Outside of this particular universe, however, the repercussions of the sudden double-take bounced to and fro across the face of The Sum of Things, bending whole dimensions and sinking galaxies without a trace.
All this was however totally lost on Dr. Rjinswand, 33, a bachelor, born in Sweden, raised in New Jersey, and a specialist in the breakaway oxidation phenomena of certain nuclear reactors. Anyway, he probably would not have believed any of it.
Zweiblumen still seemed to be unconscious. The stewardess, who had helped Rjinswand to his seat to the applause of the rest of the passengers, was bending over him anxiously.
“We’ve radioed ahead,” she told Rjinswand. “There’ll be an ambulance waiting when we land. Uh, it says on the passenger list that you’re a doctor—”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” said Rjinswand hurriedly. “It might be a different matter if he was a Magnox reactor of course. Is it shock of some kind?”
“I’ve never—”
Her sentence terminated in a tremendous crash from the rear of the plane. Several passengers screamed. A sudden gale of air swept every loose magazine and newspaper into a screaming whirlwind that twisted madly down the aisle.
Something else was coming up the aisle. Something big and oblong and wooden and brass-bound. It had hundreds of legs. If it was what it seemed—a walking chest of the kind that appeared in pirate stories brim full of ill-gotten gold and jewels—then what would have been its lid suddenly gaped open.
There were no jewels. But there were lots of big square teeth, white as sycamore, and a pulsating tongue, red as mahogany.
An ancient suitcase was coming to eat him.
Rjinswand clutched at the unconscious Zweiblumen for what little comfort there was there, and gibbered. He wished fervently that he was somewhere else…
There was a sudden darkness.
There was a brilliant flash.
The sudden departure of several quintillion atoms from a universe that they had no right to be in anyway caused a wild imbalance in the harmony of the Sum Totality which it tried frantically to retrieve, wiping out a number of subrealities in the process. Huge surges of raw magic boiled uncontrolled around the very foundations of the multiverse itself, welling up through every crevice into hitherto peaceful dimensions and causing novas, supernovas, stellar collisions, wild flights of geese and drowning of imaginary continents. Worlds as far away as the other end of time experienced brilliant sunsets of corruscating octarine as highly charged magical particles roared through the atmosphere. In the cometary halo around the fabled Ice System of Zeret a noble comet died as a prince flamed across the sky.
All this was however lost on Rincewind as, clutching the inert Twoflower around the waist, he plunged toward the Disc’s sea several hundred feet below. Not even the convulsions of all the dimensions could break the iron Law of the Conservation of Energy, and Rjinswand’s brief journey in the plane had sufficed to carry him several hundred miles horizontally and seven thousand feet vertically.
The word “plane” flamed and died in Rincewind’s mind.
Was that a ship down there?
The cold waters of the Circle Sea roared up at him and sucked him down into their green, suffocating embrace. A moment later there was another splash as the luggage, still bearing a label carrying the powerful traveling rune TWA, also hit the sea.
Later on, they used it as a raft.
CLOSE TO THE EDGE
It had been a long time in the making. Now it was almost completed, and the slaves hacked away at the last clay remnants of the mantle.
Where other slaves were industriously rubbing its metal flanks with silver sand it was already beginning to gleam in the sun with the silken, organic sheen of young bronze. It was still warm, even after a week of cooling in the casting pit.
The Arch-astronomer of Krull motioned lightly with his hand and his bearers set the throne down in the shadow of the hull.
Like a fish, he thought. A great flying fish. And of what seas?
“It is indeed magnificent,” he whispered. “A work of true art.”
“Craft,” said the thickset man by his side. The Arch-astronomer turned slowly and looked up at the man’s impassive face. It isn’t particularly hard for a face to look impassive when there are two golden spheres where the eyes should be. They glowed disconcertingly.
“Craft, indeed,” said the astronomer, and smiled. “I would imagine that there is no greater craftsman on the entire Disc than you, Goldeneyes. Would I be right?”
