustrum, go easy on him, we’re all under a lot of stress,” said the Dean. “Now he’s doing it!” Ponder yelled, pointing a shaking finger. “The Dean is normally never nice! Now he’s being aggressively reasonable!” Historians have pointed out that it is in times of plenty that people feel like going to war. In times of famine they’re simply trying to find enough to eat. When they’ve just enough to go round they tend to be polite. But when a banquet is spread before them, it’s time to argue over the place settings. * And Unseen University, as even wizards realized at somewhere just below the top level of their minds, existed not to further magic but, in a very creative way, to suppress it. The world had seen what happened when wizards got their hands on enormous amounts of magical power. It had happened a long time ago and there were still some areas where you didn’t go, if you wanted to walk out on the same kind of feet that you’d had when you went in. Once upon a time the plural of “wizard” was “war. ” But the great, open ingenious purpose of UU was to be the weight on the arm of magic, causing it to swing with grave majesty like a pendulum rather than spin with deadly purpose like a morningstar. Instead of hurling fireballs at one another from fortified towers the wizards learned to snipe at their colleagues over the interpretation of Faculty Council minutes, and long ago were amazed to find that they got just as much vicious fun out of it. They consumed big dinners, and after a really good meal and a fine cigar even the most rabid Dark Lord is inclined to put his feet up and feel amicable towards the world, especially if it’s offering him another brandy. And slowly, and by degrees, they absorbed the most important magical power of all, which is the one that persuades you to stop using all the others. The trouble is that it’s easy to abstain from sweets when you’re not standing knee deep in treacle and it’s raining sugar. “There does indeed seem to be a certain…tang in the air,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Magic tastes like tin. “Hold on a moment,” said Ridcully. He reached up, pulled open one of the many drawers in his wizarding hat, and removed a cube of greenish glass. “Here we are,” he said, handing it to Ponder. Ponder took the thaumometer and peered into it. “Never used it myself,” Ridcully said. “Wetting a finger and holding it up has always been good enough for me. ” “It’s not working!” said Ponder, tapping the thaumometer as the ship rocked under them. “The needle’s…Oow!” He dropped the cube, which was molten by the time it hit the deck. “That’s impossible!” he said. “These things are good up to a million thaums!” Ridcully licked his finger and held it up. It sprouted a halo of purple and octarine. “Yep, that’s about right,” he said. “There’s not that much magic anywhere any more!” shouted Ponder. There was a gale behind the boat now. Ahead, the wall of storm was widening and seemed to be a lot blacker. “How much magic does it take to create a continent?” said Ridcully. They looked up at the clouds. And further up. “We’d better batten down the hatches,” said the Dean. “We don’t have any hatches. ” “Batten down Mrs. Whitlow at least. Get the Bursar and the Librarian somewhere safe—” They hit the storm. Rincewind dropped into an alley and reflected that he’d been in far worse prisons. The Ecksians were a friendly lot, when not drunk or trying to kill you or both.

What Rincewind looked for in a good gaol were guards who, instead of ruining everyone’s night by prowling around the corridors, got together in one room with a few tins and a pack of cards and relaxed. It made it so much more…friendly. And, of course, easier to walk past. He turned—and there was the kangaroo, huge and bright and outlined against the sky. Rincewind shrank back for a moment and then realized that it was nothing but an advertising sign on the roof of a building some way off and further down the hill. Someone had rigged up lamps and mirrors below it. It had a hat on, with some stupid holes for its ears to stick out, and it wore a vest as well, but it was certainly the kangaroo. No other kangaroo could possibly smirk like that. And it was holding a tin of beer. “Where did you drift in from, curly?” said a voice behind him. It was a very familiar voice. It had a sort of complaining wheedle in it. It was a voice that kept looking out of the corners of its eyes and was always ready to dodge. It was a voice you could have used to open a bottle of whine. He turned. And the figure in front of him, except for a few details, was as familiar as the voice. “You can’t be called Dibbler,” said Rincewind. “Why not?” “Because—Well, how did you get here ?” “What? I just came up Berk Street,” said the figure. It had a large hat, and large shorts, and large boots, but in every other respect it was the double of the man who, in Ankh-Morpork, was always there after the pubs shut to sell you one of his very special meat pies. Rincewind had a theory that there was a Dibbler everywhere. Suspended from the neck of this one was a tray. On the front of the tray was written “Dibbler’s Café de Feet. ” “I reckoned I’d better get up to the gaol early for a good pitch,” said Dibbler. “Always gives the crowd an appetite, a good hanging. Can I interest you in anything, mate?” Rincewind looked at the end of the alley. The streets were quite busy. As he watched, a couple of guards strolled by. “Such as what?” he said suspiciously, drawing back into the shadows. “Got some good broadsheet ballads about the notorious outlaw they’re gonna top…?” “No, thank you. ” “Souvenir piece of the rope they’re gonna hang him with? Authentic!” Rincewind looked at the short length of thick string being dangled hopefully in front of him. “Some people might say that had a hint of clothesline about it,” he said. Dibbler gave the string a look of extreme interest. “Obviously we had to unravel it a bit, mate,” he said. “And some people might pick holes in the suggestion that you could, philosophically speaking, sell lengths of the rope before the hanging?” Dibbler paused, his smile not moving. Then he said, “It’s the rope, right? Three-quarter-inch hemp, the usual stuff. Authentic. probably even from the same ropemaker. Come on, all I’m looking for here is a fair go. Probably it’s a pure fluke this ain’t the actual bit that’s gonna go round his neck—” “That’s only half an inch thick. Look, I can see the label, it says Hill’s Clothesline Co. ”’ “Does it?” Once again Dibbler appeared to be looking at his product for the first time. But the traditions of the Dibbler clan would never let a mere disastrous fact get in the way of a spiel. “It’s still rope,” he averred. “Authentic rope. No? No worries. How about some authentic native art?” He rummaged in his crowded tray and held up a square of cardboard. Rincewind gave it an appraising look. He’d seen something like this out in the red country, although he’d not been certain that it was art in the way Ankh-Morpork understood it. It was more like a map, a history book and a menu all rolled together. Back home, people tied a knot in their handkerchief to remind them of things. Out in the hot country there weren’t any handkerchiefs, so people tied a knot in their thoughts. They didn’t paint very many pictures of a string of sausages. “’s called Sausage and Chips Dreaming ,” said Dibbler. “I don’t think I’ve seen one like that,” said Rincewind. “Not with the sauce bottle in it as well. ” “So what?” said Dibbler. “Still native. Genuine picture of traditional city tucker, done by a native. A fair go, that’s all I ask. ” “Ah, suddenly I think I understand. The native in this case, perhaps, being you?” said Rincewind. “Yep. Authentic. You arguing?” “Oh, come on. ” “What? I was born over there in Treacle Street, Bludgeree, and so was my dad. And my granddad. And his dad. I didn’t just step off the driftwood like some people I might mention. ” His ratty little face darkened. “Coming over here, taking our jobs…What about the little man, eh? All I’m askin’ for is a fair go. ” For a moment Rincewind contemplated handing himself over to the Watch. “Nice to hear someone siding with the rights of the indigenous population,” he muttered, checking the street again. “Indigenous? What do they know about a day’s work? Nah, they can go back where they came from too,” said Dibbler. “They don’t want to work. ” “Good thing for you, though, I can see that,” said Rincewind. “Otherwise they’d be taking your job, right?” “The way I see it, I’m more indigenous than them,” said Fair Go, pointing an indignant thumb at himself. “I earned my indigenuity, I did. ” Rincewind sighed. Logic could take you only so far, then you had to get out and hop. “A fair go, that’s what you want,” he said. “Am I right?” “Yep!” “So…is there anyone who you don’t want to go back where they came from?” Fair Go Dibbler gave this some deep consideration. “Well, me, obviously ,” he said. “And my mate Duncan, ’cos Duncan’s me mate. And Mrs. Dibbler, of course. And some of the blokes down at the fish and chip shop. Lots of people, really. ” “Well, I’ll tell you what,” said Rincewind. “I definitely want to go back where I came from. ” “Good on yer!” “Your socio-political analysis is certainly working on me. ” “Beaut!” “And maybe you can show me how? Like, where the docks are?” “Well, I would ,” said Dibbler, obviously torn. “Only there’s going to be this hanging in a few hours and I want to get the meat pies warmed up. ” “As a matter of fact, I heard the hanging had been canceled,” said Rincewind, conspiratorially. “The bloke escaped. ” “Never!” “He certainly did!” said Rincewind. “I’m not pulling your raw prawn. ” “Did he have any last words?” “‘Goodbye,’ I think. ” “You mean he wasn’t in a famous last-stand shoot-out with the Watch?” “Apparently not. ” “What kind of escape is that?” said Fair Go. “That’s no way to behave. I didn’t have to come up here, I gave up a good spot at the Galah for this, ’s not a good hanging without a meat pie. ” He leaned closer and gave a furtive look both ways before continuing: “Say what you like, the Galah’s good for business. Their money’s the same as anyone else’s, that’s what I say. ” “Well…yes. Obviously. Otherwise it’d be…different money,” said Rincewind. “ So , since your night’s ruined, why not just show me where the docks are?” There was still some uncertainty in Dibbler’s stance. Rincewind swallowed. He’d faced spiders, angry men with spears and bears that dropped on you out of trees, but now the continent was presenting him with its most dangerous challenge. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll…I’ll even… buy …something off you?” “The rope?” “Not the rope. Not the rope. Um…I know this may seem a somewhat esoteric question, but what’s in the meat pies?” “Meat. ” “And what kind of meat?” “Ah, you want one of the gourmet meat pies, then?” “Oh, I see. That’s where you say what’s in them?” “Yup. ” “Before or after the customers have bitten into them?” “Are you suggesting that my pies ain’t right?” “Let us say I’m inching my way to the possibility that they might be, shall we? All right, I’ll try a gourmet pie. ” “Good on yer. ” Dibbler removed a pie from the little heated section of his tray. “Now…what’s the meat? Cat?” “Do you mind? Mutton’s cheaper’n cat,” said Dibbler, upending the pie into a dish. “Well, that’s—” Rincewind’s face screwed up. “Oh, no, you’re pouring pea soup all over it too. Why does everyone always pour pea soup over it!” “No worries, mate.

Puts a lining on your stomach,” said Dibbler, producing a red bottle. “And what’s that ?” “The cut de grass , mate. ” “You’re tipping a meat pie into a dish of pea soup and now you want me to eat it with…with tomato sauce on it?” “Pretty colors, ain’t they?” said Fair Go, handing Rincewind a spoon. Rincewind prodded the pie. It rebounded gently off the side of the dish. Well, now…He’d eaten Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler’s sausages-in-a-bun, and Disembowel-Meself-Honourably Dibhala’s funny-colored antique eggs. And he’d survived, although there had been a few minutes when he’d hoped he wouldn’t. He’d eaten Al-Jiblah’s highly suspicious couscous, drunk the terrible yak-butter tea made by May-I-Never-Achieve-Enlightenment Dhiblang, forced down the topless, bottomless smorgasbord of Dib Diblossonson and tried not to chew the lumps of unmentionable blubber purveyed by May-I-Be-Kicked-In-My-Own-Ice-Hole Dibooki (his stomach heaved at the memory of that—after all, it was one thing to butcher dead beached whales and quite another just to leave them there until they exploded into bite sized chunks of their own accord). As for the green beer made by Swallow-Me-Own-Blowdart Dlang-Dlang… He’d drunk and eaten all these things. Everywhere in the world, someone turned up out of some strange primal mold to sell him a really dreadful regional delicacy. And this was just a pie, after all. How bad could it be? No, put it another way… How much worse could it be? He swallowed a mouthful. “Good, eh?” said Fair Go. “My gods,” said Rincewind. “They’re not just any mushy peas,” said Fair Go, slightly disconcerted by the fact that Rincewind was staring wildly at nothing. “They’re mushed by a champion pea musher. ” “Good grief …” said Rincewind. “Are you all right, mister?” “It’s…everything I expected…” said Rincewind. “Now, mister, it ain’t that bad—” “You’re certainly a Dibbler. ” “What kind of thing is that to say?” “You put pies upside down in runny peas and then put sauce on them. Someone actually sat down one day, after midnight if I’m any judge, and thought that would be a good idea. No one will ever believe this one. ” Rincewind looked at the submerged pie. “That’s going to make the story about the land of the giant walking plum puddings look very tame, I don’t mind telling you. No wonder you people drink so much beer…” * He stepped out into the flickering lamplight of the street, shaking his head. “You actually eat the pies here,” he said mournfully, and looked up into the face of the warder. There were several watchmen behind him. “That’s him!” Rincewind nodded cheerfully. “G’day!” he said. Two little thuds were his homemade sandals bouncing on the street. The sea steamed and crackling balls of lightning zipped across its surface like drops of water on a hotplate. The waves were too big to be waves, but about the right size for mountains. Ponder looked up from the deck only once, just as the boat began to slide down a trough that gaped like a canyon. Next to him, and gripping his leg, the Dean groaned. “You know about this sort of thing, Ponder,” he growled, as they hit the trough and then began the stomach-twisting climb to the next crest. “Are we going to die?” “I…don’t think so, Dean…” “Pity…” Rincewind heard whistles blowing behind him by the time he reached the corner, but he never let that sort of thing worry him. This was a city! Cities were so much easier. He was a creature of cities. There were so many places to— Whistles started blowing up ahead as well. The crowds were thicker here, and most people were heading in the same direction. But Rincewind liked crowds to run through. As the pursued, he had novelty on his side and could shoulder his way past the unsuspecting, who then turned around and milled about and complained and were definitely not in the right frame of mind to greet the people following him. Rincewind could run through a crowd like a ball on a bagatelle board, and always got an extra go. Downhill was best. That’s where they generally put docks, so as to have them close to the water. Dodging and ducking across the streets brought him, suddenly, to the waterside. There were a few boats there. They were on the small side for a stowaway, but— There were running footsteps in the dark! These watchmen were too good! This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! They weren’t supposed to double-back. They weren’t supposed to think. He ran in the only direction left, along the waterfront. There was a building there. At least, it…well, it had to be a building. No one could have left an open box of tissues that big. Rincewind felt that a building should be a box with a pointed lid on it, basically, and it should be the approximate color of whatever the local mud was. On the other hand, as the philosopher Ly Tin Wheedle once remarked, it is never wise to object to the decor of a hidey-hole. He bounded up the steps and circled around the strange white building. It seemed to be some kind of music hall. Opera, by the sound of it, although it was a damn funny place to sing opera, you couldn’t imagine ladies with horns in a building that looked about to set sail, but no time to wonder about that, there was a door with some rubbish bins outside it and here was the door open … “You from the agency, mate?” Rincewind peered into the steam. “An’ I hope you can do puddings, ’cos cheffy’s banging his head on the wall,” went on a figure emerging from the wisps. It was wearing a tall white hat. “No worries,” said Rincewind, hopefully. “Ah, this is a kitchen , is it?” “You pullin’ my leg?” “Only I thought it was some kind of opera house or something—” “Best bloody opera house in the world, mate. Come on, this way…” It wasn’t a very big kitchen and, like most of the ones Rincewind had been in, it was full of men working very hard at cross purposes. “The boss upstairs only decided to throw a big dinner for the prima donna,” said the cook, forcing his way through the throng. “And all of a sudden Charley sees the pudding staring him in the face. ” “Ah, right,” said Rincewind, on the basis that sooner or later he’d be given a clue. “Boss says, you can do the pudding for her, Charley. ” “Just like that, eh?” “He sez, it ought to be the best one yet, Charley. ” “No worries?” “He sez, the great Nunco invented the Strawberry Sackville for Dame Wendy Sackville, and the famous chef Imposo created the Apple Glazier for Dame Margyreen Glazier, and your own father, Charley, honored Dame Janeen Ormulu with the Orange Ormulu and tonight, Charley, it’s your big chance. ” The cook shook his head as he reached a table where a small man in a white uniform was sobbing uncontrollably into his hands. There was a stack of empty beer cans in front of him. “Poor bastard’s been on the beer ever since, and we thought we’d better get someone in. I’m a steak and prawns man, myself. ” “So, you want me to make a pudding? Named after an opera singer?” said Rincewind. “That’s the tradition, is it?” “Yeah, and you’d better not let Charley down, mate. It’s not his fault. ” “Oh, well…” Rincewind thought about puddings. Basically it was just fruit and cream and custard, wasn’t it? And cakes and stuff. He couldn’t see where the problem lay. “No worries,” he said. “I think I can knock up something right away. ” The kitchen became silent as the scurrying cooks stopped to watch him. “First,” said Rincewind, “what fruit have we got?” “Peaches was all we could find at this time of night. ” “No worries. And we’ve got some cream?” “Yep. Of course. ” “Fine, fine. Then all I need to know is the name of the lady in question…” He felt the silence open up. “She’s a beaut singer, mind you,” said a cook, in a defensive tone of voice. “Good. And her name?” said Rincewind. “Er…that’s the trouble, see,” said another cook. “Why?” Ponder opened his eyes. The water was calm, or at least calmer than it had been. There were even patches of blue sky above, although cloud banks were crisscrossing the air as if each were in possession of its own bag of wind. His mouth tasted as though he’d been sucking a tin spoon.

Around him, some of the wizards managed to push themselves to their knees. The Dean frowned, removed his hat, and pulled out a small crab. “’s a good boat,” he murmured. The green mast stem still stood, although the leaf sail looked ragged. Nevertheless, the boat was tacking nicely against the wind off— —the continent. It was a red wall, glowing under the thunder light. Ridcully got uncertainly to his feet and pointed to it. “Not far now!” he said. The Dean actually growled. “I’ve just about had enough of that insufferable cheerfulness,” he said. “So just shut up, will you?” “Enough of that. I am your Archchancellor, Dean,” said Ridcully. “Well, let’s just talk about that, shall we?” said the Dean, and Ponder saw the nasty gleam in his eye. “This is hardly the time, Dean!” “Exactly on what basis are you giving orders, Ridcully? You’re the Archchancellor of what, precisely? Unseen University doesn’t even exist ! Tell him, Senior Wrangler!” “I don’t have to if I don’t want to,” sniffed the Senior Wrangler. “What? What?” snapped the Dean. “I don’t believe I have to take orders from you, Dean!” When the Bursar climbed up on deck a minute later the boat was already rocking. It was hard to say how many factions there were, since a wizard is capable of being a faction all by himself, but there were broadly two sides, both liaisons being as stable as an egg on a seesaw. What amazed Ponder Stibbons, when he thought about it later, was that no one had yet resorted to using magic. The wizards had spent a lot of time in an atmosphere where a cutting remark did more damage than a magic sword and, for sheer malign pleasure, a well structured memo could do more real damage than a fireball every time. Besides, no one had their staff, and no one had any spells handy, and in those circumstances it’s easier to hit someone, although in the case of wizards non-magical fighting usually means flailing ineffectually at the opponent while trying to keep out of his way. The Bursar’s fixed smile faded a little. “I got three percent more than you in my finals!” “Oh, and how do you know that, Dean?” “I looked up the paper when you were appointed Archchancellor!” “What? After forty years?” “An examination is an examination!” “Er…” the Bursar began. “Ye gods, that’s petty! That’s just the sort of thing I’d expect from a student who even had a separate pen for red ink!” “Hah! At least I didn’t spend all my time drinking and betting and staying out at all hours!” “Hah! I bloody well did, yes, and I learned the ways of the world and I still got nearly as many marks as you in spite of a prize-winning hangover, you puffed-up barrel of lard!” “Oh? Oh? It’s personal remarks now, is it?” “Absolutely, Two-chairs! Let’s have some personal remarks! We always said that walking behind you made people seasick!” “I wonder if at this point…” said the Bursar. The air crackled around the wizards. A wizard in a foul temper attracts magic like overripe fruit gets flies. “You think I’d make a better Archchancellor, don’t you, Bursar?” said the Dean. The Bursar blinked his watery eyes. “I, er, the two of you…er…many good points…er…perhaps this is the time to, er, make a common cause…” They spent just a moment considering this. “Well said,” said the Dean. “Got a point,” said Ridcully. “Because, you know, I’ve never liked the Lecturer in Recent Runes very much…” “Smirks all the time,” Ridcully agreed. “Not a member of the team. ” “Oh, really?” The Lecturer in Recent Runes put on a particularly evil smirk. “At least I got higher marks than you and am noticeably thinner than the Dean! Although a great many things are! Tell them, Stibbons!” “That’s Mister Stibbons, fatman!” Ponder heard the voice. He knew it was his. He felt as though he was hypnotized. He could stop any time he liked, it was just that he didn’t quite feel like it. “Could I just, er, say…” the Bursar tried. “Shut up, Bursar!” roared Ridcully. “Sorry, sorry. Sorry…” Ridcully waved a finger at the Dean. “Now you listen to me…” A crimson spark leapt off his hand, left a trail of smoke past the Dean’s ear, and hit the mast, which exploded. The Dean took a deep breath, and when the Dean took a deep breath appreciably less air was left in the atmosphere. It was let out with a roar. “ You dare fire magic at me ?” Ridcully was staring at his hand. “But I…I…” Ponder finally managed to force the words out between teeth that were trying to clamp together. “Er agic’s egecting ug!” “What? What are you gurgling about, man?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “I’ll show you magic, you pompous clown!” screamed the Dean, raising both hands. “It’s the magic talking!” Ponder managed, grabbing one arm. “You don’t want to blow the Archchancellor to little pieces, Dean!” “Yes, I damn well do!” “Excuse me, Ai don’t wish to intrude…” Mrs. Whitlow’s head appeared at the hatchway. “What is it, Mrs. Whitlow?” yelled Ponder, as a blast from the Dean’s hand sizzled over his head. “Ai know you are engaged on University business, but should there be all these cracks? The water is coming in. ” Ponder looked down. The deck creaked under his feet. “We’re sinking…” he said. “You stupid old —” He bit down on the words. “The boat is cracking up as fast as we are! Look, it’s going yellow!” The green was leaching from the deck like sunlight from a stormy sky. “It’s his fault!” the Dean screamed. Ponder raced to the side. There were crackling noises all around him. The important thing was to settle his mind and be calm and, possibly, think of nice things like blue skies and kittens. Preferably ones which weren’t about to drown. “Listen,” he said, “if we don’t sink our differences they’ll sink us, understand? The boat’s…ripening or something. And we’re a long way from land, do you understand ? And there could be sharks down there. ” He looked down. He looked up. “ There’s sharks down there !” he shouted. The boat tilted as the wizards joined him. “ Are they sharks, do you think?” said Ridcully. “Could be tuna,” said the Dean. Behind them the remains of the sail fell away. “How can you reliably tell the difference?” said the Senior Wrangler. “You could count their teeth on the way down,” sighed Ponder. But at least no one was throwing magic around any more. You could take the wizards out of Unseen University, but you couldn’t take the University out of the wizards. The boat listed still further as Mrs. Whitlow looked over the side. “What happens if we fall in the water?” she said. “We must devise a plan,” said Ridcully. “Dean, form a working party to consider our survival in unknown, shark-infested waters, will you?” “Should we swim for the shore?” said Mrs. Whitlow. “Ai was good at swimming as a gel. ” Ridcully gave her a warm smile. “All in good time, Mrs. Whitlow,” he said. “But your suggestion has been taken aboard. ” “It’s going to be the only thing that is, in a minute,” said Ponder. “And what exactly will your role be, Archchancellor?” the Dean snarled. “I have defined your objectives,” said Ridcully. “It is up to you to consider the options. ” “In that case,” said the Dean, “I move that we abandon ship. ” “What for?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “The sharks?” “That is a secondary problem,” said the Dean. “That’s right,” said Ponder, “we can always vote to abandon shark. ” The ship lurched suddenly. The Senior Wrangler struck a heroic pose. “I will save you, Mrs. Whitlow!” he cried, and swept her off her feet. Or, at least, made the effort. But the Senior Wrangler was lightly built for a wizard and Mrs. Whitlow was a fine figure of a woman and, furthermore, the wizard’s grip was limited by the fact that there were very few areas of Mrs. Whitlow that he dared actually touch. He did his best with some outlying regions and managed to lift her slightly. All this did was transfer the entire weight of wizard and housekeeper to the Senior Wrangler’s quite small feet, which went through the deck like a steel bar. The boat, dry as tinder now, soft as wood punk, fell apart very gently. The water was extremely cold. Spray filled the air as they struggled.

A piece of wreckage hit Ponder on the head and pushed him under, into a blue world where his ears went gloing-gloing. When he struggled to the surface again this noise turned out to be an argument. Once again, the sheer magic of Unseen University triumphed. When treading water in a circle of sharks, a wizard will always consider other wizards to be the most immediate danger. “Don’t blame me ! He was…well, I think he was asleep!” “You think ?” “He was a mattress. A red one!” “He’s the only Librarian we’ve got! How could you be so thoughtless!” shouted Ridcully. He took a deep breath, and dived. “Abandon sea!” shouted the Bursar cheerfully. Ponder shuddered as something big and black and streamlined rose out of the water in front of him. It sank back into the foam and flopped over. Other shapes were bobbing to the surface all around the frantically treading wizards. The Dean tapped one. “Well, these sharks don’t seem anything like as dangerous as I expected,” he said. “They’re the seeds out of the boat!” said Ponder. “Get on top of them, quickly!” He was sure that something had brushed his leg. In those circumstances, a man finds unexpected agility. Even the Dean managed to get aboard a board, after a revolving, foamy period when man and seed fought for supremacy. Ridcully surfaced in a shower of spray. “It’s no good!” he spluttered. “I went down as far as I could. There’s no sign of him!” “Try and get on a seed, Archchancellor, do,” said the Senior Wrangler. Ridcully flailed at a passing shark. “They won’t attack you if you make a lot of noise and splash around,” he said. “I thought that’s when they will attack you, sir,” Ponder called out. “Ah, an interesting practical experiment,” said the Dean, craning to watch. Ridcully hauled himself on to one of the seeds. “What a mess. I suppose we can float to land, though,” he said. “Er…where’s Mrs. Whitlow, gentlemen?” They looked around. “Oh, no…” the Senior Wrangler moaned. “She’s swimming for the shore…” They followed his gaze, and could just see a hairdo moving jerkily yet determinedly towards the shore in what Ridcully would probably have referred to as a chest stroke. “I don’t call that very practical,” said the Dean. “What about the sharks?” “Well, they’re swimming around under us , in fact,” said the Senior Wrangler, as the seeds rocked. Ponder looked down. “They appear to be leaving now that we’re not dangling our legs in the water,” he said. “They’re heading…for the shore, too. ” “Well, she knew the risks when she got the job,” said the Dean. “What?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Are you saying that before you apply for the job of housekeeper of a university you should seriously consider being eaten by sharks on the shores of some mysterious continent thousands of years before you are born?” “She didn’t ask many questions at the interview, I know that. ” “Actually, we are worrying unduly,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Sharks have a very undeserved reputation as man-eaters. There is not a single authenticated case of a shark attacking anyone, despite what you may have heard. They are sophisticated and peaceful creatures with a rich family life and, far from being ominous harbingers of doom, have reputedly even befriended the occasional lost traveler. As hunters they are of course very efficient, and a full-grown shark can bring down even a moose with…er…” He looked at their faces. “Er…I think I might perhaps have got them confused with wolves,” he mumbled. “I have, haven’t I?” They nodded, in unison. “Er…sharks are the other ones, aren’t they?” he went on. “The vicious and merciless killers of the sea that don’t even stop to chew?” They nodded again. “Oh dear. Where can I put my face…?” “Some distance from a shark,” said Ridcully briskly. “Come on, gentlemen. That’s our housekeeper! Do you wish to make your own beds in future? Fireballs again, I think. ” “She’s gone too far away—” A red shape rocketed out of the sea beside Ridcully, curled through the air and slid below the surface again like a razorblade cutting into silk. “What was that? Who of you did that?” he said. A bow wave ripped its way to the cluster of triangular fins like a bowling ball heading down an alley. Then the water erupted. “Ye gods, look at the way it’s going at those sharks!” “Is it a monster?” “It’s a dolphin, surely…” “With red hair?” “Surely it’s not—” A stricken shark barreled past the Senior Wrangler. Behind it the water exploded again into the big red grin of the only dolphin ever to have a leathery face and orange hair all over its body. “Eek?” said the Librarian. “Well done, old chap!” shouted Ridcully across the water. “I said you wouldn’t let us down!” “No, actually you didn’t, sir, you said you thought—” Ponder began. “Good choice of shape, too,” Ridcully continued loudly. “Now, if you can sort of nudge us all together, then perhaps you could push us towards the shore? Are we all still here? Where’s the Bursar?” The Bursar was a small dot away on the right, paddling dreamily along. “Well, he’ll get there,” said Ridcully. “Come on, let’s get on to dry land. ” “That sea,” said the Senior Wrangler nervously, staring ahead as the seeds were jockeyed towards the shore like a string of overloaded barges, “that sea…Does it look as though it’s girting to you?” “Certainly a very big sea,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “You know, I don’t think it’s just the rain that’s making the roaring. There may be a spot of surf. ” “A few waves won’t do us any harm,” said Ridcully. “At least water is soft. ” Ponder felt the board underneath him rise and fall as a long swell passed. An odd shape for a seed, he had to admit. Of course, nature paid a lot of attention to seeds, equipping them with little wings and sails and flotation chambers and other devices necessary to give them an edge over all the other seeds. These were just flattish versions of the Librarian’s current shape, which was obviously intended for moving through water very fast. “Er…” he said, to the universe in general. It meant: I wonder if we’ve really thought about this. “Can’t see any rocks ahead,” the Dean observed. “Girting,” mused the Senior Wrangler, as if the word was nagging at him. “That’s a very definite sort of word, isn’t it? Has a certain martial sort of sound. ” It occurred to Ponder that water is not exactly soft. He’d never been much of a one for sports when he was a boy, but he remembered playing with the other local lads and joining in all their games, such as Push Poncy Stibbons Into the Nettles or Tie Up Stibbo and Go Home for Tea, and there had been the time at the old swimming hole when they’d thrown him in off the top of the cliff. And it had hurt. The flotilla gradually caught up with Mrs. Whitlow, who was holding on to a floating tree and treading water. The tree already had its fair share of occupants—birds, lizards and, for some reason, a small camel trying to make itself comfortable in the branches. The swell was heavier now. There was a deep, continuous booming underlying the noise of the rain. “Ah, Mrs. Whitlow,” said the Senior Wrangler. “And what a nice tree. Even got leaves on, look. ” “We’ve come to save you,” said the Dean, in the face of the evidence. “I think it might be a good idea if Mrs. Whitlow hung on to a seed,” said Ponder. “I really think that really might be a really good idea. I think the waves might be…slightly big…” “Girting,” said the Senior Wrangler, morosely. He looked towards the beach, and it wasn’t ahead of them any more. It was down there. It was at the bottom of a green hill. And the green was made of water. And, for some reason, it was getting taller. “Look,” said Rincewind. “Why can’t you tell me her name? Presumably lots of people know it. I mean, it must be put on the posters and so on. It’s only a name, isn’t it? I don’t see the problem. ” The cooks looked at one another. Then one coughed and said, “She’s…her name’s…Dame Nellie…Butt. ” “But what?” “Her name is Butt. ” Rincewind’s lips moved silently. “Oh,” he said. The cooks nodded.

“Has Charley drunk all the beer, do you think?” Rincewind said, sitting down. “Maybe we can find some bananas, Ron,” said another cook. Rincewind’s eyes unfocused and his lips moved again. “Did you tell Charley that?” he said at last. “Yep. Just before he broke down. ” There was the sound of running feet outside. One of the cooks looked out of the window. “It’s just the Watch. Probably after some poor bastard…” Rincewind moved back slightly so that he was not obvious from the window. Ron shuffled his feet. “I reckon if we went and saw Idle Ahmed and got him to open up his shop we might get some—” “Strawberries?” said Rincewind. The cooks shuddered. There was another sob from Charley. “All his life he’s been waiting for this,” said a cook. “I call it bloody unfair. Remember when that little soprano left to marry that drover? He was miserable all week. ” “Yeah. Lisa Delight,” said Ron. “A bit wobbly in mid-range but definitely showin’ promise. ” “He was really pinning his hopes on her. He said a name like that’d even work with rhubarb. ” Charley howled. “I think…” said Rincewind, slowly and thoughtfully. “Yes?” “I think I can see a way. ” “You can ?” Even Charley raised his head. “Well, you know how it is, the outsider sees most of the game…Let’s go with the peaches, the cream, a bit of ice cream if you can make it, maybe a dash of brandy…Let’s see, now…” “Coconut flakes?” said Charley, looking up. “Yes, why not?” “Er…some tomato sauce, maybe?” “I think not. ” “You’d better get a move on, they’re halfway through the last act,” said Ron. “She’ll be right,” said Rincewind. “Okay…halve the peaches, put them in a bowl with the other things, and then add the brandy and voilà. ” “That some kind of foreign stuff?” said Charley. “I don’t think we’ve got any of that wollah. ” “Just add twice as much brandy, then,” said Rincewind. “And there it is. ” “Yeah, but what’s it called ?” said Ron. “I’m coming to that,” said Rincewind. “Bowl, please, Charley. Thank you. ” He held it aloft. “Gentlemen…I give you…the Peach Nellie. ” A saucepan bubbled on a stove. Apart from that insistent little noise, and the distant strains of the opera, the room fell silent. “What do you think?” said Rincewind brightly. “It’s…different…” said Charley. “I’ll grant you that. ” “But it’s not exactly commemorative , is it?” said Ron. “The world is full of Nellies. ” “On the other hand, would you prefer it if everyone remembered the alternative?” said Rincewind. “Do you want to be associated in any way with the Peach Bu—” There was a howl as Charley burst into tears again. “Put like that, it doesn’t sound too bad,” said Ron. “Peach Nellie…yeah. ” “You could use bananas,” said Rincewind. Ron’s lips moved silently. “Nah,” he said. “Let’s go with the peaches. ” Rincewind brushed himself off. “Glad to be of service,” he said. “Tell me. How many ways are there out of here?” “Busy night for everyone, what with the Galah and everything,” said Ron. “Not my taste, of course, but it does bring in the visitors. ” “Yeah, and the hanging in the morning,” said Charley. “I was planning to miss that,” said Rincewind. “Now, if you’ll just—” “I for one hope he escapes,” said Charley. “I’m with you on that,” said Rincewind. Heavy boots walked past the door and stopped. He could hear distant voices. “They say he fought a dozen policemen,” said Ron. “Three,” said Rincewind. “It was three. I heard. Someone told me. Not a dozen. Three. ” “Oh, gotta be more than three, gotta be a lot more than three for a bold bush ranger like that one. Rinso, they call him. ” “I heard where this bloke arrived from Dijabringabeeralong and said Rinso sheared a hundred sheep in five minutes. ” “I don’t believe that,” said Rincewind. “They say he’s a wizard but that can’t be true ’cos you never catch one of them doin’ a proper job of work. ” “Well, in fact—” “All right, but a bloke who works up at the gaol says he’d got this strange brown stuff which gives him enormous strength!” “It was only beer soup!” shouted Rincewind. “I mean,” he added, “that’s what I heard. ” Ron gave him a lopsided look. “You look a bit like a wizard,” he said. Someone knocked heavily on the door. “You’re wearing those dresses they wear,” Ron went on, without taking his eyes off Rincewind. “Go and open the door, Sid. ” Rincewind backed away, reached behind him to a table laden with knives, and found his fingers closing on a handle. Yes, he hated the idea of weapons. They always, always, upped the ante. But they did impress people. The door opened. Several men peered in, and one of them was the gaoler. “That’s him!” “I warn you, I’m a desperate man,” Rincewind said, bringing his hand around. Most of the cooks dived for cover. “That’s a ladle, mate,” said a watchman, kindly. “But bloody plucky, all the same. Good on yer. What do you think, Charley?” “I reckon it’s never going to be said that a bold larrikin like him was run to earth in a kitchen of mine,” said Charley. He picked up a cleaver in one hand and the dish of Peach Nellie in the other. “You nip out the other door, Rinso, and we’ll talk to these policemen. ” “Suits us,” said the watchman. “’s not a proper last stand, just having a punch-up in a kitchen…We’ll give you a count to ten, all right?” Once again Rincewind felt that he hadn’t been given the same script as everyone else. “You mean you’ve got me cornered and you aren’t going to arrest me?” he said. “We-ell, it wouldn’t look good in the ballad, would it?” said the guard. “You’ve got to think about these things. ” He leaned on the doorway. “Now, there’s the old Post Office in Grurt Street. I reckon a man could hold out for two, maybe three days there, no worries. Then you could run out, we shoot you full of arrows, you utter some famous last words…kids’ll be learnin’ about you in school in a hundred years’ time, I’ll bet. And look at yourself, willya?” He stepped forward, ignoring the deadly ladle, and prodded Rincewind’s robe. “How many arrows is that going to stop, eh?” “You’re all mad!” Charley shook his head. “Everyone likes a battler, mister. That’s the Ecksian way. Go down fighting, that’s the ticket. ” “We heard about you takin’ on that road gang,” said the guard. “Bloody good job. Man who’d do a job like that ain’t gonna be hanged, he gonna want to make a famous last stand. ” The men had all entered the kitchen now. The doorway was clear. “Has anyone ever had a Famous Last Run?” said Rincewind. “No. What’s one of them?” “G’day!” As he sped away along the darkened waterfront he heard the shout behind him. “That’s the ticket! We’ll count to ten!” He glanced up as he ran and saw that the big sign over the brewery seemed to be dark. And then he realized that something was hopping along just behind him. “Oh, no! Not you !” “G’day,” said Scrappy, drawing level. “Look at the mess you’ve got me into!” “Mess? You were gonna be hanged! Now you’re enjoying the healthy fresh air in a god’s own country!” “And I’m going to be shot full of arrows!” “So? You can dodge arrows. This place needs a hero. Champion shearer, road warrior, bush ranger, sheep-stealer, horse rider…all you need now is to be good at some damn silly bat and ball game that no one’s invented yet and maybe build a few tall buildings with borrowed money and you’d have a full house. They ain’t gonna kill you in a hurry. ” “That’s not much comfort! Anyway, I didn’t do any of that stuff—Well, I mean I did , but—” “It’s what people think that matters. Now they believe you waltzed out of a locked cell.

” “All I did was—” “Doesn’t matter! The number of gaolers who want to shake you by the hand, well, I reckon they wouldn’t get around to hanging you by lunchtime!” “Listen, you giant jumping rat, I’ve made it to the docks, okay? I can outrun them! I can lie low! I know how to stow away, throw up, get discovered, be thrown over the side, stay afloat for two days by clinging on to an old barrel and eating plankton sieved through my beard, carefully negotiate the treacherous coral reef surrounding an atoll and survive by eating yams!” “That’s a very special talent you got there,” said the kangaroo, bounding over a ship’s hawser. “How many Ecksian ships have you ever seen in Ankh-Morpork? Busiest port in the world, ain’t it?” Rincewind slowed. “Well…” “It’s the currents, mate. Get more’n ten miles off’f the coast here and there ain’t one captain in a hundred who can stop his ship going right over the Rim. They stick very close inshore. ” Rincewind stopped. “You mean this whole place is a prison? ” “Yep. But the Ecksians say this is the best bloody place in the world, so there’s no point in going anywhere else anyway. ” There were shouts behind him. The guards here didn’t take so long counting to ten as most guards did. “What’re you going to do now?” said Rincewind. The kangaroo had gone. He ducked down a side street and found his way completely blocked. Carts filled the street from edge to edge. Gaily decorated carts. Rincewind paused. He had always been the foremost exponent of the from rather than the to of running. He could have written “The From of Running. ” But just occasionally a certain subtle sense told him that the to was important. For one thing, a lot of the people standing and chatting around the carts were wearing leather. You could make a lot of arguments in favor of leather. It was long-lasting, practical and hard-wearing. People like Cohen the Barbarian found it so hard-wearing and long-lasting that their old loincloths had to be removed by a blacksmith. But the people here didn’t look as if these were the qualities that they’d been looking for in the boutique. They’d asked questions like: How many studs has it got? How shiny is it? Has it got holes cut out in unusual places? But still, one of the most basic rules for survival on any planet is never to upset someone wearing black leather. * Rincewind sidled politely past them, giving them a friendly nod and a wave whenever he saw one looking in his direction. For some reason, this caused more of them to take an interest in him. There were groups of ladies, too, and there was no doubt that if EcksEcksEcksEcks was where a man could stand tall, so could a woman. Some of them were nevertheless very pretty, in an overstated kind of way, although the occasional moustache looked out of place, but Rincewind had been to foreign parts and knew that things could be a bit lush in the more rural regions. There were more sequins than you usually saw. More feathers, too. Then it dawned on him in a great rush of relief. “Oh, this is a carnival , right?” he said aloud. “This is the Galah they keep talking about. ” “Pardon you?” said a lady in a spangly blue dress, who was changing the wheel on a large purple cart. “These are carnival floats, aren’t they?” said Rincewind. The woman gritted her teeth, rammed the new wheel into place and then released the axle. The cart bounced down on to the cobbles. “Damn, I think I broke a nail on that,” she said. She glanced at Rincewind. “Yeah, this is the carnival. That dress has seen better days, hasn’t it? Nice moustache, shame about the beard. It’d look good with a tint. ” Rincewind glanced back down the street. The floats and the press of people were hiding him from view, but this wouldn’t last long. “Er…could you help me, madam?” he said. “Er…the Watch are after me. ” “They can be so tiresome like that. ” “There was a misunderstanding over a sheep. ” “There so often is, mate. ” She looked Rincewind up and down. “You don’t look like a country boy, I must say. ” “Me? I get nervous when I see a blade of grass, miss. ” She stared at him. “You…haven’t been here very long, have You, Mister…?” “Rincewind, ma’am. ” “Well, get on the cart, Mister Rincewind. My name’s Letitia. ” She held out a rather large hand. He shook it, and then tried surreptitiously to massage some blood back into his fingers as he scrambled up. The purple cart had been decorated with huge swathes of pink and lavender, and what looked like roses made out of paper. Boxes, also covered in cloth, had been set up in the center to give a sort of raised dais. “What d’you think?” said Letitia. “The girls worked all arvo. ” The scheme was a bit too feminine for Rincewind’s taste, but he’d been brought up to be polite. He snuggled down, as far out of view as possible. “Very nice,” he said. “Very gay. ” “Glad you think so. ” Up ahead somewhere a band started to play. There was a stirring as people got on to the floats or formed up to march. A couple of women climbed up into the purple cart, all sequins and long gloves, and stared at Rincewind. “What the—” one began. “Darleen—we have to talk,” said Letitia, from the front of the cart. Rincewind watched them go into a huddle. Occasionally one of them would raise her head and give him an odd look, as if she was reassuring herself that he was here. Fine big girls they had here, though. He wondered where they got their shoes from. Rincewind was not intensively familiar with women. Quite a lot of his life that hadn’t been spent at high speed had been passed within the walls of Unseen University, where women were broadly put in the same category as wallpaper or musical instruments—interesting in their way, and no doubt a small but important part of the proper structure of civilization but not, when you got right down to it, essential. On those occasions when he had spent some time in the intimate company of a woman, it was generally when she was trying to either cut his head off or persuade him to a course of action that would probably get someone else to do it. When it came to women he was not, as it were, capable of much fine-tuning. A few neglected instincts were telling him that something was out of place, but he couldn’t work out what it was. The one addressed as Darleen strode down the cart with a decisive and rather aggressive air. Rincewind pulled his hat off respectfully. “Are you coming the raw prawn?” she demanded. “Me? Certainly not, miss. No prawns at all. If I can just lie low until we’re a few streets away, that’s all I ask—” “You know what this is, don’t you?” “Yes, miss. The carnival. ” Rincewind swallowed. “No worries there. Everyone likes dressing up, don’t they?” “But are you tellin’ me you really think…I mean we…What are you staring at my hair for?” “Er…I was wondering how you get it so sparkly. Are you on the stage at all?” “We’re moving, girls,” Letitia called back. “Remember…pretty smiles. Leave him alone, Darleen, you don’t know where he’s been. ” The third woman, the one the others had called Neilette, was watching him curiously, and Rincewind felt that there was something not right about her. Her hair wasn’t drab, but it certainly appeared to be when compared with that of her colleagues. She didn’t seem to have enough make-up. She seemed, in short, slightly out of place. The he caught sight of a watchman ahead, and flung himself below the edge of the cart. A gap in the boards gave him a view, as the cart turned the corner, of the waiting crowds. He’d been to quite a number of carnivals, although not usually on purpose. He’d even attended Fat Lunchtime in Genua, generally regarded as the biggest in the world, although he vaguely recalled that he’d been hanging upside down under one of the floats in order to escape pursuers, but right now he couldn’t quite remember why he’d been chased and it was never wise to stop and ask. Although Rincewind had covered quite a lot of the Disc in his life, most of his recollections were like that—a blur. Not through forgetfulness, but because of speed. This looked like the usual audience.

A real carnival procession should only take place after the pubs have been open for a good long time. It adds to the spontaneity. There were cheers, whistles, jeers and catcalls. Up ahead, people were blowing horns. Dancers whirled past Rincewind’s peephole. He sat back and pulled a swathe of taffeta over his head. This sort of thing always took up a lot of Watch time, what with pickpockets and so on. He’d wait until they were in whatever bit of wasteground these things always ended up in, and drop quietly out of sight. He glanced down. These ladies were certainly into shoes in a big way. They had hundreds. Hundreds of shoes, all lined up, peeking out from under a heap of women’s clothing. Rincewind looked away. There was probably something morally wrong about staring at women’s clothes without women in them. His head turned back and looked at the shoes again. He was sure that several of them had moved— A bottle shattered near his head. Glass showered around him. Up above, Darleen uttered a word he’d never have expected on the lips of a lady. Rincewind raised his head cautiously and another bottle bounced off his hat. “Some hoonies having a bit of fun,” said Darleen, through gritted teeth. “There’s always some joker— oh really ?” “Give us a kiss, mister?” said a young man who’d leapt on to the edge of the cart, waving a beer can happily. Rincewind had seen some serious fighters in action, but no one had ever swung a punch like Darleen. Her eyes narrowed, her fist seemed to travel in a complete circle, it met the man’s chin about halfway round and when he disappeared from the wizard’s view he was still rising. “Will you look at that?” Darleen demanded, waving her hand at Rincewind. “Ripped! These evening gloves cost a fortune, the bastard!” A beer can sailed past her ear. “Didja see who threw that? Didja? I saw yer, yer mazza! I’ll stick my hand down yer throat and pull yer trousers up!” The crowd roared their appreciation and derision at the same time. Rincewind caught sight of watchmen’s helmets heading purposefully towards them. “Er…” he said. “Hey, that’s him! That’s Rinso the bush ranger!” someone yelled, pointing. “It wasn’t bushes, it was just a sheep!” Rincewind wondered who’d said that, and realized it was him. And there was no escape. And the watchmen were looking up at him. And there was really no escape. The street was packed. There was another fight further up the procession. There were no nearby alleyways, the fugitive’s friend. And the watchmen were fighting their way through the throng, with great difficulty. And the crowd were having the time of their lives. And the huge kangaroo beer sign gleamed overhead. This was it, then. Time for a Famous Last Stand. “What?” he said aloud. “It’s never time for a Famous Last Stand!” He turned to Letitia. “I should just like to thank you for trying to help me,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet some real ladies for once. ” They looked at one another. “The pleasure’s all ours,” said Letitia. “Such a change to meet a real gentleman, isn’t it, girls?” Darleen kicked a fishnet leg at a man trying to climb on the cart, causing with a stiletto heel what bromide in your tea is reputed to take several weeks to achieve. “Too bloody true,” she said. Rincewind leapt from the cart, landed on someone’s shoulder, jumped again very briefly on to someone’s head. It worked. Provided you kept moving, it really worked. A few hands grabbed at him and one or two cans were thrown, but there were also plenty of cries of “Good on yer!” and “That’s the way!” At last there was an alley. He jumped down from the last obliging shoulder and changed leg gear, and then found that the best way to describe the alley was as a cul-de-sac. The worst way was as an alley with three or four watchmen in it, who’d ducked in for a smoke. They gave him that look of harassed policemen everywhere which said that, as an unwelcome intruder into their brief smoko, he was definitely going to be guilty of something. And then light dawned in the face of their sergeant. “That’s him!” Out in the street people started yelling and screaming. These were not the beery shouts of the carnival. People were in real pain out there. They were also pressing in so tightly that there was no way out. “I can explain everything,” said Rincewind, half aware of the growing noise. “Well…most things. Some things, certainly. A few things. Look, about this sheep—” Something brilliant passed over his head and landed on the cobbles between him and the guards. It looked rather like a table wearing an evening dress, and it had hundreds of little feet. They were wearing high heels. Rincewind rolled into a ball and put his hands over his head, trying to block his ears until the noise had died away. At the very edge of the sea, the surf bubbled and sucked at the sand. As the wavelet drew back it flowed around the splintered bulk of a tree. The drifting wood’s cargo of crabs and sand fleas waited for their moment and slid off cautiously, scuttling ashore ahead of the next wave. The rain banged into the beach, running in miniature canyons of crumbling sand on its way to the sea. The crabs surged across these like a homesteaders’ stampede, rushing to mark out territory on the endless, virgin beach. They followed the salty tideline of weed and shells, scrambling over one another in their search for a space where a crab can proudly stand sideways and start a new life and eat the heady sand of freedom. A few of them investigated a gray, sodden pointy hat that was tangled in seaweed, and then ran on to a more promising heap of soaked cloth which offered even more interesting holes and crevices. One of them tried to climb into Ponder Stibbons’ nose, and was snorted out again. Ponder opened an eye. When he moved his head, the water filling his ears made a ringing noise. The history of the last few minutes was complicated. He could remember rushing along a tube of green water, if such a thing were possible, and there had been several periods where the air and the sea and Ponder himself had been very closely entwined. Now he felt as though someone had, with great precision, hit every part of his body with a hammer. “Get off, will you!” Ponder reached up and pulled another crab out of his ear, and realized that he had lost his glasses. They were probably rolling at the bottom of the sea by now, frightening lobsters. So here he was, on an alien shore, and he’d be able to see everything really clearly provided everything was meant to be a blur. “Am I dead this time?” It was the Dean’s voice, from a little further away along the beach. “No, you’re still alive, sir,” said Ponder. “Damn. Are you sure?” There were other groans as bits of tidal debris turned out to be wizards mixed with seaweed. “Are we all here?” said Ridcully, trying to get to his feet. “I’m sure I’m not,” moaned the Dean. “I don’t see…Mrs. Whitlow,” said Ridcully. “Or the Bursar…” Ponder sat up. “There’s…oh, dear…well, there’s the Bursar…” Out at sea a huge wave was building up. It towered higher and higher. And the Bursar was on top of it. “Bursar!” Ridcully screamed. The distant figure stood up on the seed and waved. “He’s standing up,” said Ridcully. “Is he supposed to stand up on those things? He’s not supposed to stand up, is he? I’m sure he shouldn’t be standing up. YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO STAND UP, BURSAAAR! How…That’s not supposed to happen, is it?” The wave curled, but the Bursar seemed to be skimming down the side of it, skidding along the huge green wet wall like a man on one ski. Ridcully turned to the other wizards. “He can’t do that, can he? He’s walking up and down on it. Can he do that? The wave’s curling over and he’s just sliding gently along the…Oh, no…” The foaming crest curled over the speeding wizard. “That’s it, then,” said Ridcully. “Er…no…” said Ponder. The Bursar reappeared further along the beach, expelled from the collapsing tube of water like an arrow from a bow. The wave crashed over behind him, striking the shore as if it had just offended it.

The seed changed direction, cruised gently over the backwash and crunched to a halt on the sand. The Bursar stepped off. “Hooray,” he said. “My feet are wet. What a nice forest. Time for tea. ” He picked up the seed and rammed it point first in the sand. Then he wandered away up the beach. “How did he do that?” said Ridcully. “I mean, the man’s crazier than a ferret! Damn good Bursar, of course. ” “Possibly the lack of mental balance means there’s nothing to impede physical stability?” said Ponder wearily. “You think so?” “Not really, sir. I just said it for something to say. ” Ponder tried to massage some life back into his legs, and started to count under his breath. “Is there anything to eat here?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Four,” said Ponder. “I beg your pardon?” “What? Oh, it was just some counting I was doing, sir. No, sir. There’s probably fish and lobsters in the sea, but the land looks pretty bare to me. ” It did. Reddish sand stretched away through the grayish drizzle to bluish mountains. The only greenishness was the Dean’s face and, suddenly, the shoots winding out of the Bursar’s surfing seed. Leaves unfolded in the rain, tiny flowers opened with little plopping noises. “Well, at least we’ll have another boat,” said the Senior Wrangler. “I doubt it, sir,” said Ponder. “The god wasn’t very good at breeding things. ” And, indeed, the swelling fruit was not looking very boat-shaped. “You know, I still think it would help if we thought of all this as a valuable opportunity,” said Ridcully. “That’s true,” said the Dean, sitting up. “It’s not many times in your life you get the chance to die of hunger on some bleak continent thousands of years before you’re born. We should make the most of it. ” “I meant that pitting ourselves against the elements will bring out the best in us and forge us into a go-getting and hard-hitting team,” said Ridcully. This view got no takers. “I’m sure there must be something to eat,” mumbled the Chair of Indefinite Studies, looking around aimlessly. “There usually is. ” “After all, nothing is beyond men like us,” said Ridcully. “That’s true,” said Ponder. “Oh gods, yes. That’s true. ” “And at least a wizard can always make a decent fire. ” Ponder’s eyes opened wide. He rose in one movement aimed at Ridcully, but was still airborne when the Archchancellor tossed a small fireball at a heap of driftwood. By the time the glowing ball was halfway to the wood Ponder had hit Ridcully in the back, so that both of them were sprawled on the wet sand when the world went whooph. When they looked up the heap of driftwood was a blackened crater. “Well, thank you,” said the Dean, behind them. “I feel lovely and dry now, and I never did like my eyebrows all that much. ” “High thaumic field, sir,” Ponder panted. “I did say. ” Ridcully stared at his hands. “I was going to light my pipe with one…” he muttered. He held the hand away from him. “It was only a Number Ten,” he said. The Dean stood up, brushing away some tufts of burnt beard. “I’m not sure I believe what I just saw,” he said, and pointed a finger at a nearby rock. “No, sir, I don’t think you—” Most of the rock was lifted off the ground and landed a hundred yards away. The rest of it sizzled in a red-hot puddle. “Can I have a go?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Sir, I really think—” “Oh, well done, Senior Wrangler,” said the Dean, as another rock fractured into fragments. “Ye gods, you were right , Stibbons,” said Ridcully. “The magic field here is huge !” “Yes, sir, but I really don’t think we should be using it, sir!” Ponder shrieked. “We’re wizards, young man. Using magic is what wizarding is all about. ” “No, sir! Not using magic is what wizarding is all about!” Ridcully hesitated. “This is fossil magic, sir!” said Ponder, speaking fast. “It’s what’s being used to create this place! We could do untold damage if we’re not careful!” “All right, all right, no one do anything for a moment,” said Ridcully. “Now…what are you talking about, Mister Stibbons?” “I don’t think the place is properly, well, finished , sir. I mean, there’re no plants or animals, are there?” “Nonsense. I saw a camel a little while ago. ” “Yes, sir, but that came with us. And there’s seaweed and crabs on the beach and they got washed up too. But where are the trees and bushes and grasses?” “Interesting,” said Ridcully. “Place is as bald as a baby’s bottom. ” “Still under construction, sir. The god did say it was being built. ” “Unbelievable, really,” said Ridcully. “A whole continent being created out of nothing?” “Exactly, sir. ” “Gazillions of thaums of magic pouring into the world. ” “You’ve got it, sir. ” “Whole mountains and cliffs and beaches where once there was nothing, style of thing. ” “That’s right, sir. ” “Bit of a miracle, you could say. ” “I certainly would, sir. ” “Unimaginably vast amounts of magic doing their stuff. ” “Astonishing, sir. ” “So I expect no one will miss a little bit, eh?” “ No ! That’s not how it works, sir! If we use it, it’s like…like treading on ants, sir! This isn’t like…finding an old staff in a cupboard and using up the magic that’s left. This is the real primal energy! Anything we do might well have an effect. ” The Dean tapped him on the shoulder. “Then here we are, young Stibbons, stuck on this forsaken shore. What do you suggest? We’re thousands of years from home. Perhaps we should just sit and wait? That Rincewind fellow’s bound to be along in a few millennia?” “Er, Dean…” said the Senior Wrangler. “Yes?” “Are you standing behind Stibbons there, or are you sitting on this rock over here?” The Dean looked at himself, sitting on the rock. “Oh, blast,” he muttered. “Temporal discontinuity again. ” “Again?” said Ponder. “We had a patch of it in Room 5b once,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Ridiculous. You had to cough before you went in, in case you were already there. Anyway, you shouldn’t be surprised, young man. Enough magic distorts all physical la—” The Senior Wrangler vanished, leaving only a pile of clothes. “Took a while to take hold,” said Ridcully. “I remember when—” His voice suddenly rose in pitch. Ponder spun around and saw a small heap of clothing with a pointed hat on top of it. He raised the hat gingerly. A pink face under a mop of curls looked up at him. “Bugger!” squeaked Ridcully. “How old am I, mister?” “Er…you look about six, sir,” said Ponder. His back twinged. The small worried face crinkled up. “I want my mum!” The little nose sniffed. “Was that me who just said that?” “Er, yes…” “You can keep on top of it if you concentrate,” the Archchancellor squeaked. “It resets the tempor—I wanna sweetie!—it resets the temporal gl—I wanna sweetie, oh, you wait till I get me home, I’ll give me such a smack—it resets the body’s clo—where’s Mr. Pootle?—it resets the body’s clock—wanna wanna Mr. Pootle!—don’t worry, I think I’ve got the hang of it—” The wail behind Ponder made him turn around. There were more piles of clothing where the wizards had been. He pulled aside the Dean’s hat just as a faint bloop suggested that Mustrum Ridcully had managed to regain full possession of his years again. “That the Dean, Stibbons?” “Could be, sir. Er…some of them have gone , sir!” Ridcully looked unflustered. “Temporal gland acting up in the high field,” he said. “Probably decided that since it’s thousands of years ago they’re not here. Don’t worry, they’ll come back when it works it out…” Ponder suddenly felt breathless. “And…hwee…think this one’s the Lecturer in Recent Runes…hwee…of course…hwee…all babies look the…hwee…same. ” There was another wail from under the Senior Wrangler’s hat. “Bit of a…hwee…kindergarten here, sir,” Ponder wheezed. His back creaked when he tried to stand upright. “Oh, they’ll probably come back if they don’t get fed,” said Ridcully. “It’s you that’ll be the problem, lad. I mean, sir. ” Ponder held his hands up in front of him. He could see the veins through the pale skin. He could nearly see the bones. Around him the piles of clothing rose again as the wizards clambered back to their proper age.

