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 grey 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 there’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 behaviour.’
‘Among wizards?’ said Ridcully. ‘Mister Stibbons, unusual behaviour 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.19
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 cancelled,’ 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 r
ight, 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 colours, 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-coloured 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 cous-cous, 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 mould 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.’
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