The Dean was always at his best at times like this. He led the way between the huge, ardent copper vats, prodding with his staff into dark corners and going ‘Hut! Hut!’ under his breath.
‘Why would it turn up here?’ whispered the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘Point of reality instability,’ said Ridcully, standing on tiptoe to look into a bleaching cauldron. ‘Every damn thing turns up here. You should know that by now.’
‘But why now?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘No talking!’ hissed the Dean, and leapt out into the next alleyway, staff held protectively in front of him.
‘Hall!’ he screamed, and then looked disappointed.
‘Er, how big would this sock-stealing thing be?’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Don't know,’ said Ridcully. He peered behind a stack of washboards. ‘Come to think of it, I must've lost a ton of socks over the years.’
‘Me too,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘So… should we be looking in small places or very large places?’ the Senior Wrangler went on, in the voice of one whose train of thought has just entered a long dark tunnel.
‘Good point,’ said Ridcully. ‘Dean, why do you keep referring to sheds all the time?’
‘It's “hut”, Mustrum,’ said the Dean. ‘It means it means…’
‘Small wooden building?’ Ridcully suggested.
‘Well, sometimes, agreed, but other times… well, you just have to say “hut”.’
‘This sock creature… does it just steal them, or does it eat them?’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Valuable contribution, that man,’ said Ridcully, giving tip on the Dean. ‘Right, pass the word along: no one is to look like a sock, understand?’
‘How can you—’ the Dean began, and stopped.
They all heard it.
…grnf, grnf, grnf …
It was a busy sound, the sound of something with a serious appetite to satisfy.
‘The Eater of Socks,’ moaned the Senior Wrangler, with his eyes shut.
‘How many tentacles would you expect it to have?’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘I mean, roughly speaking?’
‘It's a very large sort of noise, isn't it?’ said the Bursar.
‘To the nearest dozen, say,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, edging backwards.
…grnf, grnf, grnf …
‘It'd probably tear our socks off as soon as look at us…’ wailed the Senior Wrangler.
‘Ah. So at least five or six tentacles, then, would you say?’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘Seems to me it's coming from one of the washing engines,’ said the Dean.
The engines were each two storeys high, and usually only used when the University's population soared during term time. A huge treadmill connected to a couple of big bleached wooden paddles in each vat, which were heated via the fireboxes underneath. In full production the washing engines needed at least half a dozen people to manhandle the loads, maintain the fires and oil the scrubbing arms. Ridcully had seen them at work once, when it had looked like a picture of a very clean and hygienic Hell, the kind of place soap might go to when it died.
The Dean stopped by the door to the boiler area.
‘Something's in here,’ he whispered. ‘Listen!’
…grnf…
‘It's stopped! It knows we're here!’ he hissed. ‘All right? Ready? Hut!’
‘No!’ squeaked the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘I'll open the door and you be ready to stop it! One… two… three! Oh…’
The sleigh soared into the snowy sky.
ON THE WHOLE, I THINK THAT WENT VERY WELL, DON'T YOU?
‘Yes, master,’ said Albert.
I WAS RATHER PUZZLED BY THE LITTLE BOY IN THE CHAIN MAIL, THOUGH.
‘I think that was a Watchman, master.’
REALLY? WELL, HE WENT AWAY HAPPY, AND THAT's THE MAIN THING.
‘Is it, master?’ There was worry in Albert's voice. Death's osmotic nature tended to pick up new ideas altogether too quickly. Of course, Albert understood why they had to do all this, but the master… well, sometimes the master lacked the necessary mental equipment to work out what should be true and what shouldn't …
AND I THINK I'VE GOT THE LAUGH WORKING REALLY WELL NOW. HO. HO. HO.
‘Yeah, sir, very jolly,’ said Albert. He looked down at the list. ‘Still, work goes on, eh? The next one's pretty close, master, so I should keep them down low if I was you.’
JOLLY GOOD. HO. HO. HO.
‘Sarah the little match girl, doorway of Thimble's Pipe and Tobacco Shop, Money Trap Lane, it says here.’