“How…old…hwee…I…ha…look?” he panted. “Like someone who shouldn’t…hwee…start reading a long book?” “A long sentence,” said Ridcully cheerfully, holding him up. “How old do you feel? In yourself?” “I…hwee…ought to feel…hwee…about twenty-four, sir,” Ponder groaned. “I actually…hwee…feel like a twenty-four-year-old who has been hit by eighty years traveling at…hwee…high speed. ” “Hold on to that thought. Your temporal gland knows how old you are. ” Ponder tried to concentrate, but it was hard. Part of him wanted to go to sleep. Part of him wanted to say, “Hah, you call this a temporal disturbance? You should’ve seen the temporal disturbances we will have been used to be going to get in my day. ” A pressing part of him was threatening that if he didn’t find a toilet it would make its own arrangements. “You’ve kept your hair,” said the Senior Wrangler, encouragingly. Ponder heard himself say, “Remember old ‘Cruddy’ Trusset? Now there was a wizard who had…good…hair…” He tried to get a grip. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?” he wheezed. “He’s the same age as me. Oh, no …now I’m remembering only yesterday as if it was…hwee…seventy years ago!” “You can get over it,” said Ridcully. “You’ve got to make it clear you’re not accepting it, you see. The important thing is not to panic. ” “I am panicking,” squeaked Ponder. “I’m just doing it very slowly! Why’ve I got this horrible feeling that I’m…hwee…falling forward all the…hwee…time?” “Oh, that’s just apprehensions of mortality,” said Ridcully. “Everyone gets that. ” “And…hwee…now I think my memory’s going…” “What makes you think that?” “Think what? Speak up, you…hwee…man…” Something exploded somewhere behind Ponder’s eyeballs and lifted him off the ground. For a moment he felt he had jumped into icy water. The blood flowed back to his hands. “Well done, lad,” said Ridcully. “Your hair’s going brown again, too. ” “Ow…” Ponder slumped to his knees. “It was like wearing a lead suit! I never want to go through that again!” “Suicide’s your best bet, then,” said Ridcully. “Is this going to happen again ?” “Probably. At least once, anyway. ” Ponder got to his feet with a steely look in his eyes. “Then let’s find whoever’s building this place and ask them to send us home,” he growled. “They might not want to listen,” said Ridcully. “Deities can be touchy. ” Ponder shook his sleeves to leave his hands free. For a wizard, this was equivalent to checking the functioning of a pump-action shotgun. “Then we’ll insist,” he said. “Really, Stibbons? What about protection of the magical ecology?” Ponder turned on him a look that would have opened a strong-room. Ridcully was in his seventies and spry even for wizards, who tended to live well into their second century if they survived their first fifty years. Ponder wasn’t sure how old he’d been, but he’d definitely thought he could hear a blade being sharpened. It was one thing to know you were on a journey, and quite, quite another to see your destination on the horizon. “It can get stuffed,” he said. * “Well thought out, Mister Stibbons! I can see we’ll make a wizard of you yet. Ah, the Dean’s…oh…” The Dean’s clothes billowed up but did not, as it were, inflate to their old size. The hat in particular was big enough to rock on the Dean’s ears, which were redder and stuck out more than Ponder remembered. Ridcully raised the hat. “Push off, granddad,” said the Dean. “Ah,” said the Archchancellor. “Thirteen years old, I’d say. Which explains a lot. Well, Dean, help us with the others, will you?” “Why should I?” The adolescent Dean cracked his knuckles. “Hah! I’m young again and soon you’ll be dead ! I’ve got my whole life ahead of me!” “Firstly, you’ll spend it here, and secondly, Dean, you think it’s going to be jolly good fun being the Dean in a thirteen-year-old body, don’t you, but within a minute or two you’ll start forgetting it all, you see? The old temporal gland can’t allow you to remember being fourteen when you’re not even thirteen yet, you follow me? You’d know this stuff, Dean, if you weren’t forgetting. You’ll have to go through it all over again, Dean…ah…” The brain has far less control over the body than the body does over the brain. And adolescence is not a good time. Nor is old age, for that matter, but at least the spots have cleared up, some of the more troublesome glands have settled down and you’re allowed to take a nap in the afternoons and twinkle at young women. In any case, the Dean’s body hadn’t experienced too much old age yet, whereas every junior spot, ache and twinge was firmly embossed on the morphic memory. Once, it decided, was enough. The Dean expanded. Ponder noticed that his head in particular swelled up to fit his ears. The Dean rubbed his spot-free face. “Five minutes wouldn’t have been bad,” he complained. “What was that all about?” “Temporal uncertainty,” said Ridcully. “You’ve seen it before, didn’t you realize? What were you thinking of?” “Sex. ” “Oh, yes, of course…silly of me, really. ” Ridcully looked along the deserted beach. “Mister Stibbons thinks we can—” he began. “Ye gods! There are people here!” A young woman was walking towards them. Swaying, anyway. “My word,” said the Dean. “I suppose this isn’t Slakki, by any chance?” “I thought they wore grass skirts…” said Ridcully. “What’s she wearing, Stibbons?” “A sarong. ” “Looks right enough to me, haha,” said the Dean. “Certainly makes a man wish he was fifty years younger,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Five minutes younger would do for me,” said the Dean. “Incidentally, did any of you notice that rather clever inadvertent joke just then? Stibbons said it was ‘a sarong’ and I—” “What’s that she’s carrying?” said Ridcully. “—no, listen, you see, I misheard him, in fact, and I—” “Looks like…coconuts…” said Ponder, shading his eyes. “This is a bit more like it,” said the Senior Wrangler. “—because actually I thought he said, ‘It’s wrong,’ you see—” “Certainly a coconut,” said Ridcully. “I’m not complaining, of course, but aren’t these sultry maids generally black-haired? Red doesn’t seem very typical. ” “—so I said—” “I suppose you’d get coconuts here?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “They float, don’t they?” “—and, listen, when Stibbons said ‘sarong,’ I thought he—” “Something familiar about her,” Ridcully mused. “Did you see that nut in the Museum of Quite Unusual Things?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Called the coco-de-mer and…” he permitted himself “…ha, very curious shape, you know, you’ll never guess who it used to put me in mind of…” “It can’t be Mrs. Whitlow, can it?” said Ponder. “As a matter of fact, I must admit that it—” “Well, I thought it was mildly amusing, anyway,” said the Dean. “It is Mrs. Whitlow,” said Ridcully. “More of a nut, really, but—” It dawned on the Senior Wrangler that the sky was a different color on his personal planet. He turned around, looked, said, “Mwaaa…” and fell gently to the sand. “Ai don’t quate know what’s happened to Mister Librarian,” said Mrs. Whitlow, in a voice that made the Senior Wrangler twitch even in his swoon. The coconut opened its eyes. It looked as if it had just seen something truly horrific, but this is a normal expression for baby orangutans and in any case it was looking at the Dean. “Eek!” it said. Ridcully coughed. “Well, at least he’s the right shape,” he said. “And, er, you, Mrs. Whitlow? How do you feel?” “Mwaa…” said the Senior Wrangler. “Very well indeed, thank you,” said Mrs. Whitlow. “This country agrees with me. I don’t know whether it was the swim, but Ai haven’t felt quate so buoyant in years. But Ai looked around and there was this dear little ape just sitting there. ” “Ponder, would you mind just throwing the Senior Wrangler in the sea for a moment?” said Ridcully. “Nowhere too deep. Don’t worry if it steams. ” He took Mrs. Whitlow’s spare hand. “I don’t want to worry you, dear Mrs. Whitlow,” he said, “but I think something is shortly going to come as a big shock to you. First of all, and please don’t misunderstand me, it might be a good idea to loosen your clothing. ” He swallowed. “Slightly.

” The Bursar had experienced some changes of age as he wandered through the wet but barren land, but to a man capable of being a vase of flowers for an entire afternoon this was barely a mild distraction. What had caught his eye was a fire. It was burning bits of driftwood, and the flames were edged with blue from the salt. Close to it was a sack made of some sort of animal skins. The damp earth beside the Bursar stirred and a tree erupted, growing so fast that the rain steamed off the unfolding leaves. This did not surprise him. Few things did. Besides, he’d never seen a tree growing before, so he did not know how fast it was supposed to go. Then several more trees exploded around him. One grew so fast that it went all the way from sapling to half-rotten trunk in a few seconds. And it seemed to the Bursar that there were other people here. He couldn’t see them or hear them, but something in his bones sensed them. However, the Bursar was also quite accustomed to the presence of people who couldn’t be seen or heard by anyone else, and had spent many a pleasant hour in conversation with historical figures and, sometimes, the wall. All in all the Bursar was, depending on your outlook, the most or least suitable person to encounter deity on a first-hand basis. An old man walked around a rock and was halfway to the fire before he noticed the wizard. Like Rincewind, the Bursar had no room in his head for racism. As a skin color black came as quite a relief compared to some of the colors he’d seen, although he’d never seen anyone quite so black as the man now staring at him. At least, the Bursar assumed he was staring. The eyes were so deep set that he couldn’t be sure. The Bursar, who had been properly brought up, said, “Hooray, there’s a rosebush?” The old man gave him a rather puzzled nod. He walked over to the dead tree and pulled off a branch, which he pushed into the fire. Then he sat down and watched it as though watching wood char was the most engrossing thing in the world. The Bursar sat down on a rock and waited. If the game was patience, then two could play at it. The old man kept glancing up at him. The Bursar kept smiling. Once or twice he gave the man a little wave. Finally the burning branch was pulled out of the fire. The old man picked up the leather sack in his other hand and walked off among the rocks. The Bursar followed him. There was an overhang here under a small cliff, shielding a stretch of vertical rock from the rain. It was the kind of tempting surface that would, in Ankh-Morpork, have already been covered so thickly with so many posters, signs and graffiti that if you’d removed the wall the general accretion would still have stood up. Someone had drawn a tree. It was the simplest drawing of a tree the Bursar had ever seen since he’d been old enough to read books that weren’t mainly pictures, but it was also in some strange way the most accurate. It was simple because something complex had been rolled up small; as if someone had drawn trees, and started with the normal green cloud on a stick, and refined it, and refined it some more, and looked for the little twists in a line that said tree and refined those until there was just one line that said TREE. And now when you looked at it you could hear the wind in the branches. The old man reached down beside him and took up a flat stone with some white paste on it. He drew another line on the rock, slightly like a flattened V, and smeared it with mud. The Bursar burst out laughing as the wings emerged from the painting and whirred past him. And again he was aware of a strange effect in the air. It reminded him of…yes…old “Rubber” Houser, that was his name, dead now, of course, but remembered by many of his contemporaries as the inventor of the Graphical Device. The Bursar had joined the University when likely wizards started their training early, somewhere after the point where they learned to walk but before they started to push over girls in the playground. The writing of lines in detention class was a familiar punishment and the Bursar, like everyone else, toyed with the usual practice of tying several pens to a ruler in a group attempt to write lines in threes. But Houser, a reflective sort of boy, had scrounged some bits of wood and stripped a mattress of its springs and devised the four-, sixteen-and eventually the thirty-two-line writing machine. It had got so popular that boys were actually breaking rules in order to have a go on it, at threepence a time to use it and a penny to help wind it up. Of course, more time was spent setting it up than was ever saved by using it, but this is the case in many similar fields and is a sign of Progress. The experiments tragically came to an end when someone opened a door at the wrong moment and the entire pent-up force of Houser’s experimental prototype 256-line machine propelled him backwards out of a fourth-floor window. Except for the absence of screams, the hand tracing its infinitely simple lines on the rock brought back memories of Houser. There was a sense of something small being done that was making something happen that was huge. He sat and watched. It was, he remembered later whenever he was in a state to remember anything, one of the happiest times of his life. When Rincewind lifted his head a watchman’s helmet was spinning gently on the ground. To his amazement the men themselves were still there, although they were lying around in various attitudes of unconsciousness or at least, if they had sense, feigned unconsciousness. The Luggage had a cat’s tendency to lose interest in things that didn’t fight back even after you’d kicked them a few times. Shoes littered the ground, too. The Luggage was limping around in a circle. Rincewind sighed, and stood up. “Take the shoes off. They don’t suit you,” he said. The Luggage stood still for a moment, and then the rest of the shoes clattered against the wall. “And the dress. What would those nice ladies think if they saw you dressing up like this?” The Luggage shrugged off the few sequined tatters that remained. “Turn around, I want to see your handles. No, I said turn around. Turn around properly , please. Ah, I thought so…I said turn around. Those earrings…they don’t do anything for you at all, you know. ” He leaned closer. “Is that a stud? Have you had your lid pierced?” The Luggage backed away. Its manner indicated very clearly that while it might give in on the shoes, the dress and even the earrings, the battle over the stud would go to the finish. “Well…all right. Now give me my clean underwear, you could make shelves out of the stuff I’m wearing. ” The Luggage opened its lid. “Good, now I—Is that my underwear? Would I be seen dead in something like that? Yes, as a matter of fact I suspect I would. My underwear, please. It’s got my name inside, although I must admit I can’t quite remember why I thought that was necessary. ” The lid shut. The lid opened. “Thank you. ” It was no use wondering how it was done, or for that matter why the laundry returned freshly ironed. The watchmen were still very wisely remaining unconscious, but out of habit Rincewind went behind a stack of old boxes to change. He was the sort of person who’d go behind a tree to change if he was on a desert island all alone. “You noticed something odd about this alley?” he said, over the top of the boxes. “There’re no drainpipes. There’re no gutters. They’ve never heard of rain here. I suppose you are the Luggage, aren’t you, and not some kangaroo in disguise? Why am I asking? Ye gods, these feel good. Right, let’s go—” The Luggage opened its lid again, and a young woman looked up at Rincewind. “Who are—? Oh, you’re the blind man,” she said. “I beg your pardon?” “Sorry…Darleen said you must be blind. Well, actually she said you must be bloody blind.

Can you give me a hand out?” It dawned on Rincewind that the girl clambering out of the Luggage was Neilette, the third member of Letitia’s crew and the one who’d seemed quite plain compared to the others and certainly a lot less…well, noisy wasn’t quite the word. Probably the word was “expansive. ” They filled the space around them to capacity. Take Darleen, a lady he’d last seen holding a man daintily by the collar so that she could punch him in the face. When she walked into a room, there’d be no one in it unaware that she had done so. Neilette was just…ordinary. She brushed some dirt off her dress, and sighed. “I could see there was going to be another fight so I hid in Trunkie,” she said. “Trunkie, eh?” said Rincewind. The Luggage had the decency to look embarrassed. “Sooner or later there’s always a fight where Darleen goes,” said Neilette. “You’d be amazed the things she can do with a stiletto heel. ” “I think I’ve seen one of them,” said Rincewind. “Don’t tell me the others. Um, can I help you? Only me and Trunkie here”—he gave the Luggage a kick—“were heading off, weren’t we, Trunkie ?” “Oh, don’t kick her, she’s been so useful,” said Neilette. “Really?” said Rincewind. The Luggage turned around slowly so that he couldn’t see the expression on its lock. “Oh, yes. I reckon the miners in Cangoolie would’ve…been very unpleasant to Letitia if Trunkie hadn’t stepped in. ” “Stepped on, I expect. ” “How did you know that?” “Oh, the L—Trunkie is mine. We got separated. ” Neilette tried to arrange her hair. “It’s all right for the others,” she said. “They just have to change wigs. Beer might be a good shampoo, but not when it’s still in the tinnie. ” She sighed. “Oh, well. I suppose I’ll have to find a way home, now. ” “Where do you live?” “Worralorrasurfa. It’s Rimwards. ” She sighed again. “Back to life in the banana-bending factory. So much for showbusiness!” Then she burst into tears and sat down heavily on the Luggage. Rincewind didn’t know whether he should go into the “pat, pat, there, there” routine. If she was like Darleen, he might lose an arm. He made what he hoped was a soothing yet non-aggressive mumble. “I mean, I know I can’t sing very well and I can’t dance but, frankly, neither can Letitia and Darleen. When Darleen sings ‘Prancing Queen’ you could slice bread with it. Not that they’ve been unkind,” she added quickly, polite even in the throes of woe, “but really there’s got to be more to life than getting beer thrown at you every night and being chased out of town. ” Rincewind felt confident enough to venture a “there, there. ” He didn’t risk a “pat, pat. ” “Really I only did it because of Noelene dropping out,” Neilette sobbed. “And I’m about the same height and Letitia couldn’t find anyone else in time and I needed the money and she said it would be okay provided people didn’t notice my hands were so small…” “Noelene being—?” “My brother. I told him, trying for the surf championship is fine, and ballgowns are fine, but both together? I don’t think so. Did you know what a nasty rash you can get from being rolled across coral? And next morning Letitia had this tour organized and, well, it seemed a good idea at the time. ” “Noelene…” Rincewind mused. “That’s an unusual name for a…” “Darleen said you wouldn’t understand. ” Neilette stared into the middle distance. “I think my brother worked in the factory too long,” she mused. “He always was very impressionable. Anyway, I—” “Oh, I get it, he’s a female impersonator ” said Rincewind. “Oh, I know about those. Old pantomime tradition. A couple of balloons, straw wig and a few grubby jokes. Why, when I was a student, at Hogswatch parties old Farter Carter and Really Pants would put on a turn where—” He was aware that she was giving him one of those long, slow looks. “Tell me,” she said. “Do you get about much?” “You’d be amazed,” said Rincewind. “And you meet all kinds of people?” “Generally the nastier kind, I have to admit. ” “Well, some men…” Neilette stopped. “Really Pants? That was someone’s name ?” “Not exactly. He was called Ronald Pants, so of course when anyone heard that they said—” “Oh, is that all?” said Neilette. She stood up and blew her nose. “I told the others I’d leave when we got to the Galah, so they’ll understand. Being a…female impersonator is no job for a woman, which is what I am, incidentally. I’d hoped it was obvious, but in your case I thought I’d better mention it. Can you get us out of here, Trunkie?” The Luggage wandered over to the wall at the end of the alley and kicked it until there was a decent-sized hole. On the way back it clogged a watchman who was unwise enough to stir. “Er, I call him the Luggage,” said Rincewind helplessly. “Really? We call her Trunkie. ” The wall opened up into a dark room. Crates were packed against the walls, covered with cobwebs. “Oh, we’re in the old brewery,” said Neilette. “Well, the new one, really. Let’s find a door. ” “Good idea,” said Rincewind, eyeing the spider-webs. “ New brewery? Looks pretty old to me…” Neilette rattled a door. “Locked,” she said. “Come on, we’ll find another one. Look, it’s the new brewery because we built it to replace the one over the river. But it never worked. The beer went flat, or something. They all said it was haunted. Everyone knows that, don’t they? We went back to the old brewery. My dad lost nearly all his money. ” “Why?” “He owned it. Just about broke his heart, that did. He left it to me,” she tried another door, “because, well, he never got on with Noelene, what with the, well, you know, or rather, obviously you don’t…but it ruined the business, really. And Roo Beer used to be the best there was. ” “Can’t you sell it? The site, I mean. ” “Here? A place where beer goes flat within five seconds? Can’t give it away. ” Rincewind peered up at the big metal vats. “Perhaps it was built on some old religious site,” he said. “That sort of thing can happen, you know. Back home there was this fish restaurant that got built on a—” Neilette rattled another unbudging door. “That’s what everyone thought,” she said. “But apparently Dad asked all the local tribes and they said it wasn’t. They said it wasn’t any kind of sacred site. They said it was an unsacred site. Some chief went to prison to see the prime minister and said, ‘Mate, your mob can dig it all up and drop it over the edge of the world, no worries. ’” “Why did he have to go to prison?” “We put all our politicians in prison as soon as they’re elected. Don’t you?” “Why?” “It saves time. ” She tried an unrelenting handle. “Damn! And the windows are too high…” The ground trembled. Metal jangled, somewhere in the darkness. Dust moved in strange little waves across the floor. “Oh, not again ,” said Neilette. Now not only the dust moved. Tiny shapes scuttled across it, flowed around Rincewind’s feet and sped under the locked door. “The spiders are leaving!” said Neilette. “Fine by me!” said Rincewind. This time the tremor made the wall creak. “It’s never been this bad,” Neilette muttered. “Find a ladder, we’ll give the windows a go. ” Above them a ladder parted company from the wall and folded itself into a metal puzzle on the floor. “This may not seem a good time to ask,” said Rincewind, “but are you a kangaroo, by any chance?” Far above them metal creaked and went on creaking, in a long-drawn wail of inorganic pain. Rincewind looked up, and saw the dome of the brewery gently dissolve into a hundred falling pieces of glass. And, dropping through the middle of it, some of its lamps still burning, the grinning shape of the Roo Beer kangaroo. “Trunkie! Open up!” Neilette yelled. “No—” Rincewind began, but she grabbed him and dragged him and in front of him was an opening lid… The world went dark. There was wood underneath him. He tapped it, very carefully. And wood in front of him. And w— “Excuse me ” “We’re inside the Luggage?” “Why not? That’s how we got out of Cangoolie last week! Y’know, I think it may be a magic box. ” “Do you know some of the things that have been inside it?” “Letitia kept her gin in it, I know that.

” Rincewind felt upwards, gingerly. Maybe the Luggage had more than one inside. He’d suspected as much. Maybe it was like one of those conjurer’s boxes where, after you’d put a penny in, the drawer miraculously slid around and it had gone. Rincewind had been given one of those as a toy when he was a kid. He’d lost almost two dollars before he gave up and threw the thing away… His fingers touched what might have been a lid, and he pushed upwards. They were still in the brewery. This came as some relief, considering where you might end up if you got into the Luggage. There was still the bowel-disturbing rumble, punctuated by clangs and tinkles as bits of rusted metal crashed down with lethal intent. The big kangaroo sign was well alight. In the smoke that rose from it were some pointy hats. That is, the curls swirling and billowing around holes in the air looked very much like the three dimensional silhouettes of a group of wizards. Rincewind stepped out of the Luggage. “Oh, no, no, no,” he mumbled. “I only got here a couple of months ago. It’s not my fault!” “They look like ghosts,” said Neilette. “Do you know them?” “No! But they’re all mixed up with these earthquakes! And something called The Wet, whatever that was!” “That’s just some old story, isn’t it? Anyway, Mister Wizard, it might have escaped your notice that the place is filling up with smoke! Which way did we come in?” Rincewind looked around desperately. Smoke obscured everything. “Has this place got cellars?” he said. “Yeah! I used to play Mothers and Mothers with Noelene in them when we were kids. Look for hatches in the floor!” And it was three minutes later that the ancient wooden hatchcover in the alley finally gave way under the Luggage’s insistent pounding. Several rats poured out, followed by Rincewind and Neilette. No one paid them any attention. A column of smoke was rising over the city. Watchmen and citizens were already forming a bucket chain and men with a battering ram were trying to break open the brewery’s main doors. “We’re well out of that,” Rincewind observed. “Oh, boy, yes. ” “Hey, what’s going on? Where’s the bloody water gone?” The cry came from a man working the handle of a pump out on the street, just as the pump gave a groan and the handle went limp. A watchman grabbed his arm. “There’s another one in the yard over there! Get a wiggle on, mate!” A couple of men tried the other pump. It made a choking noise, spat out a few drops of water and some damp rust, and gave up. Rincewind swallowed. “I think the water’s gone,” he said, flatly. “What do you mean, gone ?” said Neilette. “There’s always water. Huge great seas of it underground!” “Yes, but…it doesn’t get filled up much, does it? It doesn’t rain here. ” “There you go aga—” She stopped. “What’s it you know? You’re looking shifty, Mister Wizard. ” Rincewind stared glumly up at the tower of smoke. There were twirling, tumbling sparks in it, rising in the heat and showering down over the city. Everything will be bone dry, he thought. It doesn’t rain here. It—Hang on… “How do you know I’m a wizard?” he said. “It’s written on your hat,” she said. “Badly. ” “You know what a wizard is ? This is a serious question. I’m not pushing a prawn. ” “Everyone knows what a wizard is! We’ve got a university full of the useless mongrels!” “And you can show me where this is, can you?” “Find it yourself!” She tried to stride off through the milling crowd. He ran after her. “Please don’t go! I need someone like you! As an interpreter!” “What do you mean? We speak the same language!” “Really? Stubbies here are really short shorts or small beer bottles. How often do newcomers confuse the two?” Neilette actually smiled. “Not more than once. ” “Just take me to this university of yours, will you?” said Rincewind. “I think I can feel a Famous Last Stand coming on. ” There was a brief scream of metal overhead and a windmill fan crashed down into the street. “And we’d better be quick,” he added. “Otherwise all there’ll be to drink is beer. ” The Bursar laughed again as a series of little charcoal dots extended their legs, formed up and marched down the stone and across the sand in front of him. Behind him the trees were already loud with birdsong— And then, sadly, with wizards as well. He could hear the voices in the distance and, while wizards are always questioning the universe, they mainly direct the questions at other wizards and don’t bother to listen to the answers. “— certainly saw no trees when we arrived. ” “ Probably we didn’t see them because of the rain, and the Senior Wrangler didn’t see them because of Mrs. Whitlow. And get a grip on yourself, will you, Dean? I’m sure you’re getting young again! No one’s impressed !” “ I think I must just be naturally youthful, Archchancellor. ” “ Nothing to be proud of there! And please, someone, stop the Senior Wrangler getting a grip on hims—Oh, looks like someone’s had a picnic …” The painter seemed engrossed in his work, and paid them no attention at all. “ I’m sure the Bursar went this way —” A little red mud colored a complex curve and there, as if it had always been there, was a creature with the body of a giant rabbit, the expression of a camel and a tail that a lizard would be proud of. The wizards appeared around the rock just in time to see it scratch its ears. “Ye gods, what’s that ?” “Some sort of rat?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Hey, look, Bursar’s found one of the locals…” The Dean ambled across to the painter, who was watching the wizards with his mouth open. “Good morning, fellow. What’s that thing called?” The painter followed the pointing finger. “Kangaroo?” he said. The voice was a whisper, on the very cusp of hearing, but the ground trembled. “Kangaroo, eh?” “That might not be what it’s called, sir,” said Ponder. “He might just be saying, ‘I don’t know. ’” “Can’t see why not. He looks the sort of chap you find in this sort of place,” said the Dean. “Deep tan. Shortage of trousers. The sort of fellow who’d know what the wildlife is called, certainly. ” “He just drew it,” said the Bursar. “Oh, did he? Very good artists, some of these chaps. ” “He’s not Rincewind, is he?” said Ridcully, who seldom bothered to remember faces. “I know he’s a bit on the dark side, but a few months in the sun’d bake anyone. ” The other wizards drew together and looked around for any nearby sign of mobile rectangularity. “No hat,” said Ponder, and that was that. The Dean peered at the rock wall. “Quite good drawings for native art,” he said. “Interesting…lines. ” The Bursar nodded. As far as he could see, the drawings were simply alive. They might be colored earth on rock, but they were as alive as the kangaroo that’d just hopped away. The old man was drawing a snake now. One wiggly line. “I remember seeing some of those palaces the Tezumen built in the jungle,” said the Dean, watching him. “Not an ounce of mortar in the whole place and the stones fit together so well you couldn’t stick a knife between them. Hah, they were about the only things the Tezumen didn’t stick a knife between,” he added. “Odd people, really. Very big on wholesale human sacrifice and cocoa. Not an obvious combination, to my mind. Kill fifty thousand people and then relax with a nice cup of hot chocolate. Excuse me, I used to be quite good at this. ” To the horror even of Ridcully the Dean took the piece of frayed twig out of the painter’s hand and dabbed it gently on the rock. “See? A dot for the eye,” said the Dean, handing it back. The painter gave him a sort of smile. That is, he showed his teeth. Like many other beings on astral planes of all kinds, he was puzzled by the wizards. They were people with the family-sized self-confidence that seems to be able to get away with anything. They generated an unconscious field which said that of course they should be there, but no one was to worry or fuss around tidying up the place on their account and just get on with what they were doing. The more impressionable victims were left with the feeling that they had clipboards and were awarding marks.

Behind the Dean a snake wriggled away. “Anyone feel anything odd?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “My fingers tingled. Did any of you do any magic just then?” The Dean picked up a burnt twig. The painter’s mouth dropped open as the wizard drew a scratching line on the stone. “I think you might be offending him,” said Ponder. “Nonsense! A good artist is always prepared to learn,” said the Dean. “Interesting thing, these fellows never seem to get the idea of perspective—” The Bursar thought, or received the thought: that’s because perspective is a lie. If I know a pond is round then why should I draw it oval? I will draw it round because round is true. Why should my brush lie to you just because my eye lies to me? It sounded like quite an angry thought. “What’s that you’re drawing, Dean?” said the Senior Wrangler. “What does it look like? A bird, of course. ” The voice in the Bursar’s head thought: but a bird must fly. Where are the wings? “This one’s standing on the ground. You don’t see the wings,” said the Dean, and then looked puzzled at having answered a question no one had asked. “Blast! You know, it’s harder than it looks, drawing on a rock…” I always see the wings, thought the voice in the Bursar’s head. The Bursar fumbled for his dried frog pill bottle. The voices were never usually this precise. “Very flat bird,” said Ridcully. “Come on, Dean, our friend here isn’t very happy. Let’s go and work out a really good boat spell…” “Looks more like a weasel to me,” said the Senior Wrangler. “You’ve got the tail wrong. ” “The stick slipped. ” “A duck’s fatter than that,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “You shouldn’t try to show off, Dean. When was the last time you saw a duck that didn’t have peas round it?” “Last week, actually!” “Yes, we had crispy duck. With plum sauce, I now recall. Here, let me have a go…” “Now you’ve given it three legs!” “I did ask for the stick! You snatched it away!” “Now look,” said Ridcully. “I’m a man who knows his ducks, and what you’ve got there is laughable. Give me that…thank you. You do a beak like this …” “That’s on the wrong end and it’s too big. ” “You think that’ s a beak?” “Look, all three of you are barking up the wrong tree here. Give me that stick…” “Ah, but, you see, ducks don’t bark! Hah! There’s no need to snatch like that—” Unseen University was built of stone—so built out of stone that in fact there were many places where it was hard to tell where wild rock ended and domesticated stone began. It was hard to imagine what else you could build a university out of. If Rincewind had set out to list possible materials he wouldn’t have included corrugated iron sheets. In response to some sort of wizardly ancestral memory, though, the sheets around the gates had been quite expertly bent and hammered into the shape of a stone arch. Over it, burned into the thin metal, were the words: NULLUS ANXIETAS. “I shouldn’t be surprised, should I?” he said. “No worries. ” The gates, which were also made of corrugated iron nailed to bits of wood by a man using secondhand nails, were firmly shut. A crowd of people were hammering on them. “Looks like a lot of other people have the same idea,” said Neilette. “There’ll be another way in,” said Rincewind, walking away. “There’ll be an alley…Ah, there it is. Now, these aren’t stone walls, so there won’t be removable bricks, which means…” He prodded at the tin sheets, and one of them wobbled. “Ah, yes. A loose sheet which swings aside so you can get back in after hours. ” “How did you know that?” “This is a university, isn’t it? Come on. ” A message had been chalked beside the loose sheet. “‘ Nulli Sheilae sanguineae ,’” Rincewind read aloud. “But your name’s not Sheila, so we’re probably okay. ” “If it means what I think it means, it means they don’t allow women,” said Neilette. “You should’ve brought Darleen. ” “Sorry?” “Forget I mentioned it. ” Somewhat to Rincewind’s surprise there was a short, pleasant lawn on the other side of the fence, illuminated by the light from a large low building. All the buildings were low but had big wide roofs, giving the effect you might get if someone stepped on a lot of square mushrooms. If they had been painted, it had been an historical event, probably coming somewhere between Fire and the Invention of the Wheel. There was a tower. It was about twenty feet high. “I don’t call this much of a university,” said Rincewind. He allowed himself a touch of smugness. “Twenty feet high? I could pi—I could spit from the top of it. Oh well…” He made for the doorway, just as the light grew a lot brighter and was tinted with octarine, the eighth color that was intimately associated with magic. The doors themselves were shut fast. He banged on them, making them rattle. “Fraternal greetings, brothers!” he shouted. “I bring you—Good grie—” The world simply changed. One moment he was standing in front of a rusting door and the next he was in a circle with half a dozen wizards watching him. He caught his balance. “Well, full marks for effort,” he managed. “Where I come from, and you can call me Mister Boring if you like, we just open the door. ” “Stone the crows, but we’re getting good at this,” said a wizard. And they were wizards. Rincewind was in no doubt of it. They had proper pointy hats, although the brims were larger than anything he’d seen without flying buttresses. Their robes weren’t much more than waist length, and below them they wore shorts, long gray socks, and big leather sandals. A lot of this was not the typical wizarding outfit as he’d grown up to understand it, but they were still wizards. They had that unmistakable hot-air-balloon-about-to-take-off look. The apparent leader of the group nodded at Rincewind. “Good evening, Mister Boring. I must say you got here a lot quicker than we expected. ” Rincewind felt intuitively that saying “I was just outside the door” was not a good idea. “Er, I had an assisted passage,” he said. “He doesn’t look very demonic,” said a wizard. “Remember that last one we called up? Six eyes and three—” “The really good ones can disguise themselves, Dean. ” “Then this one must be a bloody genius, Arch-chancellor. ” “Thank you very much,” said Rincewind. The Archchancellor nodded at him. He was, of course, elderly, with a face that looked as though it had been screwed up and then smoothed out, and a short, graying beard. There was something oddly familiar that Rincewind couldn’t quite place. “We’ve called you up, Boring,” said the man, “because we want to know what’s happened to the water. ” “It’s all gone, has it?” said Rincewind. “Thought so. ” “It can’t go ,” said the Dean. “It’s water. There’s always water, if you go down deep enough. ” “But if we go any deeper we’re going to give an elephant a bloody nasty shock,” said the Archchancellor. “So we—” There was a clang as the doors hit the floor. The wizards backed away. “What the hell’s that ?” said one of them. “Oh, that’s my Luggage,” said Rincewind. “It’s made out of—” “Not the box on legs! Isn’t that a woman ?” “Don’t ask him, he’s not very quick at that sort of thing,” said Neilette, stepping in behind the Luggage. “Sorry, but Trunkie got impatient. ” “We can’t have women in the University!” shouted the Dean. “They’ll want to drink sherry !” “No worries,” said the Archchancellor, waving a hand irritably. “What’s happened to the water, Boring?” “It’s all been used up, I suppose,” said Rincewind. “So how can we get some more?” “Why does everyone ask me? Don’t you have some rainmaking spells or something?” “There’s that word again,” said the Dean. “Water sprinkling out of the sky, eh? I’ll believe that when I see it!” “We tried making one of these—what were they called? Big white bags of water? The things some of the sailors say they see in the sky?” “Clouds. ” “Right. They don’t stay up, Boring. We threw one off the tower last week and it hit the Dean. ” “I’ve never believed those old stories,” said the Dean. “And I reckon you mongrels waited till I was walking past. ” “You don’t have to make them, they just happen,” said Rincewind.

“Look, I don’t know how to make it rain. I thought any halfway decent wizard knew how to do a rainmaking spell,” he added, as someone who wouldn’t know where to start. “Really?” said the Archchancellor, with dangerous brightness. “No offense meant,” said Rincewind hurriedly. “I’m sure this is a very good university, considering. Obviously it’s not a real one, but it’s amazingly good in the circumstances. ” “What’s wrong with it?” said the Archchancellor. “Well…your tower’s a little bit on the small side, isn’t it? I mean, even compared to the buildings around here? Not that there’s—” “I think we ought to show Mister Boring our tower,” said the Archchancellor. “I don’t think he’s taking us seriously. ” “I’ve seen it,” said Rincewind. “From the top?” “No, obviously not from the top—” “We haven’t got time for this, Archchancellor,” said a small wizard. “Let’s send this wozza back to Hell and find something better. ” “Excuse me ?” said Rincewind. “By ‘Hell’ do you mean some hot red place?” “Yes!” “Really? How do Ecksians know when they’ve got there? The beer’s warmer?” “No more arguing. This one turned up very fast when we did the summoning, so this is the one we need,” said the Archchancellor. “Come along, Boring. This won’t take a minute. ” Ponder shook his head and wandered over to the fire. Mrs. Whitlow was sitting demurely on a rock. In front of her, getting as close to the fire as possible, was the Librarian. He was still extremely small. Maybe his temporal gland had to take longer to work itself out, Ponder thought. “What are the gentlemen doing?” said Mrs. Whitlow. She had to raise her voice above the argument, but Mrs. Whitlow would still have said, “Is there some difficulty?” if she saw the wizards out on the lawn throwing fireballs at the monsters from the Dungeon Dimensions. She liked to be told these things. “They’ve found a man drawing the most alive -looking pictures I’ve ever seen,” said Ponder. “So now they’re trying to teach him Art. By committee. ” “The gentlemen always take an interest,” said Mrs. Whitlow. “They always interfere,” said Ponder. “I don’t know what it is about wizards, they can’t just watch. So far they’re arguing about how to draw a duck and frankly I don’t think a duck has four legs, which is what it’s got so far. Honestly, Mrs. Whitlow, they’re like kittens in a feather-plucking shed…What’s that?” The Librarian had tipped up the leather bag lying by the fire and was testing the contents for taste, in the way of young mammals everywhere. He picked up a flat, bent piece of wood, painted in lines of many colors—far more pigments than the old man had been using to paint, and Ponder wondered why. He tested it for palatability, banged it on the ground in a vaguely hopeful way, and threw it away. Then he pulled out a flat oval of wood on a piece of string, and tried chewing the string. “Is that a yo-yo?” said Mrs. Whitlow. “We used to call them bullroarers when I was a kid,” said Ponder. “You whirl it around over your head to make a funny noise. ” He waved his hand vaguely in the air. “Eeek?” “Ooh, isn’t that sweet? He’s trying to do what you do!” The Librarian tried to whirl the string, wrapped it round his face and hit himself on the back of the head. “Oh, the poor little thing! Take it off him, Mister Stibbons, do. ” The Librarian bared some small fangs as Ponder unwound the string. “I hope he’s going to grow up soon,” he said. “Otherwise the Library will be filled up with cardboard books about bunnies…” It really was a very stubby tower. The base was stonework, but about halfway the builders had got fed up and resorted to rusted tin sheets nailed on to a wooden framework. One rickety ladder led up. “Very impressive,” sighed Rincewind. “The view’s even better from the top. Go on up. ” The ladder shook under Rincewind’s weight until he pulled himself up on to the planks, where he lay down and panted. Must be the beer and the excitement, he told himself. One short ladder shouldn’t do this to me. “Bracing air up here, isn’t it?” said the Archchancellor, walking to the edge and waving a hand towards the city. “Oh, certainly,” said Rincewind, tottering towards the corrugated battlements. “Why, I expect you can see all the way to the gr—Aaargh!” The Archchancellor grabbed him and pulled him back. “That’s—It’s—” Rincewind gasped. “Want to go back down again?” Rincewind glared at the wizard and inched his way carefully back to the stairs. He looked down, ready at an instant’s notice to draw his head back, and carefully counted the steps. Then he walked back gingerly to the parapet and risked looking over the edge. There was the fiery speck of the burning brewery. There was Bugarup, and its harbor… Rincewind raised his gaze. There was the red desert, glittering under the moonlight. “How high is this?” he croaked. “On the outside? About half a mile, we think,” said the Archchancellor. “And on the inside?” “You climbed it. Two stories. ” “You’re trying to tell me you’ve got a tower that’s taller at the top than it is at the bottom ?” “Good, isn’t it?” said the Archchancellor happily. “That’s…very clever,” said Rincewind. “We’re a clever country—” “Rincewind!” The voice came from below. Rincewind looked very carefully down the steps. It was one of the wizards. “Yes?” he said. “Not you,” snapped the wizard. “I want the Archchancellor!” “I’m Rincewind,” said Rincewind. The Archchancellor tapped him on the shoulder. “That’s a coincidence,” he said. “So am I. ” Ponder very carefully handed the bullroarer back to the little Librarian. “There, you can have it,” he said. “I’m giving it to you and, in return, perhaps you can take your teeth out of my leg. ” From the other side of the rock came the voice of reason: “There’s no need to fight, gentlemen. Let’s vote on it: now, all those who think a duck has webbed feet, raise your hands…” The Librarian swung the thing a few more times. “Doesn’t seem to be a very good one,” said Ponder. “Not much of a noise…honestly, how much longer are they going to be?” … whum … “Eek!” “Yes, yes, very good…” … whum…whum…whUUMMMMM … Ponder looked up as yellow light spread across the plain. There was a circle of blue sky opening above. The rain was stopping. “Eek?” It occurred to Ponder to wonder what a little old man was doing painting pictures in a bare landscape on a whole new continent… And then there was darkness. The old man smiled with something like satisfaction, and turned away from the drawing he’d just completed. It had a lot of pointy hats in it, and it had faded right into the rock. And he was as happy as anything, and had drawn all the spiders and several possums before he found out what was missing. He never even knew about the very strange and unhappy duck-billed creature that slid silently into the river a little way off. “Got to be at least some kind of cousins,” said the Archchancellor. “It’s not a common name. Have another beer. ” “I had a look through the Unseen records once,” said Rincewind morosely. “They never had a Rincewind before. ” He upended the can of beer and finished the dregs. “Never had a relative before, come to that. Never ever. ” He pulled the top off another can. “No one to do all those little things relatives are s’posed to do, like…like…like send you some horrible cardigan at Hogswatch, stuff like that. ” “You got a first name? Mine’s Bill. ” “’s a good name, Bill Rincewind. Dunno if I’ve even got a first name. ” “What do people usually call you, mate?” “Well, they usually say, ‘Stop him!’” said Rincewind, and took a deep draught of beer. “Of course, that’s just a nickname. When they want to be formal they shout ‘Don’t let him get away!’” He squinted at the can. “‘s much better than that other stuff,” he said. “What’s this say? Funnelweb’? ’s a funny name for a beer. ” “You’re reading the list of ingredients,” said Bill. “Really?” mumbled Rincewind. “Where was I?” “Pointy hats. Water running out. Talking kangaroos. Pictures coming alive. ” “That’s right,” said the Dean. “If that’s what you’re like sober, we want to see what effect the beer has.

” “Y’see, when the sun’s up,” said Archchancellor Bill, “I’ve got to go down to the prison and see the prime minister and explain why we don’t know what’s happened to the water. Anything you can do to assist would be very useful. Give him another tinnie, Dean. People’re already banging on the gates. Once the beer runs out, we’re in strife. ” Rincewind felt that he was in a warm amber haze. He was among wizards. You could tell by the way they bickered all the time. And, somehow, the beer made it easier to think. A wizard leaned over his shoulder and put an open book in front of him. “This is a copy of a cave painting from Cangoolie,” he said. “We’ve often wondered what the blobs are above the figures…” “That’s rain,” said Rincewind, after a glance. “You mentioned this before,” said Bill. “Little drops of water flying through the air, right?” “Dropping,” Rincewind corrected him. “And it doesn’t hurt?” “Nope. ” “Water’s heavy. Can’t say the idea of big white bags of the stuff floating around over our heads appeals. ” Rincewind had never studied meteorology, although he had been an end-user all his life. He waved his hands vaguely. “They’re like…steam,” he said, and hiccuped. “’s right. Lovely fluffy steam. ” “They’re boiling ?” “No, no. Nono. Ver’ cold, clouds. Sometimes they come down ver’ low, they even touch the ground. ” The wizards looked at one another. “Y’know, we’re making some bloody good beer these days,” said Bill. “Clouds sound bloody dangerous to me,” said the Dean. “We don’t want them knocking over trees and buildings, do we?” “Ah, but. But. They’re soft , see? Like smoke. ” “But you said they weren’t hot!” Rincewind suddenly saw the perfect explanation. “Have you ever huffed on a cold mirror?” he said, beaming. “Not on a regular basis, but I know what you mean. ” “Well, basically, that’s clouds! Can I have another beer? It’s amazing, it doesn’t feem to have any essect on me, no matter how much I dnirk. Helps me think clearerer. ” Archchancellor Rincewind drummed his fingers on the table. “You and this rain stuff—you’ve got to be connected, yes? We’ve run out of water and you turn up…” Rincewind burped. “Got to put something right, too,” he said. “Pointy hats, all floating in the air…” “Where did you last see them?” “In the brewery with no beer in it. Said it’s haunted, haha. Pointy hat haunting, hahah…” Bill stared at him. “ Right ,” he said. He looked at the forlorn figure of his distant cousin, now very close up. “Let’s get down there. ” He glanced at Rincewind again and seemed to think for a moment. “And we’ll take some beer,” he added. Ponder Stibbons tried to think, but his thoughts seemed to be going very slowly. Everything was dark and he couldn’t move but, somehow, it wasn’t too bad. It felt like those treasured moments in bed when you’re just awake enough to know that you’re still nicely asleep. It’s amazing how time passes. There was a huge bucket chain now, stretching all the way from the harbor to the brewery. Despite the tangily refreshing oak spiciness of their Chardonnays, the Ecksians weren’t the kind of people to let a brewery burn. It didn’t matter that there was no beer in it. There was a principle at stake. The wizards marched through the crowd to a chorus of mutters and the occasional jeer from someone safely tucked away at the back. Smoke and steam came out of the main doorway, which had been burst open by the battering ram. Archchancellor Rincewind stepped inside, dragging his happily smiling relative with him. The smoldering Roo Beer sign, reduced to a metal skeleton, still lay in the middle of the floor. “He kept waving at it and going on about pointy hats,” Neilette volunteered. “Test it for magic, Dean,” said Archchancellor Rincewind. The Dean waved a hand. Sparks flew up. “Nothing there,” he said. “I said we—” For a moment some pointed shapes hung in the air, and then vanished. “That’s not magic ,” said one of the wizards. “That’s ghosts. ” “Everyone knows this place is haunted. Evil spirits, they say. ” “Should’ve stuck to beer,” said Archchancellor Rincewind. Neilette pointed to the trapdoor. “But it doesn’t go anywhere,” she said. “There’s a hatch to the outside and some storerooms and that’s about it. ” The wizards looked down. Below was utter darkness. Something small skittered away on what sounded very much like more than four legs. There was the smell of very old, very stale beer. “No worries,” said Rincewind, waving a tin expansively. “I’ll go down first, shall I?” This was fun. There was a rusted ladder bolted to the wall below him. It creaked under his weight, and gave way when he was a few feet from the cellar floor, dropping him on to the stones. The wizards heard him laugh. Then he called up: “Do any of you know someone called Dibbler?” “What—old Fair Go?” said Bill. “’s right. He’ll be outside selling stuff to the crowd, right?” “Very likely. ” “Can someone go and get me one of his floating meat pies with extra tomato sauce? I could really do with one. ” The Dean looked at Archchancellor Rincewind. “How much beer did he drink?” “Three or four tinnies. He must be allergic, poor bastard. ” “I reckon I could even eat two. ” Rincewind called up. “ Two ?” “No worries. Anyone got a torch? It’s dark down here. ” “Do you want the gourmet pies or the ordinary?” said the Dean. “Oh, the ordinary will do me. No swank, eh?” “Poor bastard,” said Bill, and sorted through his small change. It was indeed dark in the cellars, but enough dim light filtered through the trapdoor for Rincewind to make out huge pipes in the gloom. It was obvious that some time after the brewery had been closed, but before people had got around to securely locking every entrance, the cellars had been employed by young people as such places are when you live with your parents, the house is too small, and no one has got around to inventing the motorcar. In short, they’d written on the walls. Rincewind could make out careful inscriptions telling posterity that, for example, B. Smoth Is A Pozza. While he didn’t know what a pozza was, he was quite, quite sure that B. Smoth didn’t want to be called one. It was amazing how slang seemed to radiate its meaning even in another language. There was a thump behind him as the Luggage landed on the stone floor. “Me old mate Trunkie,” said Rincewind. “No worries!” Another ladder was eased down and the wizards, with some care, joined him. Archchancellor Rincewind was holding a staff with a glowing end. “Found anything?” he said. “Well, yes. I wouldn’t shake hands with anyone called B. Smoth,” said Rincewind. “Oh, the Dean’s not a bad bloke when you get to know him—What’s up?” Rincewind pointed to the far end of the room. There, on a door, someone had drawn some pointy hats, in red. They glistened in the light. “My word. Blood,” said Rincewind. His cousin ran a finger over it. “It’s ochre,” he said. “Clay…” The door led to another cellar. There were a few empty barrels, some broken crates, and nothing else except musty darkness. Dust whirled up on the floor from the draught of their movement, in a series of tiny, inverted whirlwinds. Pointy hats again. “Hmm, solid walls all round,” said Bill. “Better pick a direction, mate. ” Rincewind had a drink, shut his eyes and pointed a finger at random. “That way!” The Luggage plunged forward and struck the brickwork, which fell away to reveal a dark space beyond. Rincewind stuck his head through. All the builders had done was wall up and square off a part of a cave. From the feel of the air, it was quite a large one. Neilette and the wizards climbed through behind him. “I’m sure this place wasn’t here when the brewery was built!” said Neilette. “It’s big,” said the Dean. “How’d it get made?” “Water,” said Rincewind. “You what? Water makes great big holes in rock?” “Yes. Don’t ask me why—What was that?” “What?” “Did you hear something?” “You said, ‘What was that?’” Rincewind sighed. The cold air was sobering him up. “You really are wizards, aren’t you?” he said. “Real honest-to-goodness wizards.

You’ve got hats that’re more brim than point, the whole university’s made of tin, you’ve got a tiny tower which is, I must admit, good grief, a lot taller on the outside, but you’re wizards all right, and will you now, please, shut up ?” In the silence there was, very faintly, a plink. Rincewind stared into the depths of the cave. The light from the staffs only made them worse. It cast shadows. Darkness was just darkness, but anything could be hiding in shadows. “These caves must’ve been explored,” he said. It was a hope rather than a statement. History here was rather a rubbery thing. “Never heard of ’em,” said the Dean. “Points again, look,” said Bill, as they advanced. “Just stalactites and stalagmites,” said Rincewind. “I don’t know how it works, but water drips on stuff and leaves piles of stuff. Takes thousands of years. Perfectly ordinary. ” “Is this the same kind of water that floats through the sky and gouges out big caves in rocks?” said the Dean. “Er…yes…er, obviously,” said Rincewind. “It’s good luck for us we only have the drinking and washing sort, then. ” “Had,” said Rincewind. There were hurrying feet behind them and a junior wizard ran up, holding a plate covered with a lid. “Got the last one!” he said. “It’s a gourmet pie, too. ” He lifted the lid. Rincewind stared, and swallowed. “Oh dear…” “What’s up?” “Have you got some more of that beer? I think I might be losing…concentration…” His cousin stepped forward, ripping the top off a can of Funnelweb. “Cartwright, you cover that pie up and keep it warm. Rincewind, you drink this. ” They watched him drain the tin. “Right, mate,” said the Archchancellor. “How about a nice meat pie upside down in a big bowl of mushy green peas covered with tomato sauce?” He looked at the color change on Rincewind’s face, and nodded. “You need another tin,” he said firmly. They watched him drink this. “Okay,” said the Archchancellor after a while. “Now, Rincewind, how about a nice one of Fair Go’s pie floaters, eh? Meat pie in pea soup and tomato sauce?” Rincewind’s face twitched a bit as amber blessings shut down vital protective systems. “Sounds…good,” he said. “Maybe with some coconut on the top?” The wizards relaxed. “So now we know,” said Archchancellor Rincewind. “We’ve got to keep you just drunk enough so that Dibbler’s pies sound tasty, but not so drunk that it causes lasting brain damage. ” “That’s a very narrow window we’ve got there,” said the Dean. Bill looked up at the roof, where the shadows danced among the stalactites, unless they were stalagmites. “This is right under the city,” he said. “How come we’ve never heard of it?” “Good question,” said the Dean. “The men who built the cellar must’ve seen it. ” Rincewind tried to think. “It wasn’t here then,” he said. “You said these stalag things took thousands of—” “They probably weren’t here last month but now they’ve been here for thousands of years,” said Rincewind. He hiccuped. “It’s like your tower,” he said. “Taller onna outside. ” “Huh?” “Prob’ly only works here,” said Rincewind. “The more geography you’ve got, the less hist’ry, ever notice that? More space, less time. I bet it only took a second or two for this place to be here for thousands of years, see? Shorter on the outside. Makes serfect pense. ” “I don’t think I’ve drunk enough beer to understand that,” said the Dean. Something nudged him in the back of the legs. He looked down at the Luggage. It was one of its habits to come up so close behind people that, when they looked down, they felt seriously over-feeted. “Or this,” he added. The wizards grew quieter as Rincewind led them onward. He wasn’t sure who was leading him. Still, no worries. Contrary to the usual procedures it began to grow lighter, although the proliferation of luminous fungi or iridescent crystals in deep caves where the torchlessly improvident hero needs to see is one of the most obvious intrusions of narrative causality into the physical universe. In this case, the rocks were glowing, not from some mysterious inner light but simply as though the sun were shining on them, just after dawn. There are other imperatives that operate on the human brain. One says: the bigger the space, the softer the voice, and refers to the natural tendency to speak very, very quietly when stepping into somewhere huge. So when Archchancellor Rincewind stepped out into the big cave he said, “Strewth, it’s bloody big!” in a low whisper. The Dean, however, shouted, “Coo-eee!” because there’s always one. Stalactites crowded the cave here, too, and in the very center a gigantic stalactite had almost touched its mirror-image stalagmite. The air was chokingly hot. “This isn’t right—” said Rincewind. Plink. They spotted the source of the noise eventually. A tiny trickle was making its way down the side of the stalactite and forming droplets that fell a few feet to the stalagmite. Another drop formed while they watched, and hung there. One of the wizards clambered up the dry slope and peered at it. “It’s not moving,” he said. “The trickle’s drying up. I think…it’s evaporating. ” The Archchancellor turned to Rincewind. “Well, we’ve followed you this far, mate,” he said. “What now?” “I think I could do with another b—” “There’s none left, mate. ” Rincewind looked desperately around the cave, and then at the huge translucent mass of limestone in front of him. It was definitely pointy. It was also in the center of the cave. It had a certain inevitability about it. Odd, really, that something like this would form down here, shining away like a pearl in an oyster. The ground trembled again. Up there, people would already be getting thirsty, cursing the windmills as only an Ecksian could curse. The water was gone and that was very bad, and when the beer ran out people would really get angry… The wizards were all waiting for him to do something. All right, start with the rock. What did he know about rocks and caves in these parts? There was a curious freedom at a time like this. He was going to be in real trouble whatever he did, so he might as well give this a try… “I need some paint,” he said. “What for?” “For what I need,” said Rincewind. “There’s young Salid,” said the Dean. “He’s a bit of an arty blager. Let’s go and kick his door down. ” “And bring some more beer!” Rincewind called after them. Neilette patted Rincewind on the shoulder. “Are you going to do some magic?” she said. “I don’t know if it counts as magic here,” said Rincewind. “If it doesn’t work, stand well back. ” “Is it going to be dangerous, then?” “No, I might have to start running without looking where I’m going. But…this rock’s warm. Have you noticed?” She touched it. “I see what you mean…” “I was just thinking…Supposing someone was in a country who shouldn’t be there? What would it do?” “Oh, the Watch would catch him, I expect. ” “No, no, not the people. What would the land do? I think I need another drink, it made more sense then…” “Okay, here we are, we couldn’t find much, but there’s some whitewash and some red paint and a tin of stuff which might be black paint or it could be tar oil. ” The wizards hurried up. “Not much in the way of brushes, though. ” Rincewind picked up a brush that looked as though it had once been used to whitewash a very rough wall and then to clean the teeth of some large creature, possibly a crocodile. He’d never been any good at art, and this is a distinction quite hard to achieve in many education systems. Basic artistic skills and a familiarity with occult calligraphy are part of a wizard’s early training, yet in Rincewind’s fingers chalk broke and pencils shattered. It was probably due to a deep distrust of getting things down on paper when they were doing all right where they were. Neilette handed him a tin of Funnelweb. Rincewind drank deeply and then dipped the brush in what might have been black paint and essayed a few upturned Vs on the rock, and some circles under the lines, with three dots in a V and a friendly little curve in each one. He took another deep draught of the beer and saw what he was doing wrong.

It was no good trying to be strictly true to life here; what he had to go for was an impression. He sloshed wildly at the stone, humming madly under his breath. “Anyone guess what it is yet?” he said, over his shoulder. “Looks a bit modern to me,” said the Dean. But Rincewind was into the swing of it now. Any fool could just copy what he saw, except possibly Rincewind, but surely the whole point was to try to paint a picture that moved, that definitely expressed the, the, the— Definitely expressed it, anyway. You went the way the paint and the color wanted you to go. “You know,” said Neilette, “the way the light falls on it and everything…it could be a group of wizards…” Rincewind half closed his eyes. Perhaps it was the way that the shadows moved, but he had to admit he’d done a really good job. He slapped some more paint on. “Looks like they’re almost coming out of the stone,” said someone behind him, but the voice sounded muffled. He felt as though he was falling into a hole. He’d had the sensation before, although usually it was when he was falling into a hole. The walls were fuzzy, as though they were streaking past him at a tremendous rate. The ground shook. “Are we moving?” he said. “Feels like it, doesn’t it?” said Archchancellor Rincewind. “But we’re standing still!” “Moving while standing still,” muttered Rincewind, and giggled. That’s a good one!” He squinted happily at the beer can. “Y’know,” he said, “I can’t stomach more than a pint or two of the ale we have at home but this stuff is like drinking lemonade! Has anyone got that meat pie—” As loudly as a thunderstorm under the bed but as softly as two soufflés colliding, past and present ran into one another. They contained a lot of people. “What’s this?” “Dean?” “Yes?” “You’re not the Dean!” “How dare you say that! Who are you!” “Ook!” “Stone the cows, there’s a monkey in here!” “No! No! I didn’t say that! He said that!” “Archchancellor?” “Yes?” “Yes?” “What? How many of you are there?” The darkness became a deep purple, shading to violet. “ Will you all stop shouting and listen to me !” To Rincewind’s amazement, they did. “Look, the walls are getting closer! This place is trying not to exist!” And, having done his duty to the community, he turned and ran over the shaking rock floor. After a couple of seconds the Luggage passed him, which was always a bad sign. He heard the voices behind him. Wizards had a hard job accepting the term “clear and present danger. ” They liked the kind you could argue about. But there is something about a rapidly descending ceiling that intrudes into the awareness of even the most quarrelsome. “I’ll save you, Mrs. Whitlow!” “Up the tunnel!” “How fast are those walls closing in, would you say?” “Shut up and run!” Now Rincewind was passed by a large red, furry kangaroo. The Librarian’s erratic morphism, having briefly turned him into a red stalactite as an obviously successful shape for surviving in caves, had finally taken on board the fact that it would make for a terminally lengthy survival in a cave that was rapidly getting smaller, and had flipped into a local morphic field built for speed. Man, Luggage and kangaroo piled through the hole into the cellar and ended in a heap against the opposite side. There was a rumbling behind them and wizards and women were fired out into the cellar with some speed, several of them landing on Rincewind. Behind the wall, the rock groaned and creaked, expelling these alien things in what, Rincewind thought, was a geological chunder. Something flew out of the hole and hit him on the ear, but this was only a minor problem compared to the meat pie, which came out trailing mushy peas and tomato sauce and hit him in the mouth. It wasn’t, actually, all that bad. The ability to ask questions like “Where am I and who is the ‘I’ that is asking?” is one of the things that distinguishes mankind from, say, cuttlefish. * The wizards from Unseen University, being perhaps the intellectual cream or certainly the cerebral yogurt of their generation, passed through this stage within minutes. Wizards are very adept at certain ideas. One minute you’re arguing over the shape of a duck’s head and the next there are people telling you you’ve been inside a rock for thousands of years because time goes slower on the inside. This presents no great problem for a man who has found his way to the lavatory at Unseen University. † There were more important questions as they sat round the table in BU. “Is there anything to eat?” said Ridcully. “It’s the middle of the night, sir. ” “You mean we missed dinner ?” “Thousands of years of dinners, Archchancellor. ” “Really? Better start catching up, then, Mister Stibbons. Still…nice little place you’ve got here…archchancellor. ” Ridcully pronounced the word very carefully in order to accentuate the lower case “a. ” Archchancellor Rincewind gave him a fraternal nod. “Thank you. ” “For a colony, of course. I daresay you do your best. ” “Why, thank you, Mustrum. I’d be happy to show you our tower later on. ” “It does look rather small. ” “So people say. ” “Rincewind, Rincewind…name rings a faint bell…” said Ridcully. “We came looking for Rincewind, Archchancellor,” said Ponder, patiently. “Is he? Done well for himself, then. Fresh air made a man of him, I see. ” “No, sir. Ours is the skinny one with the bad beard and the floppy hat, sir. You remember? The one sitting over there. ” Rincewind raised a hand diffidently. “Er. Me,” he said. Ridcully sniffed. “Fair enough. What’s that thing you’re playing with, man?” Rincewind held up the bullroarer. “It came with you out of the cave,” he said. “What were you doing with it?” “Oh, some toy the Librarian found,” said Ponder. “All sorted out, then,” said Ridcully. “I say, this beer’s good, isn’t it? Very drinkable. Yes, I’m sure there’s a lot we can learn from one another, archchancellor. You from us rather more than us from you, of course. Perhaps we could set up a student exchange, that sort of thing?” “Good idea. ” “You can have six of mine in exchange for a decent lawnmower. Ours has broken. ” “The Arch—the arch chancellor is trying to say that getting back might be rather hard, sir,” said Ponder. “Apparently things ought to have changed now we’re here. But they haven’t. ” “Your Rincewind seemed to think that bringing you blokes here would make it rain,” said Bill. “But it hasn’t. ” … whumm … “Oh, do stop playing with that thing, Rincewind,” said Ridcully. “Well…Bill, it’s obvious, isn’t it? As more experienced wizards than you, we naturally know plenty of ways of making it rain. No problem there. ” … whumm … “Look, lad, take that thing outside, will you?” The Librarian was sitting at the top of the tin tower, with a leaf over his head. “Something odd, see?” said Rincewind, dangling the bullroarer from its string. “I’ve only got to wiggle my hand a bit and it swings right round. ” “…ook…” The Librarian sneezed. “…awk…” “Er…now you’re some sort of large bird…” said Rincewind. “You are in a bad way, aren’t you? Still, once I tell them your name…” The Librarian changed shape and moved fast. There was a very short period of time in which a lot happened. “Ah,” said Rincewind calmly when it seemed to be over. “Well, let us start with what we know. I can’t see. The reason I can’t see is that my robe is hanging over my eyes. From this I can deduce that I am upside down. You are gripping my ankles. Correction, one ankle, so obviously you are holding me upside down. We are at the top of the tower. This means…” He fell silent. “All right, let’s start again,” he said. “Let’s start by me not telling anyone your name. ” The Librarian let go. Rincewind dropped a few inches on to the planks of the tower. “You know, that was a really mean trick you just did,” he said. “Ook. ” “We’ll say no more about it, shall we?” Rincewind looked up at the big, empty sky. It ought to be raining. He’d done everything he was supposed to do, hadn’t he? And all that had happened was that the Faculty of UU was down there being condescending about everything.

