by The Wit
*
It is now known to science that there are many more dimensions than the classical four. Scientists say that these don’t normally impinge on the world because the extra dimensions are very small and curve in on themselves, and that since reality is fractal most of it is tucked inside itself. This means either that the universe is more full of wonders than we can hope to understand or, more probably, that scientists make things up as they go along.
*
Teppic takes a novel approach to the age-old Riddle of the Sphinx:
‘What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?’ said the Sphinx smugly.
Teppic considered this.
‘That’s a tough one,’ he said, eventually.
‘You’ll never get it.’
‘You’re right.’ Teppic stared at the claws.
‘The answer is: “A Man”,’ said the Sphinx.
‘What do you mean, a man?’
‘It’s easy’ said the Sphinx. ‘A baby crawls in the morning, stands on both legs at noon, and at evening an old man walks with a stick. Good, isn’t it?’
Teppic bit his lip. ‘We’re talking about one day here?’ he said doubt-fully.
There was a long, embarrassing silence.
‘It’s a wossname, a figure of speech,’ said the Sphinx irritably. ‘Nothing wrong with the riddle. Damn good riddle. Had that riddle for fifty years, sphinx and cub.’ It thought about this. ‘Chick,’ it corrected.
‘It’s a good riddle,’ Teppic said soothingly. ‘But is there internal consistency within the metaphor? Let’s say for example that the average life expectancy is seventy years, okay?’
‘Okay’ said the Sphinx, in the uncertain tones of someone who has let the salesman in and is now regretfully contemplating a future in which they are undoubtedly going to buy life insurance.
‘Right. Good. So noon would be age 35, am I right? Now considering that most children can toddle at a year or so, the four legs reference is really unsuitable, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, most of the morning is spent on two legs. According to your analogy … only about twenty minutes immediately after 00.00 hours, half an hour tops, is spent on four legs. Am I right? Be fair.’
‘Well—’ said the Sphinx.
‘By the same token you wouldn’t be using a stick by six p.m. because you’d be only, er, 52,’ said Teppic, scribbling furiously. ‘In fact you wouldn’t really be looking at any kind of walking aid until at least half past nine, I think … I’m sorry, it’s basically okay, but it doesn’t work … You just need to alter it a bit, that’s all.’
‘Okay’ it said doubtfully. ‘I suppose I could ask: What is it that walks on four legs—’
‘Metaphorically speaking,’ said Teppic.
‘Four legs, metaphorically speaking,’ the Sphinx agreed, ‘for about—’
‘Twenty minutes, I think we agreed.’
‘—okay, fine, twenty minutes in the morning, on two legs—’
‘But I think calling it “in the morning” is stretching it a bit,’ said Teppic. ‘It’s just after midnight. I mean, technically it’s the morning, but in a very real sense it’s still last night . .. Let’s just see where we’ve got to, shall we? What, metaphorically speaking, walks on four legs just after midnight, on two legs for most of the day—’
‘—barring accidents,’ said the Sphinx, pathetically eager to show that it was making a contribution.
‘Fine, on two legs barring accidents, until at least suppertime, when it walks with three legs—’
‘I’ve known people use two walking sticks,’ said the Sphinx helpfully.
‘Okay How about: when it continues to walk on two legs or with any prosthetic aids of its choice?’
The Sphinx gave this some consideration.
‘Ye-ess,’ it said gravely. ‘That seems to fit all eventualities.’
*
The city of the dead lay before Teppic. After Ankh-Morpork, which was almost its direct opposite (in Ankh, even the bedding was alive) it was probably the biggest city on the Disc.
† It was quite a big frog, however, and got into the air ducts and kept everyone awake for weeks.
THIS is where the dragons went. They lie … not dead, not asleep, but… dormant. And although the space they occupy isn’t like normal space, nevertheless they are packed in tightly. They could put you in mind of a can of sardines, if you thought sardines were huge and scaly. And presumably, somewhere, there’s a key…
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, and that there were lost tribes of research students somewhere in there.
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.
*
Not many people these days remarked upon the fact that the Librarian 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.
*
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 grey 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.’
‘What about the cagéd 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 caged whale. You want the Elucidated Brethren of the Ebon Night. Three doors down.’
*
The Supreme Grand Master rapped his gavel for attention. ‘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.’
*
Minor thief Zebbo Mooty has just been incinerated by a dragon.
‘Do you know, a fortune-teller once told me I’d die in my bed, surrounded by grieving great-grandchildren,’ said Mooty. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’
I THINK SHE WAS WRONG.
*
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.
*
You came to [the Patrician] with a perfectly reasonable complaint. Next thing you knew, you were shuffling out backwards, 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.
The Patrician gave him a sweet smile. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.Don’t hesitate th4 leave.’
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 Thieves’ Guild had to do was to work less.
*
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.
*
Nobby was a small, bandy-legged man, with a certain resemblance to a chimpanzee who never got invited to tea parties.
*
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.
*
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.
*
Every town in the multiverse has a part that is something like Ankh-Morpork’s Shades. It’s a sort of black hole of bred-in-the-brickwork lawlessness. Put it like this: even the criminals were afraid to walk the streets.
*
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.
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. It was said that he would tolerate absolutely anything apart from anything that threatened the city† …
Ankh-Morpork!
Brawling city of a hundred thousand souls! And, as the Patrician privately observed, ten times that number of actual people.