The craftsman paused, his naked body—naked, at least, were it not for a toolbelt, a wrist abacus and a deep tan—tensing as he considered the implications of this last remark. The golden eyes appeared to be looking into some other world.
“The answer is both yes and no,” he said at last. Some of the lesser astronomers behind the throne gasped at this lack of etiquette, but the Arch-astronomer appeared not to have noticed it.
“Continue,” he said.
“There are some essential skills that I lack. Yet I am Goldeneyes Silverhand Dactylos,” said the craftsman. “I made the Metal Warriors that guard the Tomb of Pitchiu, I designed the Light Dams of the Great Nef, I built the Palace of the Seven Deserts. And yet—” he reached up and tapped one of his eyes, which rang faintly, “when I built the golem army for Pitchiu he loaded me down with gold and then, so that I would create no other work to rival my work for him, he had my eyes put out.”
“Wise but cruel,” said the Arch-astronomer sympathetically.
“Yah. So I learned to hear the temper of metals and to see with my fingers. I learned how to distinguish ores by taste and smell. I made these eyes, but I cannot make them see.
“Next I was summoned to build the Palace of the Seven Deserts, as a result of which the Emir showered me with silver and then, not entirely to my surprise, had my right hand cut off.”
“A grave hindrance in your line of business,” nodded the Arch-astronomer.
“I used some of the silver to make myself this new hand, putting to use my unrivaled knowledge of levers and fulcrums. It suffices. After I created the first great Light Dam, which had a capacity of 50,000 daylight hours, the tribal councils of the Nef loaded me down with fine silks and then hamstrung me so that I could not escape. As a result I was put to some inconvenience to use the silk and some bamboo to build a flying machine from which I could launch myself from the topmost turret of my prison.”
“Bringing you, by various diversions, to Krull,” said the Arch-astronomer. “And one cannot help feeling that some alternative occupation—lettuce farming, say—would offer somewhat less of a risk of being put to death by installments. Why do you persist in it?”
Goldeneyes Dactylos shrugged.
“I’m good at it,” he said.
The Arch-astronomer looked up again at the bronze fish, shining now like a gong in the noontime sun.
“Such beauty,” he murmured. “And unique. Come, Dactylos. Recall to me what it was that I promised should be your reward?”
“You asked me to design a fish that would swim through the seas of space that lie between the worlds,” intoned the master craftsman. “In return for which—in return—”
“Yes? My memory is not what it used to be,” purred the Arch-astronomer, stroking the warm bronze.
“In return,” continued Dactylos, without much apparent hope, “you would set me free, and refrain from chopping off any appendages. I require no treasure.”
“Ah, yes. I recall now.” The old man raised a blue-veined hand, and added, “I lied.”
There was the merest whisper of sound, and the goldeneyed man rocked on his feet. Then he looked down at the arrowhead protruding from his chest, and nodded wearily. A speck of blood bloomed on his lips.
There was no sound in the entire square (save for the buzzing of a few expectant flies) as his silver hand came up, very slowly, and fingered the arrowhead.
Dactylos grunted.
“Sloppy workmanship,” h
e said, and toppled backward.
The Arch-astronomer prodded the body with his toe, and sighed.
“There will be a short period of mourning, as befits a master craftsman,” he said. He watched a bluebottle alight on one golden eye and fly away puzzled…“That would seem to be long enough,” said the Arch-astronomer, and beckoned a couple of slaves to carry the corpse away.
“Are the chelonauts ready?” he asked.
The master launchcontroller bustled forward.
“Indeed, your prominence,” he said.
“The correct prayers are being intoned?”
“Quite so, your prominence.”
“How long to the doorway?”
“The launch window,” corrected the master launchcontroller carefully. “Three days, your prominence. Great A’Tuin’s tail will be in an unmatched position.”
“Then all that remains,” concluded the Arch-astronomer, “is to find the appropriate sacrifices.”