It wasn’t even as if they could do a rainmaking spell. For one of those to work you needed some rain around to start with. In fact, it was prudent to make sure that some heavy-looking clouds were being blown in your direction. And if it wasn’t raining then probably those terrible currents they talked about were still around, too. It wasn’t a bad country. They were big on hats. They were big on big hats. He could save up and buy a farm on the Never-Never and watch sheep. After all, they fed themselves and they made more sheep. All you had to do was pick the wool off occasionally. The Luggage’d probably settle down to being a sheepdog. Except…that there wasn’t any more water. No more sheep, no more farms. Mad, and Crocodile Crocodile, the lovely ladies Darleen and Letitia, Remorse and his horses, all those people who’d shown him how to find the things you could eat without throwing up too often…all drying up, and blowing away… Him, too. G’ DAY. “Ook?” “Oh, no …” Rincewind moaned. T HROAT A BIT PARCHED ? “Look, you’re not supposed to—” I T’S ALL RIGHT , I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT DOWN IN THE CITY. T HERE’S BEEN A FIGHT OVER THE LAST BOTTLE OF BEER. H OWEVER, LET ME ASSURE YOU OF MY PERSONAL ATTENTION AT ALL TIMES. “Well, thank you. When it’s time to stop living, I will certainly make Death my number one choice!” Death faded. “The cheek of him, turning up like that! We’re not dead yet,” shouted Rincewind to the burning sky. “There’s lots we could do! If we could get to the Hub we could cut loose a big iceberg and tow it here and that’d give us plenty of water…if we could get to the Hub! Where there’s hope there’s life, I’ll have you know! I’ll find a way! Somewhere there’s a way of making rain!” Death had gone. Rincewind swung the bullroarer menacingly. “And don’t come back!” “Ook!” The Librarian gripped Rincewind’s arm, and sniffed the air. Then Rincewind caught the smell too. Rincewind spoke a fairly primitive language, and it had no word for “that smell you get after rain” other than “that smell you get after rain. ” Anyone trying to describe the smell would have to flounder among words like moisture, heat, vapor and, with a following wind, exhalation. Nevertheless, there was the smell you get after rain. In this burning land, it was like a brief jewel in the air. Rincewind whirled the piece of wood again. It made noise out of all proportion to the movement, and there was that smell again. He turned it over. It was still just a wooden oval. There weren’t any markings on it. He gripped the end of the string and whirled the thing experimentally a few more times. “Did you notice that when it did this—” he began. It wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t lower his arm. “Er…I think it wants to be spun,” he said. “Ook!” “You think I should?” “Ook!” “That’s very helpful. Oooh—” The Librarian ducked. Rincewind spun. He couldn’t see the wood now because the string was getting longer with each turn. A blur curved through the air some way from the tower, getting further away with each spin. The sound of it was a long-drawn-out drone. When it was well out over the city it exploded in a thunderclap. But something still whirled on the end of the line, like a tight silver cloud, throwing out a trail of white particles that made a spiral that sped out wider and wider. The Librarian was flat on his face with his hands over his head. Air roared up the side of the tower, carrying dust, wind, heat and budgerigars. Rincewind’s robe flapped around his chin. Letting go was unthinkable. He wasn’t even sure if he could, until it wanted him to. Thin as smoke now, the spiral drifted out into the heat haze. (…and out over the red desert and the unheeding kangaroos, and as the tail of it flew out over the coast and into the wall of storms the warring airs melted peacefully together…the clouds stopped their stately spin around the last continent, boiled up in confusion and thunderheads, reversed their direction and began to fall inwards …) And the string whipped out of Rincewind’s hand, stinging his fingers. The bullroarer flew away, and he didn’t see it fall. This may have been because he was still pirouetting, but at last gravity overcame momentum and he fell full length on the boards. “I think my feet have caught fire,” he muttered. The dead heat hung on the land like a shroud. Clancy the stockman wiped the sweat off his brow very thoroughly, and wrung out the rag into an empty jam tin. The way things were going, he’d be glad of it. Then, carrying the tin with care, he climbed back down the windmill’s ladder. “The bore’s fine, boss, there’s just no bloody water,” he said. Remorse shook his head. “Look at them horses,” he said. “Look at the way they’re lying down, willya? That’s not good. This is it, Clancy. We’ve battled through thick and thin, and this is too thick altogether by half. We may as well cut their poor bloody throats for the meat that’s on ’em—” A gust of wind took his hat off for him, and blew a lash of scent across the wilted mulga bushes. A horse raised his head. Clouds were pouring across the sky, rolling and boiling across each other like waves on a beach, so black that in the middle they were blue, lit by occasional flashes. “What the hell’s that ?” said Clancy. The horse stood up awkwardly and stumbled to the rusted trough under the windmill. Under the clouds, dragging across the land, the air shimmered silver. Something hit Remorse’s head. He looked down. Something went “plut” in the red dust by his boot, leaving a little crater. “That is water , Clancy,” he said. “It’s bloody water dropping out of the bloody sky !” They stared at one another with their mouths open as, around them, the storm hit and the animals stirred and the red dust turned into mud which spattered them up to their waists. This was no ordinary rainstorm. This was The Wet. As Clancy said later, the second best bloody thing that happened that day was that they were near high ground. The best bloody thing was that, with all the corks on their hats, they were able to find the bloody things later on. There’d been debate about having this year’s regatta in Dijabringabeeralong, given the drought. But it was a tradition. A lot of people came into town for it. Besides, the organizers had discussed it long and hard all the previous evening in the bar of the Pastoral Hotel and had concluded that, no worries, she’ll be right. There were classes for boats pulled by camels, boats optimistically propelled by sails and, a high spot of the event, skiffs propelled by the simple expedient of the crew cutting the bottoms out, gripping the sides and running like hell. It always got a good laugh. It was while two teams were trotting upriver in the semi-final that the spectators noticed the black cloud pouring over Semaphore Hill like boiling jam. “Bushfire,” said someone. “Bushfire’d be white. Come on…” That was the thing about fire. If you saw one, everyone went to put it out. Fire spread like wildfire. But as they turned away there was a scream from the riverbed. The teams rounded the bend neck and neck, carrying their boats at a record-breaking speed. They reached the slipway, collided in their efforts to get up it, made it to the top locked together, and collapsed in splinters and screams. “Stop the regatta!” panted one of the coxes. “The river…the river…” But by then everyone could see it. Around the bend, traveling slowly because it was pushing in front of it a huge logjam of bushes, carts, rocks and trees, was the flood. It thundered past and the mobile dam slid on, scything the river bottom free of all obstruction. Behind it foaming water filled the river from bank to bank. They canceled the regatta. A river full of water made a mockery of the whole idea. The university’s gates had burst open and now the angry mob was in the grounds and hammering on the walls. Above the din, the wizards searched feverishly through the books. “Well, have you got something like Maxwell’s Impressive Separator?” said Ridcully. “What’s that do?” said Archchancellor Rincewind. “Unmixes two things, like…sugar and sand, for example.

Uses nanny’s demons. ” “Nano-demons, possibly,” murmured Ponder wearily. “Oh, like Bonza Charlie’s Beaut Sieve? Yeah, we’ve got that. ” “Ah, parallel evolution. Fine. Dig it out, man. ” Archchancellor Rincewind nodded at one of the wizards, and then broke into a grin. “Are you thinking about it working on salt?” he said. “Exactly! One spell, one bucket of seawater, no more problem…” “Er, that’s not exactly true,” said Ponder Stibbons. “Sounds perfect to me, man!” “It takes a great deal of magic, sir. And the demons take about a fortnight per pint, sir. ” “Ah. A significant point, Mister Stibbons. ” “Yes, sir. ” “However, just because it wouldn’t work does not mean it was a bad idea—I wish they’d stop that shouting!” The shouting outside stopped. “Perhaps they heard you, sir,” said Ponder. Pang. Pang, pang … “Are they throwing stuff on to the roof?” said Archchancellor Rincewind. “No, that’s probably just rain,” said Ridcully. “Now, I suppose you’ve tried evaporating—” He realized that no one was listening. Everyone was looking up. Now the individual thuds had merged into a steady hammering and from outside came the sound of wild cheering. The wizards struggled in the doorway and finally fought their way outside, where water was pouring off the roof in a solid sheet and cutting a channel in the lawn. Archchancellor Rincewind stopped abruptly and reached out to the water like a man not sure if the stove is hot. “Out of the sky?” he said. He pushed his way out through the liquid curtain. Then he took off his hat and held it upside down to catch the rain. The crowd had filled the university grounds and spilled out into the surrounding streets. Every face was turned upwards. “And those dark things?” Archchancellor Rincewind called out. “They are the clouds, archchancellor. ” “There’s a hell of a lot of them!” There were. They piled up over the tower in an enormous, spreading black thunderhead. A couple of people looked down long enough to see the group of soaked wizards, and there were some cheers. And suddenly they were the new center of attention, and being picked up and carried shoulder high. “They think we did it!” shouted Archchancellor Rincewind, as he was borne aloft. “Who’s to say we didn’t?” shouted Ridcully, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Er…” someone began. Ridcully didn’t even look round. “Shut up, Mister Stibbons,” he said. “Shutting up, sir. ” “Can you hear that thunder?” said Ridcully, as a rumble rolled across the city. “We’d better take cover…” The clouds above the tower were rising like water against a dam. Ponder said afterwards the fact that the BU tower was very short and extremely tall at the same time might have been the problem, since the storm was trying to go around it, over it and through it, all at the same time. From the ground the clouds seemed to open up slowly, leaving a glowing, spreading chimney filled with the blue haze of electrical discharges… …and pounced. One solid blue bolt hit the tower at every height all at once, which is technically impossible. Pieces of wood and corrugated iron roared into the air and rained down across the city. Then there was just a sizzling, and the rushing of the rain. The crowd stood up again, cautiously, but the fireworks were over. “And that’s what we call lightning,” said Ridcully. Archchancellor Rincewind got up and tried to brush mud off his robe, then found out why you cannot do this. “It’s not usually as big as that, though,” Ridcully went on. “Oh. Good. ” There was a clank from the steaming debris where the tower had stood, and a sheet of metal was pushed aside. Slowly, with much mutual aid and many false starts, two blackened figures emerged. One of them was still wearing a hat, which was on fire although the rain was putting out the flames. Leaning against one another, weaving from side to side, they approached the wizards. One of them said, “Ook,” very quietly and fell backwards. The other one looked blearily at the two arch-chancellors, and saluted. This caused a spark to leap from its fingers and burn its ear. “Er, Rincewind,” it said. “And what have you been up to while we’ve been doing all this hard work, pray?” said Ridcully. Rincewind looked around, very slowly. Occasional little blue streaks crackled in his beard. “Well, that all seemed to go pretty well, really. All things considered,” he said, and fell full length into a puddle. It rained. After that, it rained. Then it rained some more. The clouds were stacked like impatient charter flights over the coast, low on fuel, jockeying for position, and raining. Above all, raining. Floodwater roared down the rocks and scoured out the ancient muddy waterholes. A species of tiny shrimps whose world for thousands of years had been one small hole under a stone were picked up and carried wholesale into a lake that was spreading faster than a man could run. There had been fewer than a thousand of them. There were a lot more next day. Even if the shrimps had been able to count how many, they were far too busy to bother. In the new estuaries, rich in sudden silt and unexpected food, a few fish began the experiment of a salt-free diet. The mangroves started their stop-motion conquests of the new mudbanks. It went on raining. Then it rained some more. After that, it rained. It was some days later. The ship rose and fell gently by the dock. The water around it was red with suspended silt in which a few leaves and twigs floated. “A week or two to NoThingfjord and we’re practically home,” said Ridcully. “Practically on the same continent, anyway,” said the Dean. “Quite an int’resting long vacation, really,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Probably the longest ever,” said Ponder. “Did Mrs. Whitlow like her stateroom?” “I for one will quite enjoy bunking down in the hold,” said the Senior Wrangler loyally. “The bilges, actually,” said Ponder. “The hold’s full. Of opals, beer, sheep, wool and bananas. ” “Where’s the Librarian?” said Ridcully. “In the hold, sir. ” “Yes, I suppose it was silly of me to ask. Still, nice to see him his old self again. ” “I think it may have been the lightning, sir. He’s certainly very lively now. ” And Rincewind sat on the Luggage, down on the dock. Somehow, he felt, something should be happening. The worst time in your life was when nothing much was going on, because that meant that something bad was about to hit you. For some strange reason. He could be back in the University Library in a month or so, and then ho! for a life of stacking books. One dull day after another, with occasional periods of boredom. He could hardly wait. Every minute not being a minute wasted was, well, a minute wasted. Excitement? That could happen to other people. He’d watched the merchants loading the ship. It was pretty low in the water, because there would be so many Ecksian things the rest of the world wanted. Of course, it’d come back light, because it was hard to think of any bloody thing it could bloody import that was better than any bloody thing in EcksEcksEcksEcks. There were even a few more passengers willing to see the world, and most of them were young. “Hey, aren’t you one of the foreign wizards?” The speaker was a young man carrying a very large knapsack topped by a bedroll. He seemed to be the impromptu leader of a small group of similarly overloaded people, with wide, open faces and slightly worried expressions. “You can tell, can’t you?” said Rincewind. “Er…you wanted something?” “D’yew think we can buy a cart in this place NoThingfjord?” “Yes, I should think so. ” “Only me and Clive and Shirl and Gerleen were thinkin’ of picking one up and driving to—” He looked around. “Ankh-Morpork,” said Shirl. “Right, and then selling it, and gettin’ a job for a while, having a look round, y’know…for a while. That’d be right?” Rincewind glanced at the others trooping up the gangplank. Since the invention of the dung beetle, which had in fact happened not too far away, it was probable that no creature had ever carried so much weight. “I can see it catching on,” he said.

“No worries!” “But…er…” “Yes, mate?” “Do you mind not humming that tune? It was only a sheep, and I didn’t even steal it…” Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Neilette. Letitia and Darleen were standing behind her, grinning. It was ten in the morning. They were wearing sequined evening gowns. “Budge up,” she said, and settled down beside him. “We just thought…well, we’ve come to say, you know, thanks and everything. Letitia and Darleen are coming in with me and we’re going to open up the brewery again. ” Rincewind glanced up at the ladies. “I’ve had enough beer thrown at me, I ought to know something about it,” said Letitia. “Although I do think we could make it a more attractive color. It’s so…” she waved a large, be-ringed hand irritably, “…aggressively masculine. ” “Pink would be nice,” said Rincewind. “And you could put in a pickled onion on a stick, perhaps. ” “Bloody good suggestion!” said Darleen, slapping him so hard on the back that his hat fell over his eyes. “You wouldn’t like to stay?” said Neilette. “You look like someone with ideas. ” Rincewind considered this attractive proposition, and then shook his head. “It’s a nice offer, but I think I ought to stick to what I do best,” he said. “But everyone says you’re no good at magic!” said Neilette. “Er…yes, well, being no good at magic is what I do best,” said Rincewind. “Thanks all the same. ” “At least let me give you a big wet sloppy kiss,” said Darleen, grabbing his shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye Rincewind saw Neilette’s foot stamp down. “All right, all right!” said Darleen, letting go and hopping away. “It wasn’t as if I was going to bite him, miss!” Neilette gave Rincewind a peck on the cheek. “Well, drop in whenever you’re passing,” she said. “Certainly will!” said Rincewind. “I’ll look for the pubs with the mauve umbrellas outside, shall I?” Neilette gave him a wave and Darleen made an amusing gesture as they walked away, almost bumping into a group of men in white. One of them shouted, “Hey, there he is…Sorry, ladies…” “Oh, hello, Charley…Ron…” said Rincewind, as the chefs bore down on him. “Heard you wuzzas was leavin’,” said Ron. “Wouldn’t be fair to let you go without shaking you by the hand, Charley said. ” “The Peach Nellie went down a treat,” said Charley, beaming broadly. “Glad to hear it,” said Rincewind. “Good to see you looking so cheerful. ” “It gets better!” said Ron. “There’s a new soprano just been taken on and she’s a winner if I’m any judge and…no, Charley, you tell him her name…” “Germaine Trifle,” said Charley. A wider grin would have resulted in the top of his head slipping off. “I’m very happy for you,” said Rincewind. “Start whipping that cream right now, y’hear?” Ron patted him on the shoulder. “We could always do with another hand in the kitchens,” he said. “Just say the word, mate. ” “Well, it’s very kind of you, and when I pull another tissue out of a box I’ll always remember you blokes at the Opera House, but—” “There he is!” The gaoler and the captain of the guard were jogging along the quay. The gaoler was waving encouragingly at him. “Nah, nah, it’s all right, you don’t have to run!” he shouted. “We’ve got a pardon for you!” “Pardon?” said Rincewind. “That’s right!” The gaoler reached him, and fought for breath. “Signed…by…the prime minister,” he managed. “Says you’re a…good bloke and we’re not to…hang you…” He straightened up. “Mind you, we wouldn’t do that anyway, not now. Best bloody escape we’ve ever bloody had since Tinhead Ned!” Rincewind looked down at the writing on the official lined prison notepaper. “Oh. Good,” he said weakly. “At least someone thinks I didn’t steal the damn thing. ” “Oh, everyone knows you stole it,” said the gaoler happily. “But after that escape, we-ell…and that chase, eh? Bluey here says he’s never seen anyone run like you, and that’s a fact!” The guard punched Rincewind playfully on the arm. “Good on yer, mate,” he said, grinning. “But we’ll catch yer next time!” Rincewind looked blankly at the pardon. “You mean I’m getting this for being a good sport?” “No worries!” said the gaoler. “And there’s a queue of farmers sayin’ if you want to steal one of their sheep next time that’d be bonza, just so long as they get a verse in the ballad. ” Rincewind gave up. “What can I say?” he said. “You keep one of the best condemned cells I’ve ever stayed in, and I’ve been in a few. ” He looked at the glow of admiration in their faces and decided that, since fortune had been kind, it was time to give something back. “Er…I’d take it kindly, though, if you’d never ever redecorate that cell. ” “No worries. Here, I thought we ought to give you this,” said the gaoler, handing him a little giftwrapped package. “Got no use for it now, eh?” Rincewind unwrapped the hempen rope. “I’m lost for words,” he said. “How thoughtful. I’m bound to find lots of uses for it. And what’s this… sandwiches ?” “Y’know that sticky brown stuff you made? Well, all the lads tried it and they all went ‘yukk’ and then they all wanted some more, so we tried cooking up a batch,” said the gaoler. “I was thinking of going into business. You don’t mind, do you?” “No worries. Be my guest. ” “Good on yer!” Someone else wandered up as he watched them hurry away. “I heard you were going back,” said Bill Rincewind. “Want to stay on here? I had a word with your Dean. He gave you a bloody good reference. ” “Did he? What did he say?” “He said if I could get you to do any work for me I’d be lucky,” said Bill. Rincewind looked around at the city, glistening under the rain. “It’s a nice offer,” he said. “But…oh, I dunno…all this sun, sea, surf and sand wouldn’t be good for me. Thanks all the same. ” “You sure?” “Yes. ” Bill Rincewind held out his hand. “No worries,” he said. “I’ll send you a card at Hogswatch, and some bit of clothing that doesn’t fit properly. I’d better get back to the university now, I’ve got all the staff up on the roof mending the leaks…” And that was it. Rincewind sat for a while watching the last of the passengers get aboard, and took a final look around the rain-soaked harbor. Then he stood up. “Come on, then,” he said. The Luggage followed him up the gangplank, and they went home. It rained. The flood gurgled along ancient creek beds and overflowed, spreading out in a lacework of gullies and rivulets. Further rain ensued. Near the center of the last continent, where waterfalls streamed down the flanks of a great red rock that steamed with the heat of a ten-thousand-year summer, a small naked boy sat in the branches of a tree along with three bears, several possums, innumerable parrots and a camel. Apart from the rock, the world was a sea. And someone was wading through it. He was an old man, carrying a leather bag on his back. He stopped, waist deep in swirling water, and looked up at the rain. Something was coming. The clouds were twisting, spinning, leaving a silvery hole all the way up to the blue sky, and there was a sound that you might get if you took a roll of thunder and stretched it out thin. A dot appeared, growing bigger. The man raised a skinny arm and, suddenly, it was holding an oval of wood that trailed a cord, which hit his hand with a slap. The rain stopped. The last few drops hammered out a little rhythm that said: now we know where you are, we’ll be coming back… The boy laughed. The old man looked up, caught sight of him, and grinned. He tucked the bullroarer into the string around his waist and took up a boomerang painted in more colors than the boy had ever seen in one place together. The man tossed it up and caught it a couple of times and then, glancing sideways to make sure his audience was watching him, he hurled it. It rose into the sky and went on climbing, long past the point where any normal thing should have started to fall back. It grew bigger, too. The clouds parted to let it through. And then it stopped, as if suddenly nailed to the sky. Like sheep which, having been driven to a pasture, can now spread out at their leisure, the clouds began to drift.

Afternoon sunlight sliced through into the still waters. The boomerang hung in the sky, and the boy thought he would have to find a new word for the way the colors glowed. In the meantime, he looked down at the water and tried out the word he’d been taught by his grandfather, who’d been taught it by his grandfather, and which had been kept for thousands of years for when it would be needed. It meant the smell after rain. It had, he thought, been well worth waiting for. * Much easier to discover than fire, and only slightly harder to discover than water. * Not why is it anything. Just why it is. † A cross between a porter and a proctor. A bledlow is not chosen for his imagination, because he usually doesn’t have any. * Ankh-Morpork’s leading vet, generally called in by people faced with ailments too serious to be trusted to the general medical profession. Doughnut’s one blindspot was his tendency to assume that every patient was, to a greater or lesser extent, a racehorse. * In the case of cold fusion, this was longer than usual. * Wizards are certain of the existence of the temporal gland, although not even the most invasive alchemist has ever found where it is located and current theory is that it has a non-corporeal existence, like a sort of ethereal appendix. It keeps track of how old your body is, and is so susceptible to the influence of a high magical field that it might even work in reverse, absorbing the body’s normal supplies of chrononine. The alchemists say it is the key to immortality, but they say that about orange juice, crusty bread and drinking your own urine. An alchemist would cut his own head off if he thought it’d make him live longer. * Broadly speaking, the acceleration of a wizard through the ranks of wizardry by killing off more senior wizards. It is a practice currently in abeyance, since a few enthusiastic attempts to remove Mustrum Ridcully resulted in one wizard being unable to hear properly for two weeks. Ridcully felt that there was indeed room at the top, and he was occupying all of it. * Sometimes Ponder thought his skill with Hex was because Hex was very clever and very stupid at the same time. If you wanted it to understand something, you had to break the idea down into bite-sized pieces and make absolutely sure there was no room for any misunderstanding. The quiet hours with Hex were often a picnic after five minutes with the senior wizards. * The Lecturer in Creative Uncertainty, for example, held rather smugly that he was in a state of both in-ness and out-ness until such time as anyone knocked on his door and collapsed the field, and that it was impossible to be categorical before that event. Logic is a wonderful thing but doesn’t always beat actual thought. * Wizards also enjoy a bit of fun but never have much of a chance to develop the appropriate vocabulary. * This isn’t magic. It is a simple universal law. People always expect to use a holiday in the sun as an opportunity to read those books they’ve always meant to read, but an alchemical combination of sun, quartz crystals and coconut oil will somehow metamorphose any improving book into a rather thicker one with a name containing at least one Greek word or letter (The Gamma Imperative, The Delta Season, The Alpha Project and, in the more extreme cases, even The Mu Kau Pi Caper ). Sometimes a hammer and sickle turn up on the cover. This is probably caused by sunspot activity, since they are invariably the wrong way round. It’s just as well for the Librarian that he sneezed when he did, or he might have ended up a thousand pages thick and crammed with weapons specifications. * The Senior Wrangler had once walked past Mrs. Whitlow’s rooms when the door was open, and he’d caught sight of the bare, headless, armless dressmaker’s dummy that she used to make all her own clothes. He’d had to go and lie down quietly after that and, ever since, had thought about Mrs. Whitlow in a special way. * Wizards lack the HW chromosome in their genes. Feminist researchers have isolated this as the one which allows people to see the washing-up in the sinks before the life forms growing there have actually invented the wheel. Or discovered slood. * There’s a certain type of manager who is known by his call of “My door is always open” and it is probably a good idea to beat yourself to death with your own CV rather than work for him. In Ridcully’s case, however, he meant, “My door is always open because then, when I’m bored, I can fire my crossbow right across the hall and into the target just above the Bursar’s desk. ” * That is to say, she secretly considered them to be vicious, selfish and untrustworthy. † Again, when people like Mrs. Whitlow use this term they are not, for some inexplicable reason, trying to suggest that the subjects have a rich oral tradition, a complex system of tribal rights and a deep respect for the spirits of their ancestors. They are implying the kind of behavior more generally associated, oddly enough, with people wearing a full suit of clothes, often with the same sort of insignia. * Ponder had been that kind of child. He still had all the pieces for every game he’d ever been given. Ponder had been the kind of boy who carefully reads the label on every Hogswatch present before opening it and notes down in a small book who it is from, and has all the thank-you letters written by teatime. His parents had been impressed even then, realizing that they had given birth to a child who would achieve great things or, perhaps, be hunted down by a righteous citizenry by the time he was ten. * Any seasoned traveler soon learns to avoid anything wished on them as a “regional specialty,” because all the term means is that the dish is so unpleasant the people living everywhere else will bite off their own legs rather than eat it. But hosts still press it upon distant guests anyway: “Go on, have the dog’s head stuffed with macerated cabbage and pork noses—it’s a regional specialty. ” * In fact it’s the view of the more thoughtful historians, particularly those who have spent time in the same bar as the theoretical physicists, that the entirety of human history can be considered as a sort of blooper reel. All those wars, all those famines caused by malign stupidity, all that determined, mindless repetition of the same old errors, are in the great cosmic scheme of things only equivalent to Mr. Spock’s ears falling off. * There is such a thing as an edible, nay delicious, meat pie floater, its mushy peas of just the right consistency, its tomato sauce piquant in its cheekiness, its pie filling tending even towards named parts of the animal. There are platonic burgers made of beef instead of cow lips and hooves. There are fish ‘n’ chips where the fish is more than just a white goo lurking at the bottom of a batter casing and you can’t use the chips to shave with. There are hot dog fillings which have more in common with meat than mere pinkness, whose lucky consumers don’t apply mustard because that would spoil the taste. It’s just that people can be trained to prefer the other sort, and seek it out. It’s as if Machiavelli had written a cookery book. Even so, there is no excuse for putting pineapple on pizza. * This is why protesters against the wearing of animal skins by humans unaccountably fail to throw their paint over Hell’s Angels. * It would be nice to say that this experience taught Ponder a valuable lesson and that he was a lot more considerate towards old people afterwards, and this was true for about five minutes. * Although of course it’s not the most obvious thing and there are, in fact, some beguiling similarities, particularly the tendency to try to hide behind a big cloud of ink in difficult situations. † The one on the first floor, with the curious gravitational anomaly. PRAISE THE LAST CONTINENT “Amusing…enjoyable…very clever…What Pratchett seems to be doing, frequently, is commenting on the essential absurdity of life.

He places his characters, who behave in a very [contemporary] everyday way, in the unlikeliest situations, juxtaposing the probable and improbable to provide a view from a new, usually humorous perspective…Just about every icon from popular Australian culture is trotted out, but it’s done with such freshness and geniality that only a real stick-in-the-mud would object. ” Washington Post Book World And praise for TERRY PRATCHETT’s DISCWORLD “Terry Pratchett is difficult to review because you want to offer up your favorite scenes and allusions…Pratchett revels in pricking pomp and assurance…He can move from farce to sadness in seconds. ” New York Times Book Review “A top-notch satirist. ” Denver Post “Think J. R. R Tolkien with a sharper, more satiric edge. ” Houston Chronicle “Terry Pratchett seems constitutionally unable to write a page without at least a twitch of the grin muscles…[But] the notions Pratchett plays with are nae so narrow or nae so silly as your ordinary British farce. Seriously. ” San Diego Union-Tribune “Pratchett has created an alternate universe full of trolls, dwarfs, wizards, and other fantasy elements, and he uses that universe to reflect on our own culture with entertaining and gloriously funny results. It’s an accomplishment nothing short of magical. ” Chicago Tribune “Discworld takes the classic fantasy universe through its logical, and comic, evolution. ” Cleveland Plain Dealer “Humorously entertaining (and subtly thought-provoking) fantasy…Pratchett’s Discworld books are filled with humor and with magic, but they’re rooted in, of all things, real life and cold, hard reason. ” Contra Costa Times “Discworld is more complicated and satisfactory than Oz…It has the energy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the inventiveness of Alice in Wonderland. It also has an intelligent wit and a truly original grim and comic grasp of the nature of things. ” A. S. Byatt “Mad magic, wild adventures, hilarious characters and situations, and enchanting prose. Most writers would have been reduced to repeating themselves by now; Pratchett finds a mother lode of ore every time he returns to the vein. ” San Francisco Chronicle “What makes Terry Pratchett’s fantasies so entertaining is that their humor depends on the characters first, on the plot second, rather than the other way around. The story isn’t there simply to lead from one slapstick pratfall to another pun. Its humor is genuine and unforced. ” Ottawa Citizen “Pratchett’s storytelling [is] a clever blend of Monty Pythonesque humor and Big Questions about morality and the workings of the universe. ” Publishers Weekly “Terry Pratchett is the Charles Dickens of our time, and if you think otherwise you haven’t been paying attention…If you haven’t discovered him yet, you’ve a great many treats in store…Pratchett never writes the same book twice…And they keep getting better. ” New Zealand Herald “The Discworld novels are a phenomenon. ” Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel B OOKS BY T ERRY P RATCHETT The Carpet People The Dark Side of the Sun Strata • Truckers Diggers • Wings Only You Can Save Mankind Johnny and the Dead • Johnny and the Bomb The Unadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife) Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman) T HE D ISCWORLD ® S ERIES : Going Postal • Monstrous Regiment • Night Watch The Last Hero • The Truth • Thief of Time The Fifth Elephant • Carpe Jugulum The Last Continent • Jingo Hogfather • Feet of Clay • Maskerade Interesting Times • Soul Music • Men at Arms Lords and Ladies • Small Gods Witches Abroad • Reaper Man Moving Pictures • Eric (with Josh Kirby) Guards! Guards! • Pyramids Wyrd Sisters • Sourcery • Mort • Equal Rites The Light Fantastic • The Color of Magic The Art of Discworld (with Paul Kidby) Mort: A Discworld Big Comic (with Graham Higgins) The Streets of Ankh-Morpork (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Companion (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Mapp (with Stephen Briggs) The Pratchett Portfolio (with Paul Kidby) About the Author Terry Pratchett’s novels have sold more than thirty million(give or take a few million) copies worldwide. He lives in England. www. terrypratchettbooks. com Visit www. AuthorTracker. com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. THE LAST CONTINENT. Copyright © 2007 by Terry Pratchett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. EPub Edition © AUGUST 2007 ISBN: 9780061806636 06 07 08 09 10 About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com. au Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www. harpercollinsebooks. ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P. O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www. harpercollinsebooks. co. nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www. harpercollinsebooks. co. uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com Table of Contents Cover Title Page Contents Begin Reading Praise Books by Terry Pratchett About the Author Copyright About the Publisher He’s been a legend in his own lifetime. He can remember the great days of high adventure. He can remember when a hero didn’t have to worry about fences and lawyers and civilisation. He can remember when people didn’t tell you off for killing dragons. But he can’t always remember, these days, where he put his teeth. . . He’s really not happy about that bit. So now, with his ancient sword and his new walking stick and his old friends ― and they’re very old friends ― Cohen the Barbarian is going on one final quest. It’s been a good life. He’s going to climb the highest mountain in the Discworld and meet his gods. He doesn’t like the way they let men grow old and die. It’s time, in fact, to give something back. The last hero in the world is going to return what the first hero stole. With a vengeance. That’ll mean the end of the world, if no one stops him in time. Someone is going to try. So who knows who the last hero really is? For Sandra, Jo, Sam & Josh. Fondest Memories of Dan. . . Paul Kidby 2001 In Loving Memory Old Vincent The place where the story happened was a world on the back of four elephants perched on the shell of a giant turtle. That's the advantage of space. It's big enough to hold practically anything , and so, eventually, it does. People think that it is strange to have a turtle ten thousand miles long and an elephant more than two thousand miles tall, which just shows that the human brain is ill-adapted for thinking and was probably originally designed for cooling the blood. It believes mere size is amazing. There's nothing amazing about size. Turtles are amazing, and elephants are quite astonishing. But the fact that there's a big turtle is far less amazing than the fact that there is a turtle anywhere. The reason for the story was a mix of many things. There was humanity's desire to do forbidden deeds merely because they were forbidden. There was its desire to find new horizons and kill the people who live beyond them. There were the mysterious scrolls. There was the cucumber.

But mostly there was the knowledge that one day, quite soon, it would be all over. "Ah, well, life goes on," people say when someone dies. But from the point of view of the person who has just died, it doesn't. It's the universe that goes on. Just as the deceased was getting the hang of everything it's all whisked away, by illness or accident or, in one case, a cucumber. Why this has to be is one of the imponderables of life, in the face of which people either start to pray. . . or become really, really angry. The beginning of the story happened tens of thousands of years ago, on a wild and stormy night, when a speck of flame came down the mountain at the centre of the world. It moved in dodges and jerks, as if the unseen person carrying it was sliding and falling from rock to rock. At one point the line became a streak of sparks, ending in a snowdrift at the bottom of a crevasse. But a hand thrust up through the snow held the smoking embers of the torch, and the wind, driven by the anger of the gods, and with a sense of humour of its own, whipped the flame back into life. . . And, after that, it never died. The end of the story began high above the world, but got lower and lower as it circled down towards the ancient and modern city of Ankh-Morpork, where, it was said, anything could be bought and sold ― and if they didn't have what you wanted they could steal it for you. Some of them could even dream it. . . The creature now seeking out a particular building below was a trained Pointless Albatross and, by the standards of the world, was not particularly unusual. [1] It was, though, pointless. It spent its entire life in a series of lazy journeys between the Rim and the Hub, and where was the point in that? This one was more or less tame. Its beady mad eye spotted where, for reasons entirely beyond its comprehension, anchovies could be found. And someone would remove this uncomfortable cylinder from its leg. It seemed a pretty good deal to the albatross and from this it can be deduced that these albatrosses are, if not completely pointless, at least rather dumb. Not at all like humans, therefore. Flight has been said to be one of the great dreams of Mankind. In fact it merely harks back to Man's ancestors, whose greatest dream was of falling off the branch. In any case, other great dreams of Mankind have included the one about being chased by huge boots with teeth. And no one says that one has to make sense. Three busy hours later Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, was standing in the main hall of Unseen University, and he was impressed. The wizards, once they understood the urgency of a problem, and then had lunch, and argued about the pudding, could actually work quite fast. Their method of finding a solution, as far as the Patrician could see, was by creative hubbub. If the question was, "What is the best spell for turning a book of poetry into a frog?", then the one thing they would not do was look in any book with a title like Major Amphibian Spells in a Literary Environment: A Comparison. That would, somehow, be cheating. They would argue about it instead, standing around a blackboard, seizing the chalk from one another and rubbing out bits of what the current chalk-holder was writing before he'd finished the other end of the sentence. Somehow, though, it all seemed to work. Now something stood in the centre of the hall. It looked, to the arts-educated Patrician, like a big magnifying glass surrounded by rubbish. "Technically, my lord, an omniscope can see anywhere," said Archchancellor Ridcully, who was technically the head of All Known Wizardry. [2] "Really? Remarkable. " "Anywhere and any time," Ridcully went on, apparently not impressed himself. "How extremely useful. " "Yes, everyone says that," said Ridcully, kicking the floor morosely. "The trouble is , because the blasted thing can see everywhere , it's practically impossible to get it to see anywhere. At least, anywhere worth seeing. And you'd be amazed at how many places there are in the universe. And times, too. " "Twenty past one, for example," said the Patrician. "Among others, indeed. Would you care to have a look, my lord?" Lord Vetinari advanced cautiously and peered into the big round glass. He frowned. "All I can see is what's on the other side of it," he said. "All, that's because it's set to here and now , sir," said a young wizard who was still adjusting the device. "Oh, I see ," said the Patrician. "We have these at the palace, in fact. We call them win-dows. " "Well, if I do this ," said the wizard, and did something to the rim of the glass, "it looks the other way. " Lord Vetinari looked into his own face. "And these we call mir-rors ," he said, as if explaining to a child. "I think not, sir," said the wizard. "It takes a moment to realise what you're seeing. It helps if you hold up your hand. . . " Lord Vetinari gave him a severe look, but essayed a little wave. "Oh. How curious. What is your name, young man?" "Ponder Stibbons, sir. The new Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic, sir. You see, sir, the trick isn't to build an omniscope because, after all, that's just a development of the old-fashioned crystal ball. It's to get it to see what you want. It's like tuning a string, and if ―" "Sorry, what applied magic?" said the Patrician. "Inadvisably, sir. " said Ponder smoothly, as if hoping that he could avoid the problem by driving straight through it. "Anyway. . . I think we can get it to the right area, sir. The power drain is considerable; we may have to sacrifice another gerbil. " The wizards began to gather around the device. "Can you see into the future?" said Lord Vetinari. "In theory yes, sir," said Ponder, "But that would be highly. . . well, inadvisable, you see, because initial studies indicate that the fact of observation would collapse the waveform in phase space. " Not a muscle moved on the Patrician's face. "Pardon me, I'm a little out of date on faculty staff," he said. "Are you the one who has to take the dried frog pills?" "No, sir. That's the Bursar, sir," said Ponder. "He has to have them because he's insane, sir. " "Ah," said Lord Vetinari, and now he did have an expression. It was that of a man resolutely refraining from saying what was on his mind. "What Mr Stibbons means , my lord," said the Archchancellor, "is that there are billions and billions of futures that, er, sort of exist, d'yer see? They're all. . . the possible shapes of the future. But apparently the first one you actually look at is the one that becomes the future. It might not be one you'd like. Apparently it's all to do with the Uncertainty Principle. " "And that is. . . ?" "I'm not sure. Mr Stibbons is the one who knows about that sort of thing. " An orangutan ambled past, carrying an extremely large number of books under each arm. Lord Vetinari looked at the hoses that snaked from the omniscope and out through the open door and across the lawn to. . . what was it?. . . the High Energy Magic building? He remembered the old days, when wizards had been gaunt and edgy and full of guile. They wouldn't have allowed an Uncertainty Principle to exist for any length of time; if you weren't certain, they'd say, what were you doing wrong? What you were uncertain of could kill you. The omniscope flickered and showed a snowfield, with black mountains in the distance. The wizard called Ponder Stibbons appeared to be very pleased with this. "I thought you said you could find him with this thing?" said Vetinari to the Archchancellor. Ponder Stibbons looked up. "Do we have something that he has owned? Some personal item he has left lying around?" he said. "We could put it in the morphic resonator, connect that up to the omniscope and it'll home in on him like a shot. " "Whatever happened to the magic circles and dribbly candles?" said Lord Vetinari. "Oh, they're for when we're not in a hurry, sir," said Ponder. "Cohen the Barbarian is not known for leaving things lying around, I fear," said the Patrician. "Bodies, perhaps. All we know is that he is heading for Cori Celesti.

" "The mountain at the Hub of the world, sir? Why?" "I was hoping you would tell me, Mr Stibbons. That's why I'm here. " The Librarian ambled past again, with another load of books. Another response of the wizards, when faced with a new and unique situation, was to look through their libraries to see if it had ever happened before. This was, Lord Vetinari reflected, a good survival trait. It meant that in times of danger you spent the day sitting very quietly in a building with very thick walls. He looked again at the piece of paper in his hand. Why were people so stupid ? One sentence caught his eye: "He says the last hero ought to return what the first hero stole. " And, of course, everyone knew what the first hero stole. The gods play games with the fate of men. Not complex ones, obviously, because gods lack patience. Cheating is part of the rules. And gods play hard. To lose all believers is, for a god, the end. But a believer who survives the game gains honour and extra belief. Who wins with the most believers, lives. Believers can include other gods, of course. Gods believe in belief. There were always many games going on in Dunmanifestin, the abode of the gods on Cori Celesti. It looked, from outside, like a crowded city. [3] Not all gods lived there, many of them being bound to a particular country or, in the case of the smaller ones, even one tree. But it was a Good Address. It was where you hung your metaphysical equivalent of the shiny brass plate, like those small discreet buildings in the smarter areas of major cities which nevertheless appear to house one hundred and fifty lawyers and accountants, presumably on some sort of shelving. The city's domestic appearance was because, while people are influenced by gods, so gods are influenced by people. Most gods were people-shaped; people don't have much imagination, on the whole. Even Offler the Crocodile God was only crocodile- headed. Ask people to imagine an animal god and they will, basically, come up with the idea of someone in a really bad mask. Men have been much better at inventing demons, which is why there are so many. Above the wheel of the world, the gods played on. They sometimes forgot what happened if you let a pawn get all the way up the board. It took a little longer for the rumour to spread around the city, but in twos and threes the leaders of the great Guilds hurried into the University. Then the ambassadors picked up the news. Around the city the big semaphore towers faltered in their endless task of exporting market prices to the world, sent the signal to clear the line for high-priority emergency traffic, and then clack'd the little packets of doom to chancelleries and castles across the continent. They were in code, of course. If you have news about the end of the world, you don't want everyone to know. Lord Vetinari stared along the table. A lot had been happening in the past few hours. "If I may recap, then, ladies and gentlemen," he said, as the hubbub died away, "according to the authorities in Hunghung, the capital of the Agatean Empire, the Emperor Ghengiz Cohen, formerly known to the world as Cohen the Barbarian, is well en route to the home of the gods with a device of considerable destructive power and the intention, apparently, of, in his words, "returning what was stolen". And, in short, they ask us to stop him. " "Why us?" said Mr Boggis, head of the Thieves" Guild. "He's not our Emperor!" "I understand the Agatean government believes us to be capable of anything," said Lord Vetinari. "We have zip, zing, vim and a go-getting, can-do attitude. " "Can do what?" Lord Vetinari shrugged. "In this case, save the world. " "But we'll have to save it for everyone, right?" said Mr Boggis. "Even foreigners?" "Well, yes. You cannot just save the bits you like," said Lord Vetinari. "But the thing about saving the world, gentlemen and ladies, is that it inevitably includes whatever you happen to be standing on. So let us move forward. Can magic help us, Archchancellor?" "No. Nothing magical can get within a hundred miles of the mountains," said the Archchancellor. "Why not?" "For the same reason you can't sail a boat into a hurricane. There's just too much magic. It overloads anything magical. A magic carpet would unravel in midair. " "Or turn into broccoli," said the Dean. "Or a small volume of poetry. " "Are you saying that we cannot get there in time?" "Well. . . yes. Exactly. Of course. They're already near the base of the mountain. " "And they're heroes ," said Mr Betteridge of the Guild of Historians. "And that means, exactly?" said the Patrician, sighing. "They're good at doing what they want to do. " "But they are also, as I understand it, very old men. " "Very old heroe s," the historian corrected him. "That just means they've had a lot of experience in doing what they want to do. " Lord Vetinari sighed again. He did not like to live in a world of heroes. You had civilisation, such as it was, and you had heroes. "What exactly has Cohen the Barbarian done that is heroic ?" he said. "I seek only to understand. " "Well. . . you know. . . heroic deeds. . . " "And they are. . . ?" "Fighting monsters, defeating tyrants, stealing rare treasures, rescuing maidens. . . that sort of thing," said Mr Betteridge vaguely. "You know. . . heroic things. " "And who, precisely, defines the monstrousness of the monsters and the tyranny of the tyrants?" said Lord Vetinari, his voice suddenly like a scalpel ― not vicious like a sword, but probing its edge into vulnerable places. Mr Betteridge shifted uneasily. "Well. . . the hero, I suppose. " "Ah. And the theft of these rare items. . . I think the word that interests me here is the term "theft", an activity frowned on by most of the world's major religions, is it not? The feeling stealing over me is that all these terms are defined by the hero. You could say: I am a hero, so when I kill you that makes you, de facto , the kind of person suitable to be killed by a hero. You could say that a hero, in short, is someone who indulges every whim that, within the rule of law, would have him behind bars or swiftly dancing what I believe is known as the hemp fandango. The words we might use are: murder, pillage, theft and rape. Have I understood the situation?" "Not rape, I believe," said Mr Betteridge, finding a rock on which he could stand. "Not in the case of Cohen the Barbarian. Ravishing, possibly. " "There is a difference?" "It's more a matter of approach, I understand," said the historian. "I don't believe there were ever any actual complaints. " "Speaking as a lawyer," said Mr Slant of the Guild of Lawyers, "it is clear that the first ever recorded heroic deed to which the message refers was an act of theft from the rightful owners. The legends of many different cultures testify to this. " "Was it something you could actually steal ?" said Ridcully. "Manifestly yes," said the lawyer. "Theft is central to the legend. Fire was stolen from the gods. " "This is not currently the issue," said Lord Vetinari. "The issue, gentlemen, is that Cohen the Barbarian is climbing the mountain on which the gods live. And we cannot stop him. And he intends to return fire to the gods. Fire, in this case, in the shape of. . . let me see ―" Ponder Stibbons looked up from his notebooks, where he had been scribbling. "A fifty-pound keg of Agatean Thunder Clay," he said. "I'm amazed their wizards let him have it. " "He was. . . indeed. I assume he still is the Emperor," said Lord Vetinari. "So I would imagine that when the supreme ruler of your continent asks you for something, it is not the time for a prudent man to ask for a docket signed by Mr Jenkins of Requisitions. " "Thunder Clay is terribly powerful stuff," said Ridcully. "But it needs a special detonator. You have to smash a jar of acid inside the mixture. The acid soaks into it, and then ― kablooie, I believe the term is. " "Unfortunately the prudent man also saw fit to give one of these to Cohen," said Lord Vetinari.

"And if the resulting kablooie takes place atop the mountain, which is the hub of the world's magic field, it will, as I understand it, result in the field collapsing for. . . remind me, Mister Stibbons?" "About two years," he said. "Really? Well, we can do without magic for a couple of years, can't we?" said Mr Slant, managing to suggest that this would be a jolly good thing, too. "With respect," said Ponder, without respect, "we cannot. The seas will run dry. The sun will burn out and crash. The elephants and the turtle may cease to exist altogether. " "That'll happen in just two years?" "Oh, no. That'll happen within a few minutes, sir. You see, magic isn't just coloured lights and balls. Magic holds the world together. " In the sudden silence, Lord Vetinari's voice sounded crisp and clear. "Is there anyone who knows anything about Ghengiz Cohen?" he said. "And is there anyone who can tell us why, before leaving the city, he and his men kidnapped a harmless minstrel from our embassy? Explosives, yes , very barbaric. . . but why a minstrel? Can anyone tell me?" There was a bitter wind this close to Cori Celesti. From here the world mountain, which looked like a needle from afar, was a raw and ragged cascade of ascending peaks. The central spire was lost in a haze of snow crystals, miles high. The sun sparkled on them. Several elderly men sat huddled around a fire. "I hope he's right about the stair of light," said Boy Willie. "We're going to look real muffins if it isn't there. " "He was right about the giant walrus," said Truckle the Uncivil. "When?" "Remember when we were crossing the ice? When he shouted, "Look out! We're going to be attacked by a giant walrus!"" "Oh, yeah. " Willie looked back up at the spire. The air seemed thinner already, the colours deeper, making him feel that he could reach up and touch the sky. "Anyone know if there's a lavatory at the top?" he said. "Oh, there's got to be," said Caleb the Ripper. "Yeah, I'm sure I heard tell about it. The Toilet of the Gods. " "Whut?" They turned to what appeared to be a pile of furs on wheels. When the eye knew what it was looking for this became an ancient wheelchair, mounted on skis and covered with rags of blanket and animal skins. A pair of beady, animal eyes peered out suspiciously from the heap. There was a barrel strapped behind the wheelchair. "It must be time for his gruel," said Boy Willie, putting a soot-encrusted pot on the fire. "Whut?" "JUST WARMING UP YOUR GRUEL, HAMISH!" "Bludy walrus again?" "YES!" "Whut?" They were, all of them, old men. Their background conversation was a litany of complaints about feet, stomachs and backs. They moved slowly. But they had a look about them. It was in their eyes. Their eyes said that wherever it was, they had been there. Whatever it was, they had done it, sometimes more than once. But they would never, ever, buy the T-shirt. And they did know the meaning of the word 'fear'. It was something that happened to other people. "I wish Old Vincent was here," said Caleb the Ripper, poking the fire aimlessly. "Well, he's gone, and there's an end of it," said Truckle the Uncivil shortly. "We said we weren't going to bloody talk about it. " "But what a way to go. . . gods, I hope that doesn't happen to me. Something like that. . it shouldn't happen to anyone. . . " "Yes, all right," said Truckle. "He was a good bloke. Took everything the world threw at him. " " All right. " "And then to choke on ―" "We all know! Now bloody well shut up!" "Dinner's done," said Caleb, pulling a smoking slab of grease out of the embers. "Nice walrus steak, anyone? What about Mr Pretty?" They turned to an evidently human figure that had been propped against a boulder. It was indistinct, because of the ropes, but it was clearly dressed in brightly coloured clothes. This wasn't the place for brightly coloured clothes. This was a land for fur and leather. Boy Willie walked over to the colourful thing. "We'll take the gag off," he said, "if you promise not to scream. " Frantic eyes darted this way and that, and then the gagged head nodded. "All right, then. Eat your nice walrus. . . er, lump," said Boy Willie, pulling at the cloth. "How dare you drag me all ―" the minstrel began. "Now look ," said Boy Willie, "none of us like havin' to wallop you alongside the ear when you go on like this, do we? Be reasonable. " " Reasonable ? When you kidnap ―" Boy Willie snapped the gag back into place. "Thin streak of nothin'," he muttered at the angry eyes. "You ain't even got a harp. What kind of bard doesn't even have a harp? Just this sort of little wooden pot thing. Damn silly idea. " "'S called a lute," said Caleb, through a mouthful of walrus. "Whut?" "IT'S CALLED A LUTE, HAMISH!" "Aye, I used to loot!" "Nah, it's for singin' posh songs for ladies," said Caleb. "About. . . flowers and that. Romance. " The Horde knew the word, although the activity had been outside the scope of their busy lives. "Amazin', what songs do for the ladies," said Caleb. "Well, when I was a lad," said Truckle, "if you wanted to get a girl's int'rest, you had to cut off your worst enemy's wossname and present it to her. " "Whut?" "I SAID YOU HAD TO CUT OFF YOUR WORST ENEMY'S WOSSNAME AND PRESENT IT TO HER!" "Aye, romance is a wonderful thing," said Mad Hamish. "What'd you do if you didn't have a worst enemy?" said Boy Willie. "You try and cut off anyone's wossname," said Truckle, "and you've soon got a worst enemy. " "Flowers is more usual these days," said Caleb, reflectively. Truckle eyed the struggling lutist. "Can't think what the boss was thinking of, draggin' this thing along," he said. "Where is he, anyway?" Lord Vetinari, despite his education, had a mind like an engineer. If you wished to open something, you found the appropriate spot and applied the minimum amount of force necessary to achieve your end. Possibly the spot was between a couple of ribs and the force was applied via a dagger, or between two warring countries and applied via an army, but the important thing was to find that one weak spot which would be the key to everything. "And so you are now the unpaid Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography?" he said to the figure who had been brought before him. The wizard known as Rincewind nodded slowly, just in case an admission was going to get him into trouble. "Er. . . yes?" "Have you been to the Hub?" "Er. . . yes?" "Can you describe the terrain?" "Er. . . " "What did the scenery look like?" Lord Vetinari added helpfully, "Er. . . blurred, sir. I was being chased by some people. " "Indeed? And why was this?" Rincewind looked shocked. "Oh, I never stop to find out why people are chasing me, sir. I never look behind, either. That'd be rather silly, sir. " Lord Vetinari pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me what you know about Cohen, please," he said wearily. "Him? He's just a hero who never died, sir. A leathery old man. Not very bright, really, but he's got so much cunning and guile you'd never know it. " "Are you a friend of his?" "Well, we've met a couple of times and he didn't kill me," said Rincewind. "That probably counts as a 'yes'. " "And what about the old men who're with him?" "Oh, they're not old men. . . well, yes, they are old men. . . but, well. . . they're his Silver Horde, sir. " " Those are the Silver Horde? All of it?" "Yes, sir," said Rincewind. "But I thought the Silver Horde conquered the entire Agatean Empire!" "Yes, sir. That was them. " Rincewind shook his head. "I know it's hard to believe, sir. But you haven't seen them fight. They're experienced. And the thing is. . . the big thing about Cohen is. . . he's contagious. " "You mean he's a plague carrier?" "It's like a mental illness, sir. Or magic. He's as crazy as a stoat, but. . . once they've been around him for a while, people start seeing the world the way he does. All big and simple. And they want to be part of it. " Lord Vetinari looked at his fingernails. "But I understood that those men had settled down and were immensely rich and powerful," he said.

"That's what heroes want, isn't it? To crush the thrones of the world beneath their sandalled feet, as the poet puts it?" "Yes, sir. " "So what's this? One last throw of the dice? Why ?" "I can't understand it, sir. I mean. . . they had it all. " "Clearly," said the Patrician. "But everything wasn't enough, was it?" There was argument in the anteroom beyond the Patrician's Oblong Office. Every few minutes a clerk slipped in through a side door and laid another pile of papers on the desk. Lord Vetinari stared at them. Possibly, he felt, the thing to do would be to wait until the pile of international advice and demands grew as tall as Cori Celesti, and simply climb to the top of it. Zip, zing and can-do, he thought. So, as a man full of get up and go must do, Lord Vetinari got up and went. He unlocked a secret door in the panelling and a moment later was gliding silently through the hidden corridors of his palace. The dungeons of the palace held a number of felons imprisoned "at his lordship's pleasure', and since Lord Vetinari was seldom very pleased they were generally in for the long haul. His destination now, though, was the strangest prisoner of all, who lived in the attic. Leonard of Quirm had never committed a crime. He regarded his fellow man with benign interest. He was an artist and he was also the cleverest man alive, if you used the word "clever" in a specialised and technical sense. But Lord Vetinari felt that the world was not yet ready for a man who designed unthinkable weapons of war as a happy hobby. The man was, in his heart and soul, and in everything he did , an artist. Currently, Leonard was painting a picture of a lady, from a series of sketches he had pinned up by his easel. "Ah, my lord," he said, glancing up. "And what is the problem?" "Is there a problem?" said Lord Vetinari. "There generally is, my lord, when you come to see me. " "Very well," said Lord Vetinari. "I wish to get several people to the centre of the world as soon as possible. " "Ah, yes," said Leonard. "There is much treacherous terrain between here and there. Do you think I have the smile right? I've never been very good at smiles. " "I said ―" "Do you wish them to arrive alive?" "What? Oh. . . yes. Of course. And fast. " Leonard painted on, in silence. Lord Vetinari knew better than to interrupt. "And do you wish them to return?" said the artist, after a while. "You know, perhaps I should show the teeth. I believe I understand teeth. " "Returning them would be a pleasant bonus, yes. " "This is a vital journey?" "If it is not successful, the world will end. " "Ah. Quite vital, then. " Leonard laid down his brush and stood back, looking critically at his picture. "I shall require the use of several sailing ships and a large barge," he said, after a while. "And I will make a list of other materials for you. " "A sea voyage?" "To begin with, my lord. " "Are you sure you don't want further time to think?" said Lord Vetinari. "Oh, to sort out the fine detail, yes. But I believe I already have the essential idea. " Vetinari looked up at the ceiling of the workroom and the armada of paper shapes and bat-winged devices and other aerial extravaganzas that hung there, turning gently in the breeze. "This doesn't involve some kind of flying machine, does it?" he said suspiciously. "Um. . . why do you ask?" "Because the destination is a very high place, Leonard, and your flying machines have an inevitable downwards component. " "Yes, my lord. But I believe that sufficient down eventually becomes up, my lord. " "Ah. Is this philosophy?" " Practical philosophy, my lord. " "Nevertheless, I find myself amazed, Leonard, that you appear to have come up with a solution just as soon as I presented the problem. . . " Leonard of Quirm cleaned his brush. "I always say, my lord, that a problem correctly posed contains its own solution. But it is true to say that I have given some thought to issues of this nature. I do, as you know, experiment with devices. . . which of course, obedient to your views on this matter, I subsequently dismantle because there are, indeed, evil men in the world who might stumble upon them and pervert their use. You were kind enough to give me a room with unlimited views of the sky, and I. . . notice things. Oh. . . I shall require several dozen swamp dragons, too. No, that should be. . . more than a hundred, I think. " "Ah, you intend to build a ship that can be drawn into the sky by dragons?" said Lord Vetinari, mildly relieved. "I recall an old story about a ship that was pulled by swans and flew all the way to ―" "Swans, I fear, would not work. But your surmise is broadly correct, my lord. Well done. Two hundred dragons, I suggest, to be on the safe side. " "That at least is not a difficulty. They are becoming rather a pest. " "And the help of, oh, sixty apprentices and journeymen from the Guild of Cunning Artificers. Perhaps there should be a hundred. They will need to work round the clock. " "Apprentices? But I can see to it that the finest craftsmen ―" Leonard held up a hand. "Not craftsmen, my lord," he said. "I have no use for people who have learned the limits of the possible. " The Horde found Cohen sitting on an ancient burial mound a little way from the camp. There were a lot of them in this area. The members of the Horde had seen them before, sometimes, on their various travels across the world. Here and there an ancient stone would poke through the snow, carved in a language none of them recognised. They were very old. None of the Horde had ever considered cutting into a mound to see what treasures might lie within. Partly this was because they had a word for people who used shovels, and that word was 'slave'. But mainly it was because, despite their calling, they had a keen moral Code, even if it wasn't the sort adopted by nearly everyone else, and this Code led them to have a word for anyone who disturbed a burial mound. That word was 'die!'. The Horde, each member a veteran of a thousand hopeless charges, nevertheless advanced cautiously towards Cohen, who was sitting cross-legged in the snow. His sword was thrust deep into a drift. He had a distant, worrying expression. "Coming to have some dinner, old friend?" said Caleb. "It's walrus ," said Boy Willie. "Again. " Cohen grunted. "I havfen't finiffed," he said, indistinctly. "Finished what, old friend?" "Rememb'rin'," said Cohen. "Remembering who?" "The hero who waff buried here, all right?" "Who was he?" "Dunno. " "What were his people?" "Fearch me," said Cohen. "Did he do any mighty deeds?" "Couldn't fay. " "Then why ―?" " Fomeone'f got to remember the poor bugger!" "You don't know anything about him!" "I can ftill remember him!" The rest of the Horde exchanged glances. This was going to be a difficult adventure. It was a good job that it was to be the last. "You ought to come and have a word with that bard we captured," said Caleb. "He's getting on my nerves. He don't seem to understand what he's about. " "He'f juft got to write the faga afterwardf," said Cohen flatly and damply. A thought appeared to strike him. He started to pat various parts of his clothing, which, given the amount of clothing, didn't take long. "Yeah, well, this isn't your basic heroic saga kind of bard, y'see," said Caleb, as his leader continued the search. "I told you he wasn't the right sort when we grabbed him. He's more the kind of bard you want if you need some ditty being sung to a girl. We're talking flowers and spring here, boss. " "Ah, got 'em," said Cohen. From a bag on his belt he produced a set of dentures, carved from the diamond teeth of trolls. He inserted them in his mouth, and gnashed them a few times. "That's better. What were you saying?" "He's not a proper bard, boss. " Cohen shrugged. "He'll just have to learn fast, then. He's got to be better'n the ones back in the Empire. They don't have a clue about poems longer'n seventeen syllables. At least this one's from Ankh-Morpork. He must've heard about sagas. " "I said we should've stopped off at Whale Bay," said Truckle.