AND WHAT DOES SHE WANT FOR HOGSWATCH? HO. HO. HO.
‘Dunno. Never sent a letter. By the way, just a tip, you don't have to say “Ho, ho, ho,” all the time, master. Let's see… It says here…’ Albert's lips moved as he read.
I EXPECT A DOLL IS ALWAYS ACCEPTABLE. OR A SOFT TOY OF SOME DESCRIPTION. THE SACK SEEMS TO KNOW. WHAT'VE WE GOT FOR HER, ALBERT? HO. HO. HO.
Something small was dropped into his hand.
‘This,’ said Albert.
OH.
There was a moment of horrible silence as they both stared at the lifetimer.
‘You're for life, not just for Hogswatch,’ prompted Albert. ‘Life goes on, master. In a manner of speaking.’
BUT THIS IS HOGSWATCHNIGHT.
‘Very traditional time for this sort of thing, I understand,’ said Albert.
I THOUGHT IT WAS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY, said Death.
‘Ah, well, yes, you see, one of the things that makes folks even more jolly is knowing there're people who ain't,’ said Albert, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘That's how it goes, master. Master?’
NO. Death stood Up. THIS IS HOW IT SHOULDN'T GO.
The University's Great Hall had been set for the Hogswatchnight Feast. The tables were already groaning under the weight of the cutlery, and it would be hours before any real food was put on them. It was hard to see where there would be space for any among the drifts of ornamental fruit bowls and forests of wine glasses.
The oh god picked up a menu and turned to the fourth page.
‘Course four: molluscs and crustaceans. A medley of lobster, crab, king crab, prawn, shrimp, oyster, clam, giant mussel, green-lipped mussel, thin-lipped mussel and Fighting Tiger Limpet. With a herb and butter dipping sauce. Wine: “Three Wizards” Chardonnay, Year of the Talking Frog. Beer: Winkles' Old Peculiar.’ He put it down. ‘That's one course?’ he said.
‘They're big men in the food department,’ said Susan.
He turned the menu over. On the cover was the University's coat of arms and, over it, three large letters in ardent script:
“η β π”
‘Is this some sort of magic word?’
‘No.’ Susan sighed. ‘They put it on all their menus. You might call it the unofficial motto of the University.’
‘What's it mean?’
‘Eta Beta Pi.’
Bilious gave her an expectant look.
‘Yes …?’
‘Er… like, Eat a Better Pie?’ said Susan.
‘That's what you just said, yes,’ said the oh god.
‘Urn. No. You see, the letters are Ephebian characters which just sound a bit like “eat a better Pie”.’
‘Ah.’ Bilious nodded wisely. ‘I can see that might cause confusion.’
Susan felt a bit helpless in the face of the look of helpful puzzlement. ‘No,’ she said, ‘in fact they are supposed to cause a little bit of confusion, and then you laugh. It's called a pune or play on words. Eta Beta Pi.’ She eyed him carefully. ‘You laugh,’ she said. ‘With your mouth. Only, in fact, you don't laugh, because you're not supposed to laugh at things like this.’
‘Perhaps I could find that glass of milk,’ said the oh god helplessly, peering at the huge array of jugs and bottles. He'd clearly given up on sense of humour.
‘I gather the Archchancellor won't hav
e milk in the University,’ said Susan. ‘He says he knows where it comes from and it's unhygienic. And that's a man who eats three eggs for breakfast every day, mark you. How do you know about milk, by the way?’
‘I've got… memories,’ said the oh god. ‘Not exactly of anything, er, specific. Just, you know, memories. Like, I know trees usually grow greenend up… that sort of thing. I suppose gods just know things.’
‘Any special god-like powers?’
‘I might be able to turn water into an enervescent drink.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Is that any help? And it's just possible I can give people a blinding headache.’
‘I need to find out why my grandfather is… acting strange.’
‘Can't you ask him?’
‘He won't tell me!’
‘Does he throw up a lot?’
‘I shouldn't think so. He doesn't often eat. The occasional curry, once or twice a month.’
‘He must be pretty thin.’
‘You've no idea.’