The master launchcontroller bowed.
“The ocean shall provide,” he said.
The old man smiled. “It always does,” he said.
“If only you could navigate—”
“If only you could steer—”
A wave washed over the deck. Rincewind and Twoflower looked at each other. “Keep bailing!” they screamed in unison, and reached for the buckets.
After a while Twoflower’s peevish voice filtered up from the waterlogged cabin.
“I don’t see how it’s my fault,” he said. He handed up another bucket, which the wizard tipped over the side.
“You were supposed to be on watch,” snapped Rincewind.
“I saved us from the slavers, remember,” said Twoflower.
“I’d rather be a slave than a corpse,” replied the wizard. He straightened up and looked out to sea. He appeared puzzled.
He was a somewhat different Rincewind from the one that escaped the fire of Ankh-Morpork some six months before. More scarred, for one thing, and much more traveled. He had visited the Hublands, discovered the curious folkways of many colorful peoples—invariably obtaining more scars in the process—and had even, for a never-to-be-forgotten few days, sailed on the legendary Dehydrated Ocean at the heart of the incredibly dry desert known as the Great Nef. On a colder and wetter sea he had seen floating mountains of ice. He had ridden on an imaginary dragon. He had very nearly said the most powerful spell on the Disc. He had—
—there was definitely less horizon than there ought to be.
“Hmm?” said Rincewind.
“I said nothing’s worse than slavery,” said Twoflower. His mouth opened as the wizard flung his bucket far out to sea and sat down heavily on the waterlogged deck, his face a gray mask.
“Look, I’m sorry I steered us into the reef, but this boat doesn’t seem to want to sink and we’re bound to strike land sooner or later,” said Twoflower comfortingly. “This current must go somewhere.”
“Look at the horizon,” said Rincewind, in a monotone.
Twoflower squinted.
“It looks all right,” he said after a while. “Admittedly, there seems to be less than there usually is, but—”
“That’s because of the Rimfall,” said Rincewind. “We’re being carried over the edge of the world.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the lapping of the waves as the foundering ship spun slowly in the current. It was already quite strong.
“That’s probably why we hit that reef,” Rincewind added. “We got pulled off course during the night.”
“Would you like something to eat?” asked Twoflower. He began to rummage through the bundle that he had tied to the rail, out of the damp.
“Don’t you understand?” snarled Rincewind. “We are going over the Edge, godsdammit!”
“Can’t we do anything about it?”
“No!”
“Then I can’t see the sense in panicking,” said Twoflower calmly.
“I knew we shouldn’t have come this far Edgewise,” complained Rincewind to the sky, “I wish—”
“I wish I had my picture box,” said Twoflower, “but it’s back on that slaver ship with the rest of the Luggage and—”
“You won’t need luggage where we’re going,” said Rincewind. He sagged, and stared moodily at a distant whale that had carelessly strayed into the rimward current and was now struggling against it.
There was a line of white on the foreshortened horizon, and the wizard fancied he could hear a distant roaring.
“What happens after a ship goes over the Rimfall?” said Twoflower.
“Who knows?”
“Well, in that case perhaps we’ll just sail on through space and land on another world.” A faraway look came into the little man’s eyes. “I’d like that,” he said.
Rincewind snorted.
The sun rose in the sky, looking noticeably bigger this close to the Edge. They stood with their backs against the mast, busy with their own thoughts. Every so often one or other would pick up a bucket and do a bit of desultory bailing, for no very intelligent reason.
The sea around them seemed to be getting crowded. Rincewind noticed several tree trunks keeping station with them, and just below the surface the water was alive with fish of all sorts. Of course—the current must be teeming with food washed from the continents near the Hub. He wondered what kind of life it would be, having to keep swimming all the time to stay exactly in the same place. Pretty similar to his own, he decided. He spotted a small green frog which was paddling desperately in the grip of the inexorable current. To Twoflower’s amazement he found a paddle and carefully extended it toward the little amphibian, which scrambled onto it gratefully. A moment later a pair of jaws broke the water and snapped impotently at the spot where it had been swimming.