"Icy wastes, freezing nights. . . good saga country. " "Yeah, if you like blubber. " Cohen drew his sword from the snowdrift. "I reckon I'd better go and take the lad's mind off of flowers, then. " "It appears that things revolve around the Disc," said Leonard. "This is certainly the case with the sun and the moon. And also, if you recall. . . the MariaPesto? " "The ship they said went right under the Disc?" said Archchancellor Ridcully. "Quite. Known to be blown over the Rim near the Bay of Mante during a dreadful storm, and seen by fishermen rising above the Rim near TinLing some days later, where it crashed down upon a reef. There was only one survivor, whose dying words were. . . rather strange. " "I remember," said Ridcully. "He said, "My God, it's full of elephants!"" "It is my view that with sufficient thrust and a lateral component a craft sent off the edge of the world would be swung underneath by the massive attraction and rise on the far side. " said Leonard, "probably to a sufficient height to allow it to glide down to anywhere on the surface. " The wizards stared at the blackboard. Then, as one wizard, they turned to Ponder Stibbons, who was scribbling in his notebook. "What was that about, Ponder?" Ponder stared at his notes. Then he stared at Leonard. Then he stared at Ridcully. "Er. . . yes. Possibly. Er. . . if you fall over the edge fast enough, the. . . world pulls you back. . . and you go on falling but it's all round the world. " "You're saying that by falling off the world we ― and by we, I hasten to point out, I don't actually include myself ― we can end up in the sky?" said the Dean. "Um. . . yes. After all, the sun does the same thing every day. . . " The Dean looked enraptured. "Amazing!" he said. "Then. . . you could get an army into the heart of enemy territory! No fortress would be safe! You could rain fire down on to ―" He caught the look in Leonard's eye. "― on to bad people," he finished, lamely. "That would not happen," said Leonard severely. " Ever! " "Could the. . . thing you are planning land on Cori Celesti?" said Lord Vetinari. "Oh, certainly there should be suitable snowfields up there," said Leonard. "If there are not, I feel sure I can devise some appropriate landing method. Happily, as you have pointed out, things in the air have a tendency to come down. " Ridcully was about to make an appropriate comment, but stopped himself. He knew Leonard's reputation. This was a man who could invent seven new things before breakfast, including two new ways with toast. This man had invented the ball-bearing, such an obvious device that no one had thought of it. That was the very centre of his genius ― he invented things that anyone could have thought of, and men who can invent things that anyone could have thought of are very rare men. This man was so absent-mindedly clever that he could paint pictures that didn't just follow you around the room but went home with you and did the washing-up. Some people are confident because they are fools. Leonard had the look of someone who was confident because, so far, he'd never found a reason not to be. He would step off a high building in the happy state of mind of someone who intended to deal with the problem of the ground when it presented itself. And might. "What do you need from us?" said Ridcully. "Well, the. . . thing cannot operate by magic. Magic will be unreliable near the Hub, I understand. But can you supply me with wind?" "You have certainly chosen the right people," said Lord Vetinari. And it seemed to the wizards that there was just too long a pause before he went on, "They are highly skilled in weather manipulation. " "A severe gale would be helpful at the launch. . . " Leonard continued. "I think I can say without fear of contradiction that our wizards can supply wind in practically unlimited amounts," said the Patrician. "Is that not so, Archchancellor?" "I am forced to agree, my lord. " "Then if we can rely on a stiff following breeze. I am sure ―" "Just a moment, just a moment," said the Dean, who rather felt the wind comment had been directed at him. "What do we know of this man? He makes. . . devices, and paints pictures, does he? Well, I'm sure this is all very nice, but we all know about artists, don't we? Flibbertigibbets, to a man. And what about Bloody Stupid Johnson? Remember some of the things he built? [4] I'm sure Mr da Quirm draws lovely pictures, but I for one would need a little more evidence of his amazing genius before we entrust the world to his. . . device. Show me one thing he can do that anyone couldn't do, if they had the time. " "I have never considered myself a genius," said Leonard, looking down bashfully and doodling on the paper in front of him. "Well, if I was a genius I think I'd know it ―" the Dean began, and stopped. Absent-mindedly, while barely paying attention to what he was doing, Leonard had drawn a perfect circle. Lord Vetinari found it best to set up a committee system. More of the ambassadors from other countries had arrived at the university, and more heads of the Guilds were pouring in, and every single one of them wanted to be involved in the decision-making process without necessarily going through the intelligence-using process first. About seven committees, he considered, should be about right. And when, ten minutes later, the first sub-committee had miraculously budded off, he took aside a few chosen people into a small room, set up the Miscellaneous Committee, and locked the door. "The flying ship will need a crew, I'm told," he said. "It can carry three people. Leonard will have to go because, to be frank, he will be working on it even as it departs. And the other two?" "There should be an assassin," said Lord Downey of the Assassins" Guild. "No. If Cohen and his friends were easy to assassinate, they would have been dead long ago," said Lord Vetinari. "Perhaps a woman's touch?" said Mrs Palm, head of the Guild of Seamstresses. "I know they are elderly gentlemen, but my members are ―" "I think the problem there, Mrs Palm, is that although the Horde are apparently very appreciative of the company of women, they don't listen to anything they say. Yes, Captain Carrot?" Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson of the City Watch was standing to attention, radiating keenness and a hint of soap. "I volunteer to go, sir," he said. "Yes, I thought you probably would. " "Is this a matter for the Watch?" said the lawyer Mr Slant. "Mr Cohen is simply returning property to its original owner. " "That is an insight which had not hitherto occurred to me," said Lord Vetinari smoothly. "However, the City Watch would not be the men I think they are if they couldn't think of a reason to arrest anyone. Commander Vimes?" "Conspiracy to make an affray should do it," said the head of the Watch, lighting a cigar. "And Captain Carrot is a persuasive young man," said Lord Vetinari. "With a big sword," grumbled Mr Slant. "Persuasion comes in many forms," said Lord Vetinari. "No, I agree with Archchancellor Ridcully, sending Captain Carrot would be an excellent idea. " "What? Did I say something?" said Ridcully. "Do you think that sending Captain Carrot would be an excellent idea?" "What? Oh. Yes. Good lad. Keen. Got a sword. " "Then I agree with you," said Lord Vetinari, who knew how to work a committee. "We must make haste, gentlemen. The flotilla needs to leave tomorrow. We need a third member of the crew ―" There was a knock at the door. Vetinari signalled to a college porter to open it. The wizard known as Rincewind lurched into the room, white-faced, and stopped in front of the table. "I do not wish to volunteer for this mission," he said. "I beg your pardon?" said Lord Vetinari. "I do not wish to volunteer, sir. " "No one was asking you to. " Rincewind wagged a weary finger. "Oh, but they will, sir, they will. Someone will say: hey, that Rincewind fella, he's the adventurous sort, he knows the Horde, Cohen seems to like him, he knows all there is to know about cruel and unusual geography, he'd be just the job for something like this.

" He sighed. "And then I'll run away, and probably hide in a crate somewhere that'll be loaded on to the flying machine in any case. " "Will you?" "Probably, sir. Or there'll be a whole string of accidents that end up causing the same thing. Trust me, sir. I know how my life works. So I thought I'd better cut through the whole tedious business and come along and tell you I don't wish to volunteer. " "I think you've left out a logical step somewhere," said the Patrician. "No, sir. It's very simple. I'm volunteering. I just don't wish to. But, after all, when did that ever have anything to do with anything?" "He's got a point, you know," said Ridcully. "He seems to come back from all sorts of ―" "You see?" Rincewind gave Lord Vetinari a jaded smile. "I've been living my life for a long time. I know how it works. " There were always robbers near the Hub. There were pickings to be had among the lost valleys and forbidden temples, and also among the less prepared adventurers. Too many people, when listing all the perils to be found in the search for lost treasure or ancient wisdom, had forgotten to put at the top of the list "the man who arrived just before you". One such party was patrolling its favourite area when it espied, first, a well-equipped warhorse tethered to a frost-shrivelled tree. Then it saw a fire, burning in a small hollow out of the wind, with a small pot bubbling beside it. Finally it saw the woman. She was attractive or, at least, had been conventionally so perhaps thirty years ago. Now she looked like the teacher you wished you'd had in your first year at school, the one with the understanding approach to life's little accidents, such as a shoe full of wee. She had a blanket around her to keep out the cold. She was knitting. Stuck in the snow beside her was the largest sword the robbers had ever seen. Intelligent robbers would have started to count up the incongruities here. These, however, were the other kind, the kind for whom evolution was invented. The woman glanced up, nodded at them, and went on with her knitting. "Well now, what have we here?" said the leader. "Are you ―" "Hold this, will you?" said the old woman, standing up. "Over your thumbs, young man. It won't take a moment for me to wind a fresh ball. I was hoping someone would drop by. " She held out a skein of wool. The robber took it uncertainly, aware of the grins on the faces of his men. But he opened his arms with what he hoped was a suitably evil little-does-she-suspect look on his face. "That's right," said the old woman, standing back. She kicked him viciously in the groin in an incredibly efficient if unladylike way, reached down as he toppled, caught up the cauldron, flung it accurately at the face of the first henchman, and picked up her knitting before he fell. The two surviving robbers hadn't had time to move, but then one unfroze and leapt for the sword. He staggered back under its weight, but the blade was long and reassuring. "Aha!" he said, and grunted as he raised the sword. "How the hell did you carry this, old woman?" "It's not my sword," she said. "It belonged to the man over there. " The man risked a look sideways. A pair of feet in armoured sandals were just visible behind a rock. They were very big feet. But I've got a weapon, he thought. And then he thought: sodid he. The old woman sighed and drew two knitting needles from the ball of wool. The light glinted on them, and the blanket slid away from her shoulders and fell on to the snow. "Well, gentlemen?" she said. Cohen pulled the gag off the minstrel's mouth. The man stared at him in terror. "What's your name, son?" said Cohen. "You kidnapped me! I was walking along the street and ―" "How much?" said Cohen. "What?" "How much to write me a saga?" "You stink !" "Yeah, it's the walrus," said Cohen evenly. "It's a bit like garlic in that respect. Anyway. . . a saga, that's what I want. And what you want is a big bag of rubies, not unadjacent in size to the rubies what I have here. " He upended a leather bag into the palm of his hand. The stones were so big the snow glowed red. The musician stared at them. "You got ― what's that word, Truckle?" said Cohen. "Art," said Truckle. "You got art, and we got rubies. We give you rubies, you give us art," said Cohen. "End of problem, right?" "Problem?" The rubies were hypnotic. "Well, mainly the problem you'll have if you tell me you can't write me a saga," said Cohen, still in a pleasant tone of voice. "But. . . look, I'm sorry, but. . . sagas are just primitive poems, aren't they?" The wind, never ceasing here near the Hub, had several seconds in which to produce its more forlorn yet threatening whistle. "It'll be a long walk to civilisation , all by yourself," said Truckle, at length. "Without yer feet," said Boy Willie. "Please!" "Nah, nah, lads, we don't want to do that to the boy," said Cohen. "He's a bright lad, got a great future ahead of him. . . " He took a pull of his home-rolled cigarette and added, "up until now. Nah, I can see he's thinking about it. A heroic saga, lad. It'll be the most famousest one ever. " "What about?" "Us. " "You? But you're all ol―" The minstrel stopped. Even after a life that had hitherto held no danger greater than a hurled meat bone at a banquet, he could recognise sudden death when he saw it. And he saw it now. Age hadn't weakened here ― well, except in one or two places. Mostly, it had hardened. "I wouldn't know how to compose a saga," he said feebly. "We'll help," said Truckle. "We know lots ," said Boy Willie. "Been in most of 'em," said Cohen. The minstrel's thoughts ran like this: These men are rubies insane. They are rubies sure to kill me. Rubies. They've dragged me rubies all the rubiesrubies. They want to give me a big bag of rubies rubies. . . "I suppose I could extend my repertoire," he mumbled. A look at their faces made him readjust his vocabulary. "All right, I'll do it," he said. A tiny bit of honesty, though, survived even the glow of the jewels. "I'm not the world's greatest minstrel, you know. " "You will be after you write this saga," said Cohen, untying his ropes. "Well. . . I hope you like it. . . " Cohen grinned again. "'S not up to us to like it. We won't hear it," he said. "What? But you just said you wanted me to write you a saga ―" "Yeah, yeah. But it's gonna be the saga of how we died. " It was a small flotilla that set sail from Ankh-Morpork next day. Things had happened quickly. It wasn't that the prospect of the end of the world was concentrating minds unduly, because that is a general and universal danger that people find hard to imagine. But the Patrician was being rather sharp with people, and that is a specific and highly personal danger and people had no problem relating to it at all. The barge, under whose huge tarpaulin something was already taking shape, wallowed between the boats. Lord Vetinari went aboard only once, and looked gloomily at the vast piles of material that littered the deck. "This is costing us a considerable amount of money," he told Leonard, who had set up an easel. "I just hope there will be something to show for it. " "The continuation of the species, perhaps," said Leonard, completing a complex drawing and handing it to an apprentice. "Obviously that , yes. " "We shall learn many new things," said Leonard, "that I am sure will be of immense benefit to posterity. For example, the survivor of the MariaPesto reported that things floated around in the air as if they had become extremely light, so I have devised this. " He reached down and picked up what looked, to Lord Vetinari, like a perfectly normal kitchen utensil. "It's a frying pan that sticks to anything," he said, proudly. "I got the idea from observing a type of teazel, which ―" "And this will be useful?" said Lord Vetinari. "Oh, indeed. We will need to eat meals and cannot have hot fat floating around. The small details matter, my lord. I have also devised a pen which writes upside down. " "Oh. Could you not simply turn the paper up the other way?" The line of sledges moved across the snow.

"It's damn cold," said Caleb. "Feeling your age, are you?" said Boy Willie. "You're as old as you feel, I always say. " "Whut?" "HE SAYS YOU'RE AS OLD AS YOU FEEL, HAMISH!" "Whut? Feelin' whut?" "I don't think I've become old ," said Boy Willie. "Not your actual old. Just more aware of where the next lavatory is. " "The worst bit," said Truckle, "is when young people come and sing happy songs at you. " "Why're they so happy?" said Caleb. "'Cos they're not you, I suppose. " Fine, sharp snow crystals, blown off the mountain tops, hissed across their vision. In deference to their profession, the Horde mostly wore tiny leather loincloths and bits and pieces of fur and chainmail. In deference to their advancing years, and entirely without comment among themselves, these has been underpinned now with long woolly combinations and various strange elasticated things. They were dealing with Time as they had dealt with nearly everything else in their lives, as something you charged at and tried to kill. At the front of the party, Cohen was giving the minstrel some tips. "First off, you got to describe how you feel about the saga," he said. "How singing it makes your blood race and you can hardly contain yourself that. . . you got to tell 'em what a great saga it's gonna be. . . understand?" "Yes, yes. . . I think so. . . and then I say who you are. . . " said the minstrel, scribbling furiously. "Nah, then you say what the weather was like. " "You mean like, 'It was a bright day'?" "Nah, nah, nah. You got to talk saga. So, first off, you gotta put the sentences the wrong way round. " "You mean like, 'Bright was the day'?" "Right! Good! I knew you was clever. " "Clever you was, you mean!" said the minstrel, before he could stop himself. There was a moment of heart-stopping uncertainty, and then Cohen grinned and slapped him on the back. It was like being hit with a shovel. "That's the style! What else, now. . . ? Ah, yes. . . no one ever talks, in sagas. They always spakes. " "Spakes?" "Like 'Up spake Wulf the Sea-rover', see? An'. . . an'. . . an' people are always the something. Like me, I'm Cohen the Barbarian, right? But it could be ‘Cohen the Bold-hearted' or 'Cohen the Slayer of Many', or any of that class of a thing. " "Er. . . why are you doing this?" said the minstrel. "I ought to put that in. You're going to return fire to the gods?" "Yeah. With interest. " "But. . . why ?" "'Cos we've seen a lot of old friends die," said Caleb. "That's right," said Boy Willie. "And we never saw no big wimmin on flying horses come and take 'em to the Halls of Heroes. " "When Old Vincent died, him being one of us," said Boy Willie, "where was the Bridge of Frost to take him to the Feast of the Gods, eh? No, they got him, they let him get soft with comfy beds and someone to chew his food for him. They nearly got us all. " "Hah! Milky drinks!" spat Truckle. "Whut?" said Hamish, waking up. "HE ASKED WHY WE WANT TO RETURN FIRE TO THE GODS, HAMISH!" "Eh? Someone's got to do it!" cackled Hamish. "Because it's a big world and we ain't seen it all," said Boy Willie. "Because the buggers are immortal," said Caleb. "Because of the way my back aches on chilly nights," said Truckle. The minstrel looked at Cohen, who was staring at the ground. "Because. . . " said Cohen, "because. . . they've let us grow old. " At which point, the ambush was sprung. Snowdrifts erupted. Huge figures raced towards the Horde. Swords were in skinny, spotted hands with the speed born of experience. Clubs were swung ― "Hold everything!" shouted Cohen. It was a voice of command. The fighters froze. Blades trembled an inch away from throat and torso. Cohen looked up into the cracked and craggy features of an enormous troll, its club raised to smash him. "Don't I know you?" he said. The wizards were working in relays. Ahead of the fleet, an area of sea was mill-pond calm. From behind, came a steady unwavering breeze. The wizards wer e good at wind, weather being a matter not of force but of lepidoptery. As Archchancellor Ridcully said, you just had to know where the damn butterflies were. And therefore some million-to-one chance must have sent the sodden log under the barge. The shock was slight, but Ponder Stibbons, who had been carefully rolling the omniscope across the deck, ended up on his back surrounded by twinkling shards. Archchancellor Ridcully hurried across the deck, his voice full of concern. "Is it badly damaged? That cost a hundred thousand dollars, Mr Stibbons! Oh, look at it! A dozen pieces!" "I'm not badly hurt, Archchancellor ―" "Hundreds of hours of time wasted! And now we won't be able to watch the progress of the flight. Are you listening, Mr Stibbons?" Ponder wasn't. He was holding two of the shards and staring at them. "I think I may have stumbled, haha, on an amazing piece of serendipity, Archchancellor. " "What say?" "Has anyone ever broken an omniscope before, sir?" "No, young man. And that is because other people are careful with expensive equipment!" "Er. . . would you care to look in this piece, sir?" said Ponder urgently. "I think it's very important you look at this piece, sir. " Up on the lower slopes of Cori Celesti, it was time for old times. Ambushers and ambushees had lit a fire. "So how come you left the Evil Dark Lord business, Harry?" said Cohen. "Werl, you know how it is these days," said Evil Harry Dread. The Horde nodded. They knew how it was these days. "People these days, when they're attacking your Dark Evil Tower, the first thing they do is block up your escape tunnel," said Evil Harry. "Bastards!" said Cohen. "You've got to let the Dark Lord escape. Everyone knows that. " "That's right," said Caleb. "Got to leave yourself some work for tomorrow. " "And it wasn't as if I didn't play fair. " said Evil Harry. "I mean, I always left a secret back entrance to my Mountain of Dread, I employed really stupid people as cell guards ―" "Dat's me," said the enormous troll proudly. "― that was you, right, and I always made sure all my henchmen had the kind of helmets that covered the whole face, so an enterprising hero could disguise himself in one, and those come damn expensive, let me tell you. " "Me and Evil Harry go way back," said Cohen, rolling a cigarette. "I knew him when he was starting up with just two lads and his Shed of Doom. " " And Slasher, the Steed of Terror," Evil Harry pointed out. "Yes, but he was a donkey, Harry," Cohen pointed out. "He had a very nasty bite on him, though. He'd take your finger off as soon as look at you. " "Didn't I fight you when you were the Doomed Spider God?" said Caleb. "Probably. Everyone else did. They were great days," said Harry. "Giant spiders is always reliable, better'n octopussies, even. " He sighed. "And then, of course, it all changed. " They nodded. It had all changed. "They said I was an evil stain covering the face of the world," said Harry. "Not a word about bringing jobs to areas of traditionally high unemployment. And then of course the big boys moved in, and you can't compete with an out-of-town site. Anyone heard of Ning the Uncompassionate?" "Sort of," said Boy Willie. "I killed him. " "You couldn't have done! What was it he always said? 'I shall revert to this vicinity!'" "Sort of hard to do that," said Boy Willie, pulling out a pipe and beginning to fill it with tobacco, "when your head's nailed to a tree. " "How about Pamdar the Witch Queen?" said Evil Harry. "Now there was ―" "Retired," said Cohen. "She'd never retire!" "Got married," Cohen insisted. "To Mad Hamish. " "Whut?" "I SAID YOU MARRIED PAMDAR, HAMISH," Cohen shouted. "Hehehehe, I did that! Whut?" "That was some time ago, mark you," said Boy Willie. "I don't think it lasted. " "But she was a devil woman!" "We all get older, Harry. She runs a shop now. Pam's Pantry. Makes marmalade," said Cohen. "What? She used to queen it on a throne on top of a pile of skulls!" "I didn't say it was very good marmalade. " "How about you, Cohen?" said Evil Harry. "I heard you were an Emperor. " "Sounds good, doesn't it?" said Cohen mournfully.

"But you know what? It's dull. Everyone creepin' around bein' respectful, no one to fight, and those soft beds give you backache. All that money, and nothin' to spend it on 'cept toys. It sucks all the life right out of you, civilisation. " "It killed Old Vincent the Ripper," said Boy Willie. "He choked to death on a concubine. " There was no sound but the hiss of snow in the fire and a number of people thinking fast. "I think you mean cucumber," said the bard. "That's right, cucumber," said Boy Willie. "I've never been good at them long words. " "Very important difference in a salad situation. " said Cohen. He turned back to Evil Harry. "That's no way for a hero to die, all soft and fat and eating big dinners. A hero should die in battle. " "Yeah, but you lads've never got the hang of dying," Evil Harry pointed out. "That's because we haven't picked the right enemies," said Cohen. "This time we're going to see the gods. " He tapped the barrel he was sitting on, and the other members of the Horde winced when he did so. "Got something here that belongs to them. " Cohen added. He glanced around the group and noted some almost imperceptible nods. "Why don't you come with us, Evil Harry?" he said. "You can bring your evil henchmen. " Evil Harry drew himself up. "Hey, I'm a Dark Lord! How'd it look if I was to go around with a bunch of heroes?" "It wouldn't look anything ," said Cohen sharply. "And I'll tell you for why, shall I? We're the last, see. Us "n" you. No one else cares. There's no more heroes, Evil Harry. No more villains, neither. " "Oh, there's always villains!" said Evil Harry. "No, there's vicious evil underhand bastards, true enough. But they use laws now. They'd never call themselves Evil Harry. " "Men who don't know the Code," said Boy Willie. Everyone nodded. You mightn't live by the law but you had to live by the Code. "Men with bits of paper," said Caleb. There was another group nod. The Horde were not great readers. Paper was the enemy, and so were the men who wielded it. Paper crept around you and took over the world. "We always liked you, Harry," said Cohen. "You played it by the rules. How about it. . . are you coming with us?" Evil Harry looked embarrassed. "Well, I'd like to," he said. "But. . . well, I'm Evil Harry, right? You can't trust me an inch. First chance I get, I'll betray you all, stab you in the back or something. . . I'd have to, see? Of course, if it was up to me, it'd be different. . . but I've got a reputation to think about, right? I'm Evil Harry. Don't ask me to come. " "Well spake," said Cohen. "I like a man I can't trust. You know where you stand with an untrustworthy man. It's the ones you ain't never sure about who give you grief. You come with us, Harry. You're one of us. And your lads, too. New ones, I see. . . " Cohen raised his eyebrows. "Well, yeah, you know how it is with the really stupid henchmen," said Evil. "This is Slime ―" ". . . nork nork," said Slime. "Ah, one of the old Stupid Lizard Men," said Cohen. "Good to see there's one left. Hey, two left. And this one is― ?" ". . . nork nork. " "He's Slime, too. " said Evil Harry, patting the second lizard man gingerly to avoid the spikes. "Never good at remembering more than one name, your basic lizard man. Over here we have. . . " He nodded at something vaguely like a dwarf, who gave him an imploring look. "You're Armpit," prompted Evil Harry. "Your Armpit," said Armpit gratefully. ". . . nork nork," said one of the Slimes, in case this remark had been addressed to him. "Well done, Harry," said Cohen. "It's damn hard to find a really stupid dwarf. " "Wasn't easy, I can tell you. " Harry admitted proudly as he moved on. "And this is Butcher. " "Good name, good name," said Cohen, looking up at the enormous fat man. "Your jailer, right?" "Took a lot of finding," said Evil Harry, while Butcher grinned happily at nothing. "Believes anything anyone tells him, can't see through the most ridiculous disguise, would let a transvestite washerwomen go free even if she had a beard you could camp in, falls asleep real easily on a chair near the bars and ―" "― carries his keys on a big hook on his belt so's they can be easily lifted off!" said Cohen. "Classic. A master touch, that. And you've got a troll, I see. " "Dat's me," said the troll. ". . . nork, nork. " "Dat's me. " "Well, you've got to have a troll, haven't you?" said Evil Harry. "Bit brighter than I'd like, but he's got no sense of direction and can't remember his name. " "And what do we have here?" said Cohen. "A real old zombie? Where did you dig him up? I like a man who's not afraid to let all his flesh fall off. " "Gak," said the zombie. "No tongue, eh?" said Cohen. "Don't worry, lad, a blood-curdling screech is all you need. And a few bits of wire, by the look of it. It's all a matter of style. " "Dat's me. " ". . . nork nork. " "Gak. " "Dat's me. " "Your Armpit. " "They must make you proud. I don't know when I've ever seen a more stupid bunch of henchmen," said Cohen, admiring. "Harry, you're like a refreshin' fart in a roomful of roses. You bring 'em all along. I wouldn't hear of you staying behind. " "Nice to be appreciated," said Evil Harry, looking down and blushing. "And what else've you got to look forward to, anyway?" said Cohen. "Who really appreciates a good Dark Lord these days? The world's too complicated now. It don't belong to the likes of us any more. . . it chokes us to death with cucumbers. " "What are you actually going to do , Cohen?" said Evil Harry. ". . . nork, nork. " "Well. I reckon it's time to go out like we started," said Cohen. "One last roll of the dice. " He tapped the keg again. "It's time," he said, "to give something back. " ". . . nork, nork. " "Shut up. " At night rays of light shone through holes and gaps in the tarpaulin. Lord Vetinari wondered if Leonard was getting any sleep. It was quite possible that the man had designed some sort of contrivance to do it for him. At the moment, there were other things to concern him. The dragons were travelling in a ship of their own. It was far too dangerous to have them on board anything else. Ships were made of wood, and even when in a good mood dragons puffed little balls of fire. When they were over-excited, they exploded. "They will be all right, won't they?" he said, keeping well back from the cages. "If any of them are harmed I shall be in serious trouble with the Sunshine Sanctuary in Ankh-Morpork. This is not a prospect I relish, I assure you. " "Mr da Quinn says there is no reason why they should not all get back safely, sir. " "And would you, Mister Stibbons, trust yourself in a contrivance pushed along by dragons?" Ponder swallowed. "I'm not the stuff of heroes, sir. " "And what causes this lack in you, may I ask?" "I think it's because I've got an active imagination. " This seemed a good explanation, Lord Vetinari mused as he walked away. The difference was that while other people imagined in terms of thoughts and pictures, Leonard imagined in terms of shape and space. His daydreams came with a cutting list and assembly instructions. Lord Vetinari found himself hoping more and more for the success of his other plan. When all else fails, pray. . . "All right now, lads, settle down. Settle down. " Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest of Blind Io, looked down at the multitude of priests and priestesses that filled the huge Temple of Small Gods. He shared many of the characteristics of his brother Mustrum. He also saw his job as being, essentially, one of organiser. There were plenty of people who were good at the actual believing , and he left them to it. It took a lot more than prayer to make sure the laundry got done and the building was kept in repair. There were so many gods now. . . at least two thousand. Many were, of course, still very small. But you had to watch them. Gods were very much a fashion thing. Look at Om, now. One minute he was a bloodthirsty little deity in some mad hot country, and then suddenly he was one of the top gods.

It had all been done by not answering prayers, but doing so in a sort of dynamic way that left open the possibility that one day he might and then there'd be fireworks. Hughnon, who had survived through decades of intense theological dispute by being a mean man at swinging a heavy thurible, was impressed by this novel technique. And then, of course, you had your real newcomers like Amger, Goddess of Squashed Animals. Who would have thought that better roads and faster carts would have led to that? But gods grew bigger when called upon at need, and enough minds had cried out, "Oh god, what was that I hit?" "Brethren!" he shouted, getting tired of waiting. "And sistren!" The hubbub died away. A few flakes of dry and crumbling paint drifted down from the ceiling. "Thank you," said Ridcully. "Now, can you please listen? My colleagues and I ―" and here he indicated the senior clergy behind him ― "have, I assure you, been working for some time on this idea, and there is no doubt that it is theologically sound. Can we please get on?" He could still sense the annoyance among the priesthood. Born leaders didn't like being led. "If we don't try this," he tried, "the godless wizards may succeed with their plans. And a fine lot of mugginses we will look. " "This is all very well, but the form of things is important!" snapped a priest. "We can't all pray at once! You know the gods don't like ecumenicalism! And what form of words will we use, pray?" "I would have felt that a short non-controversial ―" Hughnon Ridcully paused. In front of him were priests forbidden by holy edict from eating broccoli, priests who required unmarried girls to cover their ears lest they inflame the passions of other men, and priests who worshipped a small shortbread-and-raisin biscuit. Nothing was non-controversial. "You see, it does appear that the world is going to end," he said weakly. "Well? Some of us have been expecting that for some considerable time! It will be a judgement on mankind for its wickedness!" "And broccoli!" "And the short haircuts girls are wearing today!" "Only the biscuits will be saved!" Ridcully waved his crozier frantically for silence. "But this isn't the wrath of the gods," he said. "I did tell you! It's the work of a man!" "Ah, but he may be the hand of a god!" "It's Cohen the Barbarian," said Ridcully. "Even so, he might ―" The speaker in the crowd was nudged by the priest next to him. "Hang on. . . " There was a roar of excited conversation. There were few temples that hadn't been robbed or despoiled in a long life of adventuring, and the priests soon agreed that no god ever had anything in his hand that looked like Cohen the Barbarian. Hughnon turned his eyes up to the ceiling, with its beautiful but decrepit panorama of gods and heroes. Life must be a lot easier for gods, he decided. "Very well," said one of the objectors, haughtily. "In that case, I think perhaps we could, in these special circumstances, get around a table just this once. " "Ah, that is a good ―" Ridcully began. "But of course we will need to give some very serious consideration as to what shape the table is going to be. " Ridcully looked blank for a moment. His expression did not change as he leaned down to one of his sub-deacons and said, "Scallop, please have someone ran along and tell my wife to pack my overnight bag, will you? I think this is going to take a little while. . . " The central spire of Cori Celesti seemed to get no closer day by day. "Are you sure Cohen's all right in the head?" said Evil Harry, as he helped Boy Willie manoeuvre Hamish's wheelchair over the ice. "'Ere, are you tryin' to spread discontent among the troops, Harry?" "Well, I did warn you, Will. I am a Dark Lord. I've got to keep in practice. And we're following a leader who keeps forgetting where he put his false teeth. " "Whut?" said Mad Hamish. "I'm just saying that blowing up the gods could cause trouble," said Evil Harry. "It's a bit. . . disrespectful. " "You must've defiled a few temples in your time, Harry?" "I ran 'em, Will, I ran 'em. I was a Mad Demon Lord for a while, you know. I had a Temple of Terror. " "Yes, on your allotment," said Boy Willie, grinning. "That's right, that's right, rub it in," said Harry sulkily. "Just because I was never in the big league, just because ―" "Now, now, Harry, you know we don't think like that. We respected you. You knew the Code. You kept the faith. Well, Cohen just reckons the gods've got it comin' to them. Now, me , I'm worried because there's some tough ground ahead. " Evil Harry peered along the snowy canyon. "There's some kind of magic path leads up the mountain," Willie went on. "But there's a mass of caves before you get there. " "The Impassable Caves of Dread," said Evil Harry. Willie looked impressed. "Heard of them, have you? Accordin' to some old legend they're guarded by a legion of fearsome monsters and some devilishly devious devices and no one has ever passed through. Oh, yeah. . . perilous crevasses, too. Next, we'll have to swim through underwater caverns guarded by giant man-eating fish that no man has ever yet passed. And then there's some insane monks, and a door you can pass only by solving some ancient riddle. . . the usual sort of stuff. " "Sounds like a big job," Evil Harry ventured. "Well, we know the answer to the riddle," said Boy Willie. "It's 'teeth'. " "How did you find that out?" "Didn't have to. It's always teeth in poxy old riddles," Boy Willie grunted as they heaved the wheelchair through a particularly deep drift. "But the biggest problem, is going to be getting this damn thing through all that without Hamish waking up and making trouble. " In the study of his dark house on the edge of Time, Death looked at the wooden box. PERHAPS I SHALL TRY ONE MORE TIME, he said. He reached down and lifted up a small kitten, patted it on the head, lowered it gently into the box, and closed the lid. THE CAT DIES WHEN THE AIR RUNS OUT? "I suppose it might, sir," said Albert, his manservant. "But I don't reckon that's the point. If I understand it right, you don't know if the cat's dead or alive until you look at it. " THINGS WILL HAVE COME TO A PRETTY PASS, ALBERT, IF I DID NOT KNOW WHETHER A THING WAS DEAD OR ALIBE WITHOUT HAVING TO GO AND LOOK. "Er. . . the way the theory goes, sir, it's the act of lookin" that determines if it's alive or not. " Death looked hurt. ARE YOU SUGGESTING I WILL KILL THE CAT JUST BY LOOKING AT IT? "It's not quite like that, sir. " I MEAN, IT’S NOT AS IF I MAKE FACES OR ANYTHING. To be honest with you, sir, I don't think even the wizards understand the uncertainty business. " said Albert. "We didn't truck with that class of stuff in my day. If you weren't certain, you were dead. " Death nodded. It was getting hard to keep up with the times. Take parallel dimensions. Parasit e dimensions, now, he understood them. He lived in one. They were simply universes that weren't quite complete in themselves and could only exist by clinging on to a host universe, like remora fish. But parallel dimensions meant that anything you did, you didn't do somewhere else. This presented exquisite problems to a being who was, by nature, definite. It was like playing poker against an infinite number of opponents. He opened the box and took out the kitten. It stared at him with the normal mad amazement of kittens everywhere. I DON’T HOLD WITH CRUELTY TO CATS, said Death, putting it gently on the floor. "I think the whole cat in the box idea is one of them metaphors," said Albert. AH. A LIE. Death snapped his fingers. Death's study did not occupy space in the normal sense of the word. The walls and ceiling were there for decoration rather than as any kind of dimensional limit. Now they faded away and a giant hourglass filled the air. Its dimensions would be difficult to calculate, but they could be measured in miles. Inside, lightnings crackled among the falling sands. Outside, a giant turtle was engraved upon the glass. I THINK WE SHALL HAVE TO CLEAR THE DECKS FOR THIS ONE, said Death.

Evil Harry knelt in front of a hastily constructed altar. It consisted mostly of skulls, which were not hard to find in this cruel landscape. And now he prayed. In a long lifetime of being a Dark Lord, even in a small way, he'd picked up a few contacts on the other planes. They were. . . sort of gods, he supposed. They had names like Olk-Kalath the Soul Sucker, but, frankly, the overlap between demons and gods was a bit uncertain at the best of times. "Oh, Mighty One," he began, always a safe beginning and the religious equivalent of 'To Whom It May Concern', "I have to warn you that a bunch of heroes are climbing the mountain to destroy you with returned fire. May you strike them down with wrathful lightning and then look favourably upon thy servant, i. e. Evil Harry Dread. Mail may be left with Mrs Gibbons, 12 Dolmen View, Pant-y-Girdl, Llamedos. Also if possible I should like a location with real lava pits, every other evil lord manages to get a dread lava pit even when they are on one hundred feet of bloody alluvial soil, excuse my Klatchian, this is further discrimination against the small trader, no offence meant. " He waited a moment, just in case there was any reply, sighed, and got rather shakily to his feet. "I'm an evil, distrustful Dark Lord," he said. "What do they expect? I told 'em. I warned 'em. I mean, if it was up to me. . . but where'd I stand as a Dark Lord if I ―" His eye caught something pink, a little way off. He climbed a snow-covered rock for a better look. Two minutes later the rest of the Horde had joined him and were looking at the scene reflectively, although the minstrel was being sick. "Well, that's something you don't often see," said Cohen. "What, a man throttled with pink knitting wool?" said Caleb. "No, I was looking at the other two. . . " "Yes, it's amazing what you can do with a knitting needle," said Cohen. He glanced back at the makeshift altar and grinned. "Did you do this, Harry? You said you wanted to be alone. " "Pink knitting wool?" said Evil Harry nervously. " Me and pink knitting wool?" "Sorry for suggestin" it," said Cohen. "Well, we ain't got time for this. Let's go and sort out the Caves of Dread. Where's our bard? Right. Stop throwin' up and get yer notebook out. First man to be cut in half by a concealed blade is a rotten egg, okay? And, everyone. . . try not to wake up Hamish, all right?" The sea was full of cool green light. Captain Carrot sat near the prow. To the astonishment of Rincewind, who'd got out for a gloomy evening walk, he was sewing. "It's a badge for the mission," said Carrot. "See? This is yours. " He held it up. "But what is it for? " "Morale. " "Ah, that stuff," said Rincewind. "Well, you've got lots, Leonard doesn't need it and I've never had any. " "I know you are being good-humoured about it, but I think it's vital that there is something that holds the crew together," said Carrot, still calmly sewing. "Yes, it's called skin. It's important to keep all of you on the inside of it. " Rincewind stared at the badge. He'd never had one before. Well, that was technically a lie. . . he'd had one that said 'Hello, I Am 5 Today!', which was just about the worst possible present to get when you are six. That birthday had been the rottenest day of his life. "It needs an uplifting motto," said Carrot. "Wizards know about this sort of thing, don't they?" "How about MorituriNolumus Mori , that's got the right ring," said Rincewind gloomily. Carrot's lips moved as he parsed the sentence. " Wewho are about to die. . . " he said, "but I don't recognise the rest. " "It's very uplifting," said Rincewind. "It's straight from the heart. " "Very well. Many thanks. I'll get to work on it right away," said Carrot. Rincewind sighed. "You're finding this exciting, aren't you?" he said. "You actually are. " "It will certainly be a challenge to go where no one has gone before," said Carrot. "Wrong! We're going where no one has comeback from before. " Rincewind hesitated. "Well, except me. But I didn't go that far, and I. . . sort of dropped on to the Disc again. " "Yes, they told me about it. What did you see?" "My whole life, passing in front of my eyes. " "Perhaps we shall see something more interesting. " Rincewind glared at Carrot, bent once again over his sewing. Everything about the man was neat, in a workmanlike sort of way: he looked like someone who washed thoroughly. He also seemed to Rincewind to be a complete idiot with gristle between the ears. But complete idiots didn't make comments like that. "I'm taking an iconograph and lots of paint for the imp. You know the wizards want us to make all kinds of observations?" Carrot went on. "They say it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. " "You're not making any friends here, you know," said Rincewind. "Have you any idea what it is that the Silver Horde wants?" "Drink, treasure, and women," said Rincewind. "But I think they may have eased back on the last one. " "But didn't they have more or less all of that anyway?" Rincewind nodded. That was the puzzler. The Horde had it all. They had everything that money could buy, and since there was a lot of money on the Counterweight Continent, that was everything. It occurred to him that when you'd had everything, all that was left was nothing. The valley was full of cool green light, reflected off the towering ice of the central mountain. It shifted and flowed like water. Into it, grumbling and asking one another to speak up, walked the Silver Horde. Behind them, walking almost bent double with horror and dread, white-faced, like a man who has gazed upon direful things, came the minstrel. His clothes were torn. One leg of his tights had been ripped off. He was soaking wet, although parts of his clothing were singed. The twanging remains of the lute in his trembling hand had been half bitten away. Here was a man who had truly seen life, mostly on the point of departure. "Not very insane, as monks go," said Caleb. "More sad than mad. I've known monks that frothed. " "And some of those monsters were long past their date with the knackerman, and that's the truth," said Truckle. "Honestly, I felt embarrassed about killing them. They was older than us. " "The fish were good," said Cohen. "Real big buggers. " "Just as well, really, since we've run out of walrus," said Evil Harry. "Wonderful display by your henchmen, Harry," said Cohen. "Stupidity wasn't the word for it. Never seen so many people hit themselves over the head with their own swords. " "They were good lads," said Harry. "Morons to the end. " Cohen grinned at Boy Willie, who was sucking a cut finger. "Teeth," he said. "Huh. . . the answer is always 'teeth', is it?" "All right, all right, sometimes it's 'tongue'," said Boy Willie. He turned to the minstrel. "Did you get that bit where I cut up that big taranchula?" he said. The minstrel raised his head slowly. A lute string broke. "Mwwa," he bleated. The rest of the Horde gathered round quickly. There was no sense in letting just one of them get the best verses. ' Remember to sing about that bit where that fish swallowed me and I cut my way out from inside, okay? ' "Mwwa. . . " 'And did you get that bit when I killed that big six-armed dancin' statue? ' "Mwwa. . . " 'What're you talkin' about? It was me what killed that statue! ' 'Yeah? Well, I clove him clean in twain, mate. No one could have survived that! ' 'Why didn't you just cut 'is 'ead off? ' ' Couldn't. Someone'd already done that. ' "' Ere, 'e's not writin' this down! Why isn't 'e writin' this down? Cohen, you tell 'im 'e's got to write this down! " "Let him be for a while," said Cohen. "I reckon the fish disagreed with him. " "Don't see why," said Truckle. "I pulled him out before it'd hardly chewed him. And he must've dried out nicely in that corridor. You know, the one where the flames shot up out of the floor unexpectedly. " "I reckon our bard wasn't expecting flames to shoot out of the floor unexpectedly," said Cohen. Truckle shrugged theatrically.

" Well , if you're not going to expect unexpected flames, what's the point of going anywhere? " "And we'd have been in some strife with those gate demons from the netherworlds if Mad Hamish hadn't woken up," Cohen went on. Hamish stirred in his wheelchair, under a pile of large fish fillets inexpertly wrapped in saffron robes. "Whut?" "I SAID YOU WERE GROUCHY WHAT WITH MISSING YER NAP!" Cohen shouted. "Ach, right!" Boy Willie rubbed his thigh. "I got to admit it, one of those monsters nearly got me," he said. "I'm going to have to give this up. " Cohen turned around quickly. "And die like old Old Vincent?" he said. "Well, not ―" "Where would he have been if we weren't there to give him a proper funeral, eh? A great big bonfire, that's the funeral of a hero. And everyone else said it was a waste of a good boat! So stop talking like that and follow me!" "Mw. . . mw. . . mw," the minstrel sang, and finally the words came out. "Mad! Mad! Mad! You're all stark staring mad! " Caleb patted him gently on the shoulder as they turned to follow their leader. "We prefer the word berserk , lad," he said. Some things needed testing. . . "I have watched the swamp dragons at night," Leonard said conversationally as Ponder Stibbons adjusted the static-firing mechanism. "And it is clear to me that the flame is quite useful to them as a means of propulsion. In a sense, a swamp dragon is a living rocket. A strange creature to have come into being on a world like ours, I have always thought. I suspect they come from elsewhere. " "They tend to explode a lot," said Ponder, standing back. The dragon in the steel cage watched him carefully. "Bad diet," said Leonard firmly. "Possibly not what they were used to. But I am sure the mixture I have devised is both nourishing and safe and will have. . . usable effect. . . " "But we will go and get behind the sandbags now , sir," said Ponder. "Oh, do you really think― ?" " Yes , sir. " With his back firmly against the sandbags, Ponder shut his eyes and pulled the string. In front of the dragon's cage, a mirror swung down, just for a moment. And the first reaction of a male swamp dragon on seeing another male is to flame. . . There was a roar. The two men peered over the barrier and saw a yellow-green lance of fire thundering out across the evening sea. "Thirty-three seconds!" said Ponder, when it finally winked out. He leapt up. The small dragon belched. The flame was more or less gone, so it was the dampest explosion Ponder had ever experienced. "Ah," said Leonard, arising from behind the sandbags and peeling a piece of scaly skin off his head. "Nearly there, I think. Just a pinch more charcoal and seaweed extract to prevent blowback. " Ponder removed his hat. What he needed right now, he felt, was a bath. And then another bath. "I'm not exactly a rocket wizard, am I?" he said, wiping bits of dragon off his face. But an hour later another flame lanced over the waves, thin and white with a blue core. . . and this time, this time, the dragon merely smiled. "I'd rather die than sign my name," said Boy Willie. "I'd rather face a dragon," said Caleb. "One of the proper old ones, too, not the little fireworky ones you get today. " "Once they get you signin' your name, they've got you where they want you," said Cohen. "Too many letters," said Truckle. "All different shapes, too. I always put an X. " The Horde had stopped for a breather and a smoke on an outcrop at the end of the green valley. Snow was thick on the ground, but the air was almost mild. Already there was the prickly sensation of a high magical field. "Readin', now," said Cohen, "that's another matter. I don't mind a man who does a bit of readin'. Now, you come across a map, as it might be, and it's got a big cross on it, well, a readin' man can tell something from that. " "What? That it's Truckle's map?" said Boy Willie. "Exactly. Could very well be. " "I can read and write," said Evil Harry. "Sorry. Part of the job. Etiquette, too. You've got to be polite to people when you march them out on the plank over the shark tank. . . it makes it more evil. " "No one's blaming you, Harry," said Cohen. "Huh, not that I could get sharks," said Harry. "I should've known better when Johnny No Hands told me they were sharks that hadn't grown all their fins yet, but all they did was swim around squeaking happily and start beggin' for fish. When I throw people into a torture tank it's to be torn to bits, not to get in touch with their inner self and be one with the cosmos. " "Shark'd be better than this fish," said Caleb, making a face. "Nah, shark tastes like piss," said Cohen. He sniffed. "Now that. . . " "Now that ," said Truckle, "is what I call cookery. " They followed the smell through a maze of rocks to a cave. To the minstrel's amazement, each man drew his sword as they approached. "You can't trust cookery," said Cohen, apparently as an attempt at an explanation. "But you've just been fighting monstrous mad devil fish!" said the minstrel. "No, the priests were mad, the fish were. . . hard to tell with fish. Anyway, you know where you stand with a mad priest, but someone cooking as well as that right up here ― well, that's a mystery. " "Well?" "Mysteries get you killed. " " You're not dead, though. " Cohen's sword swished through the air. The minstrel thought he heard it sizzle. "I solve mysteries," he said. "Oh. With your sword. . . like Carelinus untied the Tsortean Knot?" "Don't know anything about any knots, lad. " In a clear space among the rocks, a stew was cooking over a fire and an elderly lady was working at her embroidery. It was not a scene the minstrel would have expected out here, even though the lady was somewhat. . . youngly dressed for a grandmother, and the message on the sampler she was sewing, surrounded by little flowers, was EAT COLD STEEL PIGDOG. "Well, well," said Cohen, sheathing his sword. "I thought I recognised the handiwork back there. How're you doing, Vena?" "You're looking well, Cohen," said the woman, as calmly as though she had been expecting them. "You boys want some stew?" "Yeah," said Truckle, grinning. "Let the bard try it first, though. " "Shame on you, Truckle," said the woman, putting aside her embroidery. "Well, you did drug me and steal a load of jewels off me last time we met. . . " "That was forty years ago, man! Anyway, you left me alone to fight that band of goblins. " "I knew you'd beat the goblins, though. " "I knew you didn't need the jewels. Morning, Evil Harry. Hello, boys. Pull up a rock. Who's the thin streak of misery?" "This is the bard," said Cohen. "Bard, this is Vena the Raven-Haired. " "What?" said the bard. "No, she's not! Even I've heard of Vena the Raven-Haired, and she's a tall young woman with ― oh. . . " Vena sighed. "Yes, the old stories do hang around so, don't they?" she said, patting her grey hair. "And it's Mrs McGarry now, boys. " "Yes, I heard you'd settled down," said Cohen, dipping the ladle into the stew and tasting it. "Married an innkeeper, didn't you? Hung up your sword, had kids. . . " "Grandchildren," said Mrs McGarry, proudly. But then the proud smile faded. "One of them's taken over the inn, but the other's a paper-maker. " "Running an inn's a good trade," said Cohen. "But there's not much heroing in wholesale stationery. A paper cut's just not the same. " He smacked his lips. "This is good stuff, girl. " "Its funny," said Vena. "I never knew I had the talent, but people will come miles for my dumplings. " "No change there, then," said Truckle the Uncivil. "Hur, hur, hur. " "Truckle," said Cohen, "remember when you told me to tell you when you were bein' too uncivil?" "Yeah?" "That was one of those times. " "Anyway," said Mrs McGarry, smiling sweetly at the blushing Truckle, "I was sitting around after Charlie died, and I thought, well, is this it? I've just got to wait for the Grim Reaper? And then. . . there was this scroll. . . " "What scroll?" said Cohen and Evil Harry together. Then they stared at one another.

"Y'see," said Cohen, reaching into his pack, "I found this old scroll, showing a map of how to get to the Mountains and all the little tricks for getting past ―" "Me too," said Harry. "You never told me!" "I'm a DarkLord , Cohen," said Evil Harry patiently. "I'm not supposed to be Captain Helpful. " "Tell me where you found it, at least. " "Oh, in some ancient sealed tomb we was despoilin'. " "I found mine in an old storeroom back in the Empire," said Cohen. " Mine was left in my inn by a traveller all in black," said Mrs McGarry. In the silence, the minstrel said, "Um? Excuse me?" "What?" said all three together. "Is it just me," said the minstrel, "or are we missing something here?" "Like what?" demanded Cohen. "Well, these scrolls all tell you how to get to the mountain, a perilous trek that no one has ever survived?" "Yes? So?" "So. . . um. . . who wrote the scrolls?" A few of the Discworld gods, passing the time, as they do. L to R : Sessifet, goddess of the afternoon, Offler the Crocodile-Headed, Flatulus (God of the winds), Fate, Urika (Goddess of saunas, snow and theatrical performances for fewer than 120 people), Blind Io (chief of the Gods, and general Thundering), Libertina (Goddess of the sea, apple pie, certain types of ice cream and short lengths of string), The Lady (don’t even ask), Bibulous (god of wine and things on sticks), Patina ( back , goddess of wisdom), Topaxi ( front, god of certain mushrooms, and also of great ideas that you forgot to write down and will never remember again, and of people who tell other people that ‘dog’ is ‘god’ spelled backwards ant think this is in some way revelatory), Bast ( back, god of things left on the doorstep or half-digested under the bed), and Nuggan (a local god, but also in charge of paperclips, correct things in the right place in small desk stationery sets, and unnecessary paperwork). Offler the Crocodile looked up from the playing board which was, in fact, the world. "All right, who doth he belong to?" he lisped. "We've got a clever one here. " There was a general craning of necks among the assembled deities, and then one put up his hand. "And you are. . . ?" said Offler. "The Almighty Nuggan. I'm worshipped in parts of Borogravia. The young man was raised in my faith. " "What do Nugganoteth believe in?" "Er. . . me. Mostly me. And followers are forbidden to eat chocolate, ginger, mushrooms and garlic. " Several of the gods winced. "When you prohibit you don't meth about, do you?" said Offler. "No sense in forbidding broccoli, is there? That sort of approach is very old-fashioned," said Nuggan. He looked at the minstrel. "He's never been particularly bright up till now. Shall I smite him? There's bound to be some garlic in that stew, Mrs McGarry looks the type. " Offler hesitated. He was a very old god, who had arisen from steaming swamps in hot, dark lands. He had survived the rise and fall of more modern and certainly more beautiful gods by developing, for a god, a certain amount of wisdom. Besides, Nuggan was one of the newer gods, all full of hellfire and self-importance and ambition. Offler was not bright, but he had some vague inkling that for long-term survival gods needed to offer their worshippers something more than a mere lack of thunderbolts. And he felt an ungodlike pang of sympathy for any human whose god banned chocolate and garlic. Anyway, Nuggan had an unpleasant moustache. No god had any business with a fussy little moustache like that. "No," he said, shaking the dice box. "It'll add to the fun. " Cohen pinched out the end of his ragged cigarette, stuffed it behind his ear, and looked up at the green ice. "It's not too late to turn back," said Evil Harry. "If anyone wanted to, I mean. " "Yes it is," said Cohen, without looking around. "Besides, someone's not playing fair. " "Funny, really," said Vena. "All my life I've gone adventuring with old maps found in old tombs and so on, and I never ever worried about where they came from. It's one of those things you never think about, like who leaves all the weapons and keys and medicine kits lying around in the unexplored dungeons. " "Someone be setting a trap," said Boy Willie. "Probably. Won't be the first trap I've walked into," said Cohen. "We're going up against the gods, Cohen," said Harry. "A man does that, a man's got to be sure of his luck. " "Mine's worked up to now," said Cohen. He reached out and touched the rock face in front of him. "It's warm. " "But it's got ice on!" said Harry. "Yeah. Strange, eh?" said Cohen. "It's just like the scrolls said. And see the way the snow's sticking to it? It's the magic. Well. . . here goes. . . " Archchancellor Ridcully decided that the crew needed to be trained. Ponder Stibbons pointed out that they were going into the completely unexpected, and Ridcully ruled therefore that they should be given some unexpected training. Rincewind, on the other hand, said that they were heading for certain death, which everyone managed eventually with no training whatsoever. Later he said that Leonard's device would do, though. After five minutes on it, certain death seemed like a release. "He's thrown up again ," said the Dean. "He's getting better at it, though," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "How can you say that? Last time it was a whole ten seconds before he let go!" "Yes, but he's throwing up more, and it's going further," said the Chair as they strolled away. The Dean looked up. It was hard to see the flying device in the shadows of the tarpaulin-covered barge. Sheets were spread over the more interesting bits. There were strong smells of glue and varnish. The Librarian, who tended to get involved in things, was hanging peacefully from a spar and hammering wooden pegs into a plank. "It'll be balloons, you mark my words," said the Dean. "I've got a mental picture. Balloons and sails and rigging and so on. Probably an anchor, too. Fanciful stuff. " "Over in the Agatean Empire they have kites big enough to carry men," said the Chair. "Perhaps he's just building a bigger kite, then. " In the distance Leonard of Quirm was sitting in a pool of light, sketching. Occasionally he'd hand a page to a waiting apprentice, who would hurry away. "Did you see the design he came up with yesterday?" said the Dean. "Had this idea that they might have to get outside the machine to repair it so ― so he designed a sort of device to let you fly around with a dragon on your back! Said it was for emergencies!" "What kind of emergency would be worse than having a dragon strapped to your back?" said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "Exactly! The man lives in an ivory tower!" "Does he? I thought Vetinari had him locked up in some attic. " "Well. I mean, years of that is going to give a man a very limited vision, in my humble opinion. Nothing much to do but tick the days off on the wall. " "They say he paints good pictures," said the Chair. "Well, pictures ," said the Dean dismissively. "But they say that his are so good the eyes follow you round the room. " "Really? What does the rest of the face do?" " That stays where it is, I suppose," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "To me, this does not sound good," said the Dean as they wandered out into the daylight. At his desk, while considering the problem of steering a craft in thin air, Leonard carefully drew a rose. Evil Harry shut his eyes. "This does not feel good," he said. "It's easy when you get used to it," said Cohen. "It's just a matter of how you look at things. " Evil Harry opened his eyes again. He was standing on a broad, greenish plain, which curved down gently to right and left. It was like being on a high, grassy ridge. It stretched off into a cloudy distance. "It's just a stroll," said Boy Willie, beside him. "Look, my feet aren't the problem here," said Evil Harry. "My feet aren't quarrelling. It's my brain. " "It helps if you think of the ground as being behind you," said Boy Willie. "No," said Evil Harry. "It doesn't.

" The strange feature of the mountain was this: once a foot was set on it, direction became a matter of personal choice. To put it another way, gravity was optional. It stayed under your feet, no matter which way your feet were pointing. Evil Harry wondered why it was affecting only him. The Horde seemed entirely unmoved. Even Mad Hamish's horrible wheelchair was bowling along happily in a direction which, up until now, Harry had thought of as vertical. It was, he thought, probably because Evil Lords were generally brighter than heroes. You needed some functioning brain cells to do the payroll even for half a dozen henchmen. And Evil Harry's braincells were telling him to look straight ahead and try to believe that he was strolling along a broad, happy ridge and on no account to turn around, to even think about turning round, because behind him was gnh gnh gnk. . . "Steady on!" said Boy Willie, steadying his arm. "Listen to your feet. They know what they're about. " To Harry's horror, Cohen chose this moment to turn around. "Will you look at that view!" he said. "I can see everybody's house from up here!" "Oh, no, please, no," mumbled Evil Harry, flinging himself forward and holding on to the mountain. "It's great, isn't it?" said Truckle. "Seein" all them seas sort of hanging right over you like ― What's up with Harry?" "Just a bit poorly," said Vena. To Cohen's surprise, the minstrel seemed quite at home with the view. "I came from up in the mountains," he explained. "You get a head for heights up there. " "I bin to everywhere I can see," said Cohen, looking around. "Been there, done that. . . been there again, done it twice. . . nowhere left where I ain't been. . . " The minstrel looked him up and down, and a kind of understanding dawned. I know why you are doing this now, he thought. Thank goodness for a classical education. Now, what was the quote? "'And Carelinus wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer'," he said. "Who's that bloke? You mentioned him before," said Cohen. "You haven't heard of the Emperor Carelinus?" "Nope. " "But. . . he was the greatest conquerer that ever lived! His empire spanned the entire Disc! Except for the Counterweight Continent and Fourecks, of course. " "I don't blame him. You can't get a good beer in one of 'em for love nor money, and the other's a bugger to get to. " "Well, when he got as far as the coast of Muntab, it was said that he stood on the shore and wept. Some philosopher told him there were more worlds out there somewhere, and that he'd never be able to conquer them. Er. . . that reminded me a bit of you. " Cohen strolled along in silence for a moment. "Yeah," he said at last. "Yeah, I can see how that could be. Only not as cissy, obviously. " "It is now," said Ponder Stibbons, "T minus twelve hours. " His audience, sitting on the deck, watched him with alert and polite incomprehension. "That means the flying machine will go over the Edge just before dawn tomorrow," Ponder explained. Everyone turned to Leonard, who was watching a seagull. "Mr da Quirm?" said Lord Vetinari. "What? Oh. Yes. " Leonard blinked. "Yes. The device will be ready, although the privy is giving me problems. " The Lecturer in Recent Runes fumbled in the capacious pockets of his robe. "Oh dear, I believe I have a bottle of something. . . the sea always affects me that way, too. " "I was rather thinking of problems associated with the thin air and low gravity," said Leonard. "That's what the survivor of the Maria Pesto reported. But this afternoon I feel I can come up with a privy that, happily, utilises the thinner air of altitude to achieve the effect normally associated with gravity. Gentle suction is involved. " Ponder nodded. He had a quick mind when it came to mechanical detail, and he'd already formed a mental picture. Now a mental eraser would be useful, "Er. . . good," he said. "Well, most of the ships will fall behind the barge during the night. Even with magically assisted wind we dare not venture closer than thirty miles to the Rim. After that, we could be caught in the current and swept over the Edge. " Rincewind, who had been leaning moodily over the rail and watching the water, turned at this. "How far are we from the island of Krull?" he said. "That place? Hundreds of miles," said Ponder. "We want to keep well away from those pirates. " "So. . . we'll run straight into the Circumfence, then?" There was technically silence, although it was loud with unspoken thoughts. Each man was busy trying to think of a reason why it would have been far too much to expect him to have thought of this, while at the same time being a reason why someone else should have. The Circumfence was the biggest construction ever built; it extended almost a third of the way around the world. On the large island of Krull, an entire civilisation lived on what they recovered from it. They ate a lot of sushi, and their dislike for the rest of the world was put down to permanent dyspepsia. In his chair, Lord Vetinari grinned in a thin, acid way. "Yes indeed," he said. It extends for several thousands of miles, I understand. However, I gather the Krullians no longer keep captive seamen as slaves. They simply charge ruinous salvage rates. " "A few fireballs would blow the thing apart," said Ridcully. "That does rather require you to be very close to it, though," said Lord Vetinari. "That is to say, so close to the Rimfall that you would be destroying the very thing that is preventing you from being swept over the Edge. A knotty problem, gentlemen. " "Magic carpet," said Ridcully. "Just the job. We've got one in ―" "Not that close to the Edge, sir," said Ponder, dismally. "The thaumic field is very thin and there are some ferocious air currents. " There was the crisp rattle of a big drawing pad being turned to the next page. "Oh, yes," said Leonard, more or less to himself. "Pardon me?" said the Patrician. "I did once design a simple means whereby entire fleets could be destroyed quite easily, my lord. Only as a technical exercise, of course. " "But with numbered parts and a list of instructions?" said the Patrician. "Why, yes , my lord. Of course. Otherwise it would not be a proper exercise. And I feel sure that with the help of these magical gentlemen we should be able to adapt it for this purpose. " He gave them a bright smile. They looked at his drawing. Men were leaping from ships in flames, into a boiling sea. "You do this sort of thing as a hobby, do you?" said the Dean. "Oh, yes. There are no practical applications. " "But couldn't someone build something like that?" said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "You practically include glue and transfers!" "Well, I daresay there are people like that," said Leonard diffidently. "But I am sure the government would put a stop to things before they went too far. " And the smile on Lord Vetinari's face was one that probably even Leonard of Quirm, with all his genius, would never be able to capture on canvas. Very carefully, knowing that if they dropped one they probably wouldn't even know they'd dropped one, a team of students and apprentices lifted the cages of dragons into the racks under the rear of the flying machine. Occasionally one of the dragons hiccuped. Everyone present, bar one, would freeze. The exception was Rincewind, who would be crouched down behind a pile of timber many yards away. "They've all been well fed on Leonard's special feed and should be quite docile for four or five hours," said Ponder, pulling him out for the third time. "The first two stages were given their meals with a carefully timed interval, and the first lot should be in a mood to flame just as you go over the Rimfall. " "What if we're delayed?" Ponder gave this some deep thought. "Whatever you do, don't be delayed," he said. "Thank you. " "The ones that you'll be taking with you in flight may need feeding, too. We've loaded a mixture of naphtha, rock oil and anthracite dust. " "For me to feed to the dragons. " "Yes. " "In this wooden ship, which will be very, very high?" "Well, in a technical sense, yes.