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.
*
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.
*
‘A book has been taken. A book has been taken? You summoned the Watch,’ Carrot drew himself up proudly, ‘because someone’s taken a book? You think that’s worse than murder?’
The Librarian gave him the kind of look other people would reserve for people who said things like ‘What’s so bad about genocide?’
*
Jimkin Bearhugger’s Old Selected Dragon’s Blood Whiskey. Cheap and powerful, you could light fires with it, you could clean spoons. You didn’t have to drink much of it to be drunk, which was just as well.
*
It was the usual Ankh-Morpork mob in times of crisis; half of them were here to complain, a quarter of them were here to watch the other half, and the remainder were here to rob, importune or sell hot-dogs to the rest.
*
Vimes looked into the grinning, cadaverous face of Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, purveyor of absolutely anything that could be sold hurriedly from an open suitcase in a busy street and was guaranteed to have fallen off the back of an oxcart.
*
Anti-dragon cream. Personal guarantee: if you’re incinerated you get your money back, no quibble.’
‘What you’re saying,’ said Vimes slowly, ‘if I understand the wording correctly, is that if I am baked alive by the dragon you’ll return the money?’
‘Upon personal application,’ said Cut-Me-Own-Throat.
*
Vimes’d had a look at Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler’s dragon detectors, which consisted solely of a piece of wood on a metal stick. When the stick was burned through, you’d found your dragon. Like a lot of Cut-Me-Own-Throat’s devices, it was completely efficient in its own special way while at the same time being totally useless.
*
Ankh-Morpork did not have many hospitals. All the Guilds maintained their own sanitariums, but by and large medical assistance was nonexistent and people had to die inefficiently, without the aid of doctors. It was generally thought that the existence of cures encouraged slackness and was in any case probably against Nature’s way.
It was a plate stacked high with bacon, fried potatoes and eggs. Vimes could hear his arteries panic just bh4 looking at it.
Captain Vimes limped forward from the shadows.
A small and extremely frightened golden dragon was clamped firmly under one arm. His other hand held it by the tail.
The rioters watched it, hypnotized.
‘Now I know what you’re thinking,’ Vimes went on, softly. ‘You’re wondering, after all this excitement, has it got enough flame left? And, y’know, I ain’t so sure myself…’
He leaned forward, sighting between the dragon’s ears, and his voice buzzed like a knife blade:
‘What you’ve got to ask yourself is: Am I feeling lucky?’
*
Vimes gave his men his usual look of resigned dismay.
‘My squad,’ he mumbled.
‘Fine body of men,’ said Lady Ramkin. ‘The good old rank and file, eh?’
‘The rank, anyway’ said Vimes.
*
It is difficult for an orang-utan to stand to attention. Its body can master the general idea, but its skin can’t. The Librarian was doing his best, however, standing in a sort of respectful heap at the end of the line and maintaining the kind of complex salute you can only achieve with a four-foot arm.
*
‘Do you think picking someone up by their ankles and bouncing their head on the floor comes under the heading of Striking a Superior Officer?’ said Carrot.
*
‘Ah, pageantry’ said the monarchist, pointing with his pipe. ‘Very important. Lots of spectacles.’
‘What, free?’ said Throat.
‘We-ell, I think maybe you have to pay for the frames,’ said the monarchist.
*
Books bend space and time. One reason the owners of those aforesaid little rambling, poky second-hand bookshops always seem slightly unearthly is that many of them really are, having strayed into this world after taking a wrong turning in their own bookshops in worlds where it is considered commendable business practice to wear carpet slippers all the time and open your shop only when you feel like it. You stray into L-space at your peril.
*
The truth is that even big collections of ordinary books distort space, as can readily be proved
by anyone who has been around a really old-fashioned second-hand bookshop, one of those that look as though they were designed by M. Escher on a bad day and have more staircases than storeys and those rows of shelves which end in little doors that are surely too small for a full-sized human to enter. The relevant equation is: Knowledge = power = energy = matter = mass; a good bookshop is just a genteel Black Hole that knows how to read.
*
People were stupid, sometimes. They thought the Library was a dangerous place because of all the magical books, which was true enough, but what made it really one of the most dangerous places there could ever be was the simple fact that it was a library.
Energy equals matter …
Matter equals mass.
And mass distorts space. It distorts it into polyfractal L-space.
So, while the Dewey system has its fine points, when you’re setting out to look something up in the multidimensional folds of L-space what you really need is a ball of string.
*
The three rules of the Librarians of Time and Space are: 1) Silence; 2) Books must be returned no later than the last date shown; and 3) Do not interfere with the nature of causality.
*
The Summoning of Dragons. Single copy, first edition, slightly foxed and extremely dragoned.
*
Vimes strolled along for breakfast at Harga’s House of Ribs. Normally the only decoration in there was on Sham Harga’s vest and the food was good solid stuff for a cold morning, all calories and fat and protein and maybe a vitamin crying softly because it was all alone.
*
Time could bifurcate, like a pair of trousers. You could end up in the wrong leg, living a life that was actually happening in the other leg, talking to people who weren’t in your leg, walking into walls that weren’t there any more. Life could be horrible in the wrong trouser of Time.
*
‘Never build a dungeon you wouldn’t be happy to spend the night in yourself,’ said the Patrician.
*
Vimes landed in damp straw and also in pitch darkness.