The frog looked up at Rincewind from the cradle of his hands, and then bit him thoughtfully on the thumb. Twoflower giggled. Rincewind tucked the frog away in a pocket, and pretended he hadn’t heard.
“All very humanitarian, but why?” said Twoflower. “It’ll all be the same in an hour.”
“Because,” said Rincewind vaguely, and did a bit of bailing. Spray was being thrown up now and the current was so strong that waves were forming and breaking all around them. It all seemed unnaturally warm. There was a hot golden haze on the sea.
The roaring was louder now. A squid bigger than anything Rincewind had seen before broke the surface a few hundred yards away and thrashed madly with its tentacles before sinking away. Something else that was large and fortunately unidentifiable howled in the mist. A whole squadron of flying fish tumbled up in a cloud of rainbow-edged droplets and managed to gain a few yards before dropping back and being swept away in an eddy.
They were running out of world. Rincewind dropped his bucket and snatched at the mast as the roaring, final end of everything raced toward them.
“I must see this—” said Twoflower, half falling and half diving toward the prow.
Something hard and unyielding smacked into the hull, which spun ninety degrees and came side-on to the invisible obstacle. Then it stopped suddenly and a wash of cold sea foam cascaded over the deck, so that for a few seconds Rincewind was under several feet of boiling green water. He began to scream and then the underwater world became the deep clanging purple color of fading consciousness, because it was at about this point that Rincewind started to drown.
He awoke with his mouth full of burning liquid and, when he swallowed, the searing pain in his throat jerked him into full consciousness.
The boards of a boat pressed into his back and Twoflower was looking down at him with an expression of deep concern. Rincewind groaned, and sat up.
This turned out to be a mistake. The edge of the world was a few feet away.
Beyond it, at a level just below that of the lip of the endless Rimfall, was something altogether magical.
Some seventy miles away, and well beyond the tug of the Rim current, a dhow with the red sails typical of a freelance sl
aver drifted aimlessly through the velvety twilight. The crew—such as remained—were clustered on the foredeck, surrounding the men working feverishly on the raft.
The captain, a thickset man who wore the elbow-turbans typical of a Great Nef tribesman, was much traveled and had seen many strange peoples and curious things, many of which he had subsequently enslaved or stolen. He had begun his career as a sailor on the Dehydrated Ocean in the heart of the Disc’s driest desert. (Water on the Disc has an uncommon fourth state, caused by intense heat combined with the strange dessicating effects of octarine light; it dehydrates, leaving a silvery residue like free-flowing sand through which a well-designed hull can glide with ease. The Dehydrated Ocean is a strange place, but not so strange as its fish.) The captain had never before been really frightened. Now he was terrified.
“I can’t hear anything,” he muttered to the first mate.
The mate peered into the gloom.
“Perhaps it fell overboard?” he suggested hopefully. As if in answer there came a furious pounding from the oar deck below their feet, and the sound of splintering wood. The crewmen drew together fearfully, brandishing axes and torches.
They probably wouldn’t dare to use them, even if the Monster came rushing toward them. Before its terrible nature had been truly understood several men had attacked it with axes, whereupon it had turned aside from its single-minded searching of the ship and had either chased them overboard or had—eaten them? The captain was not quite certain. The Thing looked like an ordinary wooden sea chest. A bit larger than usual, maybe, but not suspiciously so. But while it sometimes seemed to contain things like old socks and miscellaneous luggage, at other times—and he shuddered—it seemed to be, seemed to be, seemed to have…He tried not to think about it. It was just that the men who had been drowned overboard had probably been more fortunate than those it had caught. He tried not to think about it. There had been teeth, teeth like white wooden gravestones, and a tongue red as mahogany…
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