" "Could we focus on that technicality?" "Strictly speaking, there won't be any down. As such. Er. . . you could say that you will be travelling so fast that you won't be in any one place long enough to fall down. " Ponder sought a glimmer of understanding in Rincewind's face. "Or, to put in another way, you'll be falling permanently without ever hitting the ground. " Up above them, rack on rack of dragons sizzled contentedly. Wisps of steam drifted through the shadows. "Oh," said Rincewind. "You understand?" said Ponder. "No. I was just hoping that if I didn't say anything you'd stop trying to explain things to me. " "How are we doing, Mr Stibbons?" said the Archchancellor, strolling up at the head of his wizards. "How's our enormous kite?" "Everything's going to plan, sir. We're at T minus five hours, sir. " "Really? Good. We're at supper in ten minutes. " Rincewind had a small cabin, with cold water and running rats. Most of it that wasn't occupied by his bunk was occupied by his luggage. The Luggage. It was a box that walked around on hundreds of little legs. It was magical, as far as he knew. He'd had it for years. It understood every word he said. It obeyed about one in every hundred, unfortunately. "There won't be any room ," he said. "And you know every time you've gone up in the air you've got lost. " The Luggage watched him in its eyeless way. "So you stay with nice Mr Stibbons, all right? You've never been at ease around gods, either. I shall be back very soon. " Still the eyeless stare went on. "Just don't look at me that way, will you?" said Rincewind. Lord Vetinari cast his eye over the three. . . what was the word? "Men," he said, settling for one that was undoubtedly correct, "it falls to me to congratulate you on. . . on. . . " He hesitated. Lord Vetinari was not a man who delighted in the technical. There were two cultures, as far as he was concerned. One was the real one, the other was occupied by people who liked machinery and ate pizza at unreasonable hours. ". . . on being the first people to leave the Disc with the resolute intention of returning to it," he went on. "Your. . . mission is to land on or near Con Celesti, locate Cohen the Barbarian and his men, and by whatever means feasible stop this ridiculous scheme of theirs. There must be some misunderstanding. Even barbarian heroes generally draw the line at blowing up the world. " He sighed. "They're usually not civilised enough for that," he added. "Anyway. . . we implore him to listen to reason, et cetera. Barbarians are generally sentimentalists. Tell him about all the dear little puppies that will be killed, or something. Beyond that, I can't advise you further. I suspect classical force is out of the question. If Cohen was easy to kill, people would have done it a long time ago. " Captain Carrot saluted. "Force is always the last resort, sir," he said. "I believe that for Cohen it's the first choice," said Lord Vetinari. "He's not too bad if you don't come up behind him suddenly," said Rincewind. "Ah, there is the voice of our mission specialist," said the Patrician. "I just hope ― What is that on your badge, Captain Carrot?" "Mission motto, sir," said Carrot cheerfully. " MorituriNolumus Mori. Rincewind suggested it. " "I imagine he did," said Lord Vetinari, observing the wizard coldly. "And would you care to give us a colloquial translation, Mr Rincewind?" "Er. . . " Rincewind hesitated, but there really was no escape. "Er. . . roughly speaking, it means, 'We who are about to die don't want to', sir. " "Very clearly expressed. I commend your determination. . . Yes?" Ponder had whispered something in his ear. "Ah, I'm informed that we have to leave you shortly," said Lord Vetinari. "Mr Stibbons tells me that there is a means of keeping in touch with you, at least until you're close to the mountain. " "Yes, sir," said Carrot. "The fractured omniscope. An amazing device. Each part sees what the other parts sees. Astonishing. " "Well, I trust your new careers will be uplifting if not, ahaha, meteoric. To your places, gentlemen. " "Er. . . I just want to take an iconograph, sir," said Ponder, hurrying forward and clutching a large box. "To record the moment? If you would all stand in front of the flag and smile, please. . . that means the corners of your mouth go up , Rincewind. . . thank you. " Ponder, like all bad photographers, took the shot just a fraction of a second after the smiles had frozen. "And do you have any last words?" "You mean, last words before we go and come back?" said Carrot, his brow wrinkling. "Oh, yes. Of course. That's what I meant! Because of course you will be coming back, won't you?" said Ponder, far too quickly in Rincewind's opinion. "I have absolute confidence in Mr da Quirm's work, and I'm sure he has too. " "Oh, dear. No, I never bother to have any confidence," said Leonard. "You don't?" "No, things just work. You don't have to wish," said Leonard. "And, of course, if we do fail, then things won't be that bad, will they? If we fail to come back, there won't be anywhere left to fail to come back to in any case, will there? So it will all cancel out. " He gave his happy little smile. "Logic is a great comfort in times like this, I always find. " "Personally," said Captain Carrot, "I am happy, thrilled and delighted to be going. " He tapped a box by his side. "And I am, as instructed, also bringing along an iconograph and intend to take many useful and deeply moving images of our world from the perspective of space which will perhaps cause us to see humanity in an entirely new light. " "Is this the time to resign from the crew?" said Rincewind, staring at his fellow voyagers. "No," said Lord Vetinari. "Possibly on grounds of insanity?" "Your own, I assume?" "Take your pick!" Vetinari beckoned Rincewind forward. "But it could be said that someone would have to be insane to take part in this venture," he murmured. "In which case, of course, you are fully qualified. " "Then. . . supposing I'm not insane?" "Oh, as ruler of Ankh-Morpork I have a duty to send only the keenest, coolest minds on a vital errand of this kind. " He held Rincewind's gaze for a moment. "I think there's a catch there," said the wizard, knowing that he'd lost. "Yes. The best kind there is," said the Patrician. The lights of the anchored ships disappeared into the murk as the barge drifted on, faster now as the current began to pull. "No turning back now," said Leonard. There was a roll of thunder, and fingers of lightning walked along the Edge of the world. "Just a squall, I expect," he added, as fat drops of rain thudded on the tarpaulins. "Shall we get aboard? The draglines will keep us pointed directly at the Rim, and we might as well make ourselves comfortable while we wait. " "We ought to release the fire boats first, sir," said Carrot. "Silly me, yes," said Leonard. "I'd forget my own head if it was wasn't held on with bones and skin and things!" A couple of ship's boats had been sacrificed for the attempt on the Circumfence. They wallowed slightly, laden as they were with spare tins of varnish, paint and the remains of the dragons" supper. Carrot picked up a couple of lanterns and, after a couple of tries in the gusting wind, managed to light them and place them carefully according to Leonard's instructions. Then the boats were cast adrift. Freed of the drag of the barge, they pulled away in the quickening current. The rain was hammering down now. "And now let us get aboard," said Leonard, ducking back out of the rain. "A cup of tea will do us good. " "I thought we decided we couldn't have any naked flames on board, sir," said Carrot. "I have brought along a special jug of my own devising which keeps things warm," said Leonard. "Or cold, if you prefer. I call it the Hot or Cold Flask. I am at a loss as to how it knows which it is that you prefer, but nevertheless it seems to work. " He led the way up the ladder. Only one small lamp lit the little cabin. It illuminated three seats, embedded among a network of levers, armatures and springs.

The crew had been up here before. They knew the layout. There was one little bed further aft, on the basis that there would only be time for any one person to be asleep. String bags had been stapled to every bit of unused wall to hold water bottles and food. Unfortunately, some of Lord Vetinari's committees, devised in order to prevent their members from interfering with anything important, had turned their attention to provisioning the craft. It appeared packed for every eventuality, including alligator-wrestling on a glacier. Leonard sighed. "I really didn't like to say no to anyone. " he said, "I did suggest that, er, nourishing but concentrated and, er, low-residue food would be preferred ―" As one man, they turned in their seats to look at the Experimental Privy Mk 2. Mk 1 had worked ― Leonard's devices tended to ― but since a key to its operation was that it tumbled very fast on a central axis while in use it had been abandoned after a report by its test pilot (Rincewind) that, whatever you had in mind when you went in, the only thing you wanted to do once inside was get out. Mk 2 was as yet untried. It creaked ominously under their gaze, an open invitation to constipation and kidney stones. "It will undoubtedly function," said Leonard, and just this once Rincewind noted the harmonic of uncertainty. "It is all just a matter of opening the correct valves in sequence. " "What happens if we don't open the right valves in sequence, sir?" said Carrot, buckling himself in. "You must appreciate that I have had to design so many things for this craft ―" Leonard began. "We'd still like to know," said Rincewind. "Er. . . in truth, what happens if you don't open the right valves in sequence is that you will wish you had opened the right valves in sequence," said Leonard. He fumbled below his seat and produced a large metal flask of curious design. "Tea, anyone?" he said. "Just a small cup," said Carrot firmly. "Make mine a spoonful," said Rincewind. "And what's this thing hanging in the ceiling in front of me?" "It's my new device for looking behind you," said Leonard. "It's very simple to use. I call it the Device For Looking Behind You. " "Looking behind you is a bad move," said Rincewind firmly. "I've always said so. It slows you down. " "Ah, but this way we won't slow down at all. " "Really?" said Rincewind, brightening up. A squall of rain banged on the tarpaulins. Carrot tried to see ahead. A gap had been cut in the covers so that the ― "By the way. . . what are we?" he said. "I mean, what do we call ourselves?" "Possibly foolish. " said Rincewind. "I meant officially. " Carrot looked around the crammed cabin. "And what do we call this craft?" "The wizards call it the big kite," said Rincewind. "But it's nothing like a kite, a kite is something on a string which ―" "It has to have a name," said Carrot. "It's very bad luck to attempt a voyage in a vessel with no name. " Rincewind looked at the levers in front of his seat. They had to do mainly with dragons. "We're in a big wooden box and behind us are about a hundred dragons who are getting ready to burp," he said. "I think we need a name. Er. . . do you actually know how to fly this thing, Leonard?" "Not as such, but I intend to learn very soon. " "A really good name," said Rincewind fervently. Ahead of them the stormy horizon was lit by an explosion. The boats had hit the Circumfence, and burst into fierce, corrosive flame. "Right now. " he added. "The kite, the real kite, is a very beautiful bird," said Leonard. "It's what I had in mind when I ―" "The Kite it is, then," said Carrot firmly. He glanced at a list pinned in front of him and ticked off one item. "Shall I drop the tarpaulin anchor, sir?" "Yes. Er. Yes. Do that," said Leonard. Carrot pulled a lever. Below and behind them there was the sound of a splash, and then of cable running out very fast "There's a reef! There's rocks!" Rincewind stood up, pointing. The firelight ahead glowed on something squat and immovable, surrounded by surf. "No turning back," said Leonard as the sinking anchor dragged the Kite 's coverings off like an enormous canvas egg. He reached out and pulled handles and knobs like an organist in full fugue. "Number One Blinkers. . . down. Tethers. . . off. Gentlemen, each pull those big handles beside you when I say. . . " The rocks loomed. The white water at the lip of the endless Fall was red with fire and glowing with lightning. Jagged rocks were a few yards away, hungry as a crocodile's teeth. "Now! Now! Now! Mirrors. . . down! Good! We have flame! Now what was it. . . oh, yes. . . Everyonehold on to something! " Wings unfolding, dragons flaring, the Kite rose from the splintering barge and into the storm and over the Rim of the world. . . The only sound was a faint whisper of air as Rincewind and Carrot clambered off the shivering floor. Their pilot was staring out of the window. "Look at the birds! Oh, do look at the birds!" In the calm sunlit air beyond the storm they swooped and turned in their thousands around the gliding ship, as small birds will mob an eagle. And it did look like an eagle, one that had just snatched a giant salmon from the Fall. . . Leonard stood entranced, tears running down his cheeks. Carrot tapped him very gently on the shoulder. "Sir?" "It's so beautiful. . . so beautiful. . . " "Sir, we need you to fly this thing, sir! Remember? Stage Two?" "Hmm?" Then the artist shuddered, and part of him returned to his body. "Oh, yes, very well, very well. . . " He sat down heavily in his seat. "Yes. . . to be sure. . . yes. We shall, er, we shall test the controls. Yes. " He laid a trembling hand on the levers in front of him, and placed his feet on the pedals. The Kite lurched sideways on the air. "Oops. . . ah, now I think I have it. . . sorry. . . yes. . . oh, sorry, dear me. . . ah, now I think. . . " Rincewind, flung against the window by another judder, looked down the face of the Rimfall. Here and there, all the way down, mountain-sized islands projected from the wall of white water, glowing in the evening light. Little white clouds scudded between them. And everywhere there were birds, wheeling, nesting, gliding ― "There's forests on those rocks! They're like little countries. . . there's people! I can see houses! " He was thrown back again as the Kite banked into some cloud. "There's people living over the Edge!" he said. "Old shipwrecks, I suppose," said Carrot. "I, er, I think I have the hang of it now," said Leonard, staring fixedly ahead. "Rincewind, please be so good as to pull that lever there, will you?" Rincewind did so. There was a clunk behind them, and the ship shook slightly as the first-stage cage was dropped. As it tumbled slowly apart in the air, small dragons spread their wings and flapped hopefully back towards the Disc. "I thought there would be more than that," said Rincewind. "Oh, those are just the ones we used to help us get clear of the Rim," said Leonard, as the Kite turned lazily in the air. "Most of the others we'll use to go down. " "Down?" said Rincewind. "Oh, yes. We need to go down, as quickly as we can. No time to waste. " "Down? This is not the time to talk about down! You kept on talking about around. Around is fine! Not down! " "Ah, but you see, in order to go around we need to go down. Fast. " Leonard looked reproachful. "I did put it in my notes ―" " Down is not a direction with which I am happy!" "Hello? Hello?" came a voice, out of the air. "Captain Carrot," said Leonard, as Rincewind sulked in his seat, "oblige me by opening the cabinet there, will you?" This revealed a fragment of smashed omniscope and the face of Ponder Stibbons. "It works!" His shout sounded muffled and somehow small, like the squeaking of an ant. "You're alive?" "We have separated the first dragons and everything is going well, sir," said Carrot. "No, it's not!" Rincewind shouted. "They want to go dow― !" Without turning his head, Carrot reached around behind Leonard and pulled Rincewind's hat down over his face.

"The second-stage dragons will be about ready to burn now," said Leonard. "We had better get on, Mr Stibbons. " "Please take careful observations of all ―" Ponder began, but Leonard had politely closed the case. "Now then," he said, "if you gentlemen will undo the clips beside you and turn the large red handles you should be able to start the process of folding the wings back in. I believe that as we increase speed the impellers will make the process easier. " He looked at Rincewind's blank face as the angry wizard freed himself from his hat. "We will use the rushing air as we fall to help us reduce the size of the wings, which we will not require for a while. " "I understand that," said Rincewind distantly. "I just hate it. " "The only way home is down, Rincewind," said Carrot, adjusting his seat belt. "And put your helmet on!" "So if everyone would once again hold tight?" said Leonard, and pushed gently on a lever. "Don't look so worried, Rincewind. Think of it as a sort of. . . well, a magic carpet ride. . . " The Kite shuddered. And dived. . . And suddenly the Rimfall was under them, stretching to an infinite misty horizon, its rocky outcrops now islands in a white wall. The ship shook again, and the handle Rincewind had been leaning on started to move under its own power. There was no solid surface any more. Every piece of the ship was vibrating. He stared out of the porthole next to him. The wings, the precious wings, the things that kept you up, were folding gracefully in on themselves. . . "Rrincewwind," said Leonard, a blur in his seat, "pplease ppull the bblack lleverr!" The wizard did so, on the basis that it couldn't make things worse. But it did. He heard a series of thumps behind him. Five score of dragons, having recently digested a hydrocarbon-rich meal, saw their own reflections in front of them as a rack of mirrors was, for a moment, lowered in front of their cages. They flared. Something crashed and smashed, back in the fuselage. A giant foot pressed the crew back into their seats. The Rimfall blurred. Through red-rimmed eyes they stared at the speeding white sea and the distant stars and even Carrot joined in the hymn of terror, which goes: "Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhggggggg. . . " Leonard was trying to shout something. With terrible effort Rincewind turned his huge and heavy head and just made out the groan: "Ttthe wwwhite lllever!" It took him years to reach it. For some reason his arms had been made out of lead. Bloodless fingers with muscles weak as string managed to get a grip and tow the lever back. Another foreboding thump rattled the ship. The pressure ceased. Three heads thumped forward. And then there was silence. And lightness. And peace. Dreamily, Rincewind pulled down the periscope and saw the huge fish section curving gently away from them. It came apart as it flew, and more dragons spread their wings and whirled away behind the Kite. Magnificent. A device for seeing behind you without slowing down? Just the thing no coward should be without. "I've got to get one of these," he murmured. "That seemed to go quite well, I thought," said Leonard. "I'm sure the little creatures will get back, too. Flitting from rock to rock. . . yes, I'm sure they will. . . " "Er. . . there's a strong draught by my seat ―" Carrot began. "Ah, yes. . . it would be a good idea to keep the helmets handy," Leonard said. "I've done my best, varnishing and laminating and so forth. . . but the Kite is not, alas, completely airtight. Well, here we are, well on our way," he added brightly. "Breakfast, anyone?" "My stomach feels very ―" Rincewind began, but stopped. A spoon drifted past, tumbling gently. "What has switched off the down-ness?" he demanded. Leonard opened his mouth to say: No, this was expected, because everything is falling at the same speed, but he didn't, because he could see this was not a happy thing to say. "It's the sort of thing that happens," he said. "It's. . . er. . . magic. " "Oh. Really? Oh. " A cup bumped gently off Carrot's ear. He batted it away and it disappeared somewhere aft. "What kind of magic?" he said. The wizards were clustered around the piece of omniscope, while Ponder struggled to adjust it. A picture exploded into view. It was horrible. "Hello? Hello? This is Ankh-Morpork calling!" The gibbering face was pushed aside and Leonard's dome rose slowly into view. "Ah, yes. Good morning," he said. "We are having a few. . . teething troubles. " From somewhere offscreen came the sound of someone being sick. " Whatis going on? " bellowed Ridcully. "Well, you see, it's rather amusing. . . I had this idea of putting food in tubes, you see, so that it could be squeezed out and eaten neatly in weightless conditions and, er, because we didn't tie everything down, er, I'm afraid my box of paints came open and the tubes got, er, confused, so what Mr Rincewind thought was broccoli and ham turned out to be Forest Green. . . er. " "Let me speak to Captain Carrot, will you?" "I'm afraid that is not entirely convenient at the moment," said Leonard, his face clouded with concern. "Why? Did he have the broccoli and ham too?" "No, he had the Cadmium Yellow. " There was a yelp and a series of clangs somewhere behind Leonard. "On the brighter side, however, I can report that the Mk II privy appears to function perfectly. " The Kite , in its headlong plunge, curved back towards the Rimfall. Now the water was a great tumbling cloud of mist. Captain Carrot hovered in front of a window, taking pictures with the iconograph. "This is amazing, " he said. "I'm sure we'll find the answers to some questions that have puzzled mankind for millennia. " "Good. Can you get this frying pan off my back?" said Rincewind. "Um," said Leonard. It was a sufficiently troubling syllable for the others to look at him. "We seem to be, er, losing air rather faster than I thought," said the genius. "But I'm sure the hull isn't any leakier than I allowed for. And we seem to be falling faster, according to Mr Stibbons. Uh. . . it's a little difficult to piece it all together, of course, because of the uncertain effects of the Disc's magical field. Um. . . we should be all right if we wear our helmets all the time. . . " "There's plenty of air nearer to the world, isn't there?" said Rincewind. "Can't we just fly into it and open a window?" Leonard stared mournfully into the mists that filled half of their view. "We are, er, moving very fast," he said, slowly. "And air at this speed. . . air is. . . the thing about air. . . tell me, what do you understand by the words "shooting star"?" "What is that supposed to mean?" Rincewind demanded. "Um. . . that we die an immensely horrible death. " "Oh, that ," said Rincewind. Leonard tapped a dial on one of the tanks of air. "I really don't think my calculations were that wro―" Light exploded into the cabin. The Kiterose through tendrils of mist. The crew stared. "No one will ever believe us," said Carrot, eventually. He raised his iconograph towards the view and even the imp inside, which belonged to a species that was seldom impressed with anything, said "Gosh!" in a tiny voice as it painted furiously. "I don't believe this," said Rincewind, "and I'm seeing it. " A tower, an immensity of rock, rose from the mist. And looming over the mist, huge as worlds, the backs of four elephants. It was like flying through a cathedral, thousands of miles high. "It sounds like a joke," Rincewind babbled, "elephants holding up the world, hahaha. . . and then you see it. . . " "My paints, where are my paints. . . ?" mumbled Leonard. "Well, some of them are in the privy," said Rincewind. Carrot turned, and looked puzzled. The iconograph floated away, trailing small curses. "And where's my apple?" he said. "What?" said Rincewind, perplexed at the sudden subject of fruit. "I'd just started eating an apple, and I just rested it in the air. . . and it's gone. " The ship creaked in the glaring sunlight. And an apple core came tumbling gently through the air. "I suppose there are just the three of us aboard?" said Rincewind innocently.

"Don't be silly," said Carrot. "We're sealed in!" "So. . . your apple ate itself?" They looked at the jumble of bundles held in the webbing behind them. "I mean, call me Mr Suspicious," said Rincewind, "but if the ship is heavier than Leonard thought, and we're using up more air, and food is vanishing ―" "You're not suggesting that there's some kind of monster floating around below the Rim that can bore into wooden hulls, are you?" said Carrot, drawing his sword. "Ah, I hadn't thought of that one," said Rincewind. "Well done. " "Interesting," said Leonard. "It would be, perhaps, a cross between a bird and a bivalve. Somewhat squid-like, possibly, using jets of ―" "Thank you, thank you, thank you, yes!" Carrot pulled out a roll of blankets and tried to look back along the cabin. "I think I saw something move," he said. "Just behind the air reservoirs. . . " He ducked under a bundle of skis and disappeared into the shadows. They heard him groan. "Oh, no. . . " "What? What?" said Rincewind. Carrot's voice was muffled. "I've found a. . . it looks like a. . . skin. . . " "Ah, fascinating," said Leonard, sketching on his notepad. "Possibly, once aboard a hospitable vessel, such a creature would metamorphose into ―" Carrot emerged, a banana skin kebabed on the end of his sword. Rincewind rolled his eyes. "I have a very definite feeling about this," he said. "So have I," said Carrot. It took them some time, but finally they pushed away a box of dishcloths and there were no more hiding places. A worried face looked out of the nest it had made. "Ook?" it said. Leonard sighed, laid aside his pad and opened up the omniscope's box. He banged on it once or twice, and it flickered and showed the outline of a head. Leonard took a deep breath. "Ankh-Morpork, we have an orangutan. . . " Cohen sheathed his sword. "Wouldn't have expected much to be living up here," he said, surveying the carnage. "There's even less now," said Caleb. The latest fight had been over in the twinkling of an eye and the cleaving of a backbone. Any. . . creatures that ambushed the Horde did so at the end of their lives. "The raw magic here must be huge," said Boy Willie. "I suppose creatures like this get used to living off it. Sooner or later something will learn to live anywhere. " "It's certainly doing Mad Hamish good," said Cohen. "I'll swear he's not as deaf as he was. " "Whut?" "I SAID YOU'RE NOT AS DEAF AS YOU WERE, HAMISH!" "There's no need to shout, mon!" "Can we cook 'em, do you think?" said Boy Willie. "They'll probably taste a bit like chicken," said Caleb. "Everything does, if you're hungry enough. " "Leave it to me," said Mrs McGarry. "You get a fire going, and I'll make this taste more like chicken than. . . chicken. " Cohen wandered off to where the minstrel was sitting by himself, working on the remains of his lute. The lad had brightened up considerably as the climb progressed, Cohen thought. He had completely stopped whimpering. Cohen sat down next to him. "What're you doing, lad?" he said. "I see you found a skull. " "It's going to be the sound box," said the minstrel. He looked worried for a moment. "That is all right, isn't it?" "Sure. Good fate for a hero, having his bones made into a harp or something. It should sing out wonderful. " "This will be a kind of lyre," said the minstrel. "It's going to be a bit primitive, I'm afraid. " "Even better. Good for the old songs," said Cohen. "I have been thinking about the. . . the saga," the minstrel admitted. "Good lad, good lad. Plenty of spakes?" "Um, yes. But I thought I'd start off with the legend of how Mazda stole fire for mankind in the first place. " "Nice," said Cohen, "And then a few verses about what the gods did to him," the minstrel went on, tightening a string. "Did to him? Did to him?" said Cohen. "They made him immortal!" "Er. . . yes. In a way , I suppose. " "What do you mean, 'in a way'?" "It's classical mythology, Cohen," said the minstrel. "I thought everyone knew. He was chained to a rock for eternity and every day an eagle comes and pecks out his liver. " "Is that true?" "It's mentioned in many of the classic texts. " "I'm not much of a reader," said Cohen. "Chained to a rock? For a first offence? He's still there?" "Eternity isn't finished yet, Cohen. " "He must've had a big liver!" "It grows again every night, according to the legend," said the minstrel. "I wish my kidneys did," said Cohen. He stared at the distant clouds that hid the snowy top of the mountain. "He brought fire to everyone, and the gods did that to him, eh? Well. . . we'll have to see about that. " The omniscope showed a snowstorm. "Bad weather down there, then," said Ridcully. "No, it's thaumic interference," said Ponder. "They're passing under the elephants. We'll get a lot more of it, I'm afraid. " "Did they really say "Ankh-Morpork, we have an orangutan"?" said the Dean. "The Librarian must have got on board somehow," said Ponder. "You know what he's like for finding odd corners to sleep in. And that, I'm afraid, explains about the weight and the air. Er. . . I have to tell you that I'm not sure that they have enough time or power to get back on to the Disc now. " "What do you mean, you're not sure?" said Lord Vetinari. "Er. . . I mean I am sure but, er, no one likes bad news all at once, sir. " Lord Vetinari looked at the big spell that dominated the cabin. It floated in the air: the whole world, sketched in glowing lines and, dropping from one glittering edge, a small curving line. As he watched it lengthened slightly. "They can't just turn around and come back?" he said. "No, sir. It doesn't work like that. " "Can they throw the Librarian out?" The wizards looked shocked. "No, sir," said Ponder. "That would be murder, sir. " "Yes, but they may save the world. One ape dies, one world lives. You do not need to be a rocket wizard to work that out, surely?" "You can't ask them to make a decision like that, sir!" "Really? I make decisions like that every day," said Lord Vetinari. "Oh, very well. What are they short of?" "Air and dragon power, sir. " "If they chop up the orangutan and feed him to the dragons, won't that kill two birds with one stone?" The sudden iciness told Lord Vetinari that once again he hadn't taken his audience with him. He sighed. "They need dragon flame to. . . ?" he said. "To bring their ringpath over the Disc, sir. They have to fire the dragons at the right time. " Vetinari looked at the magical orrery again. "And now. . . ?" "I'm not quite sure, sir. They may crash into the Disc, or they may shoot straight out into endless space. " "And they need air. . . " "Yes, sir. " Vetinari's arm moved through the outline of the world and a long forefinger pointed. "Is there any air here? " he said. "That meal," said Cohen, "was heroic. No other word for it. " "That's right, Mrs McGarry," said Evil Harry. "Even rat doesn't taste this much like chicken. " "Yes, the tentacles hardly spoiled it at all!" said Caleb enthusiastically. They sat and watched the view. What had once been the world below was now a world in front, rising like an endless wall. "What're they, right up there?" said Cohen, pointing. "Thanks, friend," said Evil Harry, looking away. "I'd like the. . . chicken to stay down, if it's all the same to you. " "They're the Virgin Islands," said the minstrel. "So called because there's so many of them. " "Or maybe they're hard to find," said Truckle the Uncivil, burping. "Hur, hur, hur. " "Ye can see the stars from up here," said Mad Hamish, "e'en though 'tis day. " Cohen grinned at him. It wasn't often Mad Hamish volunteered anything. "They say every one of 'em's a world," said Evil Harry. "Yeah," said Cohen. "How many, bard?" "I don't know. Thousands. Millions," said the minstrel. "Millions of worlds, and we get. . . what? How old are you, Hamish?" "Whut? I were born the day the old thane died," said Hamish. "When was that? Which old thane?" said Cohen patiently. "Whut? I ain't a scholar! I canna remember that kinda stuff!" "A hundred years, maybe," said Cohen. "One hundred years.

And there's millions o' worlds. " He took a pull of his cigarette and rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb. "It's a bugger. " He nodded at the minstrel. "What did your mate Carelinus do after he'd blown his nose?" "Look, you really shouldn't think of him like that," said the minstrel hotly. "He built a huge empire. . . too big, really. And in many ways he was a lot like you. Haven't you heard of the Tsortean Knot?" "Sounds dirty," said Truckle. "Hur, hur, hur. . . sorry. " The minstrel sighed. "It was a huge, complicated knot that tied two beams together in the Temple of Offler in Tsort, and it was said that whoever untied it would reign over the whole of the continent," he said. "They can be very tricky, knots," said Mrs McGarry. "Carelinus sliced right through it with his sword!" said the minstrel. The revelation of this dramatic gesture did not get the applause he expected. "So he was a cheat as well as a cry-baby?" said Boy Willie. "No! It was a dramatic, nay, portentous gesture!" snapped the minstrel. "Yeah, okay, but it's not exactly untying it, is it? I mean, if the rules said 'untying', I don't see why he should ―" "Nah, nah, the lad's got a point," said Cohen, who seemed to have been turning this one over in his mind. "It wasn't cheating, because it was a good story. Yeah. I can understand that. " He chuckled. "I can just imagine it, too. A load of whey-faced priests and suchlike standin' around and thinkin', 'that's cheating , but he's got a really big sword so I won't be the first to point this out, plus this damn great army is just outside'. Hah. Yeah. Hmm. What did he do next?" "Conquered most of the known world. " "Good lad. And after that?" "He. . . er. . . went home, reigned for a few years, then he died and his sons squabbled and there were a few wars. . . and that was the end of the empire. " "Children can be a problem," said Vena, without looking up from carefully embroidering forget-me-nots around BURN THIS HOUSE. "Some people say you achieve immortality through your children," said the minstrel. "Yeah?" said Cohen. "Name one of your great-granddads, then. " "Well. . . er. . . " "See? Now, I got lots of kids," said Cohen. "Haven't seen most of 'em. . . you know how it is. But they had fine strong mothers and I hope like hell they're all living for themselves, not for me. Fat lot of good they did your Carelinus, losin' his empire for him. " "But there's lots more a proper historian could tell you ―" said the minstrel. "Hah!" said Cohen. "It's what ordin'ry people remember that matters. It's songs and sayin's. It doesn't matter how you live and die, it's how the bards wrote it down. " The minstrel felt their joint gaze fix on him. "Um. . . I'm making lots of notes," he said. "Ook," said the Librarian, by way of explanation. "And then he says something fell on his head," Rincewind translated. "It must have been when we dived. " "Can we throw some of this stuff out of the ship to lighten it?" said Carrot. "We don't need most of it. " "Alas, no," said Leonard. "We will lose all our air if we open the door. " "But we've got these breathing helmets," Rincewind pointed out. " Three helmets," said Leonard. The omniscope crackled. They ignored it. The Kite was still passing under the elephants, and the thing showed mostly a kind of magical snow. But Rincewind did glance up, and saw that someone in the storm was holding a card on which had been scrawled, in large letters: STAND BY. Ponder shook his head. "Thank you, Archchancellor, but I'm far too busy for you to help me," he said. "But will it work?" "It has to, sir. It's a million-to-one chance. " "Oh, then we don't have to worry. Everyone knows million-to-one chances always work. " "Yes, sir. So all I have to do is work out if there's still enough air outside the ship for Leonard to steer it, or how many dragons he will need to fire for how long, and if there will be enough power left to get them off again. I think he's travelling at nearly the right speed, but I'm not sure how much flame the dragons will have left, and I don't know what kind of surface he'll land on or anything they'll find there. I can adapt a few spells, but they were never devised for this sort of thing. " "Good man," said Ridcully. "Is there anything we can do to help?" said the Dean. Ponder gave the other wizards a desperate look. How would Lord Vetinari have handled this? "Why, yes," he said brightly. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to find a cabin somewhere and come up with a list of all the various ways I could solve this? And I will just sit here and toy with a few ideas?" "That's what I like to see," said the Dean. "A lad with enough sense to make use of the wisdom of his elders. " Lord Vetinari gave Ponder a faint smile as they left the cabin. In the sudden silence Ponder. . . pondered. He stared at the orrery, walked around it, enlarged sections of it, peered at them, pored over the notes he had made about the power of dragon flight, stared at a model of the Kite , and spent a lot of time looking at the ceiling. This wasn't the normal way of working for a wizard. A wizard evolved the wish, and then devised the command. He didn't bother much with observing the universe; rocks and trees and clouds could not have anything very intelligent to impart. They didn't even have writing on them, after all. Ponder looked at the numbers he had scribbled. As a calculation, it was like balancing a feather on a soap bubble which wasn't there. So he guessed. On the Kite, the situation was being 'workshopped'. This is the means by which people who don't know anything get together to pool their ignorance. "Could we all hold our breath for a quarter of the time?" said Carrot. "No. Breath doesn't work like that, alas," said Leonard. "Perhaps we should all stop talking?" said Rincewind. "Ook," said the Librarian, pointing to the fuzzy screen of the omniscope. Someone was holding up another placard. The huge words could just be made out: THIS IS WHAT YOU DO. Leonard snatched a pencil and began to scribble in the corner of a drawing of a machine for undermining city walls. Five minutes later he put it down again. "Remarkable," he said. "He wants us to point the Kite in a different direction and go faster. " "Where to?" "He doesn't say. But. . . ah, yes. He wants us to fly directly towards the sun. " Leonard gave them one of his bright smiles. It faced three blank stares. "It will mean allowing one or two individual dragons to flare for a few seconds, to bring us around, and then ―" "The sun," said Rincewind. "It's hot ," said Carrot. "Yes, and I am sure we're all very glad of that," said Leonard, unrolling a plan of the Kite. "Ook!" "I'm sorry?" "He said, "And this boat is made of wood!"" said Rincewind. "All that in one syllable?" "He's a very concise thinker! Look, Stibbons must have made a mistake. I wouldn't trust a wizard to give me directions to the other side of a very small room!" "He does seem to be a bright young man, though," said Carrot. "You'll be bright, too, if you're in this thing when it hits the sun," said Rincewind. "Incandescent, I expect. " "We can point the Kite if we're very careful how we operate the port and starboard mirrors," said Leonard thoughtfully. "There may be a little trial and error. . . " "Ah, we seem to have the hang of it," said Leonard. He turned over a small eggtimer. "And now, all dragons for two minutes. . . " "I ssuppose he'll ttell uss ssoon wwhat happens nnext?" shouted Carrot, while behind them things tinkled and creaked. "Mmr Sstibbonss hhas ttwo ththousand yyears of uuniversity eexpertise bbehind hhim!" yelled Leonard, above the din. "Hhow mmuch of ththat hhas iinvolved ssteering fflying sships wwith ddragons?" screamed Rincewind. Leonard leaned against the tug of home-made gravity and looked at the eggtimer. "Aabout wwwwwone hhundred sseconds!" "Ah! Iiit'ss ppractically aaa ttradition, tthenn!" Erratically, the dragons stopped flaming. Once again, things filled the air. And there was the sun. But no longer circular. Something had clipped its edge.

"Ah," said Leonard. "How clever. Gentlemen, behold the moon!" "We're going to hit the moon instead?" said Carrot. "Is that better? " "My feelings exactly," said Rincewind. "Ook!" "I don't think we're going so very fast," said Leonard. "We're only just catching it up. I think Mr Stibbons intends that we land on it. " He flexed his fingers. "There's some air there, I'm sure of it," he went on. "Which means there is probably something we can feed to the dragons. And then, and this is very clever thinking, we ride on the moon until it rises over the Disc, and all we need to do is drop down lightly. " He kicked the release on the wing levers. The cabin rattled to the spinning of the flywheels. On either side, the Kite spread its wings. "Any questions?" he said. "I'm trying to think of all the things that could go wrong," said Carrot. "I've got to nine so far," said Rincewind. "And I haven't started on the fine detail. " The moon was getting bigger, a dark sphere eclipsing the light of the distant sun. "As I understand it," said Leonard, as it began to loom in the windows, "the moon, being much smaller and lighter than the Disc, can only hold on to light things, like air. Heavier things, like the Kite , should hardly be able to stay on the ground. " "And that means. . . ?" said Carrot. "Er. . . we should just float down," said Leonard. "But holding on to something might be a good idea. . . " They landed. It's a short sentence, but contains a lot of incident. There was silence on the boat, apart from the sound of the sea and Ponder Stibbons's urgent muttering as he tried to adjust the omniscope. "The screams. . . " murmured Mustrum Ridcully, after a while. "But then they screamed a second time, a few seconds later," said Lord Vetinari. "And a few seconds after that ," said the Dean. "I thought the omniscope could see anywhere ," said the Patrician, watching the sweat pour off Ponder. "The shards, er, don't seem stable when they're too far apart, sir," said Ponder. "Uh. . . and there's still a couple of thousand miles of world and elephant between them. . . ah. . . " The omniscope flickered, and then went blank again. "A good wizard, Rincewind," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "Not particularly bright, but, frankly, I've never been quite happy with intelligence. An overrated talent, in my humble opinion. " Ponder's ears went red. "Perhaps we should put a small plaque up somewhere in the University," said Ridcully. "Nothing garish, of course. " "Gentlemen, are you forgetting?" said Lord Vetinari. "Soon there will be no University. " "Ah. Well, a small saving there, then. " 'Hello? Hello? Is there anyone there? ' And there was, fuzzy but recognisable, a face peering out of the omniscope. "Captain Carrot?" Ridcully roared. "How did you get that damn thing to work?" 'I just stopped sitting on it, sir. ' "Are you all right? We heard screams!" said Ponder. 'That was when we hit the ground, sir. ' "But then we heard screams again? 'That was probably when we hit the ground for the second time, sir. ' "And the third time?" 'Ground again, sir. You could say the landing was a bit. . . tentative. . . for a while there. ' Lord Vetinari leaned forward. "Where are you?" 'Here, sir. On the moon. Mr Stibbons was right. There is air here. It's a bit thin, but it's fine if your plans for the day include breathing. ' "Mr Stibbons was right, was he?" said Ridcully, staring at Ponder. "How did you work that out so exactly , Mr Stibbons?" "I, er. . . " Ponder felt the eyes of the wizards on him. "I ―" He stopped. "It was a lucky guess, sir. " The wizards relaxed. They were extremely uneasy with cleverness, but lucky guessing was what being a wizard was all about. "Well done, that man," said Ridcully, nodding. "Wipe your forehead, Mr Stibbons, you've got away with it again. " 'I've taken the liberty of asking Rincewind to take a picture of me planting the flag of Ankh-Morpork and claiming the moon on behalf of all the nations of the Disc, your lordship ,' Carrot went on. "Very. . . patriotic," said Lord Vetinari. "I may even tell them. " 'However, I can't show you this on the omniscope because, shortly afterwards, something ate the flag. Things here. . . aren't entirely what you'd expect, sir. ' They were definitely dragons. Rincewind could see that. But they resembled swamp dragons in the same way that greyhounds resembled those odd yappy little dogs with lots of Zs and Xs in their name. They were all nose and sleek body, with longer arms and legs than the swamp variety, and they were so silvery that they looked like moonlight hammered into shape. And. . . they flamed. But it was not from the end that Rincewind had, hitherto, associated with dragons. The strange thing was, as Leonard said, that once you stopped sniggering about the whole idea it made a lot of sense. It was so stupid for a flying creature to have a weapon which stopped it dead in midair, for example. Dragons of all sizes surrounded the Kite , watching it with deer-like curiosity. Occasionally one or two would leap into the air and roar away, but others would land to join the throng. They stared at the crew of the Kite as if they were expecting them to do tricks, or make an important announcement. There was greenery, too, except that it was silvery. Lunar vegetation covered most of the surface. The Kite 's third bounce and long slide had left a trail through it. The leaves were ― "Hold still , will you?" Rincewind's attention was drawn to his patient as the Librarian struggled; the problem with bandaging an orangutan's head is knowing when to stop. "It's your own fault," he said. "I told you. Small steps, I said. Not giant leaps. " Carrot and Leonard bounced around the side of the Kite. "Hardly any damage at all," said the inventor as he drifted down. "The whole thing took the shock remarkably well. And we're pointing slightly upwards. In this. . . general lightness, that should be quite sufficient to allow us to take off again, although there is one minor problem ― Shoo, will you?" He waved away a small silver dragon that was sniffing at the Kite , and it took off vertically on a needle of blue flame. "We're out of food for our dragons," said Rincewind. "I've looked. The fuel bunker broke open when we landed for the first time. " "But we can feed them some of the silver plants, can't we?" said Carrot. "The ones here seem to do very well on them. " "Aren't they magnificent creatures?" said Leonard as a squadron of the creatures sailed overhead. They turned to watch the flight, and then stared beyond it. There was possibly no limit to how often the view could amaze you. The moon was rising over the world, and elephant's head filled half the sky. It was. . . simply big. Too big to describe. Wordlessly, all four voyagers climbed a small mound to get a clear view, and they stood in silence for some time. Dark eyes the size of oceans stared at them. Great crescents of ivory obscured the stars. There was no sound but the occasional click and swish as the iconograph imp painted picture after picture. Space wasn't big. It wasn't there. It was just nothing and therefore, in Rincewind's view, nothing to get humble about. But the world was big, and the elephant was huge. "Which one is it?" said Leonard, after a while. "I don't know," said Carrot. "You know, I'm not sure I ever really believed it before. You know. . . about the turtle and the elephants and everything. Seeing it all like this makes me feel very. . . very. . . " "Scared?" suggested Rincewind. "No. " "Upset?" "No. " "Easily intimidated?" "No. " Beyond the Rimfall, the continents of the world were coming into view under swirls of white cloud. "You know. . . from up here. . . you can't see the boundaries between nations," said Carrot, almost wistfully. "Is that a problem?" said Leonard. "Possibly something could be done. " "Maybe huge, really huge buildings in lines, along the frontiers," said Rincewind. "Or. . . or very wide roads. You could paint them different colours to save confusion.

" "Should aerial travel become widespread," said Leonard, "it would be a useful idea to grow forests in the shape of the name of the country, or of other areas of note. I will bear this in mind. " "I wasn't actually sugges ―" Carrot began. And then he stopped, and just sighed. They went on watching, unable to tear themselves away from the view. Tiny sparkles in the sky showed where more flocks of dragons were sweeping between the world and the moon. "We never see them back home," said Rincewind. "I suspect the swamp dragons are their descendants, poor little things," said Leonard. "Adapted for heavy air. " "I wonder what else lives down here that we don't know about?" said Carrot. "Well, there's always the invisible squid-like creature that sucks all the air out of ―" Rincewind began, but sarcasm did not carry very well out here. The universe diluted it. The huge, black, solemn eyes in the sky withered it. Besides, there was just. . . toomuch. Too much of everything. He wasn't used to seeing this much universe all in one go. The blue disc of the world, unrolling slowly as the moon rose, looked outnumbered. "It's all too big," said Rincewind. "Yes. " "Ook. " There was nothing to do but wait for full moonrise. Or Discsink. Carrot carefully lifted a small dragon out of a coffee cup. "The little ones get everywhere," he said. "Just like kittens. But the adults just keep their distance and stare at us. " "Like cats, then," said Rincewind. He lifted up his hat and untangled a small silvery dragon from his hair. "I wonder if we ought to take a few back?" "We'll be taking them all back if we're not careful!" "They look a bit like Errol," said Carrot. "You know, the little dragon that was our Watch mascot? He saved the city by working out how to, er, flame backwards. We all thought he was some new kind of dragon," Carrot added, "but now it looks as though he was a throwback. Is Leonard still out there?" They looked out at Leonard, who had taken half an hour off to do some painting. A small dragon had perched on his shoulder. "He says he's never seen light like it," said Rincewind. "He says he must have a picture. He's doing very well, considering. " "Considering what?" "Considering that two of the tubes he was using contain tomato puree and cream cheese. " "Did you tell him?" "I didn't like to. He was so enthusiastic. " "We'd better start feeding the dragons," said Carrot, putting his cup down. "All right. Can you unstick this frying pan from my head, please?" Half an hour later the flicker of the omniscope screen illuminated Ponder's cabin. 'We've fed the dragons ,' said Carrot. 'The plants here are. . . odd. They seem to be made of a sort of glassy metal. Leonard has a rather impressive theory that they absorb sunlight during the day and then shine at night, thus creating "moonlight". The dragons seem to find it very tasty. Anyway, we shall be leaving shortly. I am just collecting some rocks. ' "I'm sure they will come in useful," said Lord Vetinari. "Actually, sir, they will be very valuable," whispered Ponder Stibbons. "Really?" said the Patrician. "Oh, yes! They may well be completely different from rocks on the Disc!" "And if they are exactly the same?" "Oh, that would be even more interesting, sir!" Lord Vetinari looked at Ponder without speaking. He could deal with most types of mind, but the one apparently operating Ponder Stibbons was of a sort he had yet to find the handles on. It was best to nod and smile and give it the bits of machinery it seemed to think were so important, lest it run amok. "Well done," he said. "Ah, yes, of course. . . and the rocks may contain valuable ores, or possibly even diamonds?" Ponder shrugged. "I wouldn't know about that, sir. But they may tell us more about the history of the moon. " Vetinari's brow wrinkled. " History? " he said. "But no one lives th― I mean, yes, well done. Tell me, do you have all the machinery you need?" The swamp dragons chewed at the moon leaves. They were metallic, with a glassy surface, and little blue and green sparks sizzled over the dragons’ teeth when they bit into them. The voyagers piled them up high in front of the cages. Unfortunately, the only explorer who would have noticed that the moon dragons ate only the occasional leaf was Leonard, and he had been too busy painting. Swamp dragons, on the other hand, were used to eating a lot of things in the energy-poor environment of their world. Stomachs used to transmuting the equivalent of stale cakes into usable flame took delivery of dialectric surfaces chock-full of almost pure energy. It was the food of the gods. It was only going to be a matter of time before one of them burped. The whole of the Disc was. . . well, there was the problem, from Rincewind's point of view. It was below them now. It looked below, even if it was really just overthere. He couldn't get over the dreadful feeling that once the Kite was airborne it would simply drop down to those distant, fleecy clouds. The Librarian helped him winch in the wing on his side, as Leonard made ready to depart. "Well, I mean, I know we've got wings and everything," Rincewind said. "It's just that I'm not at home in an environment where every direction is down. " "Ook. " "I don't know what I'll say to him. "Don't blow the world up" sounds a pretty persuasive argument to me. I'd listen to it. And I don't like the idea of going anywhere near the gods. We're like toys to them, you know. " Andthey don't realise how easily the arms and legs come off , he added to himself. "Ook?" "Pardon? Do you really say that?" "Ook. " "There is a. . . monkey god?" "Ook?" "No, no, that's fine, fine. Not one of our locals ones, is he?" "Eek. " "Oh, the Counterweight Continent. Well, they'll believe just about anything over. . . " He glanced out of the window and shuddered, " Down there. " There was a thud as the ratchet clicked into place. "Thank you, gentlemen," said Leonard. "Now if you'll just take your seats we ―" The thump of an explosion rocked the Kite and knocked Rincewind off his feet. "How curious, one of the dragons appears to have fired a little earl―" "Behold!" said Cohen, striking a pose. The Silver Horde looked around. "What?" said Evil Harry. " Behold , the citadels of the gods!" said Cohen, striking the pose again. "Yes, well, we can see it," said Caleb. "Is there something wrong with your back?" "Write down that I spake "Behold!"," said Cohen to the minstrel. "You don't have to write down any of this other stuff. " "You wouldn't mind saying ―" "― spaking ―" "― sorry, spaking , 'Behold the temples of the gods', would you?" said the minstrel. "It's got a better rhythm. " "Hah, this takes me back," said Truckle. "Remember, Hamish? You and me signed on with Duke Leofric the Legitimate when he invaded Nothingfjord?" "Aye, I mind it. " "Five damn days, that battle took," said Truckle, "'cos the Duchess was doing a tapestry to commemorate it, right? We had to keep doing the fights over and over again, and there was the devil to pay when she was changing needles. There's no place for the media on the field of battle, I've always said. " "Aye, and I mind you makin' a rude sign to the ladies!" Hamish cackled. "I saw that ol' tapestry in the castle of Rosante years later and I could tell it wuz you!" "Could we just get on with it?" said Vena. "Y'see, there's the problem," said Cohen. "It's no good just doin' it. You got to remember your posterity. " "Hur, hur, hur," said Truckle. "Laugh away," said Cohen. "But what about all those heroes that aren't remembered in songs and sagas, eh? You tell me about them. " "Eh? What heroes that aren't remembered in songs and sagas?" 'Exactly! ' "What's the plan?" said Evil Harry, who had been watching the shimmering light over the city of the gods. "Plan?" said Cohen. "I thought you knew. We're going to sneak in, smash the igniter, and run like hell. " "Yes, but how do you plan to do this?" said Evil Harry. He sighed when he saw their faces. "You haven't got one, have you?" he said wearily.

"You were just going to rush in, weren't you? Heroes never have a plan. It's always left up to us Dark Lords to have the plans. This is the home of the gods , lads! You think they won't notice a bunch of humans wandering around?" "We are intendin' to have a magnificent death," said Cohen. "Right, right. Afterwards. Oh, deary me. Look, I'd be thrown out of the secret society of evil madmen if I let you go at it mob-handed. " Evil Harry shook his head. "There's hundreds of gods, right? Everyone knows that. And new gods turning up all the time, right? Well? Doesn't a plan suggest itself? Anyone?" Truckle raised a hand. "We rush in?" he said. "Yes, we're all real heroes here, aren't we?" said Evil Harry. "No. That wasn't exactly what I had in mind. Lads, it's lucky for you that you've got me. . . " It was the Chair of Indefinite Studies who saw the light on the moon. He was leaning on the ship's rail at the time, having a quiet afternoon smoke. He was not an ambitious wizard, and generally just concentrated on keeping out of trouble and not doing anything very much. The nice thing about Indefinite Studies was that no one could describe exactly what they were. This gave him quite a lot of free time. He watched the moon's pale ghost for a while, and then went and found the Archchancellor, who was fishing. "Mustrum, should the moon be doing that?" he said. Ridcully looked up. "Good grief! Stibbons! Where's the man got to?" Ponder was located in the bunk where he had flopped asleep fully dressed. He was hustled up the ladder half-asleep, but he awoke quickly when he saw the sky. "Should it be doing that?" Ridcully demanded, pointing at the moon. "No, sir! It certainly shouldn't!" "It's a definite problem, is it?" said the Chair, hopefully. "It certainly is! Where's the omniscope? Has anyone tried to talk to them?" "Ah, well, not my field then," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, backing away. "Sorry. Would help if I could. Can see you're busy. Sorry. " All the dragons must have fired by now. Rincewind felt his eyeballs being pressed into the back of his head. Leonard was unconscious in the next seat. Carrot was presumably lying in the debris that had been rammed to the other end of the cabin. By the ominous creaking, and the smell, an orangutan was hanging on to the back of Rincewind's seat. Oh, and when he managed to turn his head to see out of the window, one of the dragon pods was on fire. It was no wonder ― the flame coming from the dragons was almost pure white. Leonard had mentioned one of these levers. . . Rincewind stared at them through a red mist. "If we have to drop all the dragons," Leonard had said, "we ―" What? Which lever? Actually, at a time like this the choice was plain. Rincewind, his vision blurred, his ears insulted by the sound of a ship in pain, pulled the only one he could reach. I can't put this in a saga, the minstrel thought. No one will ever believe it. I mean, they just won't ever believeit. . . "Trust me, right?" said Evil Harry, inspecting the Horde. "I mean, yes , obviously I am untrustworthy, point taken, but it's a matter of pride here, you understand? Trust me. This will work. I bet even the gods don't know all the gods, right?" "I feel a right twerp with these wings," Caleb complained. "Mrs McGarry did a very good job on'em, so don't complain," snapped Evil Harry. "You make a very good God of Love. What kind of love, I wouldn't like to say. And you are. . . ?" "God of Fish, Harry," said Cohen, who had stuck scales on his skin and made himself a sort of fish-head helmet from one of their late adversaries. Evil Harry tried to breathe. "Good, good, a very old fish god, yes. And you, Truckle, are. . . ?" "The God of bloody Swearing," said Truckle the Uncivil firmly. "Er, that could actually work," said the minstrel, as Evil Harry frowned. "After all, there are Muses of dance and song, and there's even a Muse of erotic poetry ―" "Oh, I can do that ," said Truckle dismissively. "'There was a young lady from Quirm, Whose grip was ― '" "All right, all right. And you, Hamish?" "God o' Stuff," said Hamish. "What stuff?" Hamish shrugged. He hadn't survived all this time by being unnecessarily imaginative. "Just. . . things, y'ken," he said. "Lost things, mebbe. Things lyin' aroound?" The Silver Horde turned to the minstrel, who nodded after some thought. "Could work," he said, at last. Evil Harry moved on to Boy Willie. "Willie, why have you got a tomato on your head and a carrot in your ear?" Boy Willie grinned proudly. "You'll love this one," he said. "God of Bein' Sick. " "It's been done," said the minstrel, before Evil Harry could reply. "Vometia. Goddess in Ankh-Morpork, thousands of years ago. 'To give an offering to Vometia' meant to ―" "So you'd better think of something else ," growled Cohen. "Oh? And what are you going to be, Harry?" said Willie. "Me? Er. . . I'm going to be a Dark God," said Evil Harry. "There's a lot of them around ―" "Here, you never said we could be demonic ," said Caleb. "If we can be demonic , I'm blowed if I'm gonna be a stupid cupid. " "But if I'd said we could be demons you'd all have wanted to be demons," Harry pointed out. "An' we'd have been arguing for hours. Besides, the other gods're goin" to smell a rat if a whole bunch of dark gods turn up all at once. " "Mrs McGarry hasn't done a thing ," said Truckle. "Well, I thought if I could borrow Evil Harry's helmet I could slip in as a Valkyrie maiden," said Vena. "Good sensible thinkin'," said Evil Harry. "There's bound to be a few of them around. " "And Harry won't need it because in a minute he's going to make an excuse about his leg or his back or something and how he can't come in with us," said Cohen, in a conversational voice. "On account of him havin' betrayed us. Right, Harry?" The game was getting more exciting. Most of the gods were watching now. Gods enjoy a good laugh, although it has to be said that their sense of humour is not subtle. Blind Io, the elderly chief of the gods, said, "I suppose there is no harm they can do us?" "No," said Fate, passing the dice box. "If they were very intelligent, they would not be heroes. " There was the rattle of a die, and one flew across the board and then began to spin in the air, tumbling faster and faster. Finally it vanished in a puff of ivory. "Someone has thrown uncertainty ," said Fate. He looked along the table. "Ah. . . my Lady. . . " "My lord," said the Lady. Her name was never spoken, although everyone knew what it was; speaking her name aloud would mean that she would instantly depart. Despite the fact that she had very few actual worshippers, she was nevertheless one of the most powerful of the deities on the Disc, since in their hearts nearly everyone hoped and believed that she existed. "And what is your move, my dear?" said Io. "I have already made it," said the Lady. "But I've thrown the dice where you can't see them. " "Good, I like a challenge," said Io. "In that case ―" "If I may suggest a diversion, sir?" said Fate smoothly. "And that is?" "Well, they do want to be treated like gods," said Fate. "So I suggest we do so. . . " "Are you thaying we thould take them theriouthly? " said Offler. "Up to a point. Up to a point. " "Up to which point?" said the Lady. "Up to the point, madam, where it ceases to amuse. " On the veldt of Howondaland live the N'tuitif people, the only tribe in the world to have noimagination whatsoever. For example, their story about the thunder runs something like this: "Thunder is a loud noise in the sky, resulting from the disturbance of the air masses by the passage of lightning. " And their legend "How the Giraffe Got His Long Neck" runs: "In the old days the ancestors of Old Man Giraffe had slightly longer necks than other grassland creatures, and the access to the high leaves was so advantageous that it was mostly long-necked giraffes that survived, passing on the long neck in their blood just as a man might inherit his grandfather's spear.