‘Well, then… Does he often stare at himself in the mirror and say “Arrgh”? Or stick out his tongue and wonder why it's gone yellow? You see, it's possible I might have some measure of influence over people who are hung over. If he's been drinking a lot, I might be able to find him.’
‘I can't see him doing any of those things. I think I'd better tell you… My grandfather is Death.’
‘Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.’
‘I said Death.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Death. You know… Death?’
‘You mean the robes, the—’
‘—scythe, white horse, bones …. yes. Death.’
‘I just want to make sure I've got this clear,’ said the oh god in a reasonable tone of voice. ‘You think your grandfather is Death and you think he's acting strange?’
The Eater of Socks looked up at the wizards, cautiously. Then its jaws started to work again.
…grnf, grnf …
‘Here, thats one of mine!’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, making a grab. The Eater of Socks backed away hurriedly.
It looked like a very small elephant with a very wide, flared trunk, up which one of the Chair's socks was disappearing.
‘Funny lookin' little thing, ain't it?’ said Ridcully, leaning his staff against the wall.
‘Let go, you wretched creature!’ said the Chair, making a grab for the sock. ‘Shoo!’
The sock eater tried to get away while remaining where it was. This should be impossible, but it is in fact a move attempted by many small animals when they are caught eating something forbidden. The legs scrabble hurriedly but the neck and feverishly working jaws merely stretch and pivot around the food. Finally the last of the sock disappeared up the snout with a faint sucking noise and the creature lumbered off behind one of the boilers. After a while it poked one suspicious eye around the corner to watch them.
‘They're expensive, you know, with the flaxreinforced heel,’ muttered the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
Ridcully pulled open a drawer in his hat and extracted his pipe and a pouch of herbal tobacco. He struck a match on the side of the washing engine. This was turning out to be a far more interesting evening than he had anticipated.
‘We've got to get this sorted out,’ he said, as the first few puffs filled the washing hall with the scent of autumn bonfires. ‘Can't have creatures just popping into existence because someone's thought about them. It's unhygienic.’
The sleigh slewed around at the end of Money Trap Lane.
COME ON, ALBERT.
‘You know you're not supposed to do this sort of thing, master. You know what happened last time.’
THE HOGFATHER CAN DO IT, THOUGH.
‘But… little match girls dying in the snow is part of what the Hogswatch spirit is all about, master,’ said Albert desperately. ‘I mean, people hear about it and say, “We may be poorer than a disabled banana and only have mud and old boots to eat, but at least we're better off than the poor little match girl,” master. It makes them feel happy and grateful for what they've got, see.’
I KNOW WHAT THE SPIRIT OF HOGSWATCH IS, ALBERT.
‘Sorry, master. But, look, it's all right, anyway, because she wakes up and it's all bright and shining and tinkling music and there's angels, master.’
Death stopped.
AH. THEY TURN UP AT THE LAST MINUTE WITH WARM CLOTHES AND A HOT DRINK?
Oh dear, thought Albert. The master's really in one of his funny moods now.
‘Er. No. Not exactly at the last minute, master. Not as such.’
WELL?
‘More sort of just after the last minute.’ Albert coughed nervously.
YOU MEAN AFTER SHE'S—
‘Yes. That's how the story goes, master, 's not my fault.’
WHY NOT TURN UP BEFORE? AN ANGEL HAS QUITE A LARGE CARRYING CAPACITY.
‘Couldn't say, master. I suppose people think it's more… satisfying the other way…’ Albert hesitated, and then frowned. ‘You know, now that I come to tell someone…’
Death looked down at the shape under the falling snow. Then he set the lifetimer on the air and touched it with a finger. A spark flashed across.
‘You ain't really allowed to do that,’ said Albert, feeling wretched.
THE HOGFATHER CAN. THE HOGFATHER GIVES PRESENTS. THERE'S NO BETTER PRESENT THAN A FUTURE.
‘Yeah, but—’
ALBERT.
‘All right, master.’
Death scooped up the girl and strode to the end of the alley.