Some say, however, that it is all a lot more complicated and this explanation only applies to the shorter neck of the okapi. And so it is. " The N'tuitif are a peaceful people, and have been hunted almost to extinction by neighbouring tribes, who have lots of imagination, and therefore plenty of gods, superstitions and ideas about how much better life would be if they had a bigger hunting ground. Of the events on the moon that day, the N'tuitif said: "The moon was brightly lit and from it rose another light which then split into three lights and faded. We do not know why this happened. It was just a thing. " They were then wiped out by a nearby tribe who knew that the lights had been a signal from the god Ukli to expand the hunting ground a bit more. However, they were soon defeated entirely by a tribe who knew that the lights were their ancestors, who lived in the moon, and who were urging them to kill all non-believers in the goddess Glipzo. Three years later they in turn were killed by a rock falling from the sky, as a result of a star exploding a billion years ago. What goes around, comes around. If not examined too closely, it passes for justice. In the shaking, rattling Kite , Rincewind watched the last two dragon pods drop from the wings. They tumbled alongside for a moment, broke up, and fell away. He stared at the levers again. Someone, he thought muzzily, really should be doing something with them, shouldn't they? Dragons contrailed across the sky. Now they were free of the pods, they were in a hurry to get home. The wizards had created Thurlow's Interesting Lens just above the deck. The display was quite impressive. "Better than fireworks," observed the Dean. Ponder banged on the omniscope. "Ah, it's working now," he said, "but all I can see is this huge ―" More of Rincewind's face than a giant nose became visible as he drew back. "What levers do I pull? What levers do I pull?" he screamed. "What's happened?" "Leonard's still out cold and the Librarian is pulling Carrot out of all the junk and this is definitely a bumpy ride! We've got no dragons left! What are all these dials for? I think we're falling! What shall I do? " "Didn't you watch how Leonard did it?" "He had his feet on two pedals and was pulling all the levers all the time!" "All right, all right, I'll see if I can work out what to do from his plans and we can talk you down!" "Don't! Talk me Up! Up is where we want to stay! Not down!" "Are any of the levers marked?" said Ponder, scrabbling through Leonard's sketches. "Yes, but I don't understand them! Here's one marked 'Troba'!" Ponder scanned the pages, covered in Leonard's backwards writing. "Er. . . er. . . " he muttered. "Do not pull the lever marked 'Troba'!" snapped Lord Vetinari, leaning forward. "My lord!" said Ponder, and went red as Lord Vetinari's gaze fell upon him. "I'm sorry, my lord, but this is rather technical, it is about machinery , and it would perhaps be better if those whose education had been more in the field of the arts did not. . . " His voice faded under the Patrician's stare. "This one's got a normal label! It's called 'Prince Haran's Tiller'!" said a desperate voice from the omniscope. Lord Vetinari patted Ponder Stibbons on the shoulder. "I quite understand," he said. "The last thing a trained machinery person wants at a time like this is well-meant advice from ignorant people. I do apologise. And what is it that you intend to do?" "Well, I, er, I. . . " "As the Kite and all our hopes plunge towards the ground, I mean," Lord Vetinari went on. "I, er, I, let's see, we've tried. . . " Ponder stared at the omniscope, and at his notes. His mind had become a huge, white, sticky field of hot fluff. "I imagine we have at least a minute left," said Lord Vetinari. "No rush. " "I, er, perhaps we, er. . . " The Patrician leaned down towards the omniscope. "Rincewind, pull Prince Haran's Tiller," he said. "We don't know what it does ―" Ponder began. "Do tell me if you have a better idea," said Lord Vetinari. "In the meantime, I suggest that the lever is pulled. " On the Kite , Rincewind decided to respond to the voice of authority. "Er. . . there's a lot of clicking and whirring. . . " he reported. "And. . . some of the levers are moving by themselves. . . now the wings are unfolding. . . we're sort of flying in a straight line, at least. . . quite gently, really. . . " "Good. I suggest you apply yourself to waking up Leonard," said the Patrician. He turned and nodded at Ponder. "You yourself have not studied the classics, young man? I know Leonard has. " "Well. . . no, sir. " "Prince Haran was a legendary Klatchian hero who sailed around the world on a ship with a magical tiller," said Lord Vetinari. "It steered the ship while he slept. If I can be of any further help, don't hesitate to ask. " Evil Harry stood frozen with terror as Cohen advanced across the snow, hand raised. "You tipped off the gods, Harry," said Cohen. "We all heard yez," said Mad Hamish. "But it's okay ," Cohen added. "Makes it more interestin'. " His hand came down and slapped the small man on the back. "We thought: That Evil Harry, he may be dumber'n a thick brick, but betrayin' us at a time like this. . . well, that's what we call nerve ," said Cohen. "I've known a few Evil Dark Lords in my time, Harry, but I'd def'nit'ly give you three great big goblins' heads for style. You might have never made it into the, you know, big Dark Lord league, but you've got. . . well, Harry, you've definitely got the Wrong Stuff. " "We likes a man who sticks to his siege catapults," said Boy Willie. Evil Harry looked down and shuffled his feet, his face a battle between pride and relief. "Good of you to say that, lads," he mumbled. "I mean, you know, if it was up to me I wouldn't do this to yer, but I got a reputation to ―" "I said we understand ," said Cohen. "It's just like with us. You see a big hairy thing galloping towards you, you don't stop to think: Is this a rare species on the point of extinction? No, you hack its head off. 'Cos that's heroing, am I right? An' you see someone, you betray 'em, quick as wink, 'cos that's villaining. " There was a murmur of approval from the rest of the Horde. In a strange way, this too was part of the Code. "You're letting him go? " said the minstrel. "Of course. You haven't been paying attention, lad. The Dark Lord always gets away. But you'd better put in the song that he betrayed us. That'll look good. " "And. . . er. . . you wouldn't mind saying I fiendishly tried to cut your throats?" said Harry. "All right," said Cohen loftily. "Put in that he fought like a black-hearted tiger. " Harry wiped a tear from his eye. "Thanks, lads," he said. "I don't know what to say. I won't forget this. This could turn things right round for me. " "But do us a favour and see the bard gets back all right, though, will you?" said Cohen. "Sure," said Evil Harry. "Um. . . I'm not going back," said the minstrel. This surprised everyone. It certain surprised him. But life had suddenly opened two roads in front of him. One of them led back to a life singing songs about love and flowers. The other could lead anywhere. There was something about these old men that made the first choice completely impossible. He couldn't explain it. That was just how it was. "You've got to go back ―" said Cohen. "No, I've got to see how it ends," said the minstrel. "I must be mad, but that's what I want to do. " "You can make that bit up," said Vena. "No, ma'am," said the minstrel. "I don't think I can. I don't think this is going to end in any way that I could make up. Not when I look at Mr Cohen there in his fish hat and Mr Willie as the God of Being Sick Again. No, I want to come along. Mr Dread can wait for me here. And I'll be perfectly safe, sir. No matter what. Because I'm absolutely certain that when the gods find they're under attack by a man with a tomato on his head and another one disguised as the Muse of Swearing they're really, really going to want the whole world to know what happened next. " Leonard was still out cold.

Rincewind tried mopping his brow with a wet sponge. "Of course I watched him," said Carrot, glancing back at the gently moving levers. "But he built it, so it was easy for him. Um. . . I shouldn't touch that, sir. . . " The Librarian had swung himself into the driver's seat and was sniffing the levers. Somewhere underneath them, the automatic tiller clicked and purred. "We're going to have to come up with some ideas soon," Rincewind said. "It won't fly itself for ever. " "Perhaps if we gently. . . I shouldn't do that, sir ―" The Librarian gave the pedals a cursory glance. Then he pushed Carrot away with one hand while the other unhooked Leonard's flying goggles from their hook. His feet curled around the pedals. He pushed the handle that operated Prince Haran's Tiller and, far under his feet, something went thud. Then, as the ship shook, he cracked his knuckles, reached out, waggled his fingers for a moment, and grabbed the steering column. Carrot and Rincewind dived for their seats. The gates of Dunmanifestin swung open, apparently by themselves. The Silver Horde walked inside, keeping together, peering around suspiciously. "You better mark our cards for us, lad," whispered Cohen, looking around the busy streets. "I wasn't expecting this. " "Sir?" said the minstrel. "We expected a lot of carousing in a big 'all," said Boy Willie. "Not. . . shops. And everyone's different sizes!" "Gods can be any size, I reckon," said Cohen, as gods hurried towards them. "Maybe we could. . . come back another time?" said Caleb. The doors slammed behind them. "No," said Cohen. And suddenly there was a crowd around them. "You must be the new gods," said a voice from the sky. "Welcome to Dunmanifestin! You'd better come along with us!" "Ah, the God of Fish," said a god to Cohen, falling in beside him. "And how are the fish, your mightiness?" "Er. . . what?" said Cohen. "Oh. . . er. . . wet. Still very wet. Very wet things. " "And things?" a goddess asked Hamish. "How are things?" "Still lyin' aroond!" "And are you omnipotent?" "Aye, lass, but there's pills I'm takin' f'r it!" "And you're the Muse of Swearing?" said a god to Truckle. "Bloody right!" said Truckle desperately. Cohen looked up and saw Offler the Crocodile God. He wasn't a god who was hard to recognise, but in any case Cohen had seen him many times before. His statue in temples throughout the world was a pretty good likeness, and now was the time for a man to reflect on the fact that so many of those temples had been left a good deal poorer as a result of Cohen's activities. He didn't, however, because it was not the kind of thing he ever did. But it did seem to him that the Horde was being hustled along. "Where're we off to, friend?" he said. To watch the Gameth, your fithneth," said Offler. "Oh, yeah. That's where yo― we play around with u― mortals, right?" said Cohen. "Yes, indeed," said a god on the other side of Cohen. "And currently we've found some mortals actually attempting to enter Dunmanifestin. " "The devils, eh?" said Cohen pleasantly. "Give 'em a taste of hot thunderbolt, that's my advice. It's the only language they understand. " "Mostly because it's the only language you use," mumbled the minstrel, eyeing the surrounded gods. "Yes, we thought something like that would be a good idea," said the god. "I'm Fate, by the way. " "Oh, you're Fate?" said Cohen, as they reached the gaming table. "Always wanted to meet you. I thought you were supposed to be blind?" "No. " "How about if someone stuck two fingers in yer eyes?" "I'm sorry?" "Just my little joke. " "Ha. Ha," said Fate. "I wonder, O God of Fish, how good a player you are?" "Never been much of a gambler," said Cohen, as a solitary die appeared between Fate's fingers. "A mug's game. " "Perhaps you would care for a little. . . venture?" The crowd went silent. The minstrel looked into Fate's bottomless eyes, and knew that if you played dice with Fate the roll was always fixed. You could have heard a sparrow fall. "Yeah," said Cohen, at last. "Why not?" Fate tossed the die on to the board. "Six," he said, without breaking eye contact. "Right," said Cohen. "So I've got to a get a six too, yeah?" Fate smiled. "Oh, no. You are, after all, a god. And gods play to win. You, O mighty one, must throw a seven. " 'Seven? ' said the minstrel. "I fail to see why this should present a difficulty," said Fate, "to one entitled to be here. " Cohen turned the die over and over. It had the regulation six sides. "I could see that could present a difficulty," he said, "but only for mortals, o' course. " He tossed the die up in the air once or twice. "Seven?" he said. "Seven," said Fate. "Could be a knotty one," said Cohen. The minstrel stared at him, and felt a shiver run down his spine. "You'll remember I said that, lad?" Cohen added. The Kite banked through high cloud. "Ook!" said the Librarian happily. "He flies it better than Leonard did!" said Rincewind. "It must come more. . . easily," whispered Carrot. "You know. . . what with him being naturally atavistic. " "Really? I've always thought of him as quite good-natured. Except when he's called a monkey, of course. " The Kite turned again, curving through the sky like a pendulum. "Ook!" "'If you look out of the left window you can see practically everywhere'," Rincewind translated. "Ook!" "'And if you look out of the right window, you can see―' Good grief!" There was the Mountain. And there, glittering in the sunlight, was the home of the gods. Above it, just visible even in the brilliant air, was the shimmering misty funnel of the world's magical field earthing itself at the centre of the world. "Are you, er, are you much of a religious man yourself?" said Rincewind as clouds whipped by the window. "I believe all religions do reflect some aspect of an eternal truth, yes," said Carrot. "Good wheeze," said Rincewind. "You might just get away with it. " "And you?" said Carrot. "We-ll. . . you know that religion that thinks that whirling round in circles is a form of prayer?" "Oh, yes. The Hurtling Whirlers of Klatch. " "Mine is like that, only we go more in. . . straight lines. Yes. That's it. Speed is a sacrament. " "You believe it gives you some sort of eternal life?" "Not eternal , as such. More. . . well, just more, really. More life. That is," Rincewind added, "more life than you would have if you did not go very fast in a straight line. Although curving lines are acceptable in broken country. " Carrot sighed. "You're just a coward really, aren't you?" "Yes, but I've never understood what's wrong with the idea. It takes guts to run away, you know. Lots of people would be as cowardly as me if they were brave enough. " They looked out of the window again. The mountain was nearer. "According to the mission notes," said Carrot, thumbing through the sheaf of hastily written research notes that Ponder had thrust into his hand just before departure, "a number of humans have entered Dunmanifestin in the past and returned alive. " "Returned alive perse is not hugely comforting," said Rincewind. "With their arms and legs? Sanity? All minor extremities?" "Mostly they were mythical characters," said Carrot, uncertainly. "Before or after?" "The gods traditionally look favourably on boldness, daring and audacity," Carrot went on. "Good. You can go in first. " "Ook," said the Librarian. "He says we'll have to land soon," said Carrot. "Was there some position we're supposed to get into?" "Ook!" said the Librarian. He seemed to be fighting the levers. "What do you mean, 'lie on your back with your arms folded across your chest'?" "Eek!" "Didn't you watch what Leonard did when he landed us on the moon?" "Ook!" "And that was a good landing," said Rincewind. "Oh well, shame about the end of the world, but these things happen, eh?" WOULD YOU LIKE A PEANUT? I AM AFRAID IT IS A LITTLE HARD TO GET THE PACKET OPEN. A ghostly chair hung in the air next to Rincewind. A violet flaring round the edge of his vision told him that he was suddenly in a little private time and space of his own. "So we are going to crash?" he said.

POSSIBLY. I’M AFRAID THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE IS MAKING MY JOB VERY DIFFICULT. HOW ABOUT A MAGAZINE? The Kite curved around and began to glide gently towards the clouds around Cori Celesti. The Librarian glared at the levers, bit one or two of them, tugged the handle of Prince Haran's Tiller and then swung himself back along the cabin and hid under a blanket. "We're going to land in that snowfield," said Carrot, slipping into the pilot's seat. "Leonard designed the ship to land in snow, didn't he? After all ―" The Kite did not so much land as kiss the snow. It bounced up into the air, glided a little further, and touched down again. There were a few more skips, and then the keel was running crisply and smoothly over the snowfield. "Outstanding!" said Carrot. "It's just a walk in the park!" "You mean people are going to mug us and steal all our money and kick us viciously in the ribs?" said Rincewind. "Could be. We're heading directly towards the city. Have you noticed?" They stared ahead. The gates of Dunmanifestin were getting closer very quickly. The Kite breasted a snowdrift and sailed on. "This is not the time to panic," said Rincewind. The Kite hit the snow, rebounded into the air and flew through the gateway of the gods. Halfway through the gateway of the gods. "So. . . seven and I win," said Cohen. "It comes down showin' seven and I win, right?" "Yes. Of course," said Fate. "Sounds like a million-to-one chance to me," said Cohen. He tossed the die high in the air, and it slowed as it rose, tumbling glacially with a noise like the swish of windmill blades. It reached the top of its arc and began to fall. Cohen was staring fixedly at it, absolutely still. Then his sword was out of its scabbard and it whirled around in a complex curve. There was a snick and a green flash in the middle of the air and. . . . . . two halves of an ivory cube bounced across the table. One landed showing the six. The other landed showing the one. One or two of the gods, to the minstrel's amazement, began to applaud. "I think we had a deal?" said Cohen, still holding his sword. "Really? And have you heard the saying 'You cannot cheat Fate'?" said Fate. Mad Hamish rose in his wheelchair. "Ha' ye heard the sayin' 'Can yer mither stitch, pal'?" he yelled. As one man, or god, the Silver Horde closed up and drew its weaponry. "No fighting!" shouted Blind Io. "That is the rule here! We've got the world to fight in!" "That wasn't cheating!" Cohen growled. "Leavin' scrolls around to lure heroes to their death, that's cheatin'!" "But where would heroes be without magic maps?" said Blind Io. "Many of 'em 'd still be alive!" snapped Cohen. "Not pieces in some damn game!" "You cut the thing in half ," said Fate. "Show me where it says that in the rules! Yeah, why not show me the rules , eh?" said Cohen, dancing with rage. "Show me all the rules! What's up, Mr Fate? You want another go, is it? Double or quits? Double stakes?" "You mutht admit it wath a good thtroke," said Offler. Several of the lesser gods nodded. "What? Are you prepared to let them stand here and defy us?" said Fate. "Defy you , my lord," said a new voice. "I suggest they have won. He did cheat Fate. If you do cheat Fate, I do not believe it says anywhere that Fate's subsequent opinion matters. " The Lady stepped daintily through the crowd. The gods parted to let her pass. They recognised a legend in the making when they saw it. "And who are you? " snapped Cohen, still red with rage. "I?" The Lady unfolded her hands. A die lay on each palm, the solitary single dot facing up. But at a flick of her wrist the two flew together, lengthened, entwined, became a hissing snake writhing in the air ― and vanished. "I. . . am the million-to-one-chance," she said. "Yeah?" said Cohen, less impressed than the minstrel thought he ought to be. "And who are all the other chances?" "I am those, also. " Cohen sniffed. "Then you ain't no lady. " "Er, that's not really ―" the minstrel began. "Oh, that wasn't what I was supposed to say, was it?" said Cohen. "I was supposed to say. 'Ooh, ta, missus, much obliged'? Well, I ain't. They say fortune favours the brave, but I say I've seen too many brave men walkin' into battles they never walked out of. The hell with all of it ― What's up with you?" The minstrel was staring at a god on the edge of the crowd. "It's you , isn't it?" he growled. "You're Nuggan, aren't you?" The little god took a step backward, but made the mistake of trying dignity. "Be silent, mortal!" "You utter, utter. . . fifteen years! Fifteen damn years before I ever tasted garlic! And the priests used to get up early in the countryside round us to jump on all the mushrooms! And do you know how much a small slab of chocolate cost in our town, and what they did to people who were caught with one?" The minstrel shouldered the Horde aside and advanced on the retreating god, his lyre raised like a club. "I shall smite you with lightning!" squeaked Nuggan, raising his hands to protect himself. "You can't! Not here! You can only do that stuff back in the world! All you can do here is bluff and illusion! And bullying. That's what prayers are. . . it's frightened people trying to make friends with the bully! All those temples were built and. . . and you're nothing but a little ―" Cohen laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Well said, lad. Well said. But it's time you were goin'. " ' Broccoli ,' murmured Offler to Sweevo, God of Cut Timber. 'You can't go wrong with broccoli. ' 'I prohibit the practice of panupunitoplasty ,' said Sweevo. 'What'th that? ' 'Search me, but it's got them worried. ' "Just let me give him one wallop ―" shouted the minstrel. "Listen, son, listen," said Cohen, struggling to hold him. "You got better things to do with that lyre than smash it over someone's head, right? A few little verses ― it's 'mazin' how they stick in the mind. Listen to me, listen, do you hear what I'm tellin' you?. . . I've got a sword and it's a good one, but all the bleedin" thing can do is keep someone alive, listen. A song can keep someone immortal. Good or bad!" The minstrel relaxed a little, but only a little. Nuggan had taken refuge behind a group of other gods. "He'll wait until I'm out of the gates ―" groaned the minstrel. "He'll be busy! Truckle, press that plunger!" "Ah, your famous firework," said Blind Io. "But, my dear mortal, fire cannot harm the gods. . . " "Well now," said Cohen, "that depends, right? 'Cos in a minute or so, the top of this mountain is gonna look like a volcano. Everyone in the world will see it. I wonder if they'll believe in the gods any more?" "Hah!" sneered Fate, but a few of the brighter gods looked suddenly thoughtful. "Anyway," Cohen went on, "it dunt matter if someone kills the gods. It does matter that someone tried. Next time, someone'll try harder. " "All that will happen is that you will be killed," said Fate, but the more thoughtful gods were edging away. "What have we got to lose?" said Boy Willie. "We're going to die anyway. We're ready to die. " "We've always been ready to die," said Caleb the Ripper. "That's why we've lived such a long time," said Boy Willie. "But. . . why be so upset?" said Blind Io. "You've had long eventful lives, and the great cycle of nature ―" "Ach, the great cycle o' nature can eat ma loin-cloth!" said Mad Hamish. "And there's not many as would want to do that," said Cohen. "And I ain't much good with words, but. . . I reckon we're doing this 'cos we are goin' to die, d'yer see? And 'cos some bloke got to the edge of the world somewhere and saw all them other worlds out there and burst into tears 'cos there was only one lifetime. So much universe, and so little time. And that's not right. . . " But the gods were looking around. The wings had shattered and broken off. The fuselage smashed down on to the cobbles, and slid on. " Now is the time to panic," said Rincewind. The stricken Kite continued to scrape across the flagstones in a growing smell of scorched wood. A pale hand reached past Rincewind.

"It would be advisable," said Leonard, "to hold on to something. " He pulled a small handle labelled 'Sekarb'. Now the Kite stopped. In a very dynamic sort of way. The gods looked down. A hatch opened in the strange wooden bird. It fell off and rolled a little way. The gods saw a figure get out. He appeared, in many ways, to be a hero, except that he was far too clean. He looked around, removed his helmet and saluted. "Good afternoon, O mighty ones," he said. "I do apologise, but this should not take long. And may I take this opportunity to say on behalf of the people of the Disc that you are doing a wonderful job here. " He marched towards the Horde, past the astonished gods, and stopped in front of Cohen. "Cohen the Barbarian?" "What's it to you?" said Cohen, mystified. "I am Captain Carrot of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, and I hereby arrest you on a charge of conspiracy to end the world. You need not say anything ―" "I don't intend to say anything," said Cohen, raising his sword. "I'm just gonna cut your ―ing head off. " "Hold it, hold it," said Boy Willie urgently. "Do you know who we all are?" "Yessir. I believe so. You are Boy Willie, aka Mad Bill, Wilhelm the Chopper, the Great ―" "And you are going to arrest us? You say you are some kind of a watchman?" "That is correct, sir. " "We must've killed hundreds of watchmen in our time, lad!" "I'm sorry to hear that, sir. " "'Ow much do they pay you, boy?" said Caleb. "Forty-three dollars a month, Mr Ripper. With allowances. " The Horde burst out laughing. Then Carrot drew his sword. "I must insist, sir. What you are planning to do will destroy the world. " "Only this bit, lad," said Cohen. "Now you could go off home and ―" "I'm being patient, sir, out of respect for your grey hairs. " There was a further burst of laughing and Mad Hamish had to be slapped on the back. "Just a moment, boys," said Mrs McGarry quietly. "Are we thinking this one through? Look around you. " They looked around. "Well?" Cohen demanded. "There's me, and you," said Vena, "and Truckle and Boy Willie and Hamish and Caleb and the minstrel," "So? So?" "That's seven," said Vena, "Seven of us, against one of him. Seven against one. And he thinks he's going to save the world. And he knows who we are and he's still going to fight us. . . " "You think he's a hero?" cackled Mad Hamish. "Hah! Wha' kind o' hero works for forty-three dollars a month? Plus allowances!" But the cackle was all alone in the sudden quietness. The Horde could calculate the peculiar mathematics of heroism quite quickly. There was, there always was, at the start and finish. . . the Code. They lived by the Code. You followed the Code, and you became part of the Code for those who followed you. The Code was it. Without the Code, you weren't a hero. You were just a thug in a loincloth. The Code was quite clear. One brave man against seven. . . won. They knew it was true. In the past, they'd all relied on it. The higher the odds, the greater the victory. That was the Code. Forget the Code, dismiss the Code, deny the Code. . . and the Code would take you. They looked down at Captain Carrot's sword. It was short, sharp and plain. It was a working sword. It had no runes on it. No mystic gleam twinkled on its edge. If you believed in the Code, that was worrying. One simple sword in the hands of a truly brave man would cut through a magical sword like suet. It wasn't a frightening thought, but it was a thought. "Funny thing," said Cohen, "but I heard tell once that down in Ankh-Morpork there's some watchman who's really heir to the throne but keeps very quiet about it because he likes being a watchman. . . " Oh dear, thought the Horde. Kings in disguise. . . that was Code material, right there. Carrot met Cohen's gaze. "Never heard of him," he said. "To die for forty-three dollars a month," said Cohen, holding the gaze, "a man's got to be very, very stupid or very, very brave. . . " "What's the difference?" said Rincewind, stepping forward. "Look, I don't want to break up a moment of drama or anything, but he's not joking. If that. . . keg explodes here, it will destroy the world. It'll. . . open a sort of hole and all the magic will drain away. " "Rincewind?" said Cohen. "What're you doing here, you old rat?" "Trying to save the world," said Rincewind. He rolled his eyes. ' Again. ' Cohen looked uncertain, but heroes don't back down easily, even in the face of the Code. "It'll really all blow up?" "Yes!" "'S not much of a world," Cohen muttered. "Not any more. . . " "What about all the dear little kittens ―" Rincewind began. "Puppies," hissed Carrot, not taking his eyes off Cohen. "Puppies, I mean. Eh? Think of them. " "Well. What about them?" "Oh. . . nothing. " "But everyone will die," said Carrot. Cohen shrugged his skinny shoulders. "Everyone dies, sooner or later. So we're told. " "There will be no one left to remember," said the minstrel, as if he was talking to himself. "If there's no one left alive, no one will remember. " The Horde looked at him. "No one will remember who you were or what you did," he went on. "There will be nothing. No more songs. No one will remember. " Cohen sighed, "All right, then let's say supposing I don't ―" "Cohen?" said Truckle, in an unusually worried voice. "You know a few minutes ago, where you said 'press the plunger'?" "Yes?" "You meant I shouldn't've?" The keg was sizzling. "You pressed it?" said Cohen. "Well, yes! You said. " "Can we stop it?" "No," said Rincewind. "Can we outrun it?" "Only if you can think of a way to run ten miles really, really fast," said Rincewind. "Gather round, lads! Not you, minstrel boy, this is sword stuff. . . " Cohen beckoned the other heroes, and they went into a hurried huddle. It didn't seem to take long. "Right," said Cohen, as they straightened up. "You got all our names down right, Mr Bard?" "Of course ―" "Then let's go, lads!" They heaved the keg back on to Hamish's wheelchair. Truckle half turned as they started to push it. "Here, bard! You sure you made a note of that bit where I― ?" "We are leaving! " shouted Cohen, grabbing him. "See you later, Mrs McGarry" She nodded, and stood back. "You know how it is," she said sadly. "Great-grandchildren on the way and everything. . . " The wheelchair was already moving fast. "Get 'em to name one after me!" yelled Cohen as he leapt aboard. "What're they doing?" said Rincewind as the chair rolled down the street towards the far gates. "They'll never get it down from the mountain quickly enough!" said Carrot, starting to run. The chair passed through the arch at the end of the street and rattled over the icy rocks. As they hurried after it, Rincewind saw it bounce out and into ten miles of empty air. He thought he heard the last words, as the downward plunge began: "Aren't we supposed to shout somethinggggg. . . " Then chair and figures and barrel became smaller and smaller and merged into the hazy landscape of snow and sharp hungry rocks. Carrot and Rincewind watched. After a while the wizard noticed Leonard, out of the corner of his eye. The man had his fingers on his own pulse and was counting under his breath. "Ten miles. . . hmm. . . allow for air resistance. . . call it three minutes plus. . . yes. . . yes, indeed. . . we should be averting our eyes around. . . yes. . . now. Yes, I think that would be a good i―" Even through closed lids, the world went red. When Rincewind crawled to the edge, he saw a small distant circle of evil black and crimson. Several seconds later thunder boomed up the flanks of Cori Celesti, causing avalanches. And that, too, died away. "Do you think they've survived?" said Carrot, peering down into the fog of dislodged snow. "Huh?" said Rincewind. "It wouldn't be the proper story if they didn't survive. " "Captain, they fell about ten miles into an explosion which has just reduced a mountain to a valley," said Rincewind. "They could have landed in really deep snow on some ledge," said Carrot. "Or there may have been a passing flock of really large soft birds?" said Rincewind. Carrot bit his lip.

"On the other hand. . . giving up their lives to save everyonein the world. . . that's a good ending, too. " "But it was them who were going to blow it up!" "Still very brave of them, though. " "In a way, I suppose. " Carrot shook his head sadly. "Perhaps we could get down and check. " "It's a great bubbling crater of boiling rock!" Rincewind burst out. "It'd take a miracle!" "There's always hope. " "So? There's always taxes, too. It doesn't make any difference. " Carrot sighed and straightened up. "I wish you weren't right. " " You wish I wasn't right? Come on, let's get back. We're not exactly out of trouble ourselves, are we?" Behind them, Vena blew her nose and then tucked her handkerchief back into her armoured corset. It was time, she thought, to follow the smell of horses. The remains of the Kite were the subject of keen but uncomprehending interest among the deitic classes. They weren't certain what it was, but they definitely disapproved of it. "I feel," said Blind Io, "that if we had wanted people to fly, we would have given them wings. " "We allow broomthtickth and magic carpeth," said Offler. "Ah, but they're magical. Magic. . . religion. . . there is a certain association. This is an attempt to subvert the natural order. Just anyone could float around the place in one of these things. " He shuddered. "Men could look down upon their gods!" He looked down upon Leonard of Quirm. "Why did you do it?" he said. "You gave me wings when you showed me birds," said Leonard of Quirm. "I just made what I saw. " The rest of the gods said nothing. Like many professionally religious people ― and they were pretty professional, being gods ― they tended towards unease in the presence of the unashamedly spiritual. "None of us recognise you as a worshipper," said Io. "Are you an atheist? " "I think I can say that I definitely believe in the gods," said Leonard, looking around. This seemed to satisfy everyone except Fate. "And is that all?" he said. Leonard thought for a while. "I think I believe in the secret geometries, and the colours on the edge of light, and the marvellous in everything," he said. "So you're not a religious man, then?" said Blind Io. "I am a painter. " "That's a "no", then, is it? I want to be clear on this. " "Er. . . I don't understand the question," said Leonard. "As you ask it. " "I don't think we understand the answers," said Fate. "As you give them. " "But I suppose we owe you something," said Blind Io. "Never let it be said the gods are unjust. " "We don't let it be said the gods are unjust," said Fate. "If I may suggest ―" "Will you be silent!" Blind Io thundered. "We'll do it the old way, thank you!" He turned to the explorers and pointed a finger at Leonard. "Your penalty," said Blind Io, "is this: you will paint the ceiling of the Temple of Small Gods in Ankh-Morpork. All of it. The decoration is in a terrible state. " "But that's not fair ," said Carrot. "He's not a young man, and it took the great Angelino Tweebsly twenty years to paint that ceiling!" "Then it will keep his mind occupied," said Fate. "And prevent him thinking the wrong sort of thoughts. That is the correct punishment for those who usurp the powers of the gods! We will find work for idle hands to do. " "Hmm," said Leonard. "A considerable amount of scaffolding. . . " " Vatht amounth," said Offler, with satisfaction. "And the nature of the painting?" said Leonard. "I would like to paint. . . " "The entire world. " said Fate. "Nothing less. " "Really? I was thinking of perhaps just a nice duck-egg blue with a few stars," said Blind Io. "The entire world," said Leonard, staring off into some private vision. "With elephants, and dragons, and the swirl of clouds, and mighty forests, and the currents of the sea, and birds, and the great yellow veldts, and the pattern of storms, and the crests of mountains?" "Er, yes," said Blind Io. "Without assistance," said Fate. "Even with the thcaffolding," said Offler. "This is monstrous," said Carrot. Blind Io said: "And if it is not completed in twenty years ―" "― ten years," said Fate. "― ten years, the city of Ankh-Morpork will be razed with heavenly fire!" "Hmm, yes, good idea," said Leonard, still staring at nothing. "Some of the birds will have to be quite small. . . " "He's in shock," said Rincewind. Captain Carrot had gone quiet with anger, as the sky does just before a thunderstorm. "Tell me," said Blind Io. "Is there a god of policemen?" "No, sir," said Carrot. "Coppers would be far too suspicious of anyone calling themselves a god of policemen to believe in one. " "But you are a gods-fearing man?" "What I've seen of them certainly frightens the life out of me, sir. And my commander always says, when we go about our business in the city, that when you look at the state of mankind you are forced to accept the reality of the gods. " The gods smiled their approval of this, which was indeed an accurate quotation. Gods have little use for irony. "Very good," said Blind Io. "And you have a request?" "Sir?" "Everyone wants something from the gods. " "No, sir. I offer you an opportunity. " " You will give something to us? " "Yes, sir. A wonderful opportunity to show justice and mercy. I ask you, sir, to grant me a boon. " There was silence. Then Blind Io said, "Is that one of those. . . wooden objects, wasn't it?. . . with a handle, and. . . mmm. . . beads on one side, and a sort of. . . thing, with hooks on. . . " He paused. "Did you mean one of those rubber things?" "No, sir. That would be a balloon, sir. A boon is a request. " "Is that all? Oh. Well?" "Allow the Kite to be repaired so that we can go home ―" "Impossible!" said Fate. "It sounds reasonable to me," said Blind Io, glaring at Fate. "It must be its last flight. " "It will be the last flight of the Kite , won't it?" said Carrot to Leonard. "Hmm? What? Oh, yes. Oh, certainly. I can see I designed a lot of it wrong. The next one ― mmph. . . " "What happened there?" said Fate suspiciously. "Where?" said Rincewind. "Where you clamped your hand over his mouth?" "Did I?" "You're still doing it!" "Nerves," said Rincewind, releasing his grip on Leonard. "I've been a bit shaken up. " "And do you want a boon too?" said Leonard. "What? Oh. Er. . . I'd prefer a balloon, as a matter of fact. A blue balloon. " Rincewind gave Carrot a defiant look. "It's all to do with when I was six, all right? There was this big unpleasant girl. . . and a pin. I don't want to talk about it. " He looked up at the watching gods. "I don't know what everyone's staring at, I'm sure. " "Ook," said the Librarian. "Does your pet want a balloon as well?" said Blind Io. "We do have a monkey god if he wants some mangoes and so on. . . " In the sudden chill, Rincewind said. "In fact he said he wants three thousand file cards, a new stamp and five gallons of ink. " "Eek!" said the Librarian, urgently. "Oh, all right. And a red balloon too, please, if they're free. " The repairing of the Kite was simple enough. Although gods, on the whole, do not feel at home around mechanical things, every pantheon everywhere in the universe finds it necessary to have some minor deity ― Vulcan, Wayland, Dennis, Hephaistos ― who knows how bits fit together and that sort of thing. Most large organisations, to their regret and expense, have to have someone like that. Evil Harry surfaced from the snowdrift, and gasped for breath. Then he was plunged back down again by a firm hand. "So it's a deal, then, is it?" said the minstrel, who was kneeling on his back and holding on to his hair. Evil Harry rose again. "Deal!" he roared, spitting snow. "And if you tell me later that I shouldn't have listened to you because everyone knows Dark Lords can't be trusted, I'll garotte you with a lyre string!" "You got no respect!" "Well? You are an evil treacherous Dark Lord, right?" said the minstrel, pushing the spluttering head back into the snow. "Well, yeah, of course. . . obviously. But respect costs nothi nnnn n n nn'.

" "You help me get down and I'll write you into the saga as the most wicked, iniquitous and depraved evil warlord there has even been, understand?" The head came up again, wheezing. "All right, all right. But you gotta promise. . . " "And if you betray me, remember that I don't know the Code! I don't have to let Dark Lords get away!" They descended in silence and, in Harry's case, mostly with his eyes shut. Off to one side and a long way down, a foothill that was now a valley still fumed and bubbled. "We'd never even find the bodies," said the minstrel, as they sought for a path. "Ah, and that'd be 'cos they didn't die, see?" said Harry. "They'd have come up with some plan at the last minute, you can bet on it. " "Harry ―" "You can call me Evil, lad. " "Evil, they spent the last minute falling down a mountain!" "Ah, but maybe they kind of glided through the air, see? And there's all those lakes down there. Or maybe they spotted where the snow was really deep. " The minstrel stared. "You really think they could have survived?" he said. There was a slight touch of desperation in Harry's raddled face. "Sure. O' course. All that talk from Cohen. . . that was just talk. He's not the sort to go around dyin" all the time. No old Cohen! I mean. . . not him. 'E's one of a kind. " The minstrel surveyed the Hublands ahead of him. There were lakes and there was deep snow. But the Horde was not in favour of cunning. If they needed cunning, they hired it. Otherwise, they simply attacked. And you couldn't attack the ground. It's all mixed up, he thought. Just like that captain said. Gods and heroes and wild adventure. . . but when the last hero goes, it all goes. He'd never been keen on heroes. But he realised that he needed them to be there, like forests and mountains. . . he might never see them, but they filled some sort of hole in his mind. Some sort of hole in everyone's mind. "Bound to be fine," said Evil Harry, behind him. "They'll probably be waitin' for us when we get down there. " "What's that, hanging on that rock?" said the minstrel. It turned out, when they'd scrambled up to it over slippery rocks, to be part of a shattered wheel from Mad Hamish's wheelchair. "Doesn't mean nothing," said Evil Harry, tossing it aside. "Come on, let's get a move on. This is not a mountain you want to be on at night. " "No. You're right. It doesn't," said the minstrel. He unslung his lyre and began to tune it. "It doesn't mean anything. " Before he turned to leave, he reached into a ragged pocket and pulled out a small leather bag. It was full of rubies. He tipped them out on to the snow, where they glowed. And then he walked on. There was a field of deep snow. Here and there a hollow suggested that the snow had been thrust aside with great force by a falling body, but the edges had been softened by the wind drift. The seven horsewomen landed gently, and the thing about the snow was this: there were hoofprints in it, but they did not appear exactly where the horses trod or exactly when they did. They seemed superimposed on the world, as if they had been drawn first and the artist did not have much time to paint the reality behind them. They waited for a while. "Well, this is jolly unsatisfactory," said Hilda (soprano). "They ought to be here. They do know they're dead, don't they?" "We haven't come to the wrong place, have we?" said Gertrude (mezzo-soprano). "Ladies? If you would be so kind as to dismount?" They turned. The seventh Valkyrie had drawn her sword and was smiling at them. "What cheek. Here, you're not Grimhilda!" "No, but I think I could probably beat all six of you," said Vena, tossing aside the helmet. "I shoved her in the privy with one hand. It would be. . . better if you simply dismounted. " "Better? Better than what?" said Hilda. Mrs McGarry sighed. "This," she said. The snow erupted old men. "Evening, miss!" said Cohen, grabbing Hilda's bridle. "Now, are you goin' to do like she says, or shall I get my friend Truckle here to ask you? Only he's a bit. . . uncivil. " "Hur, hur, hur!" "How dare you ―" "I'll dare anything, miss. Now get off or I'll push yer off!" "Well, really!" "Excuse me? I say? Excuse me?" said Gertrude. "Are you dead? " "Are we dead, Willie?" said Cohen. "We ought to be dead. But I don't feel dead. " "I ain't dead!" roared Mad Hamish. "I'll knock any man doon as tells me a'm dead!" "There's an offer you can't refuse," said Cohen, swinging himself on to Hilda's horse. "Saddle up, boys. " "But. . . excuse me?" said Gertrude, who was one of those people afflicted with terminal politeness. "We were supposed to take you to the great Halls of the Slain. There's mead and roast pork and fighting in between courses! Just for you! That's what you wanted! They laid it on justfor you! " "Yeah? Thanks all the same, but we ain't goin'," said Cohen. "But that's where dead heroes have got to go!" "I don't remember signin' anythin'," said Cohen. He looked up at the sky. The sun had set, and the first stars were coming out. Every one was a world, eh? "You still not joining us, Mrs McGarry?" he said. "Not yet, boys. " Vena smiled. "Not quite ready, I think. There'll come a time. " "Fair enough. Fair enough. We'll be going, then. Got a lot to do. . . " "But ―" Mrs McGarry looked across the snowfield. The wind had blown the snow over. . . shapes. Here a sword hilt projected from a drift, there a sandal was just visible. "Are you dead or not?" she said. Cohen scanned the snow. "Well, the way I see it, we don't think we are; so why should we care what anyone else thinks? We never have. Ready, Hamish? Then follow me, boys!" Vena watched as the Valkyries, squabbling among themselves, made their way back to the mountain. Then she waited. She had a feeling that there would be something to wait for. After a while, she heard another horse whinny. "Are you collecting?" she said, and turned to look at the mounted figure. THAT IS SOMETHING ABOUT WHICH I DO NOT PROPOSE TO ENLIGHTEN YOU, said Death. "But you are here," said Vena, although now she felt a lot more like Mrs McGarry again. Vena would probably have killed a few of the horsewomen just to make sure the others paid attention, but they'd all looked so young. I AM, OF COURSE, EVERYWHERE. Mrs McGarry looked up at the stars. "In the olden days," she said, "when a hero had been really heroic, the gods would put them up in the stars. " THE HEAVENS CHANGE, said Death. WHAT TODAY LOOKS LIKE A MIGHTY HUNTER MAY LOOK LIKE A TEACUP IN A HUNDRED YEARS’ TIME. "That doesn't seem fair. " NO ONE EVER SAID IT HAD TO BE. BUT THERE ARE OTHER STARS. At the base of the mountain, at Vena's camp, Harry got the fire going again while the minstrel sat and picked out notes. "I want you listen to this," he said, after a while, and played something. It went on, it seemed to Evil Harry, for a lifetime. He wiped away a tear as the last notes died away. "I've got to do some more work on it," said the minstrel, in a faraway voice. "But will it do?" "You asking me willit do? " said Evil Harry. "You're telling me you think you could make it even better? " "Yes. " "Well, it's not like. . . a real saga," said Evil Harry hoarsely. "It's got a tune. You could whistle it, even. Well, hum it. I mean, it even sounds like them. Like they'd sound if they was music. . . " "Good. " "It's. . . wonderful. . . " "Thank you. It will get better as more people hear it. It's music for people to listen to. " "And. . . it's not like we found any bodies, is it?" said the very small Dark Lord. "So they could be alive somewhere. " The minstrel picked a few notes on the lyre. The strings shimmered. "Somewhere," he agreed. "Y'know, kid," said Harry, "I don't even know your name. " The minstrel's brow wrinkled. He wasn't certain himself, any more. And he didn't know where he was going to go, or what he was going to do, but he suspected that life might be a lot more interesting from now on. "I'm just the singer," he said. "Play it again," said Evil Harry. Rincewind blinked, stared, and then looked away from the window.

"We've just been overtaken by some men on horseback. " he said. "Ook," said the Librarian, which probably meant. "Some of us have got some flying to do. " "I just thought I'd mention it. " Spiralling through the air like a drunken clown, the Kite climbed the column of hot air from the distant crater. It was the only instruction Leonard had given before going and sitting so quietly at the back of the cabin that Carrot was getting seriously worried. "He just sits there whispering things like "ten years!" and "the whole world!"," he reported. "It's come as a terrible shock. What a penance!" "But he looks cheerful ," said Rincewind. "And he keeps drawing sketches. And he's leafing through all those pictures you took on the moon. " "Poor chap. It's affecting his mind. " Carrot leaned forward. "We ought to get him home as soon as possible. What's the usual direction? "Second star to the left and straight on 'til morning"?" "I think that may very probably be the stupidest piece of astronavigation ever suggested," said Rincewind. "We're just going to head for the lights. Oh, and we'd better be careful not to look down on the gods. " Carrot nodded. "That's quite hard. " "Practically impossible," said Rincewind. And in a place on no map the immortal Mazda, bringer of fire, lay on his eternal rock. Memory can play tricks after the first ten thousand years, and he wasn't quite sure what had happened. There had been some old men on horseback, who'd swooped out of the sky. They'd cut his chains, and given him a drink, and had taken it in turns to shake his withered hand. Then they'd ridden away, into the stars, as quickly as they'd come. Mazda lay back into the shape his body had worn into the stone over the centuries. He wasn't quite sure about the men, or why they'd come, or why they'd been so happy. He was only sure, in fact, about two things. He was sure it was nearly dawn. He was sure that he held, in his right hand, the very sharp sword the old men had given him. And he could hear, coming closer with the dawn, the beat of an eagle's wings. He was going to enjoy this. It is in the nature of things that those who save the world from certain destruction often don't get hugely rewarded because, since the certain destruction does not take place, people are uncertain how certain it may have been and are, therefore, somewhat tight when it comes to handing out anything more substantial than praise. The Kite was landed rather roughly on the corrugated surface of the river Ankh and, as happens to public things lying around which don't appear to belong to anyone, quickly became the private property of many, many people. And Leonard began the penance for his hubris. This was much approved of by the Ankh-Morpork priesthood. It was definitely the sort of thing to encourage piety. Lord Vetinari was therefore surprised when he received an urgent message three weeks after the events recounted, and forced his way through the mob to the Temple of Small Gods. "What's going on?" he demanded of the priests peering around the door. "This is. . . blasphemy!" said Hughnon Ridcully. "Why? What has he painted?" "It's not what he's painted, my lord. What he's painted is. . . is amazing. And he's finished it! " Up on the mountain, as the blizzards closed in, there was a red glow in the snow. It was there all winter, and when the spring gales blew, the rubies glittered in the sunshine. No one remembers the singer. The song remains. Footnotes [1] Compared to, say, the Republican Bees, who committeed rather than swarmed and tended to stay in the hive a lot, voting for more honey. [2] That is, all those wizards who knew Archchancellor Ridcully, and were prepared to be led. [3] Few religions are definite about the size of Heaven, but on the planet Earth the Book of Revelation (ch. XXI, v. 16) gives it as a cube 12,000 furlongs on a side. This is somewhat less than 500,000,000. 000,000,000,000 cubic feet. Even allowing that the Heavenly Host and other essential services take up at least two thirds of this space, this leaves about one million cubic feet of space for each human occupant ― assuming that every creature that could be called "human" is allowed in, and that the human race eventually totals a thousand times the number of humans alive up until now. This is such a generous amount of space that it suggests that room has also been provided for some alien races or ― a happy thought ― that pets are allowed. [4] Many of the things built by the architect and freelance designer Bergholt Stuttley ('Bloody Stupid') Johnson were recorded in Ankh-Morpork, often on the line where it says 'Cause of Death'. He was, people agreed, a genius, at least if you defined the word broadly. Certainly no one else in the world could make an explosive mixture out of common sand and water. A good designer, he always said, should be capable of anything. And, indeed, he was. Table of Contents [1] [2] [3] [4] Terry Pratchett Guards! Guards! A Novel of Discworld ® Dedication They may be called the Palace Guard, the City Guard, or the Patrol. Whatever the name, their purpose in any work of heroic fantasy is identical: it is, round about Chapter Three (or ten minutes into the film) to rush into the room, attack the hero one at a time, and be slaughtered. No one ever asks them if they wanted to. This book is dedicated to those fine men. And also to Mike Harrison, Mary Gentle, Neil Gaiman and all the others who assisted with and laughed at the idea of L-space; too bad we never used Schrödinger’s Paperback… This is where the dragons went. They lie… Not dead, not asleep. Not waiting, because waiting implies expectation. Possibly the word we’re looking for here is… …dormant. And although the space they occupy isn’t like normal space, nevertheless they are packed in tightly. Not a cubic inch there but is filled by a claw, a talon, a scale, the tip of a tail, so the effect is like one of those trick drawings and your eyeballs eventually realize that the space between each dragon is, in fact, another dragon. They could put you in mind of a can of sardines, if you thought sardines were huge and scaly and proud and arrogant. And presumably, somewhere, there’s the key. In another space entirely, it was early morning in Ankh-Morpork oldest and greatest and grubbiest of cities. A thin drizzle dripped from the gray sky and punctuated the river mist that coiled among the streets. Rats of various species went about their nocturnal occasions. Under night’s damp cloak assassins assassinated, thieves thieved, hussies hustled. And so on. And drunken Captain Vimes of the Night Watch staggered slowly down the street, folded gently into the gutter outside the Watch House and lay there while, above him, strange letters made of light sizzled in the damp and changed color… The city wasa, wasa, wasa wossname. Thing. Woman. Thass what it was. Woman. Roaring, ancient, centuries old. Strung you along, let you fall in thingy, love, with her, then kicked you inna, inna, thingy. Thingy, in your mouth. Tongue. Tonsils. Teeth. That’s what it, she, did. She wasa…thing, you know, lady dog. Puppy. Hen. Bitch. And then you hated her and, and just when you thought you’d got her, it, out of your, your, whatever, then she opened her great booming rotten heart to you, caught you off bal, bal, bal, thing. Ance. Yeah. Thassit. Never knew where where you stood. Lay. Only thing you were sure of, you couldn’t let her go. Because, because she was yours, all you had, even in her gutters… Damp darkness shrouded the venerable buildings of Unseen University, premier college of wizardry. The only light was a faint octarine flicker from the tiny windows of the new High Energy Magic building, where keen-edged minds were probing the very fabric of the universe, whether it liked it or not. And there was light, of course, in the Library. The Library was the greatest assemblage of magical texts anywhere in the multiverse. Thousands of volumes of occult lore weighted its shelves.

It was said that, since vast amounts of magic can seriously distort the mundane world, the Library did not obey the normal rules of space and time. It was said that it went on forever. It was said that you could wander for days among the distant shelves, that there were lost tribes of research students somewhere in there, that strange things lurked in forgotten alcoves and were preyed on by other things that were even stranger. 1 Wise students in search of more distant volumes took care to leave chalk marks on the shelves as they roamed deeper into the fusty darkness, and told friends to come looking for them if they weren’t back by supper. And, because magic can only loosely be bound, the Library books themselves were more than mere pulped wood and paper. Raw magic crackled from their spines, earthing itself harmlessly in the copper rails nailed to every shelf for that very purpose. Faint traceries of blue fire crawled across the bookcases and there was a sound, a papery whispering, such as might come from a colony of roosting starlings. In the silence of the night the books talked to one another. There was also the sound of someone snoring. The light from the shelves didn’t so much illuminate as highlight the darkness, but by its violet flicker a watcher might just have identified an ancient and battered desk right under the central dome. The snoring was coming from underneath it, where a piece of tattered blanket barely covered what looked like a heap of sandbags but was in fact an adult male orangutan. It was the Librarian. Not many people these days remarked upon the fact that he was an ape. The change had been brought about by a magical accident, always a possibility where so many powerful books are kept together, and he was considered to have got off lightly. After all, he was still basically the same shape. And he had been allowed to keep his job, which he was rather good at, although “allowed” is not really the right word. It was the way he could roll his upper lip back to reveal more incredibly yellow teeth than any other mouth the University Council had ever seen before that somehow made sure the matter was never really raised. But now there was another sound, the alien sound of a door creaking open. Footsteps padded across the floor and disappeared among the clustering shelves. The books rustled indignantly, and some of the larger grimoires rattled their chains. The Librarian slept on, lulled by the whispering of the rain. In the embrace of his gutter, half a mile away, Captain Vimes of the Night Watch opened his mouth and started to sing. Now a black-robed figure scurried through the midnight streets, ducking from doorway to doorway, and reached a grim and forbidding portal. No mere doorway got that grim without effort, one felt. It looked as though the architect had been called in and given specific instructions. We want something eldritch in dark oak, he’d been told. So put an unpleasant gargoyle thing over the archway, give it a slam like the footfall of a giant and make it clear to everyone, in fact, that this isn’t the kind of door that goes “ding-dong” when you press the bell. The figure rapped a complex code on the dark woodwork. A tiny barred hatch opened and one suspicious eye peered out. “‘The significant owl hoots in the night,’” said the visitor, trying to wring the rainwater out of its robe. “‘Yet many gray lords go sadly to the masterless men,’” intoned a voice on the other side of the grille. “‘Hooray, hooray for the spinster’s sister’s daughter,’” countered the dripping figure. “‘To the axeman, all supplicants are the same height. ’” “‘Yet verily, the rose is within the thorn. ’” “‘The good mother makes bean soup for the errant boy,’” said the voice behind the door. There was a pause, broken only by the sound of the rain. Then the visitor said, “What?” “‘The good mother makes bean soup for the errant boy. ’” There was another, longer pause. Then the damp figure said, “Are you sure the ill-built tower doesn’t tremble mightily at a butterfly’s passage?” “Nope. Bean soup it is. I’m sorry. ” The rain hissed down relentlessly in the embarrassed silence. “What about the cagèd whale?” said the soaking visitor, trying to squeeze into what little shelter the dread portal offered. “What about it?” “It should know nothing of the mighty deeps, if you must know. ” “ Oh , the cagèd whale. You want the Elucidated Brethren of the Ebon Night. Three doors down. ” “Who’re you, then?” “We’re the Illuminated and Ancient Brethren of Ee. ” “I thought you met over in Treacle Street,” said the damp man, after a while. “Yeah, well. You know how it is. The fretwork club have the room Tuesdays. There was a bit of a mix-up. ” “Oh? Well, thanks anyway. ” “My pleasure. ” The little door slammed shut. The robed figure glared at it for a moment, and then splashed further down the street. There was indeed another portal there. The builder hadn’t bothered to change the design much. He knocked. The little barred hatch shot back. “Yes?” “Look, ‘The significant owl hoots in the night,’ all right?” “‘Yet many gray lords go sadly to the masterless men. ’” “‘Hooray, hooray for the spinster’s sister’s daughter,’ okay?” “‘To the axeman, all supplicants are the same height. ’” “‘Yet verily, the rose is within the thorn. ’ It’s pissing down out here. You do know that, don’t you?” “Yes,” said the voice, in the tones of one who indeed does know it, and is not the one standing in it. The visitor sighed. “‘The cagèd whale knows nothing of the mighty deeps,’” he said. “If it makes you any happier. ” “‘The ill-built tower trembles mightily at a butterfly’s passage. ’” The supplicant grabbed the bars of the window, pulled himself up to it, and hissed: “Now let us in, I’m soaked. ” There was another damp pause. “These deeps…did you say mighty or nightly?” “Mighty, I said. Mighty deeps. On account of being, you know, deep. It’s me, Brother Fingers. ” “It sounded like nightly to me,” said the invisible doorkeeper cautiously. “Look, do you want the bloody book or not? I don’t have to do this. I could be at home in bed. ” “You sure it was mighty?” “Listen, I know how deep the bloody deeps are all right,” said Brother Fingers urgently. “I knew how mighty they were when you were a perishing neophyte. Now will you open this door?” “Well…all right. ” There was the sound of bolts sliding back. Then the voice said, “Would you mind giving it a push? The Door of Knowledge Through Which the Untutored May Not Pass sticks something wicked in the damp. ” Brother Fingers put his shoulder to it, forced his way through, gave Brother Doorkeeper a dirty look, and hurried within. The others were waiting for him in the Inner Sanctum, standing around with the sheepish air of people not normally accustomed to wearing sinister hooded black robes. The Supreme Grand Master nodded at him. “Brother Fingers, isn’t it?” “Yes, Supreme Grand Master. ” “Do you have that which you were sent to get?” Brother Fingers pulled a package from under his robe. “Just where I said it would be,” he said. “No problem. ” “Well done, Brother Fingers. ” “Thank you, Supreme Grand Master. ” The Supreme Grand Master rapped his gavel for attention. The room shuffled into some sort of circle. “I call the Unique and Supreme Lodge of the Elucidated Brethren to order,” he intoned. “Is the Door of Knowledge sealed fast against heretics and knowlessmen?” “Stuck solid,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “It’s the damp. I’ll bring my plane in next week, soon have it—” “All right, all right ,” said the Supreme Grand Master testily. “Just a yes would have done. Is the triple circle well and truly traced? Art all here who Art Here? And it be well for an knowlessman that he should not be here, for he would be taken from this place and his gaskin slit, his moules shown to the four winds, his welchet torn asunder with many hooks and his figgin placed upon a spike yes what is it? ” “Sorry, did you say Elucidated Brethren?” The Supreme Grand Master glared at the solitary figure with its hand up.

“Yea, the Elucidated Brethren, guardian of the sacred knowledge since a time no man may wot of—” “Last February,” said Brother Doorkeeper helpfully. The Supreme Grand Master felt that Brother Doorkeeper had never really got the hang of things. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” said the worried figure. “Wrong society, I’m afraid. Must have taken a wrong turning. I’ll just be going, if you’ll excuse me…” “And his figgin placed upon a spike,” repeated the Supreme Grand Master pointedly, against a background of damp wooden noises as Brother Doorkeeper tried to get the dread portal open. “Are we quite finished? Any more knowlessmen happened to drop in on their way somewhere else?” he added with bitter sarcasm. “Right. Fine. So glad. I suppose it’s too much to ask if the Four Watchtowers are secured? Oh, good. And the Trouser of Sanctity, has anyone bothered to shrive it? Oh, you did. Properly? I’ll check, you know…all right. And have the windows been fastened with the Red Cords of Intellect, in accordance with ancient prescription? Good. Now perhaps we can get on with it. ” With the slightly miffed air of one who has run their finger along a daughter-in-law’s top shelf and found against all expectation that it is sparkling clean, the Grand Master got on with it. What a shower, he told himself. A bunch of incompetents no other secret society would touch with a ten-foot Sceptre of Authority. The sort to dislocate their fingers with even the simplest secret handshake. But incompetents with possibilities, nevertheless. Let the other societies take the skilled, the hopefuls, the ambitious, the self-confident. He’d take the whining resentful ones, the ones with a bellyful of spite and bile, the ones who knew they could make it big if only they’d been given the chance. Give him the ones in which the floods of venom and vindictiveness were dammed up behind thin walls of ineptitude and low-grade paranoia. And stupidity, too. They’ve all sworn the oath, he thought, but not a man jack of ’em has even asked what a figgin is. “Brethren,” he said. “Tonight we have matters of profound importance to discuss. The good governance, nay, the very future of Ankh-Morpork lies in our hands. ” They leaned closer. The Supreme Grand Master felt the beginnings of the old thrill of power. They were hanging on his words. This was a feeling worth dressing up in bloody silly robes for. “Do we not well know that the city is in thrall to corrupt men, who wax fat on their ill-gotten gains, while better men are held back and forced into virtual servitude?” “We certainly do!” said Brother Doorkeeper vehemently, when they’d had time to translate this mentally. “Only last week, down at the Bakers’ Guild, I tried to point out to Master Critchley that—” It wasn’t eye contact, because the Supreme Grand Master had made sure the Brethren’s hoods shrouded their faces in mystic darkness, but nevertheless he managed to silence Brother Doorkeeper by dint of sheer outraged silence. “Yet it was not always thus,” the Supreme Grand Master continued. “There was once a golden age, when those worthy of command and respect were justly rewarded. An age when Ankh-Morpork wasn’t simply a big city but a great one. An age of chivalry. An age when–yes, Brother Watchtower?” A bulky robed figure lowered its hand. “Are you talking about when we had kings?” “Well done, Brother,” said the Supreme Grand Master, slightly annoyed at this unusual evidence of intelligence. “And—” “But that was all sorted out hundreds of years ago,” said Brother Watchtower. “Wasn’t there this great battle, or something? And since then we’ve just had the ruling lords, like the Patrician. ” “Yes, very good, Brother Watchtower. ” “There aren’t any more kings, is the point I’m trying to make,” said Brother Watchtower helpfully. “As Brother Watchtower says, the line of—” “It was you talking about chivalry that give me the clue,” said Brother Watchtower. “Quite so, and—” “You get that with kings, chivalry,” said Brother Watchtower happily. “And knights. And they used to have these—” “ However ,” said the Supreme Grand Master sharply, “it may well be that the line of the kings of Ankh is not as defunct as hitherto imagined, and that progeny of the line exists even now. Thus my researches among the ancient scrolls do indicate. ” He stood back expectantly. There didn’t seem to be the effect he’d expected, however. Probably they can manage “defunct,” he thought, but I ought to have drawn the line at “progeny. ” Brother Watchtower had his hand up again. “Yes?” “You saying there’s some sort of heir to the throne hanging around somewhere?” said Brother Watchtower. “This may be the case, yes. ” “Yeah. They do that, you know,” said Brother Watchtower knowledgeably. “Happens all the time. You read about it. Skions, they’re called. They go lurking around in the distant wildernesses for ages, handing down the secret sword and birthmark and so forth from generation to generation. Then just when the old kingdom needs them, they turn up and turf out any usurpers that happen to be around. And then there’s general rejoicing. ” The Supreme Grand Master felt his own mouth drop open. He hadn’t expected it to be as easy as this. “Yes, all right,” said a figure the Supreme Grand Master knew to be Brother Plasterer. “But so what? Let’s say a skion turns up, walks up to the Patrician, says ‘What ho, I’m king, here’s the birthmark as per spec, now bugger off. ’ What’s he got then? Life expectancy of maybe two minutes, that’s what. ” “You don’t listen ,” said Brother Watchtower. “The thing is, the skion has to arrive when the kingdom is threatened, doesn’t he? Then everyone can see, right? Then he gets carried off to the palace, cures a few people, announces a half-holiday, hands around a bit of treasure, and Bob’s your uncle. ” “He has to marry a princess, too,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “On account of him being a swineherd. ” They looked at him. “Who said anything about him being a swineherd?” said Brother Watchtower. “I never said he was a swineherd. What’s this about swineherds?” “He’s got a point, though,” said Brother Plasterer. “He’s generally a swineherd or a forester or similar, your basic skion. It’s to do with being in wossname. Cognito. They’ve got to appear to be of, you know, humble origins. ” “Nothing special about humble origins,” said a very small Brother, who seemed to consist entirely of a little perambulatory black robe with halitosis. “I’ve got lots of humble origins. In my family we thought swineherding was a posh job. ” “But your family doesn’t have the blood of kings, Brother Dunnykin,” said Brother Plasterer. “We might of,” said Brother Dunnykin sulkily. “Right, then,” said Brother Watchtower grudgingly. “Fair enough. But at the essential moment, see, your genuine kings throw back their cloak and say ‘Lo!’ and their essential kingnessness shines through. ” “How, exactly?” said Brother Doorkeeper. “—might of got the blood of kings,” muttered Brother Dunnykin. “Got no right saying I might not have got the blood of—” “Look, it just does, okay? You just know it when you see it. ” “But before that they’ve got to save the kingdom,” said Brother Plasterer. “Oh, yes,” said Brother Watchtower heavily. “That’s the main thing, is that. ” “What from, then?” “—got as much right as anyone to might have the blood of kings—” “The Patrician?” said Brother Doorkeeper. Brother Watchtower, as the sudden authority on the ways of royalty, shook his head. “I dunno that the Patrician is a threat, exactly,” he said. “He’s not your actual tyrant, as such. Not as bad as some we’ve had. I mean, he doesn’t actually oppress. ” “I get oppressed all the time,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “Master Critchley, where I work, he oppresses me morning, noon and night, shouting at me and everything. And the woman in the vegetable shop, she oppresses me all the time. ” “That’s right,” said Brother Plasterer. “My landlord oppresses me something wicked. Banging on the door and going on and on about all the rent I allegedly owe, which is a total lie.

And the people next door oppress me all night long. I tell them, I work all day, a man’s got to have some time to learn to play the tuba. That’s oppression, that is. If I’m not under the heel of the oppressor, I don’t know who is. ” “Put like that—” said Brother Watchtower slowly—“I reckon my brother-in-law is oppressing me all the time with having this new horse and buggy he’s been and bought. I haven’t got one. I mean, where’s the justice in that? I bet a king wouldn’t let that sort of oppression go on, people’s wives oppressing ’em with why haven’t they got a new coach like our Rodney and that. ” The Supreme Grand Master listened to this with a slightly lightheaded feeling. It was as if he’d known that there were such things as avalanches, but had never dreamed when he dropped the little snowball on top of the mountain that it could lead to such astonishing results. He was hardly having to egg them on at all. “I bet a king’d have something to say about landlords,” said Brother Plasterer. “And he’d outlaw people with showy coaches,” said Brother Watchtower. “Probably bought with stolen money, too, I reckon. ” “I think,” said the Supreme Grand Master, tweaking things a little, “that a wise king would only, as it were, outlaw showy coaches for the undeserving. ” There was a thoughtful pause in the conversation as the assembled Brethren mentally divided the universe into the deserving and the undeserving, and put themselves on the appropriate side. “It’d be only fair,” said Brother Watchtower slowly. “But Brother Plasterer was right, really. I can’t see a skion manifesting his destiny just because Brother Doorkeeper thinks the woman in the vegetable shop keeps giving him funny looks. No offense. ” “ And bloody short weight,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “And she—” “Yes, yes, yes,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Truly the right-thinking folk of Ankh-Morpork are beneath the heel of the oppressors. However, a king generally reveals himself in rather more dramatic circumstances. Like a war, for example. ” Things were going well. Surely, for all their self-centered stupidity, one of them would be bright enough to make the suggestion? “There used to be some old prophecy or something,” said Brother Plasterer. “My grandad told me. ” His eyes glazed with the effort of dramatic recall. “‘Yea, the king will come bringing Law and Justice, and know nothing but the Truth, and Protect and Serve the People with his Sword. ’ You don’t all have to look at me like that, I didn’t make it up. ” “Oh, we all know that one. And a fat lot of good that’d be,” said Brother Watchtower. “I mean, what does he do, ride in with Law and Truth and so on like the Four Horse-men of the Apocralypse? Hallo everyone,” he squeaked, “I’m the king, and that’s Truth over there, watering his horse. Not very practical, is it? Nah. You can’t trust old legends. ” “Why not?” said Brother Dunnykin, in a peeved voice. “’Cos they’re legendary. That’s how you can tell,” said Brother Watchtower. “Sleeping princesses is a good one,” said Brother Plasterer. “Only a king can wake ’em up. ” “Don’t be daft,” said Brother Watchtower severely. “We haven’t got a king, so we can’t have princesses. Stands to reason. ” “Of course, in the old days it was easy,” said Brother Doorkeeper happily. “Why?” “He just had to kill a dragon. ” The Supreme Grand Master clapped his hands together and offered a silent prayer to any god who happened to be listening. He’d been right about these people. Sooner or later their rambling little minds took them where you wanted them to go. “What an interesting idea,” he trilled. “Wouldn’t work,” said Brother Watchtower dourly. “There ain’t no big dragons now. ” “There could be. ” The Supreme Grand Master cracked his knuckles. “Come again?” said Brother Watchtower. “I said there could be. ” There was a nervous laugh from the depths of Brother Watchtower’s cowl. “What, the real thing? Great big scales and wings?” “Yes. ” “Breath like a blast furnace?” “Yes. ” “Them big claw things on its feet?” “Talons? Oh, yes. As many as you want. ” “What do you mean, as many as I want?” “I would hope it’s self-explanatory, Brother Watchtower. If you want dragons, you can have dragons. You can bring a dragon here. Now. Into the city. ” “Me?” “All of you. I mean us,” said the Supreme Grand Master. Brother Watchtower hesitated. “Well, I don’t know if that’s a very good—” “And it would obey your every command. ” That stopped them. That pulled them up. That dropped in front of their weaselly little minds like a lump of meat in a dog pound. “Can you just repeat that?” said Brother Plasterer slowly. “You can control it. You can make it do whatever you want. ” “What? A real dragon?” The Supreme Grand Master’s eyes rolled in the privacy of his hood. “Yes, a real one. Not a little pet swamp dragon. The genuine article. ” “But I thought they were, you know…miffs. ” The Supreme Grand Master leaned forward. “They were myths and they were real,” he said loudly. “Both a wave and a particle. ” “You’ve lost me there,” said Brother Plasterer. “I will demonstrate, then. The book please, Brother Fingers. Thank you. Brethren, I must tell you that when I was undergoing my tuition by the Secret Masters—” “The what, Supreme Grand Master?” said Brother Plasterer. “Why don’t you listen? You never listen. He said the Secret Masters!” said Brother Watchtower. “You know, the venerable sages what live on some mountain and secretly run everything and taught him all this lore and that, and can walk on fires and that. He told us last week. He’s going to teach us, aren’t you, Supreme Grand Master,” he finished obsequiously. “Oh, the Secret Masters,” said Brother Plasterer. “Sorry. It’s these mystic hoods. Sorry. Secret. I remember. ” But when I rule the city, the Supreme Grand Master said to himself, there is going to be none of this. I shall form a new secret society of keen-minded and intelligent men, although not too intelligent of course, not too intelligent. And we will overthrow the cold tyrant and we will usher in a new age of enlightenment and fraternity and humanism and Ankh-Morpork will become a Utopia and people like Brother Plasterer will be roasted over slow fires if I have any say in the matter, which I will. And his figgin. 1 “When I was, as I said, undergoing my tuition by the Secret Masters—” he continued. “That was where they told you you had to walk on rice-paper, wasn’t it,” said Brother Watchtower conversationally. “I always thought that was a good bit. I’ve been saving it off the bottom of my macaroons ever since. Amazing, really. I can walk on it no trouble. Shows what being in a proper secret society does for you, does that. ” When he is on the griddle, the Supreme Grand Master thought, Brother Plasterer will not be lonely. “Your footfalls on the road of enlightenment are an example to us all, Brother Watchtower,” he said. “If I may continue, however—among the many secrets—” “—from the Heart of Being—” said Brother Watchtower approvingly. “—from the Heart, as Brother Watchtower says, of Being, was the current location of the noble dragons. The belief that they died out is quite wrong. They simply found a new evolutionary niche. And they can be summoned from it. This book—” he flourished it—“gives specific instructions. ” “It’s just in a book?” said Brother Plasterer. “No ordinary book. This is the only copy. It has taken me years to track it down,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “It’s in the handwriting of Tubal de Malachite, a great student of dragon lore. His actual handwriting. He summoned dragons of all sizes. And so can you. ” There was another long, awkward silence. “Um,” said Brother Doorkeeper. “Sounds a bit like, you know… magic to me,” said Brother Watchtower, in the nervous tone of the man who has spotted which cup the pea is hidden under but doesn’t like to say. “I mean, not wishing to question your supreme wisdomship and that, but…well…you know…magic…” His voice trailed off. “Yeah,” said Brother Plasterer uncomfortably. “It’s, er, the wizards, see,” said Brother Fingers.

“You prob’ly dint know this, when you was banged up with them venerable herberts on their mountain, but the wizards around here come down on you like a ton of bricks if they catches you doin’ anything like that. ” “Demarcation, they call it,” said Brother Plasterer. “Like, I don’t go around fiddling with the mystic interleaved wossnames of causality, and they don’t do any plastering. ” “I fail to see the problem,” said the Supreme Grand Master. In fact, he saw it all too clearly. This was the last hurdle. Help their tiny little minds over this, and he held the world in the palm of his hand. Their stupefyingly unintelligent self-interest hadn’t let him down so far, surely it couldn’t fail him now… The Brethren shuffled uneasily. Then Brother Dunnykin spoke. “Huh. Wizards. What do they know about a day’s work?” The Supreme Grand Master breathed deeply. Ah … The air of mean-minded resentfulness thickened noticeably. “Nothing, and that’s a fact,” said Brother Fingers. “Goin’ around with their noses in the air, too good for the likes a’us. I used to see ’em when I worked up the University. Backsides a mile wide, I’m telling you. Catch ’em doing a job of honest toil?” “Like thieving, you mean?” said Brother Watchtower, who had never liked Brother Fingers much. “O’course, they tell you,” Brother Fingers went on, pointedly ignoring the comment, “that you shouldn’t go around doin’ magic on account of only them knowin’ about not disturbin’ the universal harmony and whatnot. Load of rubbish, in my opinion. ” “We-ell,” said Brother Plasterer, “I dunno, really. I mean, you get the mix wrong, you just got a lot of damp plaster around your ankles. But you get a bit of magic wrong, and they say ghastly things comes out the woodwork and stitches you right up. ” “Yeah, but it’s the wizards that say that,” said Brother Watchtower thoughtfully. “Never could stand them myself, to tell you the truth. Could be they’re onto a good thing and don’t want the rest of us to find out. It’s only waving your arms and chanting, when all’s said and done. ” The Brethren considered this. It sounded plausible. If they were onto a good thing, they certainly wouldn’t want anyone else muscling in. The Supreme Grand Master decided that the time was ripe. “Then we are agreed, brethren? You are prepared to practice magic?” “Oh, practice ,” said Brother Plasterer, relieved. “I don’t mind practicing. So long as we don’t have to do it for real—” The Supreme Grand Master thumped the book. “I mean carry out real spells! Put the city back on the right lines! Summon a dragon!” he shouted. They took a step back. Then Brother Doorkeeper said, “And then, if we get this dragon, the rightful king’ll turn up, just like that?” “Yes!” said the Supreme Grand Master. “I can see that,” said Brother Watchtower supportively. “Stands to reason. Because of destiny and the gnomic workings of fate. ” There was a moment’s hesitation, and then a general nodding of cowls. Only Brother Plasterer looked vaguely unhappy. “We-ell,” he said. “It won’t get out of hand, will it?” “I assure you, Brother Plasterer, that you can give it up any time you like,” said the Supreme Grand Master smoothly. “Well…all right,” said the reluctant Brother. “Just for a bit, then. Could we get it to stay here long enough to burn down, for example, any oppressive vegetable shops?” Ah … He’d won. There’d be dragons again. And a king again. Not like the old kings. A king who would do what he was told. “That,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “depends on how much help you can be. We shall need, initially, any items of magic you can bring…” It might not be a good idea to let them see that the last half of de Malachite’s book was a charred lump. The man was clearly not up to it. He could do a lot better. And absolutely no one would be able to stop him. Thunder rolled… It is said that the gods play games with the lives of men. But what games, and why, and the identities of the actual pawns, and what the game is, and what the rules are—who knows? Best not to speculate. Thunder rolled… It rolled a six. Now pull back briefly from the dripping streets of Ankh-Morpork pan across the morning mists of the Disc, and focus in again on a young man heading for the city with all the openness, sincerity and innocence of purpose of an iceberg drifting into a major shipping lane. The young man is called Carrot. This is not because of his hair, which his father has always clipped short for reasons of Hygiene. It is because of his shape. It is the kind of tapering shape a boy gets through clean living, healthy eating, and good mountain air in huge lungfuls. When he flexes his shoulder muscles, other muscles have to move out of the way first. He is also bearing a sword presented to him in mysterious circumstances. Very mysterious circumstances. Surprisingly, therefore, there is something very unexpected about this sword. It isn’t magical. It hasn’t got a name. When you wield it you don’t get a feeling of power, you just get blisters; you could believe it was a sword that had been used so much that it had ceased to be anything other than a quintessential sword, a long piece of metal with very sharp edges. And it hasn’t got destiny written all over it. It’s practically unique, in fact. Thunder rolled. The gutters of the city gurgled softly as the detritus of the night was carried along, in some cases protesting feebly. When it came to the recumbent figure of Captain Vimes, the water diverted and flowed around him in two streams. Vimes opened his eyes. There was a moment of empty peace before memory hit him like a shovel. It had been a bad day for the Watch. There had been the funeral of Herbert Gaskin, for one thing. Poor old Gaskin. He had broken one of the fundamental rules of being a guard. It wasn’t the sort of rule that someone like Gaskin could break twice. And so he’d been lowered into the sodden ground with the rain drumming on his coffin and no one present to mourn him but the three surviving members of the Night Watch, the most despised group of men in the entire city. Sergeant Colon had been in tears. Poor old Gaskin. Poor old Vimes, Vimes thought. Poor old Vimes, here in gutter. But that’s where he started. Poor old Vimes, with the water swirling in under breastplate. Poor old Vimes, watching rest of gutter’s contents ooze by. Prob’ly even poor old Gaskin has got better view now, he thought. Lessee…he’d gone off after the funeral and got drunk. No, not drunk, another word, ended with “er. ” Drunker, that was it. Because world all twisted up and wrong, like distorted glass, only came back into focus if you looked at it through bottom of bottle. Something else now, what was it. Oh, yes. Night-time. Time for duty. Not for Gaskin, though. Have to get new fellow. New fellow coming anyway, wasn’t that it? Some stick from the hicks. Written letter. Some tick from the shicks… Vimes gave up, and slumped back. The gutter continued to swirl. Overhead, the lighted letters fizzed and flickered in the rain. It wasn’t only the fresh mountain air that had given Carrot his huge physique. Being brought up in a gold mine run by dwarfs and working a twelve-hour day hauling wagons to the surface must have helped. He walked with a stoop. What will do that is being brought up in a gold mine run by dwarfs who thought that five feet was a good height for a ceiling. He’d always known he was different. More bruised for one thing. And then one day his father had come up to him or, rather, come up to his waist, and told him that he was not, in fact, as he had always believed, a dwarf. It’s a terrible thing to be nearly sixteen and the wrong species. “We didn’t like to say so before, son,” said his father. “We thought you’d grow out of it, see. ” “Grow out of what?” said Carrot. “Growing. But now your mother thinks, that is, we both think, it’s time you went out among your own kind. I mean, it’s not fair, keeping you cooped up here without company of your own height. ” His father twiddled a loose rivet on his helmet, a sure sign that he was worried. “Er,” he added.

“But you’re my kind!” said Carrot desperately. “In a manner of speaking, yes,” said his father. “In another manner of speaking, which is a rather more precise and accurate manner of speaking, no. It’s all this genetics business, you see. So it might be a very good idea if you were to go out and see something of the world. ” “What, for good?” “Oh, no! No. Of course not. Come back and visit whenever you like. But, well, a lad your age, stuck down here…It’s not right. You know. I mean. Not a child anymore. Having to shuffle around on your knees most of the time, and everything. It’s not right. ” “What is my own kind, then?” said Carrot, bewildered. The old dwarf took a deep breath. “You’re human,” he said. “What, like Mr. Varneshi?” Mr. Varneshi drove an ox-cart up the mountain trails once a week, to trade things for gold. “One of the Big People?” “You’re six foot six, lad. He’s only five foot. ” The dwarf twiddled the loose rivet again. “You see how it is. ” “Yes, but—but maybe I’m just tall for my height,” said Carrot desperately. “After all, if you can have short humans, can’t you have tall dwarfs?” His father patted him companionably on the back of the knees. “You’ve got to face facts, boy. You’d be much more at home up on the surface. It’s in your blood. The roof isn’t so low, either. ” You can’t keep knocking yourself out on the sky, he told himself. “Hold on,” said Carrot, his honest brow wrinkling with the effort of calculation. “You’re a dwarf, right? And mam’s a dwarf. So I should be a dwarf, too. Fact of life. ” The dwarf sighed. He’d hoped to creep up on this, over a period of months maybe, sort of break it to him gently, but there wasn’t any time anymore. “Sit down, lad,” he said. Carrot sat. “The thing is,” he said wretchedly, when the boy’s big honest face was a little nearer his own, “we found you in the woods one day. Toddling about near one of the tracks…um. ” The loose rivet squeaked. The king plunged on. “Thing is, you see…there were these carts. On fire, as you might say. And dead people. Um, yes. Extremely dead people. Because of bandits. It was a bad winter that winter, there were all sorts coming into the hills…So we took you in, of course, and then, well, it was a long winter, like I said, and your mam got used to you, and, well, we never got around to asking Varneshi to make enquiries. That’s the long and the short of it. ” Carrot took this fairly calmly, mostly because he didn’t understand nearly all of it. Besides, as far as he was aware, being found toddling in the woods was the normal method of childbirth. A dwarf is not considered old enough to have the technical processes explained to him 1 until he has reached puberty. 2 “All right, dad,” he said, and leaned down so as to be level with the dwarf’s ear. “But you know, me and—you know Minty Rocksmacker? She’s really beautiful, dad, got a beard as soft as a, a, a very soft thing—we’ve got an understanding, and—” “Yes,” said the dwarf, coldly. “I know. Her father’s had a word with me. ” So did her mother with your mother, he added silently, and then she had a word with me. Lots of words. It’s not that they don’t like you, you’re a steady lad and a fine worker, you’d make a good son-in-law. Four good sons-in-law. That’s the trouble. And she’s only sixty, anyway. It’s not proper. It’s not right. He’d heard about children being reared by wolves. He wondered whether the leader of the pack ever had to sort out something tricky like this. Perhaps he’d have to take him into a quiet clearing somewhere and say, Look, son, you might have wondered why you’re not as hairy as everyone else… He’d discussed it with Varneshi. A good solid man, Varneshi. Of course, he’d known the man’s father. And his grandfather, now he came to think about it. Humans didn’t seem to last long, it was probably all the effort of pumping blood up that high. “Got a problem there, king. 1 Right enough,” the old man had said, as they shared a nip of spirits on a bench outside Shaft #2. “He’s a good lad, mind you,” said the king. “Sound character. Honest. Not exactly brilliant, but you tell him to do something, he don’t rest until he’s done it. Obedient. ” “You could chop his legs off,” said Varneshi. “It’s not his legs that’s going to be the problem,” said the king darkly. “Ah. Yes. Well, in that case you could—” “No. ” “No,” agreed Varneshi, thoughtfully. “Hmm. Well, then what you should do is, you should send him away for a bit. Let him mix a bit with humans. ” He sat back. “What you’ve got here, king, is a duck,” he added, in knowledgeable tones. “I don’t think I should tell him that. He’s refusing to believe he’s a human as it is. ” “What I mean is, a duck brought up among chickens. Well-known farmyard phenomenon. Finds it can’t bloody well peck and doesn’t know what swimming is. ” The king listened politely. Dwarfs don’t go in much for agriculture. “But you send him off to see a lot of other ducks, let him get his feet wet, and he won’t go running around after bantams anymore. And Bob’s your uncle. ” Varneshi sat back and looked rather pleased with himself. When you spend a large part of your life underground, you develop a very literal mind. Dwarfs have no use for metaphor and simile. Rocks are hard, the darkness is dark. Start messing around with descriptions like that and you’re in big trouble, is their motto. But after two hundred years of talking to humans the king had, as it were, developed a painstaking mental toolkit which was nearly adequate for the job of understanding them. “Surely Bjorn Stronginthearm is my uncle,” he pointed out, slowly. “Same thing. ” There was a pause while the king subjected this to careful analysis. “You’re saying,” he said, weighing each word, “that we should send Carrot away to be a duck among humans because Bjorn Stronginthearm is my uncle. ” “He’s a fine lad. Plenty of openings for a big strong lad like him,” said Varneshi. “I have heard that dwarfs go off to work in the Big City,” said the king uncertainly. “And they send back money to their families, which is very commendable and proper. ” “There you are then. Get him a job in, in—” Varneshi sought for inspiration–“in the Watch, or something. My great-grandfather was in the Watch, you know. Fine job for a big lad, my grandad said. ” “What is a Watch?” said the king. “Oh,” said Varneshi, with the vagueness of someone whose family for the last three generations hadn’t traveled more than twenty miles, “they goes about making sure people keep the laws and do what they’re told. ” “That is a very proper concern,” said the king who, since he was usually the one doing the telling, had very solid views about people doing what they were told. “Of course, they don’t take just anyone,” said Varneshi, dredging the depths of his recollection. “I should think not, for such an important task. I shall write to their king. ” “I don’t think they have a king there,” said Varneshi. “Just some man who tells them what to do. ” The king of the dwarfs took this calmly. This seemed to be about ninety-seven percent of the definition of kingship, as far as he was concerned. Carrot took the news without fuss, just as he took instructions about re-opening Shaft #4 or cutting timber for shoring props. All dwarfs are by nature dutiful, serious, literate, obedient and thoughtful people whose only minor failing is a tendency, after one drink, to rush at enemies screaming “Arrrrrrgh!” and axing their legs off at the knee. Carrot saw no reason to be any different. He would go to this city—whatever that was—and have a man made of him. They took only the finest, Varneshi had said. A watchman had to be a skilled fighter and clean in thought, word and deed. From the depths of his ancestral anecdotage the old man had dragged tales of moonlight chases across rooftops, and tremendous battles with miscreants which, of course, his great-grandad had won despite being heavily outnumbered. Carrot had to admit it sounded better than mining.

After some thought, the king wrote to the ruler of Ankh-Morpork, respectfully asking if Carrot could be considered for a place among the city’s finest. Letters rarely got written in that mine. Work stopped and the whole clan had sat around in respectful silence as his pen scrittered across the parchment. His aunt had been sent up to Varneshi’s to beg his pardon but could he see his way clear to sparing a smidgen of wax. His sister had been sent down to the village to ask Mistress Garlick the witch how you stopped spelling recommendation. Months had gone by. And then there’d been the reply. It was fairly grubby, since mail in the Ramtops was generally handed to whoever was going in more or less the right direction, and it was also fairly short. It said, baldly, that his application was accepted, and would he present himself for duty immediately. “Just like that?” he said. “I thought there’d be tests and things. To see if I was suitable. ” “You’re my son,” said the king. “I told them that, see. Stands to reason you’ll be suitable. Probably officer material. ” He’d pulled a sack from under his chair, rummaged around in it and presented Carrot with a length of metal, more a sword than a saw but only just. “This might rightly belong to you,” he said. “When we found the…carts, this was the only thing left. The bandits, you see. Just between you and me—” he beckoned Carrot closer—“we had a witch look at it. In case it was magic. But it isn’t. Quite the most unmagical sword she’d ever seen, she said. They normally have a bit, see, on account of it’s like magnetism, I suppose. Got quite a nice balance, though. ” He handed it over. He rummaged around some more. “And then there’s this. ” He held up a shirt. “It’ll protect you. ” Carrot fingered it carefully. It was made from the wool of Ramtop sheep, which had all the warmth and softness of hog bristles. It was one of the legendary woolly dwarf vests, the kind of vest that needs hinges. “Protect me from what?” he said. “Colds, and so on,” said the king. “Your mother says you’ve got to wear it. And, er…that reminds me. Mr. Varneshi says he’d like you to drop in on the way down the mountain. He’s got something for you. ” His father and mother had waved him out of sight. Minty didn’t. Funny, that. She seemed to have been avoiding him lately. He’d taken the sword, slung on his back, sandwiches and clean underwear in his pack, and the world, more or less, at his feet. In his pocket was the famous letter from the Patrician, the man who ruled the great fine city of Ankh-Morpork. At least, that’s how his mother had referred to it. It certainly had an important-looking crest at the top, but the signature was something like “Lupin Squiggle, Sec’y, pp. ” Still, if it wasn’t actually signed by the Patrician then it had certainly been written by someone who worked for him. Or in the same building. Probably the Patrician had at least known about the letter. In general terms. Not this letter, perhaps, but probably he knew about the existence of letters in general. Carrot walked steadfastly down the mountain paths, disturbing clouds of bumblebees. After a while he unsheathed the sword and made experimental stabs at felonious tree stumps and unlawful assemblies of stinging nettles. Varneshi was sitting outside his hut, threading dried mushrooms on a string. “Hallo, Carrot,” he said, leading the way inside. “Looking forward to the city?” Carrot gave this due consideration. “No,” he said. “Having second thoughts, are you?” “No. I was just walking along,” said Carrot honestly. “I wasn’t thinking about anything much. ” “Your dad give you the sword, did he?” said Varneshi, rummaging on a fetid shelf. “Yes. And a woolly vest to protect me against chills. ” “Ah. Yes, it can be very damp down there, so I’ve heard. Protection. Very important. ” He turned around and added, dramatically, “ This belonged to my great-grandfather. ” It was a strange, vaguely hemispherical device surrounded by straps. “It’s some sort of sling?” said Carrot, after examining it in polite silence. Varneshi told him what it was. “Codpiece like in fish?” said Carrot, mystified. “No. It’s for the fighting,” mumbled Varneshi. “You should wear it all the time. Protects your vitals, like. ” Carrot tried it on. “It’s a bit small, Mr. Varneshi. ” “That’s because you don’t wear it on your head, you see. ” Varneshi explained some more, to Carrot’s mounting bewilderment and, subsequently, horror. “My great-grandad used to say,” Varneshi finished, “that but for this I wouldn’t be here today. ” “What did he mean by that?” Varneshi’s mouth opened and shut a few times. “I’ve no idea,” he said, spinelessly. Anyway, the shameful thing was now at the very bottom of Carrot’s pack. Dwarfs didn’t have much truck with things like that. The ghastly preventative represented a glimpse into a world as alien as the backside of the moon. There had been another gift from Mr. Varneshi. It was a small but very thick book, bound in a leather that had become like wood over the years. It was called: The Laws And Ordinances of The Cities of Ankh And Morpork. “This belonged to my great-grandad as well,” he said. “This is what the Watch has to know. You have to know all the laws,” he said virtuously, “to be a good officer. ” Perhaps Varneshi should have recalled that, in the whole of Carrot’s life, no one had ever really lied to him or given him an instruction that he wasn’t meant to take quite literally. Carrot solemnly took the book. It would never have occurred to him, if he was going to be an officer of the Watch, to be less than a good one. It was a five hundred mile journey and, surprisingly, quite uneventful. People who are rather more than six feet tall and nearly as broad across the shoulders often have uneventful journeys. People jump out at them from behind rocks then say things like, “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were someone else. ” He’d spent most of the journey reading. And now Ankh-Morpork was before him. It was a little disappointing. He’d expected high white towers rearing over the landscape, and flags. Ankh-Morpork didn’t rear. Rather, it sort of skulked, clinging to the soil as if afraid someone might steal it. There were no flags. There was a guard on the gate. At least, he was wearing chain-mail and the thing he was propped up against was a spear. He had to be a guard. Carrot saluted him and presented the letter. The man looked at it for some time. “Mm?” he said, eventually. “I think I’ve got to see Lupin Squiggle Sec’y pp,” said Carrot. “What’s the pp for?” said the guard suspiciously. “Could it be Pretty Promptly?” said Carrot, who had wondered about this himself. “Well, I don’t know about any Sec’y,” said the guard. “You want Captain Vimes of the Night Watch. ” “And where is he based?” said Carrot, politely. “At this time of day I’d try The Bunch of Grapes in Easy Street,” said the guard. He looked Carrot up and down. “Joining the watch, are you?” “I hope to prove worthy, yes,” said Carrot. The guard gave him what could loosely be called an old-fashioned look. It was practically neolithic. “What was it you done?” he said. “I’m sorry?” said Carrot. “You must of done something,” said the guard. “My father wrote a letter,” said Carrot proudly. “I’ve been volunteered. ” “Bloody hellfire,” said the guard. Now it was night again, and beyond the dread portal: “Are the Wheels of Torment duly spun?” said the Supreme Grand Master. The Elucidated Brethren shuffled around their circle. “Brother Watchtower?” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Not my job to spin the Wheels of Torment,” muttered Brother Watchtower. “’s Brother Plasterer’s job, spinning the Wheels of Torment—” “No it bloody well isn’t, it’s my job to oil the Axles of the Universal Lemon,” said Brother Plasterer hotly. “You always say it’s my job—” The Supreme Grand Master sighed in the depths of his cowl as yet another row began. From this dross he was going to forge an Age of Rationality? “Just shut up, will you?” he snapped. “We don’t really need the Wheels of Torment tonight. Stop it, the pair of you.

Now, Brethren—you have all brought the items as instructed?” There was a general murmuring. “Place them in the Circle of Conjuration,” said the Supreme Grand Master. It was a sorry collection. Bring magical things, he’d said. Only Brother Fingers had produced anything worthwhile. It looked like some sort of altar ornament, best not to ask from where. The Supreme Grand Master stepped forward and prodded one of the other things with his toe. “What,” he said, “is this?” “’s a amulet,” muttered Brother Dunnykin. “’s very powerful. Bought it off a man. Guaranteed. Protects you against crocodile bites. ” “Are you sure you can spare it?” said the Supreme Grand Master. There was a dutiful titter from the rest of the Brethren. “Less of that, brothers,” said the Grand Master, spinning around. “Bring magical things, I said. Not cheap jewelry and rubbish! Good grief, this city is lousy with magic!” He reached down. “What are these things, for heaven’s sake?” “They’re stones,” said Brother Plasterer uncertainly. “I can see that. Why’re they magical?” Brother Plasterer began to tremble. “They’ve got holes in them, Supreme Grand Master. Everyone knows that stones with holes in them are magical. ” The Supreme Grand Master walked back to his place on the circle. He threw his arms up. “Right, fine, okay,” he said wearily. “If that’s how we’re going to do it, that’s how we’re going to do it. If we get a dragon six inches long we’ll all know the reason why. Won’t we, Brother Plasterer. Brother Plasterer? Sorry. I didn’t hear what you said? Brother Plasterer?” “I said yes, Supreme Grand Master,” whispered Brother Plasterer. “Very well. So long as that’s quite understood. ” The Supreme Grand Master turned and picked up the book. “And now,” he said, “if we are all quite ready…” “Um. ” Brother Watchtower meekly raised his hand. “Ready for what, Supreme Grand Master?” he said. “For the summoning, of course. Good grief, I should have thought—” “But you haven’t told us what we’re supposed to do , Supreme Grand Master,” whined Brother Watchtower. The Grand Master hesitated. This was quite true, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “Well, of course,” he said. “It’s obvious. You have to focus your concentration. Think hard about dragons,” he translated. “All of you. ” “That’s all, is it?” said Brother Doorkeeper. “Yes. ” “Don’t we have to chant a mystic prune or something?” The Supreme Grand Master stared at him. Brother Doorkeeper managed to look as defiant in the face of oppression as an anonymous shadow in a black cowl could look. He hadn’t joined a secret society not to chant mystic runes. He’d been looking forward to it. “You can if you like,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Now, I want you— yes, what is it, Brother Dunnykin? ” The little Brother lowered his hand. “Don’t know any mystic prunes, Grand Master. Not to what you might call chant…” “Hum!” He opened the book. He’d been rather surprised to find, after pages and pages of pious ramblings, that the actual Summoning itself was one short sentence. Not a chant, not a brief piece of poetry, but a mere assemblage of meaningless syllables. De Malachite said they caused interference patterns in the waves of reality, but the daft old fool was probably making it up as he went along. That was the trouble with wizards, they had to make everything look difficult. All you really needed was willpower. And the Brethren had a lot of that. Small-minded and vitriolic willpower, yes, lousy with malignity maybe, but still powerful enough in its way… They’d try nothing fancy this time round. Somewhere inconspicuous… Around him the Brethren were chanting what each man considered, according to his lights, to be something mystical. The general effect was actually quite good, if you didn’t listen to the words. The words. Oh, yes… He looked down, and spoke them aloud. Nothing happened. He blinked. When he opened his eyes again he was in a dark alley, his stomach was full of fire, and he was very angry. It was about to be the worst night of his life for Zebbo Mooty, Thief Third Class, and it wouldn’t have made him any happier to know that it was also going to be the last one. The rain was keeping people indoors, and he was way behind on his quota. He was, therefore, a little less cautious than he might otherwise have been. In the night time streets of Ankh-Morpork caution is an absolute. There is no such thing as moderately cautious. You are either very cautious, or you are dead. You might be walking around and breathing, but you’re dead, just the same. He heard the muffled sounds coming from the nearby alley, slid his leather-bound cosh from his sleeve, waited until the victim was almost turning the corner, sprang out, said “Oh, shi—” and died. It was a most unusual death. No one else had died like that for hundreds of years. The stone wall behind him glowed cherry red with heat, which gradually faded into darkness. He was the first to see the Ankh-Morpork dragon. He derived little comfort from knowing this, however, because he was dead. “—t,” he said, and his disembodied self looked down at the small heap of charcoal which, he knew with an unfamiliar sort of certainty, was what he had just been disembodied from. It was a strange sensation, seeing your own mortal remains. He didn’t find it as horrifying as he would have imagined if you’d asked him, say, ten minutes ago. Finding that you are dead is mitigated by also finding that there really is a you who can find you dead. The alley opposite was empty again. “That was really strange,” said Mooty. E XTREMELY UNUSUAL , CERTAINLY. “Did you see that? What was it?” Mooty looked up at the dark figure emerging from the shadows. “Who’re you, anyway?” he added suspiciously. G UESS , said the voice. Mooty peered at the hooded figure. “Cor!” he said. “I thought you dint turn up for the likes o’ me. ” I TURN UP FOR EVERYONE. “I mean in…person, sort of thing. ” S OMETIMES. O N SPECIAL OCCASIONS. “Yeah, well,” said Mooty, “this is one of them, all right! I mean, it looked like a bloody dragon! What’s a man to do? You don’t expect to find a dragon around the corner!” A ND NOW , IF YOU WOULD CARE TO STEP THIS WAY …said Death, laying a skeletal hand on Mooty’s shoulder. “Do you know, a fortune teller once told me I’d die in my bed, surrounded by grieving great-grandchildren,” said Mooty, following the stately figure. “What do you think of that, eh?” I THINK SHE WAS WRONG. “A bloody dragon,” said Mooty. “Fire breathing, too. Did I suffer much?” N O. I T WAS PRACTICALLY INSTANTANEOUS. “That’s good. I wouldn’t like to think I’d suffered much. ” Mooty looked around him. “What happens now?” he said. Behind them, the rain washed the little heap of black ash into the mud. The Supreme Grand Master opened his eyes. He was lying on his back. Brother Dunnykin was preparing to give him the kiss of life. The mere thought was enough to jerk anyone from the borders of consciousness. He sat up, trying to shed the feeling that he weighed several tons and was covered in scales. “We did it,” he whispered. “The dragon! It came! I felt it!” The Brethren glanced at one another. “We never saw nothing,” said Brother Plasterer. “I might of seen something,” said Brother Watchtower loyally. “No, not here ,” snapped the Supreme Grand Master. “You hardly want it to materialize here , do you? It was out there, in the city. Just for a few seconds…” He pointed. “Look!” The Brethren turned around guiltily, expecting at any moment the hot flame of retribution. In the center of the circle the magic items were gently crumbling to dust. Even as they watched, Brother Dunnykin’s amulet collapsed. “Sucked dry,” whispered Brother Fingers. “I’ll be damned!” “Three dollars that amulet cost me,” muttered Brother Dunnykin. “But it proves it works,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Don’t you see, you fools? It works! We can summon dragons!” “Could be a bit expensive in magical items,” said Brother Fingers doubtfully. “—three dollars, it was. No rubbish—” “Power,” growled the Supreme Grand Master, “does not come cheap.

” “Very true,” nodded Brother Watchtower. “Not cheap. Very true. ” He looked at the little heap of exhausted magic again. “Cor,” he said. “We did it, though, dint we! We only went and bloody well did some magic, right?” “See?” said Brother Fingers. “I tole you there was nothin’ to it. ” “You all did exceptionally well,” said the Supreme Grand Master encouragingly. “—should’ve been six dollars, but he said he’d cut his own throat and sell it me for three dollars—” “Yeah,” said Brother Watchtower. “We got the hang of it all right! Dint hurt a bit. We done real magic! And dint get et by tooth fairies from out of the woodwork either, Brother Plasterer, I couldn’t help noticing. ” The other Brethren nodded. Real magic. Nothing to it. Everyone had just better watch out. “Hang on, though,” said Brother Plasterer. “Where’s this dragon gone ? I mean, did we really summon it or not?” “Fancy you asking a silly question like that,” said Brother Watchtower doubtfully. The Supreme Grand Master brushed the dust off his mystic robe. “We summoned it,” he said, “and it came. But only as long as the magic lasted. Then it went back. If we want it to stay longer, we need more magic. Understand? And that is what we must get. ” “—three dollars I shan’t see again in a hurry—” “Shut up!” Dearest Father [wrote Carrot] Well, here I am in Ankh-Morpork. It is not like at home. I think it must have changed a bit since Mr. Varneshi’s great-grandfather was here. I don’t think people here know Right from Wrong. I found Captain Vimes in a common ale-house. I remembered what you said about a good dwarf not going into such places, but since he did not come out, I went in. He was lying with his head on the table. When I spoke to him, he said, pull the other one, kid, it has got bells on. I believe he was the worse for drink. He told me to find a place to stay and report to Sgt. Colon at the Watch House tonight. He said, anyone wanting to join the guard needed their head examined. Mr. Varneshi did not mention this. Perhaps it is done for reasons of Hygiene. I went for a walk. There are many people here. I found a place, it is called The Shades. Then I saw some men trying to rob a young Lady. I set about them. They did not know how to fight properly and one of them tried to kick me in the Vitals, but I was wearing the Protective as instructed and he hurt himself. Then the Lady came up to me and said, Was I Interested in Bed. I said yes. She took me to where she lived, a boarding house, I think it is called. It is run by a Mrs. Palm. The Lady whose purse it was, she is called Reet, said, You should of seen him, there were 3 of them, it was amazing. Mrs. Palm said, It is on the house. She said, what a big Protective. So I went upstairs and fell asleep, although it is a very noisy place. Reet woke me up once or twice to say, Do you want anything, but they had no apples. So I have fallen on my Feet, as they say here but, I don’t see how that is possible because, if you fall you fall off your Feet, it is Common Sense. There is certainly a lot to do. When I went to see the Sgt. I saw a place called, The Thieves’ Guild!! I asked Mrs. Palm and she said, Of course. She said the leaders of the Thieves in the City meet there. I went to the Watch House and met Sgt. Colon, a very fat man, and when I told him about the Thieves’ Guild he said, Don’t be A Idiot. I do not think he is serious. He says, Don’t you worry about Thieves’ Guilds, This is all what you have to do, you walk along the Streets at Night, shouting, It’s Twelve O’clock and All’s Well. I said, What if it is not all well, and he said, You bloody well find another street. This is not Leadership. I have been given some chain mail. It is rusty and not well made. They give you money for being a guard. It is, 20 dollars a month. When I get it I will send you it. I hope you are all well and that Shaft #5 is now open. This afternoon I will go and look at the Thieves’ Guild. It is disgraceful. If I do something about it, it will be a Feather in my Cap. I am getting the Hang of how they talk here already. Your loving son, Carrot. PS. Please give all my love to Minty. I really miss her. Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork put his hand over his eyes. “He did what?” “I was marched through the streets,” said Urdo van Pew, currently President of the Guild of Thieves, Burglars and Allied Trades. “In broad daylight! With my hands tied together!” He took a few steps toward the Patrician’s severe chair of office, waving a finger. “You know very well that we have kept within the Budget,” he said. “To be humiliated like that! Like a common criminal! There had better be a full apology,” he said, “or you will have another strike on your hands. We will be driven to it, despite our natural civic responsibilities,” he added. It was the finger. The finger was a mistake. The Patrician was staring coldly at the finger. Van Pew followed his gaze, and quickly lowered the digit. The Patrician was not a man you shook a finger at unless you wanted to end up being able to count only to nine. “And you say this was one person?” said Lord Vetinari. “Yes! That is—” Van Pew hesitated. It did sound weird, now he came to tell someone. “But there are hundreds of you in there,” said the Patrician calmly. “Thick as, you should excuse the expression, thieves. ” Van Pew opened and shut his mouth a few times. The honest answer would have been: yes, and if anyone had come sidling in and skulking around the corridors it would have been the worse for them. It was the way he strode in as if he owned the place that fooled everyone. That and the fact that he kept hitting people and telling them to Mend their Ways. The Patrician nodded. “I shall deal with the matter momentarily,” he said. It was a good word. It always made people hesitate. They were never quite sure whether he meant he’d deal with it now , or just deal with it briefly. And no one ever dared ask. Van Pew backed down. “A full apology, mark you. I have a position to maintain,” he added. “Thank you. Do not let me detain you,” said the Patrician, once again giving the language his own individual spin. “Right. Good. Thank you. Very well,” said the thief. “After all, you have such a lot of work to do,” Lord Vetinari went on. “Well, of course this is the case. ” The thief hesitated. The Patrician’s last remark had barbs on it. You found yourself waiting for him to strike. “Er,” he said, hoping for a clue. “With so much business being conducted, that is. ” Panic took over the thief’s features. Randomized guilt flooded his mind. It wasn’t a case of what had he done, it was a question of what the Patrician had found out about. The man had eyes everywhere, none of them so terrifying as the icy blue ones just above his nose. “I, er, don’t quite follow…” he began. “Curious choice of targets. ” The Patrician picked up a sheet of paper. “For example, a crystal ball belonging to a fortune teller in Sheer Street. A small ornament from the temple of Offler the Crocodile God. And so on. Gewgaws. ” “I am afraid I really don’t know—” said the head thief. The Patrician leaned forward. “No unlicensed thieving, surely?” he said. 1 “I shall look into it directly!” stuttered the head thief. “Depend upon it!” The Patrician gave him a sweet smile. “I’m sure I can,” he said. “Thank you for coming to see me. Don’t hesitate to leave. ” The thief shuffled out. It was always like this with the Patrician, he reflected bitterly. You came to him with a perfectly reasonable complaint. Next thing you knew, you were shuffling out backward, bowing and scraping, relieved simply to be getting away. You had to hand it to the Patrician, he admitted grudgingly. If you didn’t, he sent men to come and take it away. When he’d gone Lord Vetinari rang the little bronze bell that summoned his secretary. The man’s name, despite his handwriting, was Lupine Wonse. He appeared, pen poised. You could say this about Lupine Wonse. He was neat. He always gave the impression of just being completed.

Even his hair was so smoothed-down and oiled it looked as though it had been painted on. “The Watch appears to be having some difficulty with the Thieves’ Guild,” said the Patrician. “Van Pew has been in here claiming that a member of the Watch arrested him. ” “What for, sir?” “Being a thief, apparently. ” “A member of the Watch ?” said the secretary. “I know. But just sort it out, will you?” The Patrician smiled to himself. It was always hard to fathom Lord Vetinari’s idiosyncratic sense of humor, but a vision of the red-faced, irate head thief kept coming back to him. One of the Patrician’s greatest contributions to the reliable operation of Ankh-Morpork had been, very early in his administration, the legalizing of the ancient Guild of Thieves. Crime was always with us, he reasoned, and therefore, if you were going to have crime, it at least should be organized crime. And so the Guild had been encouraged to come out of the shadows and build a big Guildhouse, take their place at civic banquets, and set up their training college with day-release courses and City and Guilds certificates and everything. In exchange for the winding down of the Watch, they agreed, while trying to keep their faces straight, to keep crime levels to a level to be determined annually. That way, everyone could plan ahead, said Lord Vetinari, and part of the uncertainty had been removed from the chaos that is life. And then, a little while later, the Patrician summoned the leading thieves again and said, oh, by the way, there was something else. What was it, now? Oh, yes… I know who you are, he said. I know where you live. I know what kind of horse you ride. I know where your wife has her hair done. I know where your lovely children, how old are they now, my, doesn’t time fly, I know where they play. So you won’t forget about what we agreed, will you? And he smiled. So did they, after a fashion. And in fact it had turned out very satisfactorily from everyone’s point of view. It took the head thieves a very little time to grow paunches and start having coats-of-arms made and meet in a proper building rather than smoky dens, which no one had liked much. A complicated arrangement of receipts and vouchers saw to it that, while everyone was eligible for the attentions of the Guild, no one had too much, and this was very acceptable—at least to those citizens who were rich enough to afford the quite reasonable premiums the Guild charged for an uninterrupted life. There was a strange foreign word for this: inn-sewer-ants. No one knew exactly what it had originally meant, but Ankh-Morpork had made it its own. The Watch hadn’t liked it, but the plain fact was that the thieves were far better at controlling crime than the Watch had ever been. After all, the Watch had to work twice as hard to cut crime just a little, whereas all the Guild had to do was to work less. And so the city prospered, while the Watch had dwindled away, like a useless appendix, into a handful of unemployables who no one in their right mind could ever take seriously. The last thing anyone wanted them to do was get it into their heads to fight crime. But seeing the head thief discommoded was always worth the trouble, the Patrician felt. Captain Vimes knocked very hesitantly at the door, because each tap echoed around his skull. “Enter. ” Vimes removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm and pushed the door open. Its creak was a blunt saw across the front of his brain. He always felt uneasy in the presence of Lupine Wonse. Come to that, he felt uneasy in the presence of Lord Vetinari—but that was different, that was down to breeding. And ordinary fear, of course. Whereas he’d known Wonse since their childhood in the Shades. The boy had shown promise even then. He was never a gang leader. Never a gang leader. Hadn’t got the strength or stamina for that. And, after all, what was the point in being the gang leader? Behind every gang leader were a couple of lieutenants bucking for promotion. Being a gang leader is not a job with long-term prospects. But in every gang there is a pale youth who’s allowed to stay because he’s the one who comes up with all the clever ideas, usually to do with old women and unlocked shops; this was Wonse’s natural place in the order of things. Vimes had been one of the middle rankers, the falsetto equivalent of a yes-man. He remembered Wonse as a skinny little kid, always tagging along behind in hand-me-down pants with the kind of odd skipping run he’d invented to keep up with the bigger boys, and forever coming up with fresh ideas to stop them idly ganging up on him, which was the usual recreation if nothing more interesting presented itself. It was superb training for the rigors of adulthood, and Wonse became good at it. Yes, they’d both started in the gutter. But Wonse had worked his way up whereas, as he himself would be the first to admit, Vimes had merely worked his way along. Every time he seemed to be getting anywhere he spoke his mind, or said the wrong thing. Usually both at once. That was what made him uncomfortable around Wonse. It was the ticking of the bright clockwork of ambition. Vimes had never mastered ambition. It was something that happened to other people. “Ah, Vimes. ” “Sir,” said Vimes woodenly. He didn’t try to salute in case he fell over. He wished he’d had time to drink dinner. Wonse rummaged in the papers of his desk. “Strange things afoot, Vimes. Serious complaint about you, I’m afraid,” he said. Wonse didn’t wear glasses. If he had worn glasses, he’d have peered at Vimes over the top of them. “Sir?” “One of your Night Watch men. Seems he arrested the head of the Thieves’ Guild. ” Vimes swayed a little and tried hard to focus. He wasn’t ready for this sort of thing. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Seem to have lost you there. ” “I said , Vimes, that one of your men arrested the head of the Thieves’ Guild. ” “One of my men?” “Yes. ” Vimes’s scattered brain cells tried valiantly to regroup. “A member of the Watch ?” he said. Wonse grinned mirthlessly. “Tied him up and left him in front of the palace. There’s a bit of a stink about it, I’m afraid. There was a note…ah…here it is…‘This man is charged with, Conspiracy to commit Crime, under Section 14 (iii) of the General Felonies Act, 1678, by me, Carrot Ironfoundersson. ’” Vimes squinted at him. “Fourteen eye-eye-eye?” “Apparently,” said Wonse. “What does that mean?” “I really haven’t the faintest notion,” said Wonse dryly. “And what about the name…Carrot?” “But we don’t do things like that!” said Vimes. “You can’t go around arresting the Thieves’ Guild. I mean, we’d be at it all day!” “Apparently this Carrot thinks otherwise. ” The captain shook his head, and winced. “Carrot? Doesn’t ring a bell. ” The tone of blurred conviction was enough even for Wonse, who was momentarily taken aback. “He was quite—” The secretary hesitated. “Carrot, Carrot,” he said. “ I’ve heard the name before. Seen it written down. ” His face went blank. “The volunteer, that was it! Remember me showing you?” Vimes stared at him. “Wasn’t there a letter from, I don’t know, some dwarf—?” “All about serving the community and keeping the streets safe, that’s right. Begging that his son would be found suitable for a humble position in the Watch. ” The secretary was rummaging among his files. “What’d he done?” said Vimes. “Nothing. That was it. Not a blessed thing. ” Vimes’s brow creased as his thoughts shaped themselves around a new concept. “A volunteer ?” he said. “Yes. ” “He didn’t have to join?” “He wanted to join. And you said it must be a joke, and I said we ought to try and get more ethnic minorities into the Watch. You remember?” Vimes tried to. It wasn’t easy. He was vaguely aware that he drank to forget. What made it rather pointless was that he couldn’t remember what it was he was forgetting anymore. In the end he just drank to forget about drinking. A trawl of the chaotic assortment of recollections that he didn’t even try to dignify anymore by the name of memory produced no clue. “Do I?” he said helplessly.

Wonse folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Now look, Captain,” he said. “Lordship wants an explanation. I don’t want to have to tell him the captain of the Night Watch hasn’t the faintest idea what goes on among the men under, if I may use the term loosely, his command. That sort of thing only leads to trouble, questions asked, that sort of thing. We don’t want that, do we. Do we?” “No, sir,” Vimes muttered. A vague recollection of someone earnestly talking to him in the Bunch of Grapes was bobbing guiltily at the back of his mind. Surely that hadn’t been a dwarf? Not unless the qualification had been radically altered, at any rate. “Of course we don’t,” said Wonse. “For old times’ sake. And so on. So I’ll think of something to tell him and you, Captain, will make a point of finding out what’s going on and putting a stop to it. Give this dwarf a short lesson in what it means to be a guard, all right?” “Haha,” said Vimes dutifully. “I’m sorry?” said Wonse. “Oh. Thought you made an ethnic joke, there. Sir. ” “Look, Vimes, I’m being very understanding. In the circumstances. Now, I want you to get out there and sort this out. Do you understand?” Vimes saluted. The black depression that always lurked ready to take advantage of his sobriety moved in on his tongue. “Right you are, Mr. Secretary,” he said. “I’ll see to it that he learns that arresting thieves is against the law. ” He wished he hadn’t said that. If he didn’t say things like that he’d have been better off now, Captain of the Palace Guard, a big man. Giving him the Watch had been the Patrician’s little joke. But Wonse was already reading a new document on his desk. If he noticed the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. “Very good,” he said. Dearest Mother [Carrot wrote] It has been a much better day. I went into the Thieves’ Guild and arrested the chief Miscreant and dragged him to the Patrician’s Palace. No more trouble from him, I fancy. And Mrs. Palm says I can stay in the attic because, it is always useful to have a man around the place. This was because, in the night, there were men the Worse for Drink making a Fuss in one of the Girl’s Rooms, and I had to speak to them and they Showed Fight and one of them tried to hurt me with his knee but I had the Protective and Mrs. Palm says he has broken his Patella but I needn’t pay for a new one. I do not understand some of the Watch duties. I have a partner, his name is Nobby. He says I am too keen. He says I have got a lot to learn. I think this is true, because, I have only got up to Page 326 in, The Laws and Ordinances of the Cities of Ankh and Morpork. Love to all, Your Son, Carrot. PS. Love to Minty. It wasn’t just the loneliness, it was the back-to-front way of living. That was it, thought Vimes. The Night Watch got up when the rest of the world was going to bed, and went to bed when dawn drifted over the landscape. You spent your whole time in the damp, dark streets, in a world of shadows. The Night Watch attracted the kind of people who for one reason or another were inclined to that kind of life. He reached the Watch House. It was an ancient and surprisingly large building, wedged between a tannery and a tailor who made suspicious leather goods. It must have been quite imposing once, but quite a lot of it was now uninhabitable and patrolled only by owls and rats. Over the door a motto in the ancient tongue of the city was now almost eroded by time and grime and lichen, but could just be made out: FABRICATI DIEM , PVNC It translated–according to Sergeant Colon, who had served in foreign parts and considered himself an expert on languages–as “To Protect and to Serve. ” Yes. Being a guard must have meant something, once. Sergeant Colon, he thought, as he stumbled into the musty gloom. Now there was a man who liked the dark. Sergeant Colon owed thirty years of happy marriage to the fact that Mrs. Colon worked all day and Sergeant Colon worked all night. They communicated by means of notes. He got her tea ready before he left at night, she left his breakfast nice and hot in the oven in the mornings. They had three grown-up children, all born, Vimes had assumed, as a result of extremely persuasive handwriting. And Corporal Nobbs…well, anyone like Nobby had unlimited reasons for not wishing to be seen by other people. You didn’t have to think hard about that. The only reason you couldn’t say that Nobby was close to the animal kingdom was that the animal kingdom would get up and walk away. And then, of course, there was himself. Just a skinny, un-shaven collection of bad habits marinated in alcohol. And that was the Night Watch. Just the three of them. Once there had been dozens, hundreds. And now–just three. Vimes fumbled his way up the stairs, groped his way into his office, slumped into the primeval leather chair with its prolapsed stuffing, scrabbled at the bottom drawer, grabbed bottle, bit cork, tugged, spat out cork, drank. Began his day. The world swam into focus. Life is just chemicals. A drop here, a drip there, everything’s changed. A mere dribble of fermented juices and suddenly you’re going to live another few hours. Once, in the days when this had been a respectable district, some hopeful owner of the tavern next door had paid a wizard a considerable sum of money for an illuminated sign, every letter a different color. Now it worked erratically and sometimes short-circuited in the damp. At the moment the E was a garish pink and flashed on and off at random. Vimes had grown accustomed to it. It seemed like part of life. He stared at the flickering play of light on the crumbling plaster for a while, and then raised one sandalled foot and thumped heavily on the floorboards, twice. After a few minutes a distant wheezing indicated that Sergeant Colon was climbing the stairs. Vimes counted silently. Colon always paused for six seconds at the top of the flight to get some of his breath back. On the seventh second the door opened. The sergeant’s face appeared around it like a harvest moon. You could describe Sergeant Colon like this: he was the sort of man who, if he took up a military career, would automatically gravitate to the post of sergeant. You couldn’t imagine him ever being a corporal. Or, for that matter, a captain. If he didn’t take up a military career, then he looked cut out for something like, perhaps, a sausage butcher; some job where a big red face and a tendency to sweat even in frosty weather were practically part of the specification. He saluted and, with considerable care, placed a scruffy piece of paper on Vimes’s desk and smoothed it out. “Evenin’, Captain,” he said. “Yesterday’s incident reports, and that. Also, you owe fourpence to the Tea Club. ” “What’s this about a dwarf, Sergeant?” said Vimes abruptly. Colon’s brow wrinkled. “What dwarf?” “The one who’s just joined the Watch. Name of—” Vimes hesitated–“Carrot, or something. ” “Him?” Colon’s mouth dropped open. “He’s a dwarf ? I always said you couldn’t trust them little buggers! He fooled me all right, Captain, the little sod must of lied about his height!” Colon was a sizeist, at least when it came to people smaller than himself. “Do you know he arrested the President of the Thieves’ Guild this morning?” “What for?” “For being president of the Thieves’ Guild, it seems. ” The sergeant looked puzzled. “Where’s the crime in that?” “I think perhaps I had better have a word with this Carrot,” said Vimes. “Didn’t you see him, sir?” said Colon. “He said he’d reported to you, sir. ” “I, uh, must have been busy at the time. Lot on my mind,” said Vimes. “Yes, sir,” said Colon, politely. Vimes had just enough self-respect left to look away and shuffle the strata of paperwork on his desk. “We’ve got to get him off the streets as soon as possible,” he muttered. “Next thing you know he’ll be bringing in the chief of the Assassins’ Guild for bloody well killing people! Where is he?” “I sent him out with Corporal Nobbs, Captain. I said he’d show him the ropes, sort of thing. ” “You sent a raw recruit out with Nobby ?” said Vimes wearily. Colon stuttered.