The snowflakes fell like angel's feathers. Death stepped out into the street and accosted two figures who were tramping through the drifts.
TAKE HER SOMEWHERE WARM AND GIVE HER A GOOD DINNER, he commanded, pushing the bundle into the arms of one of them. AND I MAY WELL BE CHECKING UP LATER.
Then he turned and disappeared into the swirling snow.
Constable Visit looked down at the little girl in his arms, and then at Corporal Nobbs.
‘What's all this about, corporal?’
Nobby pulled aside the blanket.
‘Search me,’ he said. ‘Looks like we've been chosen to do a bit of charity.’
‘I don't call it very charitable, just dumping someone on people like this.’
‘Come on, there'll still be some grub left in the Watchhouse,’ said Nobby. He'd got a very deep and certain feeling that this was expected of him. He remembered a big man in a grotto, although he couldn't quite remember the face. And he couldn't quite remember the face of the person who had handed over the girl, so that meant it must be the same one.
Shortly afterwards there was some tinkling music and a very bright light and two rather affronted angels appeared at the other end of the alley, but Albert threw snowballs at them until they went away.
Hex worried Ponder Stibbons. He didn't know how it worked, but everyone else assumed that he did. Oh, he had a good idea about some parts, and he was pretty certain that Hex thought about things by turning them all into numbers and crunching them (a clothes wringer from the laundry, or CWL, had been plumbed in for this very purpose), but why did it need a lot of small religious pictures? And there was the mouse. It didn't seem to do much, but whenever they forgot to give it its cheese Hex stopped working. There were all those ram skulls. The ants wandered over to them occasionally but they didn't seem to do anything.
What Ponder was worried about was the fear that he was simply engaged in a cargo cult. He'd read about them. Ignorant[16] and credulous[17] people, whose island might once have been visited by some itinerant merchant vessel that traded pearls and coconuts for such fruits of civilization as glass beads, mirrors, axes and sexual diseases, would later make big model ships out of bamboo in the hope of once again attracting this magical cargo. Of course, they were far too ignorant and credulous to know that just because you built the shape you didn't get the substance …
He'd built the shape of Hex and, it occurred to him, he'd built it in a magical unive
rsity where the border between the real and ‘not real’ was stretched so thin you could almost see through it. He got the horrible suspicion that, somehow, they were merely making solid a sketch that was hidden somewhere in the air.
Hex knew what it ought to be.
All that business about the electricity, for example. Hex had raised the subject one night, not long after it'd asked for the mouse.
Ponder prided himself that he knew pretty much all there was to know about electricity. But they'd tried rubbing balloons and glass rods until they'd been able to stick Adrian onto the ceiling, and it hadn't had any effect on Hex. Then they'd tried tying a lot of cats to a wheel which, when revolved against some beads of amber, caused any amount of electricity all over the place. The wretched stuff hung around for days, but there didn't seem any way of ladling it into Hex and anyway no one could stand the noise.
So far the Archchancellor had vetoed the lightning rod idea.
All this depressed Ponder. He was certain that the world ought to work in a more efficient way.
And now even the things that he thought were going right were going wrong.
He stared glumly at Hex's quill pen in its tangle of springs and wire.
The door was thrown open. Only one person could make a door bang on its hinges like that. Ponder didn't even turn round.
‘Hello again, Archchancellor.’
‘That thinking engine of yours working?’ said Ridcully. ‘Only there's an interesting little—’
‘It's not working,’ said Ponder.
‘It ain't. What's this, a half-holiday for Hogswatch?’
‘Look,’ said Ponder.
Hex wrote: +++ Whoops! Here Comes The Cheese! +++MELON MELON MELON +++ Error At Address: 14, Treacle Mine Road, Ankh-Morpork+++!!!!! +++Oneoneoneoneoneone +++ Redo From Start +++
‘What's going on?’ said Ridcully, as the others pushed in behind them.
‘I know it — sounds stupid, Archchancellor, but we think it might have caught something off the Bursar.’
‘Daftness, you mean?’
‘That's ridiculous, boy!’ said the Dean. ‘Idiocy is not a communicable disease.’
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