“Well, sir, experienced man, I thought, Corporal Nobbs could teach him a lot—” “Let’s just hope he’s a slow learner,” said Vimes, ramming his brown iron helmet on his head. “Come on. ” When they stepped out of the Watch House there was a ladder against the tavern wall. A bulky man at the top of it swore under his breath as he wrestled with the illuminated sign. “It’s the E that doesn’t work properly,” Vimes called up. “What?” “The E. And the T sizzles when it rains. It’s about time it was fixed. ” “Fixed? Oh. Yes. Fixed. That’s what I’m doing all right. Fixing. ” The Watch men splashed off through the puddles. Brother Watchtower shook his head slowly, and turned his attention once again to his screwdriver. Men like Corporal Nobbs can be found in every armed force. Although their grasp of the minutiae of the Regulations is usually encyclopedic, they take good care never to be promoted beyond, perhaps, corporal. He tended to speak out of the corner of his mouth. He smoked incessantly but the weird thing, Carrot noticed, was that any cigarette smoked by Nobby became a dog-end almost instantly but remained a dog-end indefinitely or until lodged behind his ear, which was a sort of nicotine Elephant’s Graveyard. On the rare occasions he took one out of his mouth he held it cupped in his hand. He was a small, bandy-legged man, with a certain resemblance to a chimpanzee who never got invited to tea parties. His age was indeterminate. But in cynicism and general world weariness, which is a sort of carbon dating of the personality, he was about seven thousand years old. “A cushy number, this route,” he said, as they strolled along a damp street in the merchants’ quarter. He tried a doorhandle. It was locked. “You stick with me,” he added, “and I’ll see you’re all right. Now, you try the handles on the other side of the street. ” “Ah. I understand, Corporal Nobbs. We’ve got to see if anyone’s left their store unlocked,” said Carrot. “You catch on fast, son. ” “I hope I can apprehend a miscreant in the act,” said Carrot zealously. “Er, yeah,” said Nobby, uncertainly. “But if we find a door unlocked I suppose we must summon the owner,” Carrot went on. “And one of us would have to stay to guard things, right?” “Yeah?” Nobby brightened. “I’ll do that,” he said. “Don’t you worry about it. Then you could go and find the victim. Owner, I mean. ” He tried another doorknob. It turned under his grip. “Back in the mountains,” said Carrot, “if a thief was caught, he was hung up by the—” He paused, idly rattling a doorknob. Nobby froze. “By the what?” he said, in horrified fascination. “Can’t remember now,” said Carrot. “My mother said it was too good for them, anyway. Stealing is Wrong. ” Nobby had survived any number of famous massacres by not being there. He let go of the doorknob, and gave it a friendly pat. “Got it!” said Carrot. Nobby jumped. “Got what?” he shouted. “I remember what we hang them up by,” said Carrot. “Oh,” said Nobby weakly. “Where?” “We hang them up by the town hall,” said Carrot. “Sometimes for days. They don’t do it again, I can tell you. And Bjorn Stronginthearm’s your uncle. ” Nobby leaned his pike against the wall and fumbled a fag-end from the recesses of his ear. One or two things, he decided, needed to be sorted out. “Why did you have to become a guard, lad?” he said. “Everyone keeps on asking me that,” said Carrot. “I didn’t have to. I wanted to. It will make a Man of me. ” Nobby never looked anyone directly in the eye. He stared at Carrot’s right ear in amazement. “You mean you ain’t running away from anything?” he said. “What would I want to run away from anything for?” Nobby floundered a bit. “Ah. There’s always something. Maybe—maybe you was wrongly accused of something. Like, maybe,” he grinned, “maybe the stores was mysteriously short on certain items and you was unjustly blamed. Or certain items was found in your kit and you never knew how they got there. That sort of thing. You can tell old Nobby. Or,” he nudged Carrot, “p’raps it was something else, eh? Shershay la fem , eh? Got a girl into trouble?” “I—” Carrot began, and then remembered that, yes, one should tell the truth, even to odd people like Nobby who didn’t seem to know what it was. And the truth was that he was always getting Minty in trouble, although exactly how and why was a bit of a mystery. Just about every time he left after paying calls on her at the Rocksmacker cave, he could hear her father and mother shouting at her. They were always very polite to him, but somehow merely being seen with him was enough to get Minty into trouble. “Yes,” he said. “Ah. Often the case,” said Nobby wisely. “All the time,” said Carrot. “Just about every night, really. ” “Blimey,” said Nobby, impressed. He looked down at the Protective. “Is that why they make you wear that, then?” “What do you mean?” “Well, don’t worry about it,” said Nobby. “Everyone’s got their little secret. Or big secret, as it might be. Even the captain. He’s only with us because he was Brung Low by a Woman. That’s what the sergeant says. Brung low. ” “Goodness,” said Carrot. It sounded painful. “But I reckon it’s ’cos he speaks his mind. Spoke it once too often to the Patrician, I heard. Said the Thieves’ Guild was nothing but a pack of thieves, or something. That’s why he’s with us. Dunno, really. ” He looked speculatively at the pavement and then said: “So where’re you staying, lad?” “There’s a lady called Mrs. Palm—” Carrot began. Nobby choked on some smoke that went the wrong way. “In the Shades?” he wheezed. “You’re staying there ?” “Oh, yes. ” “Every night ?” “Well, every day, really. Yes. ” “And you’ve come here to have a man made of you?” “Yes!” “I don’t think I should like to live where you come from,” said Nobby. “Look,” said Carrot, thoroughly lost, “I came because Mr. Varneshi said it was the finest job in the world, upholding the law and everything. That’s right, isn’t it?” “Well, er,” said Nobby. “As to that…I mean, upholding the Law…I mean, once , yes, before we had all the Guilds and stuff…the law, sort of thing, ain’t really, I mean, these days, everything’s more…oh, I dunno. Basically you just ring your bell and keep your head down. ” Nobby sighed. Then he grunted, snatched his hourglass from his belt, and peered in at the rapidly-draining sand grains. He put it back, pulled the leather muffler off his bell’s clapper, and shook it once or twice, not very loudly. “Twelve of the clock,” he muttered, “and all’s well. ” “And that’s it, is it?” said Carrot, as the tiny echoes died away. “More or less. More or less. ” Nobby took a quick drag on his dog-end. “Just that? No moonlight chases across rooftops? No swinging on chandeliers? Nothing like that?” said Carrot. “Shouldn’t think so,” said Nobby fervently. “I never done anything like that. No-one ever said anything to me about that. ” He snatched a puff on the cigarette. “A man could catch his death of cold, chasing around on rooftops. I reckon I’ll stick to the bell, if it’s all the same to you. ” “Can I have a go?” said Carrot. Nobby was feeling unbalanced. It can be the only reason why he made the mistake of wordlessly handing Carrot the bell. Carrot examined it for a few seconds. Then he waved it vigorously over his head. “Twelve o’clock!” he bellowed. “And all’s weeeeelllll!” The echoes bounced back and forth across the street and finally were overwhelmed by a horrible, thick silence. Several dogs barked somewhere in the night. A baby started crying. “Ssshh!” hissed Nobby. “Well, it is all well, isn’t it?” said Carrot. “It won’t be if you keep on ringing that bloody bell! Give it here. ” “I don’t understand!” said Carrot. “Look, I’ve got this book Mr. Varneshi gave me—” He fumbled for the Laws and Ordinances. Nobby glanced at them, and shrugged. “Never heard of ’em,” he said. “Now just shut up your row. You don’t want to go making a din like that. You could attract all sorts. Come on, this way. ” He grabbed Carrot’s arm and bustled him along the street. “What sorts?” protested Carrot as he was pushed determinedly forward.

“Bad sorts,” muttered Nobby. “But we’re the Watch !” “Damn right! And we don’t want to go tangling with people like that! Remember what happened to Gaskin!” “I don’t remember what happened to Gaskin!” said Carrot, totally bewildered. “Who’s Gaskin?” “Before your time,” mumbled Nobby. He deflated a bit. “Poor bugger. Could of happened to any of us. ” He looked up and glared at Carrot. “Now stop all this, you hear? It’s getting on my nerves. Moonlight bloody chases, my bum!” He stalked along the street. Nobby’s normal method of locomotion was a kind of sidle, and the combination of stalking and sidling at the same time created a strange effect, like a crab limping. “But, but,” said Carrot, “in this book it says—” “I don’t want to know from no book,” growled Nobby. Carrot looked utterly crestfallen. “But it’s the Law—” he began. He was nearly terminally interrupted by an axe that whirred out of a low doorway beside him and bounced off the opposite wall. It was followed by sounds of splintering timber and breaking glass. “Hey, Nobby!” said Carrot urgently. “There’s a fight going on!” Nobby glanced at the doorway. “O’ course there is,” he said. “It’s a dwarf bar. Worst kind. You keep out of there, kid. Them little buggers like to trip you up and then kick twelve kinds of shit out of you. You come along o’Nobby and he’ll—” He grabbed Carrot’s treetrunk arm. It was like trying to tow a building. Carrot had gone pale. “Dwarfs drinking ? And fighting ?” he said. “You bet,” said Nobby. “All the time. And they use the kind of language I wouldn’t even use to my own dear mother. You don’t want to mix it with them, they’re a poisonous bunch of— don’t go in there !” No one knows why dwarfs, who at home in the mountains lead quiet, orderly lives, forget it all when they move to the big city. Something comes over even the most blameless iron-ore miner and prompts him to wear chain-mail all the time, carry an ax, change his name to something like Grabthroat Shinkicker and drink himself into surly oblivion. It’s probably because they do live such quiet and orderly lives back home. After all, probably the first thing a young dwarf wants to do when he hits the big city after seventy years of working for his father at the bottom of a pit is have a big drink and then hit someone. The fight was one of those enjoyable dwarfish fights with about a hundred participants and one hundred and fifty alliances. The screams, oaths and the ringing of axes on iron helmets mingled with the sounds of a drunken group by the fireplace who—another dwarfish custom—were singing about gold. Nobby bumped into the back of Carrot, who was watching the scene with horror. “Look, it’s like this every night in here,” said Nobby. “Don’t interfere, that’s what the sergeant says. It’s their ethnic folkways, or somethin’. You don’t go messin’ with ethnic folkways. ” “But, but,” Carrot stuttered, “these are my people. Sort of. It’s shameful, acting like this. What must everyone think?” “We think they’re mean little buggers,” said Nobby. “Now, come on !” But Carrot had waded into the scuffling mass. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed something in a language Nobby didn’t understand. Practically any language including his native one would have fitted that description, but in this case it was Dwarfish. “Gr’duzk! Gr’duzk! aaK’zt ezem ke bur’k tze tzim?” 1 The fighting stopped. A hundred bearded faces glared up at Carrot’s stooped figure, their annoyance mingled with surprise. A battered tankard bounced off his breastplate. Carrot reached down and picked up a struggling figure, without apparent effort. “J’uk, ydtruz-t’rud-eztuza, hudr’zd dezek drez’huk, huzu-kruk’t b’tduz g’ke’k me’ek b’tduz t’ be’tk kce’drutk ke’hkt’d. aaDb’thuk?” 1 No dwarf had ever heard so many Old Tongue words from the mouth of anyone over four feet high. They were astonished. Carrot lowered the offending dwarf to the floor. There were tears in his eyes. “You’re dwarfs!” he said. “Dwarfs shouldn’t be acting like this! Look at you all. Aren’t you ashamed?” One hundred bone-hard jaws dropped. “I mean, look at you!” Carrot shook his head. “Can you imagine what your poor, white-bearded old mother, slaving away back in her little hole, wondering how her son is getting on tonight, can you imagine what she’d think if she saw you now? Your own dear mothers, who first showed you how to use a pickax—” Nobby, standing by the doorway in terror and amazement, was aware of a growing chorus of nose-blowings and muffled sobs as Carrot went on: “—she’s probably thinking, I expect he’s having a quiet game of dominoes or something—” A nearby dwarf, wearing a helmet encrusted with six-inch spikes, started to cry gently into his beer. “And I bet it’s a long time since any of you wrote her a letter, too, and you promised to write every week—” Nobby absent-mindedly took out a grubby handkerchief and passed it to a dwarf who was leaning against the wall, shaking with grief. “Now, then,” said Carrot kindly. “I don’t want to be hard on anyone, but I shall be coming past here every night from now on and I shall expect to see proper standards of dwarf behavior. I know what it’s like when you’re far from home, but there’s no excuse for this sort of thing. ” He touched his helmet. “G’hruk, t’uk. ” 1 He gave them all a bright smile and half-walked, half-crouched out of the bar. As he emerged into the street Nobby tapped him on the arm. “Don’t you ever do anything like that to me again,” he fumed. “You’re in the City Watch! Don’t give me anymore of this law business!” “But it is very important,” said Carrot seriously, trotting after Nobby as he sidled into a narrower street. “Not as important as stayin’ in one piece,” said Nobby. “Dwarf bars! If you’ve got any sense, my lad, you’ll come in here. And shut up. ” Carrot stared up at the building they had reached. It was set back a little from the mud of the street. The sounds of considerable drinking were coming from inside. A battered sign hung over the door. It showed a drum. “A tavern, is it?” said Carrot, thoughtfully. “Open at this hour?” “Don’t see why not,” said Nobby, pushing open the door. “Damn useful idea. The Mended Drum. ” “And more drinking?” Carrot thumbed hastily through the book. “I hope so,” said Nobby. He nodded to the troll which was employed by the Drum as a splatter. 1 “Evenin’, Detritus. Just showing the new lad the ropes. ” The troll grunted, and waved a crusted arm. The inside of the Mended Drum is now legendary as the most famous disreputable tavern on the Discworld, and such a feature of the city that, after recent unavoidable redecorations, the new owner spent days recreating the original patina of dirt, soot and less identifiable substances on the walls and imported a ton of pre-rotted rushes for the floor. The drinkers were the usual bunch of heroes, cut throats, mercenaries, desperadoes and villains, and only microscopic analysis could have told which was which. Thick coils of smoke hung in the air, perhaps to avoid touching the walls. The conversation dipped fractionally as the two guards wandered in, and then rose to its former level. A couple of cronies waved to Nobby. He realized that Carrot was busy. “What you doin’?” he said. “And no talkin’ about mothers, right?” “I’m taking notes,” said Carrot, grimly. “I’ve got a notebook. ” “That’s the ticket,” said Nobby. “You’ll like this place. I comes here every night for my supper. ” “How do you spell ‘contravention’?” said Carrot, turning over a page. “I don’t,” said Nobby, pushing through the crowds. A rare impulse to generosity lodged in his mind. “What d’you want to drink?” “I don’t think that would be very appropriate,” said Carrot. “Anyway, Strong Drink is a Mocker. ” He was aware of a penetrating stare in the back of his neck, and turned and looked into the big, bland and gentle face of an orangutan. It was seated at the bar with a pint mug and a bowl of peanuts in front of it.

It tilted its glass amicably toward Carrot and then drank deeply and noisily by apparently forming its lower lip into a sort of prehensile funnel and making a noise like a canal being drained. Carrot nudged Nobby. “There’s a monk—” he began. “Don’t say it!” said Nobby urgently. “Don’t say the word! It’s the Librarian. Works up at the University. Always comes down here for a nightcap of an evening. ” “And people don’t object?” “Why should they?” said Nobby. “He always stands his round, just like everyone else. ” Carrot turned and looked at the ape again. A number of questions pressed for attention, such as: where does it keep its money? The Librarian caught his gaze, misinterpreted it, and gently pushed the bowl of peanuts toward him. Carrot pulled himself to his full impressive height and consulted his notebook. The afternoon spent reading The Laws and Ordinances had been well spent. “Who is the owner, proprietor, lessee, or landlord of these premises?” he said to Nobby. “Wassat?” said the small guard. “Landlord? Well, I suppose Charley here is in charge tonight. Why?” He indicated a large, heavy-set man whose face was a net of scars; its owner paused in the act of spreading the dirt more evenly around some glasses by means of a damp cloth, and gave Carrot a conspiratorial wink. “Charley, this is Carrot,” said Nobby. “He’s stopping along of Rosie Palm’s. ” “What, every night?” said Charley. Carrot cleared his throat. “If you are in charge,” he intoned, “then it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest. ” “A rest of what, friend?” said Charley, still polishing. “Under arrest ,” said Carrot, “with a view to the presentation of charges to whit 1)(i) that on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did a) serve or b) did cause to serve alcoholic beverages after the hours of 12 (twelve) midnight, contrary to the provisions of the Public Ale Houses (Opening) Act of 1678, and 1)(ii) on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did serve or did cause to serve alcoholic beverages in containers other than of a size and capacity laid down by aforesaid Act, and 2)(i) that on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did allow customers to carry unsheathed edge weapons of a length greater than 7 (seven) inches, contrary to Section Three of said Act and 2)(ii) that on or about 18th Grune, at a place called the Mended Drum, Filigree Street, you did serve alcoholic beverages in premises apparently unlicensed for the sale and/or consumption of said beverages, contrary to Section Three of the aforesaid Act. ” There was dead silence as Carrot turned over another page, and went on: “It is also my duty to inform you that it is my intention to lay evidence before the Justices with a view to the consideration of charges under the Public Fore-gatherings (Gambling) Act, 1567, the Licensed Premises (Hygiene) Acts of 1433, 1456, 1463, 1465, er, and 1470 through 1690, and also—” he glanced sideways at the Librarian, who knew trouble when he heard it coming and was hurriedly trying to finish his drink–“the Domestic and Domesticated Animals (Care and Protection) Act, 1673. ” The silence that followed held a rare quality of breathless anticipation as the assembled company waited to see what would happen next. Charley carefully put down the glass, whose smears had been buffed up to a brilliant shine, and looked down at Nobby. Nobby was endeavoring to pretend that he was totally alone and had no connection whatsoever with anyone who might be standing next to him and coincidentally wearing an identical uniform. “What’d he mean, Justices?” he said to Nobby. “There ain’t no Justices. ” Nobby gave a terrified shrug. “New, is he?” said Charley. “Make it easy on yourself,” said Carrot. “This is nothing personal, you understand,” said Charley to Nobby. “It’s just a wossname. Had a wizard in here the other night talking about it. Sort of bendy educational thing, you know?” He appeared to think for a moment. “ Learning curve. That was it. It’s a learning curve. Detritus, get your big stony arse over here a moment. ” Generally, about this time in the Mended Drum, someone throws a glass. And, in fact, this now happened. Captain Vimes ran up Short Street—the longest in the city, which shows the famous Morpork subtle sense of humor in a nutshell—with Sergeant Colon stumbling along behind, protesting. Nobby was outside the Drum, hopping from one foot to another. In times of danger he had a way of propelling himself from place to place without apparently moving through the intervening space which could put any ordinary matter transporter to shame. “’E’s fighting in there!” he stuttered, grabbing the captain’s arm. “All by himself?” said the captain. “No, with everyone!” shouted Nobby, hopping from one foot to the other. “Oh. ” Conscience said: There’s three of you. He’s wearing the same uniform. He’s one of your men. Remember poor old Gaskin. Another part of his brain, the hated, despicable part which had nevertheless enabled him to survive in the Guards these past ten years, said: It’s rude to butt in. We’ll wait until he’s finished, and then ask him if he wants any assistance. Besides, it isn’t Watch policy to interfere in fights. It’s a lot simpler to go in afterward and arrest anyone recumbent. There was a crash as a nearby window burst outward and deposited a stunned fighter on the opposite side of the street. “I think,” said the captain carefully, “that we’d better take prompt action. ” “That’s right,” said Sgt. Colon, “a man could get hurt standing here. ” They sidled cautiously a little way down the street, where the sound of splintering wood and breaking glass wasn’t so overpowering, and carefully avoided one another’s eyes. There was the occasional scream from within the tavern, and every now and again a mysterious ringing noise, as though someone was hitting a gong with their knee. They stood in a little pool of embarrassed silence. “You had your holidays this year, Sergeant?” said Captain Vimes eventually, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Yessir. Sent the wife to Quirm last month, sir, to see her aunt. ” “Very nice at this time of year, I’m told. ” “Yessir. ” “All the geraniums and whatnot. ” A figure tumbled out of an upper window and crumpled on the cobbles. “That’s where they’ve got the floral sundial, isn’t it?” said the captain desperately. “Yessir. Very nice, sir. All done with little flowers, sir. ” There was a sound like something hitting something else repeatedly with something heavy and wooden. Vimes winced. “I don’t think he’d of been happy in the Watch, sir,” said the sergeant, in a kindly voice. The door of the Mended Drum had been torn off during riots so often that specially-tempered hinges had recently been installed, and the fact that the next tremendous crash tore the whole door and doorframe out of the wall only showed that quite a lot of money had been wasted. A figure in the midst of the wreckage tried to raise itself on its elbows, groaned, and slumped back. “Well, it would seem that it’s all—” the captain began, and Nobby said: “It’s that bloody troll!” “What?” said Vimes. “It’s the troll! The one they have on the door!” They advanced with extreme caution. It was, indeed, Detritus the splatter. It is very difficult to hurt a creature that is, to all intents and purposes, a mobile stone. Someone seemed to have managed it, though. The fallen figure was groaning like a couple of bricks being crushed together. “That’s a turnup for the books,” said the sergeant vaguely. All three of them turned and peered at the brightly-lit rectangle where the doorway had been. Things had definitely quietened down a bit in there. “You don’t think,” said the sergeant, “that he’s winning , do you?” The captain thrust out his jaw. “We owe it to our colleague and fellow officer,” he said, “to find out. ” There was a whimper from behind them. They turned and saw Nobby hopping on one leg and clutching a foot. “What’s up with you, man?” said Vimes.

Nobby made agonized noises. Sergeant Colon began to understand. Although cautious obsequiousness was the general tenor of Watch behavior, there wasn’t one member of the entire squad who hadn’t, at some time, been at the wrong end of Detritus’s fists. Nobby had merely tried to play catch-up in the very best traditions of policemen everywhere. “He went and kicked him inna rocks, sir,” he said. “Disgraceful,” said the captain vaguely. He hesitated. “Do trolls have rocks?” he said. “Take it from me, sir. ” “Good grief,” Vimes said. “Dame Nature moves in strange ways, doesn’t she. ” “Right you are, sir,” said the sergeant obediently. “And now,” said the captain, drawing his sword, “forward!” “Yessir. ” “This means you too, Sergeant,” the captain added. “Yessir. ” It was possibly the most circumspect advance in the history of military maneuvers, right down at the bottom end of the scale that things like the Charge of the Light Brigade are at the top of. They peered cautiously around the ravished doorway. There were a number of people sprawled across the tables, or what remained of the tables. Those who were still conscious looked unhappy about it. Carrot stood in the middle of the floor. His rusty chain mail was torn, his helmet was missing, he was swaying a little from side to side and one eye was already starting to swell, but he recognized the captain, dropped the feebly-protesting customer he was holding, and threw a salute. “Beg to report thirty-one offenses of Making an Affray, sir, and fifty-six cases of Riotous Behavior, forty-one offenses of Obstructing an Officer of the Watch in the Execution of his Duty, thirteen offenses of Assault with a Deadly Weapon, six cases of Malicious Lingering, and—and—Corporal Nobby hasn’t even shown me one rope yet—” He fell backward, breaking a table. Captain Vimes coughed. He wasn’t at all sure what you were supposed to do next. As far as he knew, the Watch had never been in this position before. “I think you should get him a drink, Sergeant,” he said. “Yessir. ” “And get me one, too. ” “Yessir. ” “Have one yourself, why don’t you. ” “Yessir. ” “And you, Corporal, will you please— what are you doing?” “Searchingthebodiesir,” said Nobby quickly, straightening up. “For incriminating evidence, and that. ” “In their money pouches?” Nobby thrust his hands behind his back. “You never know, sir,” he said. The sergeant had located a miraculously unbroken bottle of spirits in the wreckage and forced a lot of its contents between Carrot’s lips. “What we going to do with all this lot, Captain?” he said over his shoulder. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Vimes, sitting down. The Watch jail was just about big enough for six very small people, which were usually the only sort to be put in it. Whereas these— He looked around him desperately. There was Nork the Impaler, lying under a table and making bubbling noises. There was Big Henri. There was Grabber Simmons, one of the most feared barroom fighters in the city. All in all, there were a lot of people it wouldn’t pay to be near when they woke up. “We could cut their froats, sir,” said Nobby, veteran of a score of residual battlefields. He had found an unconscious fighter who was about the right size and was speculatively removing his boots, which looked quite new and about the right size. “That would be entirely wrong,” said Vimes. He wasn’t sure how you actually went about cutting a throat. It had never hitherto been an option. “No,” he said, “I think perhaps we’ll let them off with a caution. ” There was a groan from under the bench. “Besides,” he went on quickly, “we should get our fallen comrade to a place of safety as soon as possible. ” “Good point,” said the sergeant. He took a swig of the spirits, for the sake of his nerves. The two of them managed to sling Carrot between them and guide his wobbling legs up the steps. Vimes, collapsing under the weight, looked around for Nobby. “Corporal Nobbs,” he rasped, “why are you kicking people when they’re down?” “Safest way, sir,” said Nobby. Nobby had long ago been told about fighting fair and not striking a fallen opponent, and had then given some creative thought to how these rules applied to someone four feet tall with the muscle tone of an elastic band. “Well, stop it. I want you to caution the felons,” said the captain. “How, sir?” “Well, you—” Captain Vimes stopped. He was blowed if he knew. He’d never done it. “Just do it,” he snapped. “Surely I don’t have to tell you everything?” Nobby was left alone at the top of the stairs. A general muttering and groaning from the floor indicated that people were waking up. Nobby thought quickly. He shook an admonitory cheese-straw of a finger. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he said. “Don’t do it again. ” And ran for it. Up in the darkness of the rafters the Librarian scratched himself reflectively. Life was certainly full of surprises. He was going to watch developments with interest. He shelled a thoughtful peanut with his feet, and swung away into the darkness. The Supreme Grand Master raised his hands. “Are the Thuribles of Destiny ritually chastised, that Evil and Loose Thinking may be banished from this Sanctified Circle?” “Yep. ” The Supreme Grand Master lowered his hands. “Yep?” he said. “Yep,” said Brother Dunnykin happily. “Done it myself. ” “You are supposed to say ‘Yea, O Supreme One,’” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Honestly, I’ve told you enough times, if you’re not all going to enter into the spirit of the thing—” “Yes, you listen to what the Supreme Grand Master tells you,” said Brother Watchtower, glaring at the errant Brother. “I spent hours chastising them thuribles,” muttered Brother Dunnykin. “Carry on, O Supreme Grand Master,” said Brother Watchtower. “Very well, then,” said the Grand Master. “Tonight we’ll try another experimental summoning. I trust you have obtained suitable raw material, brothers?” “—scrubbed and scrubbed, not that you get any thanks—” “All sorted out, Supreme Grand Master,” said Brother Watchtower. It was, the Grand Master conceded, a slightly better collection. The Brothers had certainly been busy. Pride of place was given to an illuminated tavern sign whose removal, the Grand Master thought, should have merited some sort of civic award. At the moment the E was a ghastly pink and flashed on and off at random. “ I got that,” said Brother Watchtower proudly. “They thought I was mending it or something, but I took my screwdriver and I—” “Yes, well done,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Shows initiative. ” “ Thank you, Supreme Grand Master,” beamed Brother Watchtower. “—knuckles rubbed raw, all red and cracked. Never even got my three dollars back, either, no one as much as says—” “And now,” said the Supreme Grand Master, taking up the book, “we will begin to commence. Shut up, Brother Dunnykin. ” Every town in the multiverse has a part that is something like Ankh-Morpork’s Shades. It’s usually the oldest part, its lanes faithfully following the original tracks of medieval cows going down to the river, and they have names like the Shambles, the Rookery, Sniggs Alley… Most of Ankh-Morpork is like that in any case. But the Shades was even more so, a sort of black hole of bred-in-the-brickwork lawlessness. Put it like this: even the criminals were afraid to walk the streets. The Watch didn’t set foot in it. They were accidentally setting foot in it now. Not very reliably. It had been a trying night, and they had been steadying their nerves. They were now so steady that all four were relying on the other three to keep them upright and steer. Captain Vimes passed the bottle back to the sergeant. “Shame on, on, on,” he thought for a bit, “you,” he said. “Drun’ in fron’ of a super, super, superererer ofisiler. ” The sergeant tried to speak, but could only come out with a series of esses. “Put yoursel’ onna charge,” said Captain Vimes, rebounding off a wall. He glared at the brickwork. “This wall assaulted me,” he declared.

“Hah! Think you’re tough, eh! Well, ’m a ofisler of, of, of the Law, I’ll have you know, and we don’ take any, any, any. ” He blinked slowly, once or twice. “What’s it we don’ take any of, Sar’nt?” he said. “Chances, sir?” said Colon. “No, no, no. S’other stuff. Never mind. Anyway, we don’ take any of, of, of it from anyone. ” Vague visions were trotting through his mind, of a room full of criminal types, people that had jeered at him, people whose very existence had offended and taunted him for years, lying around and groaning. He was a little unclear how it had happened, but some almost forgotten part of him, some much younger Vimes with a bright shining breastplate and big hopes, a Vimes he thought the alcohol had long ago drowned, was suddenly restless. “Shallie, shallie, shallie tell you something, Sarn’t?” he said. “Sir?” The four of them bounced gently off another wall and began another slow crabwise waltz across the alley. “This city. This city. This city, Sarn’t. This city is a, is a, is a Woman, Sarn’t. So t’is. A Woman, Sarn’t. Ancient raddled old beauty, Sarn’t. Butifyoufallinlovewithher, then, then, then shekicksyouinnateeth—” “’s woman?” said Colon. He screwed up his sweating face with the effort of thought. “’s eight miles wide, sir. ’s gotta river in it. Lots of, of houses and stuff, sir,” he reasoned. “Ah. Ah. Ah. ” Vimes waggled an unsteady finger at him. “Never, never, never said it wasa small woman, did I. Be fair. ” He waved the bottle. Another random thought exploded in the froth of his mind. “We showed ’em, anyway,” he said excitedly, as the four of them began an oblique shuffle back to the opposite wall. “Showed them, dint we? Taught thema forget they won’t lesson inna hurry, eh?” “S’right,” said the sergeant, but not very enthusiastically. He was still wondering about his superior officer’s sex life. But Vimes was in the kind of mood that didn’t need encouragement. “Hah!” he shouted, at the dark alleyways. “Don’ like it, eh? Taste of your, your, your own medicine thingy. Well, now you can bootle in your trems!” He threw the empty bottle into the air. “Two o’clock!” he yelled. “And all’s weeeellll!” Which was astonishing news to the various shadowy figures who had been silently shadowing the four of them for some time. Only sheer puzzlement had prevented them making their attentions sharp and plain. These people are clearly guards, they were thinking, they’ve got the right helmets and everything, and yet here they are in the Shades. So they were being watched with the fascination that a pack of wolves might focus on a handful of sheep who had not only trotted into the clearing, but were making playful butts and baa-ing noises; the outcome was, of course, going to be mutton but in the meantime inquisitiveness gave a stay of execution. Carrot raised his muzzy head. “Where’re we?” he groaned. “On our way home,” said the sergeant. He looked up at the pitted, worm-eaten and knife-scored sign above them. “We’re jus’ goin’ down, goin’ down, goin’ down—” he squinted—“Sweetheart Lane. ” “Sweetheart Lane s’not on the way home,” slurred Nobby. “We wouldn’t wanta go down Sweetheart Lane, it’s in the Shades. Catch us goin’ down Sweetheart Lane—” There was a crowded moment in which realization did the icy work of a good night’s sleep and several pints of black coffee. The three of them, by unspoken agreement, clustered up toward Carrot. “What we gonna do , Captain?” said Colon. “Er. We could call for help,” said the captain uncertainly. “What, here ?” “You’ve got a point. ” “I reckon we must of turned left out of Silver Street instead of right,” quavered Nobby. “Well, that’s one mistake we won’t make again in a hurry,” said the captain. Then he wished he hadn’t. They could hear footsteps. Somewhere off to their left, there was a snigger. “We must form a square,” said the captain. They all tried to form a point. “Hey! What was that?” said Sergeant Colon. “What?” “There it was again. Sort of a leathery sound. ” Captain Vimes tried not to think about hoods and garrotting. There were, he knew, many gods. There was a god for every trade. There was a beggars’ god, a whores’ goddess, a thieves’ god, probably even an assassins’ god. He wondered whether there was, somewhere in that vast pantheon, a god who would look kindly on hard-pressed and fairly innocent law-enforcement officers who were quite definitely about to die. There probably wasn’t, he thought bitterly. Something like that wasn’t stylish enough for gods. Catch any god worrying about any poor sod trying to do his best for a handful of dollars a month. Not them. Gods went overboard for smart bastards whose idea of a day’s work was prising the Ruby Eye of the Earwig King out of its socket, not for some unimaginative sap who just pounded the pavement every night… “More sort of slithery,” said the sergeant, who liked to get things right. And then there was a sound— —perhaps a volcanic sound, or the sound of a boiling geyser, but at any rate a long, dry roar of a sound, like the bellows in the forges of the Titans— —but it was not so bad as the light, which was blue-white and the sort of light to print the pattern of your eyeballs’ blood vessels on the back of the inside of your skull. They both went on for hundreds of years and then, instantly, stopped. The dark aftermath was filled with purple images and, once the ears regained an ability to hear, a faint, clinkery sound. The guards remained perfectly still for some time. “Well, well,” said the captain weakly. After a further pause he said, very clearly, every consonant slotting perfectly into place, “Sergeant, take some men and investigate that, will you?” “Investigate what, sir?” said Colon, but it had already dawned on the captain that if the sergeant took some men it would leave him, Captain Vimes, all alone. “No, I’ve a better idea. We’ll all go,” he said firmly. They all went. Now that their eyes were used to the darkness they could see an indistinct red glow ahead of them. It turned out to be a wall, cooling rapidly. Bits of calcined brickwork were falling off as they contracted, making little pinging noises. That wasn’t the worst bit. The worst bit was what was on the wall. They stared at it. They stared at it for a long time. It was only an hour or two till dawn, and no one even suggested trying to find their way back in the dark. They waited by the wall. At least it was warm. They tried not to look at it. Eventually Colon stretched uneasily and said, “Chin up, Captain. It could have been worse. ” Vimes finished the bottle. It didn’t have any effect. There were some types of sobriety that you just couldn’t budge. “Yes,” he said. “It could have been us. ” The Supreme Grand Master opened his eyes. “Once again,” he said, “we have achieved success. ” The Brethren burst into a ragged cheer. The Brothers Watchtower and Fingers linked arms and danced an enthusiastic jig in their magic circle. The Supreme Grand Master took a deep breath. First the carrot, he thought, and now the stick. He liked the stick. “Silence!” he screamed. “Brother Fingers, Brother Watchtower, cease this shameful display!” he screeched. “The rest of you, be silent!” They quietened down, like rowdy children who have just seen the teacher come into the room. Then they quietened down a lot more, like children who have just seen the teacher’s expression. The Supreme Grand Master let this sink in, and then stalked along their ragged ranks. “I suppose,” he said, “that we think we’ve done some magic, do we? Hmm ? Brother Watchtower?” Brother Watchtower swallowed. “Well, er, you said we were, er, I mean—” “You haven’t done ANYTHING yet!” “Well, er, no, er—” Brother Watchtower trembled. “Do real wizards leap about after a tiny spell and start chanting ‘Here we go, here we go, here we go,’ Brother Watchtower? Hmm ?” “Well, we were sort of—” The Supreme Grand Master spun on his heel. “And do they keep looking apprehensively at the woodwork, Brother Plasterer?” Brother Plasterer hung his head. He hadn’t realized anyone had noticed.

When the tension was twanging satisfactorily, like a bowstring, the Supreme Grand Master stood back. “Why do I bother?” he said, shaking his head. “I could have chosen anyone. I could have picked the best. But I’ve got a bunch of children. ” “Er, honest,” said Brother Watchtower, “we was making an effort, I mean, we was really concentrating. Weren’t we, lads?” “Yes,” they chorused. The Supreme Grand Master glared at them. “There’s no room in this Brotherhood for Brothers who are not behind us all the way,” he warned. With almost visible relief the Brethren, like panicked sheep who see that a hurdle has been opened in the fold, galloped toward the opening. “No worries about that, your supremity,” said Brother Watchtower fervently. “Commitment must be our watchword!” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Watchword. Yeah,” said Brother Watchtower. He nudged Brother Plasterer, whose eyes had strayed to the skirting board again. “Wha? Oh. Yeah. Watchword. Yeah,” said Brother Plasterer. “And trust and fraternity,” said the Supreme Grand Master. “Yeah. And them, too,” said Brother Fingers. “So,” said the Supreme Grand Master, “if there be any one here not anxious, yea, eager to continue in this great work, let him step forward now. ” No one moved. They’re hooked. Ye gods, I’m good at this, thought the Supreme Grand Master. I can play on their horrible little minds like a xylophone. It’s amazing, the sheer power of mundanity. Who’d have thought that weakness could be a greater force than strength? But you have to know how to direct it. And I do. “Very well, then,” he said. “And now, we will repeat the Oath. ” He led their stumbling, terrified voices through it, noting with approval the strangled way they said “figgin’. ” And he kept one eye on Brother Fingers, too. He’s slightly brighter than the others, he thought. Slightly less gullible, at least. Better make sure I’m always the last to leave. Don’t want any clever ideas about following me home. You need a special kind of mind to rule a city like Ankh-Morpork, and Lord Vetinari had it. But then, he was a special kind of person. He baffled and infuriated the lesser merchant princes, to the extent that they had long ago given up trying to assassinate him and now merely jockeyed for position among themselves. Anyway, any assassin who tried to attack the Patrician would be hard put to it to find enough flesh to insert the dagger. While other lords dined on larks stuffed with peacocks’ tongues, Lord Vetinari considered that a glass of boiled water and half a slice of dry bread was an elegant sufficiency. It was exasperating. He appeared to have no vice that anyone could discover. You’d have thought, with that pale, equine face, that he’d incline toward stuff with whips, needles, and young women in dungeons. The other lords could have accepted that. Nothing wrong with whips and needles, in moderation. But the Patrician apparently spent his evenings studying reports and, on special occasions, if he could stand the excitement, playing chess. He wore black a lot. It wasn’t particularly impressive black, such as the best assassins wore, but the sober, slightly shabby black of a man who doesn’t want to waste time in the mornings wondering what to wear. And you had to get up very early in the morning to get the better of the Patrician; in fact, it was wiser not to go to bed at all. But he was popular, in a way. Under his hand, for the first time in a thousand years, Ankh-Morpork operated. It might not be fair or just or particularly democratic, but it worked. He tended it as one tends a topiary bush, encouraging a growth here, pruning an errant twig there. It was said that he would tolerate absolutely anything apart from anything that threatened the city 1 , and here it was… He stared at the stricken wall for a long time, while the rain dripped off his chin and soaked his clothes. Behind him, Wonse hovered nervously. Then one long, thin, blue-veined hand reached out and the fingertips traced the shadows. Well, not so much shadows, more a series of silhouettes. The outline was very distinct. Inside, there was the familiar pattern of brickwork. Outside, though, something had fused the wall in a rather nice ceramic substance, giving the ancient flettons a melted, mirror-like finish. The shapes outlined in brickwork showed a tableau of six men frozen in an attitude of surprise. Various upraised hands had quite clearly been holding knives and cutlasses. The Patrician looked down silently on the pile of ash at his feet. A few streaks of molten metal might once have been the very same weapons that were now so decisively etched into the wall. “Hmm,” he said. Captain Vimes respectfully led him across the lane and into Fast Luck Alley, where he pointed out Exhibit A, to whit… “Footprints,” he said. “Which is stretching it a bit, sir. They’re more what you’d call claws. One might go so far as to say talons. ” The Patrician stared at the prints in the mud. His expression was quite unreadable. “I see,” he said eventually. “And do you have an opinion about all this, Captain?” The captain did. In the hours until dawn he’d had all sorts of opinions, starting with a conviction that it had been a big mistake to be born. And then the gray light had filtered even into the Shades, and he was still alive and uncooked, and had looked around him with an expression of idiot relief and seen, not a yard away, these footprints. That had not been a good moment to be sober. “Well, sir,” he said, “I know that dragons have been extinct for thousands of years, sir—” “Yes?” The Patrician’s eyes narrowed. Vimes plunged on. “But, sir, the thing is, do they know? Sergeant Colon said he heard a leathery sound just before, just before, just before the, er…offense. ” “So you think an extinct, and indeed a possibly entirely mythical, dragon flew into the city, landed in this narrow alley, incinerated a group of criminals, and then flew away?” said the Patrician. “One might say, it was a very public-spirited creature. ” “Well, when you put it like that—” “If I recall, the dragons of legend were solitary and rural creatures who shunned people and dwelt in forsaken, out of the way places,” said the Patrician. “They were hardly urban creatures. ” “No, sir,” said the captain, repressing a comment that if you wanted to find a really forsaken, out of the way place then the Shades would fit the bill pretty well. “Besides,” said Lord Vetinari, “one would imagine that someone would have noticed, wouldn’t you agree?” The captain nodded at the wall and its dreadful frieze. “Apart from them, you mean, sir?” “In my opinion,” said Lord Vetinari, “it’s some kind of warfare. Possibly a rival gang has hired a wizard. A little local difficulty. ” “Could be linked to all this strange thieving, sir,” volunteered Wonse. “But there’s the footprints, sir,” said Vimes doggedly. “We’re close to the river,” said the Patrician. “Possibly it was, perhaps, a wading bird of some sort. A mere coincidence,” he added, “but I should cover them over, if I were you. We don’t want people getting the wrong idea and jumping to silly conclusions, do we?” he added sharply. Vimes gave in. “As you wish, sir,” he said, looking at his sandals. The Patrician patted him on the shoulder. “Never mind,” he said. “Carry on. Good show of initiative, that man. Patrolling in the Shades, too. Well done. ” He turned, and almost walked into the wall of chain mail that was Carrot. To his horror, Captain Vimes saw his newest recruit point politely to the Patrician’s coach. Around it, fully-armed and wary, were six members of the Palace Guard, who straightened up and took a wary interest. Vimes disliked them intensely. They had plumes on their helmets. He hated plumes on a guard. He heard Carrot say, “Excuse me, sir, is this your coach, sir?” and the Patrician looked him blankly up and down and said, “It is. Who are you, young man?” Carrot saluted. “Lance-constable Carrot, sir. ” “Carrot, Carrot. That name rings a bell. ” Lupine Wonse, who had been hovering behind him, whispered in the Patrician’s ear.

His face brightened. “Ah, the young thief-taker. A little error there, I think, but commendable. No person is above the law, eh?” “No, sir,” said Carrot. “Commendable, commendable,” said the Patrician. “And now, gentlemen—” “About your coach, sir,” said Carrot doggedly, “I couldn’t help noticing that the front offside wheel, contrary to the—” He’s going to arrest the Patrician, Vimes told himself, the thought trickling through his brain like an icy rivulet. He’s actually going to arrest the Patrician. The supreme ruler. He’s going to arrest him. This is what he’s actually going to do. The boy doesn’t know the meaning of the word “fear. ” Oh, wouldn’t it be a good idea if he knew the meaning of the word “survival…” And I can’t get my jaw muscles to move. We’re all dead. Or worse, we’re all detained at the Patrician’s pleasure. And as we all know, he’s seldom that pleased. It was at this precise moment that Sergeant Colon earned himself a metaphorical medal. “Lance-constable Carrot!” he shouted. “Attention! Lance-constable Carrot, abou-uta turna! Lance-constable Carrot, quiuck marcha!” Carrot brought himself to attention like a barn being raised and stared straight ahead with a ferocious expression of acute obedience. “Well done, that man,” said the Patrician thoughtfully, as Carrot strode stiffly away. “Carry on, Captain. And do come down heavily on any silly rumors about dragons, right?” “Yes, sir,” said Captain Vimes. “Good man. ” The coach rattled off, the bodyguard running alongside. Behind him, Captain Vimes was only vaguely aware of the sergeant yelling at the retreating Carrot to stop. He was thinking. He looked at the prints in the mud. He used his regulation pike, which he knew was exactly seven feet long, to measure their size and the distance between them. He whistled under his breath. Then, with considerable caution, he followed the alley around the corner; it led to a small, padlocked and dirt-encrusted door in the back of a timber warehouse. There was something very wrong, he thought. The prints come out of the alley, but they don’t go in. And we don’t often get any wading birds in the Ankh, mainly because the pollution would eat their legs away and anyway, it’s easier for them to walk on the surface. He looked up. A myriad washing lines criss-crossed the narrow rectangle of the sky as efficiently as a net. So, he thought, something big and fiery came out of this alley but didn’t come into it. And the Patrician is very worried about it. I’ve been told to forget about it. He noticed something else at the side of the alley, and bent down and picked up a fresh, empty peanut shell. He tossed it from hand to hand, staring at nothing. Right now, he needed a drink. But perhaps it ought to wait. The Librarian knuckled his way urgently along the dark aisles between the slumbering bookshelves. The rooftops of the city belonged to him. Oh, assassins and thieves might make use of them, but he’d long ago found the forest of chimneys, buttresses, gargoyles and weathervanes a convenient and somehow comforting alternative to the streets. At least, up until now. It had seemed amusing and instructive to follow the Watch into the Shades, an urban jungle which held no fears for a 300-lb. ape. But now the nightmare he had seen while brachiating across a dark alley would, if he had been human, have made him doubt the evidence of his own eyes. As an ape, he had no doubts whatsoever about his eyes and believed them all the time. Right now he wanted to concentrate them urgently on a book that might hold a clue. It was in a section no one bothered with much these days; the books in there were not really magical. Dust lay accusingly on the floor. Dust with footprints in it. “Oook?” said the Librarian, in the warm gloom. He proceeded cautiously now, realizing with a sense of inevitability that the footprints seemed to have the same destination in mind as he did. He turned a corner and there it was. The section. The bookcase. The shelf. The gap. There are many horrible sights in the multiverse. Somehow, though, to a soul attuned to the subtle rhythms of a library, there are few worse sights than a hole where a book ought to be. Someone had stolen a book. In the privacy of the Oblong Office, his personal sanctum, the Patrician paced up and down. He was dictating a stream of instructions. “And send some men to paint that wall,” he finished. Lupine Wonse raised an eyebrow. “Is that wise, sir?” he said. “You don’t think a frieze of ghastly shadows will cause comment and speculation?” said the Patrician sourly. “Not as much as fresh paint in the Shades,” said Wonse evenly. The Patrician hesitated a moment. “Good point,” he snapped. “Have some men demolish it. ” He reached the end of the room, spun on his heel, and stalked up it again. Dragons! As if there were not enough important, enough real things to take up his time. “Do you believe in dragons?” he said. Wonse shook his head. “They’re impossible, sir. ” “So I’ve heard,” said Lord Vetinari. He reached the opposite wall, turned. “Would you like me to investigate further?” said Wonse. “Yes. Do so. ” “And I shall ensure the Watch take great care,” said Wonse. The Patrician stopped his pacing. “The Watch? The Watch? My dear chap, the Watch are a bunch of incompetents commanded by a drunkard. It’s taken me years to achieve it. The last thing we need to concern ourselves with is the Watch. ” He thought for a moment. “Ever seen a dragon, Wonse? One of the big ones, I mean? Oh, they’re impossible. You said. ” “They’re just legend, really. Superstition,” said Wonse. “Hmm,” said the Patrician. “And the thing about legends, of course, is that they are legendary. ” “Exactly, sir. ” “Even so—” The Patrician paused, and stared at Wonse for some time. “Oh, well,” he said. “Sort it out. I’m not having any of this dragon business. It’s the type of thing that makes people restless. Put a stop to it. ” When he was alone he stood and looked out gloomily over the twin city. It was drizzling again. Ankh-Morpork! Brawling city of a hundred thousand souls! And, as the Patrician privately observed, ten times that number of actual people. The fresh rain glistened on the panorama of towers and rooftops, all unaware of the teeming, rancorous world it was dropping into. Luckier rain fell on upland sheep, or whispered gently over forests, or pattered somewhat incestuously into the sea. Rain that fell on Ankh-Morpork though, was rain that was in trouble. They did terrible things to water, in Ankh-Morpork. Being drunk was only the start of its problems. The Patrician liked to feel that he was looking out over a city that worked. Not a beautiful city, or a renowned city, or a well-drained city, and certainly not an architecturally favored city; even its most enthusiastic citizens would agree that, from a high point of vantage, Ankh-Morpork looked as though someone had tried to achieve in stone and wood an effect normally associated with the pavements outside all-night takeaways. But it worked. It spun along cheerfully like a gyroscope on the lip of a catastrophe curve. And this, the Patrician firmly believed, was because no one group was ever powerful enough to push it over. Merchants, thieves, assassins, wizards—all competed energetically in the race without really realizing that it needn’t be a race at all, and certainly not trusting one another enough to stop and wonder who had marked out the course and was holding the starting flag. The Patrician disliked the word “dictator. ” It affronted him. He never told anyone what to do. He didn’t have to, that was the wonderful part. A large part of his life consisted of arranging matters so that this state of affairs continued. Of course, there were various groups seeking his overthrow, and this was right and proper and the sign of a vigorous and healthy society. No one could call him unreasonable about the matter. Why, hadn’t he founded most of them himself? And what was so beautiful was the way in which they spent nearly all their time bickering with one another.

Human nature, the Patrician always said, was a marvelous thing. Once you understood where its levers were. He had an unpleasant premonition about this dragon business. If ever there was a creature that didn’t have any obvious levers, it was a dragon. It would have to be sorted out. The Patrician didn’t believe in unnecessary cruelty. 1 He did not believe in pointless revenge. But he was a great believer in the need for things to be sorted out. Funnily enough, Captain Vimes was thinking the same thing. He found he didn’t like the idea of citizens, even of the Shades, being turned into a mere ceramic tint. And it had been done in front of the Watch, more or less. As if the Watch didn’t matter, as if the Watch was just an irrelevant detail. That was what rankled. Of course, it was true. That only made it worse. What was making him even angrier was that he had disobeyed orders. He had scuffed up the tracks, certainly. But in the bottom drawer of his ancient desk, hidden under a pile of empty bottles, was a plaster cast. He could feel it staring at him through three layers of wood. He couldn’t imagine what had got into him. And now he was going even further out onto the limb. He reviewed his, for want of a better word, troops. He’d asked the senior pair to turn up in plain clothes. This meant that Sergeant Colon, who’d worn uniform all his life, was looking red-faced and uncomfortable in the suit he wore for funerals. Whereas Nobby— “I wonder if I made the word ‘plain’ clear enough?” said Captain Vimes. “It’s what I wear outside work, guv,” said Nobby reproachfully. “Sir,” corrected Sergeant Colon. “My voice is in plain clothes too,” said Nobby. “Initiative, that is. ” Vimes walked slowly around the corporal. “And your plain clothes do not cause old women to faint and small boys to run after you in the street?” he said. Nobby shifted uneasily. He wasn’t at home with irony. “No, sir, guv,” he said. “It’s all the go, this style. ” This was broadly true. There was a current fad in Ankh for big, feathered hats, ruffs, slashed doublets with gold frogging, flared pantaloons and boots with ornamental spurs. The trouble was, Vimes reflected, that most of the fashion-conscious had more body to go between these component bits, whereas all that could be said of Corporal Nobbs was that he was in there somewhere. It might be advantageous. After all, absolutely no one would ever believe, when they saw him coming down the street, that here was a member of the Watch trying to look inconspicuous. It occurred to Vimes that he knew absolutely nothing about Nobbs outside working hours. He couldn’t even remember where the man lived. All these years he’d known the man and he’d never realized that, in his secret private life, Corporal Nobbs was a bit of a peacock. A very short peacock, it was true, a peacock that had been hit repeatedly with something heavy, perhaps, but a peacock nonetheless. It just went to show, you never could tell. He brought his attention back to the business in hand. “I want you two,” he said to Nobbs and Colon, “to mingle unobtrusively, or obtrusively in your case, Corporal Nobbs, with people tonight and, er, see if you can detect anything unusual. ” “Unusual like what?” said the sergeant. Vimes hesitated. He wasn’t exactly sure himself. “Anything,” he said, “pertinent. ” “Ah. ” The sergeant nodded wisely. “Pertinent. Right. ” There was an awkward silence. “Maybe people have seen weird things,” said Captain Vimes. “Or perhaps there have been unexplained fires. Or footprints. You know,” he finished, desperately, “signs of dragons. ” “You mean, like, piles of gold what have been slept on,” said the sergeant. “And virgins being chained to rocks,” said Nobbs, knowingly. “I can see you’re experts,” sighed Vimes. “Just do the best you can. ” “This mingling,” said Sergeant Colon delicately, “it would involve going into taverns and drinking and similar, would it?” “To a certain extent,” said Vimes. “Ah,” said the sergeant, happily. “In moderation. ” “Right you are, sir. ” “And at your own expense. ” “Oh. ” “But before you go,” said the captain, “do either of you know anyone who might know anything about dragons? Apart from sleeping on gold and the bit with the young women, I mean. ” “Wizards would,” volunteered Nobby. “Apart from wizards,” said Vimes firmly. You couldn’t trust wizards. Every guard knew you couldn’t trust wizards. They were even worse than civilians. Colon thought about it. “There’s always Lady Ramkin,” he said. “Lives in Scoone Avenue. Breeds swamp dragons. You know, the little buggers people keep as pets?” “Oh, her,” said Vimes gloomily. “I think I’ve seen her around. The one with the ‘Whinny If You Love Dragons’ sticker on the back of her carriage?” “That’s her. She’s mental,” said Sergeant Colon. “What do you want me to do, sir?” said Carrot. “Er. You have the most important job,” said Vimes hurriedly. “I want you to stay here and watch the office. ” Carrot’s face broadened in a slow, unbelieving grin. “You mean I’m left in charge , sir?” he said. “In a manner of speaking,” said Vimes. “But you’re not allowed to arrest anyone, understand?” he added quickly. “Not even if they’re breaking the law, sir?” “Not even then. Just make a note of it. ” “I’ll read my book, then,” said Carrot. “And polish my helmet. ” “Good boy,” said the captain. It should be safe enough, he thought. No one ever comes in here, not even to report a lost dog. No one ever thinks about the Watch. You’d have to be really out of touch to go to the Watch for help, he thought bitterly. Scoone Avenue was a wide, tree-lined, and incredibly select part of Ankh, high enough above the river to be away from its all-pervading smell. People in Scoone Avenue had old money, which was supposed to be much better than new money, although Captain Vimes had never had enough of either to spot the difference. People in Scoone Avenue had their own personal bodyguards. People in Scoone Avenue were said to be so aloof they wouldn’t even talk to the gods. This was a slight slander. They would talk to gods, if they were well-bred gods of decent family. Lady Ramkin’s house was not hard to find. It commanded an outcrop that gave it a magnificent view of the city, if that was your idea of a good time. There were stone dragons on the gatepost, and the gardens had an unkempt overgrown look. Statues of Ramkins long gone loomed up out of the greenery. Most of them had swords and were covered in ivy up to the neck. Vimes sensed that this was not because the garden’s owner was too poor to do anything about it, but rather that the garden’s owner thought there were much more important things than ancestors, which was a pretty unusual point of view for an aristocrat. They also apparently thought that there were more important things than property repair. When he rang the bell of the rather pleasant old house itself, in the middle of a flourishing rhododendron forest, several bits of the plaster facade fell off. That seemed to be the only effect, except that something around the back of the house started to howl: Some things. It started to rain again. After a while Vimes felt the dignity of his position and cautiously edged around the building, keeping well back in case anything else collapsed. He reached a heavy wooden gate in a heavy wooden wall. In contrast with the general decrepitude of the rest of the place, it seemed comparatively new and very solid. He knocked. This caused another fusillade of strange whistling noises. The door opened. Something dreadful loomed over him. “Ah, good man. Do you know anything about mating?” it boomed. It was quiet and warm in the Watch House. Carrot listened to the hissing of sand in the hourglass and concentrated on buffing up his breastplate. Centuries of tarnish had given up under his cheerful onslaught. It gleamed. You knew where you were with a shiny breastplate. The strangeness of the city, where they had all these laws and concentrated on ignoring them, was too much for him. But a shiny breastplate was a breastplate well shined. The door opened.

He peered across the top of the ancient desk. There was no one there. He tried a few more industrious rubs. There was the vague sound of someone who had got fed up with waiting. Two purple-fingernailed hands grasped the edge of the desk, and the Librarian’s face rose slowly into view like an early-morning coconut. “Oook,” he said. Carrot stared. It had been explained to him carefully that, contrary to appearances, laws governing the animal kingdom did not apply to the Librarian. On the other hand, the Librarian himself was never very interested in obeying the laws governing the human kingdom, either. He was one of those little anomalies you have to build around. “Hallo,” said Carrot uncertainly. (“Don’t call him ‘boy’ or pat him, that always gets him annoyed. ”) “Oook. ” The Librarian prodded the desk with a long, many-jointed finger. “What?” “Oook. ” “Sorry?” The Librarian rolled his eyes. It was strange, he felt, that so-called intelligent dogs, horses and dolphins never had any difficulty indicating to humans the vital news of the moment, e. g. , that the three children were lost in the cave, or the train was about to take the line leading to the bridge that had been washed away or similar, while he, only a handful of chromosomes away from wearing a vest, found it difficult to persuade the average human to come in out of the rain. You just couldn’t talk to some people. “Oook!” he said, and beckoned. “I can’t leave the office,” said Carrot. “I’ve had Orders. ” The Librarian’s upper lip rolled back like a blind. “Is that a smile?” said Carrot. The Librarian shook his head. “Someone hasn’t committed a crime, have they?” said Carrot. “Oook. ” “A bad crime?” “Oook!” “Like murder?” “Eeek. ” “Worse than murder?” “Eeek!” The Librarian knuckled over to the door and bounced up and down urgently. Carrot gulped. Orders were orders, yes, but this was something else. The people in this city were capable of anything. He buckled on his breastplate, screwed his sparkling helmet onto his head, and strode toward the door. Then he remembered his responsibilities. He went back to the desk, found a scrap of paper, and painstakingly wrote: Out Fighting Crime. Pleass Call Again Later. Thankyou. And then he went out onto the streets, untarnished and unafraid. The Supreme Grand Master raised his arms. “Brethren,” he said, “let us begin…” It was so easy. All you had to do was channel that great septic reservoir of jealousy and cringing resentment that the Brothers had in such abundance, harness their dreadful mundane unpleasantness which had a force greater in its way than roaring evil, and then open your own mind… …into the place where the dragons went. Vimes found himself grabbed by the arm and pulled inside. The heavy door shut behind him with a definite click. “It’s Lord Mountjoy Gayscale Talonthrust III of Ankh,” said the apparition, which was dressed in huge and fearsomely-padded armor. “You know, I really don’t think he can cut the mustard. ” “He can’t?” said Vimes, backing away. “It really needs two of you. ” “It does, doesn’t it,” whispered Vimes, his shoulder blades trying to carve their way out through the fence. “Could you oblige?” boomed the thing. “What?” “Oh, don’t be squeamish, man. You just have to help him up into the air. It’s me who has the tricky part. I know it’s cruel, but if he can’t manage it tonight then he’s for the choppy-chop. Survival of the fittest and all that, don’t you know. ” Captain Vimes managed to get a grip on himself. He was clearly in the presence of some sex-crazed would-be murderess, insofar as any gender could be determined under the strange lumpy garments. If it wasn’t female, then references to “it’s me who has the tricky part” gave rise to mental images that would haunt him for some time to come. He knew the rich did things differently, but this was going too far. “Madam,” he said coldly, “I am an officer of the Watch and I must warn you that the course of action you are suggesting breaks the laws of the city—” and also of several of the more strait-laced gods, he added silently—“and I must advise you that his Lordship should be released unharmed immediately—” The figure stared at him in astonishment. “Why?” it said. “It’s my bloody dragon. ” “Have another drink, not-Corporal Nobby?” said Sergeant Colon unsteadily. “I do not mind if I do, not-Sgt. Colon,” said Nobby. They were taking inconspicuosity seriously. That ruled out most of the taverns on the Morpork side of the river, where they were very well known. Now they were in a rather elegant one in downtown Ankh, where they were being as unobtrusive as they knew how. The other drinkers thought they were some kind of cabaret. “I was thinking,” said Sgt. Colon. “What?” “If we bought a bottle or two, we could go home and then we’d be really inconspicuous. ” Nobby gave this some thought. “But he said we’ve got to keep our ears open,” he said. “We’re supposed to, what he said, detect anything. ” “We can do that at my house,” said Sgt. Colon. “We could listen all night, really hard. ” “Tha’s a good point,” said Nobby. In fact, it sounded better and better the more he thought about it. “But first,” he announced, “I got to pay a visit. ” “Me too,” said the sergeant. “This detecting business gets to you after a while, doesn’t it. ” They stumbled out into the alley behind the tavern. There was a full moon up, but a few rags of scruffy cloud were drifting across it. The pair inconspicuously bumped into one another in the darkness. “Is that you, Detector Sergeant Colon?” said Nobby. “Tha’s right! Now, can you detect the door to the privy, Detector Corporal Nobbs? We’re looking for a short, dark door of mean appearance, ahahaha. ” There were a couple of clanks and a muffled swear-word from Nobby as he staggered across the alley, followed by a yowl when one of Ankh-Morpork’s enormous population of feral cats fled between his legs. “Who loves you, pussycat?” said Nobby under his breath. “Needs must, then,” said Sgt. Colon, and faced a handy corner. His private musings were interrupted by a grunt from the corporal. “You there, Sgt. ?” “ Detector Sergeant to you, Nobby,” said Sgt. Colon pleasantly. Nobby’s tone was urgent and suddenly very sober. “Don’t piss about, Sergeant, I just saw a dragon fly over!” “I’ve seen a horsefly,” said Sgt. Colon, hiccuping gently. “And I’ve seen a housefly. I’ve even seen a greenfly. But I ain’t never seen a dragon fly. ” “Of course you have, you pillock,” said Nobby urgently. “Look, I’m not messing about! He had wings on him like, like, like great big wings!” Sergeant Colon turned majestically. The corporal’s face had gone so white that it showed up in the darkness. “Honest, Sergeant!” Sgt. Colon turned his eyes to the damp sky and the rain-washed moon. “All right,” he said, “show me. ” There was a slithering noise behind him, and a couple of roof tiles smashed onto the street. He turned. And there, on the roof, was the dragon. “There’s a dragon on the roof!” he warbled. “Nobby, it’s a dragon on the roof! What shall I do, Nobby? There’s a dragon on the roof! It’s looking right at me, Nobby!” “For a start, you could do your trousers up,” said Nobby, from behind the nearest wall. Even shorn of her layers of protective clothing, Lady Sybil Ramkin was still toweringly big. Vimes knew that the barbarian hublander folk had legends about great chain-mailed, armor-bra’d, carthorse-riding maidens who swooped down on battlefields and carried off dead warriors on their cropper to a glorious roistering afterlife, while singing in a pleasing mezzo-soprano. Lady Ramkin could have been one of them. She could have led them. She could have carried off a battalion. When she spoke, every word was like a hearty slap on the back and clanged with the aristocratic self-assurance of the totally well-bred. The vowel sounds alone would have cut teak. Vimes’s ragged forebears were used to voices like that, usually from heavily-armored people on the back of a war charger telling them why it would be a jolly good idea, don’tcherknow, to charge the enemy and hit them for six.