‘You were hammerin’ them?’ said Ridcully. ‘Mrs Whitlow been heavy on the starch again?’
He looked closer.
‘You’re rivetin’ them together?’
The Dean beamed.
‘These trousers,’ he said, ‘are where it’s at.’
‘Are you talkin’ Music With Rocks In again?’ said Ridcully suspiciously.
‘I mean they’re cool.’
‘Well, better than a thick robe in this weather,’ Ridcully conceded, ‘but- you’re not going to put them on now, are you?’
‘Why not?’ said the Dean, struggling out of his robe.
‘Wizards in trousers? Not in my university! It’s cissy. People’d laugh,’ said Ridcully.
‘You always try and stop me doing anything I want!’
‘There’s no need to take that tone with me-‘
‘Huh, you never listen to anything I say and I don’t see why I shouldn’t wear what I like!’
Ridcully glared around the room.
‘This room is a total mess!’ he bellowed. ‘Tidy it up right now!’
‘Sharn’t!’
‘Then it’s no more Music With Rocks In for you, young man!’
Ridcully slammed the door behind him.
He slammed it open again and added, ‘And I never gave you permission to paint it black!’
He slammed the door shut.
He slammed it open.
‘They don’t suit you, either!’
The Dean rushed out into the passage, waving his hammer.
‘Say what you like,’ he shouted, ‘when history comes to name these, they certainly won’t call them Archchancellors!’
It was eight in the morning, a time when drinkers are trying either to forget who they are or to remember where they live. The other occupants of the Mended Drum were hunched over their drinks around the walls and watching an orang-utan, who was playing Barbarian Invaders and screaming with rage every time he lost a penny.
Hibiscus really wanted to shut. On the other hand, it’d be like blowing up a goldmine. It was all he could do to keep up the supply of clean glasses.
‘Have you forgotten yet?’ he said.
IT APPEARS I HAVE ONLY FORGOTTEN ONE THING.
‘What’s that? Hah, silly of me to ask really, seeing as you’ve forgotten-‘
I HAVE FORGOTTEN HOW TO GET DRUNK.
The barman looked at the rows and rows of glasses. There were wine-glasses. There were cocktail glasses. There were beer mugs. There were steins in the shape of jolly fat men. There was a bucket.
‘I think you’re on the right lines,’ he hazarded.
The stranger picked up his most recent glass and wandered over to the Barbarian Invaders machine.
It was made of clockwork of a complex and intricate design. There was a suggestion of many gears and worm drives in the big mahogany cabinet under the game, the whole function of which appeared to be to make rows of rather crudely carved Barbarian Invaders jerk and wobble across a rectangular proscenium. The player, by means of a system of levers and pulleys, operated a small self-loading catapult that moved below the Invaders. This shot small pellets upwards. At the same time the Invaders (by means of a ratchet-and-pawl mechanism) dropped small metal arrows. Periodically a bell rang and an Invader on horseback oscillated hesitantly across the top of the game, dropping spears. The whole assemblage rattled and creaked continuously, partly because of all the machinery and partly because the orang-utan was wrenching both handles, jumping up and down on the Fire pedal, and screaming at the top of his voice.
‘I wouldn’t have it in the place,’ said the barman behind him. ‘But it’s popular with the customers, you see.’
ONE CUSTOMER, ANYWAY.
‘Well, it’s better than the fruit machine, at least.’
YES?
‘He ate all the fruit.’
There was a screech of rage from the direction of the machine.
The barman sighed. ‘You wouldn’t think anyone’d make so much fuss over a penny, would you?’
The ape slammed a dollar coin on the counter and went away with two handfuls of change. One penny in a slot allowed a very large lever to be pulled; miraculously, all the Barbarians rose from the dead and began their wobbly invasion again.
‘He poured his drink into it,’ said the barman. ‘It may be my imagination, but I think they’re wobbling a bit more now.’
Death watched the game for a while. It was one of the most depressing things he’d ever seen. The things were going to get down to the bottom of the game anyway. Why shoot things at them?
Why…?
He waved his glass at the assembled drinkers.
D’YOU. D’YOU. THING IS, D’YOU KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE, EH, HAVING A MEMORY SO GOOD, RIGHT, SO GOOD YOU EVEN REMEMBER WHAT HASN’T HAPPENED YET? THAT’S ME. OH, YES. RIGHT ENOUGH. AS THOUGH. AS THOUGH. AS THOUGH THERE’S NO FUTURE . . . ONLY THE PAST THAT HASN’T HAPPENED YET. AND. AND. AND. YOU HAVE TO DO THINGS ANYWAY. YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN AND YOU HAVE TO DO THINGS.
He looked around at the faces. People in the Drum were used to alcoholic lectures, but not ones like this.
YOU SEE. YOU SHEE. YOU SEE STUFF LOOMING UP LIKE ICEBERG THINGS AHEAD BUT YOU MUSTN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT BECAUSE -BECAUSE BECAUSEITSALAW. CAN’T BREAK THE LAW. ‘SGOTABEALAW.
SEE THIS GLASS, RIGHT? SEE IT? ‘S LIKE MEMORY. ONNACOUNTA IF YOU PUT MORE STUFF IN, MORE STUFF FLOWS OUT, RIGHT? ‘S’ FACT. EVERYONEGOTTA MEMORY LIKE THIS. ‘S’WHAT KEEPS HUMANS FROM GOING ISS- ISH- INSH- MAD. ‘CEPT ME. POOROLE ME. I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. AS IF IT HAPPENED ONLY TOMORROW. EVERYTHING.
He looked down at his drink.
AH, he said, FUNNY HOW THINGS COME BACK TO YOU, ISN’T IT?
It was the most impressive collapse the bar had ever seen. The tall dark stranger fell backwards slowly, like a tree. There was no cissy sagging of the knees, no cop-out bouncing off a table on the way down. He simply went from vertical to horizontal in one marvellous geometric sweep.
Several people applauded as he hit the floor. Then they searched his pockets, or at least made an effort to search his pockets but couldn’t find any. And then they threw him into the river.[24]
In the giant black study of Death one candle burned, and got no shorter.
Susan leafed frantically through the books.
Life wasn’t simple. She knew that; it was the Knowledge, which went with the job. There was the simple life of living things but that was, well . . . simple . . .
There were other kinds of life. Cities had life. Anthills and swarms of bees had life, a whole greater than the sum of the parts. Worlds had life. Gods had a life made up of the belief of their believers.
The universe danced towards life. Life was a remarkably common commodity. Anything sufficiently complicated seemed to get cut in for some, in the same way that anything massive enough got a generous helping of gravity. The universe had a definite tendency towards awareness. This suggested a certain subtle cruelty woven into the very fabric of space-time. Perhaps even a music could be alive, if it was old enough. Life is a habit.
People said: I can’t get that darn tune out of my head . . .
Not just a beat, but a heartbeat.
And anything alive wants to breed.
C. M. O. T. Dibbler liked to be up at first light, in case there was an opportunity to sell a worm to the early bird.
He had set up a desk in the corner of one of Chalky’s workshops. He was, by and large, against the idea of a permanent office. On the positive side it made him easier to find, but on the negative side it made him easier to find. The success of Dibbler’s commercial strategy hinged on him being able to find customers, not the other way around.
Quite a large number of people seemed to have found him this morning. Many of them were holding guitars.
‘Right,’ he said to Asphalt, whose flat head was just visible over the top of the makeshift desk. ‘All understood? It’ll take you two days to get to Pseudopolis and then you report to Mr Klopstock at the Bull Pit. And I’ll want receipts for everything.’
‘Yes, Mr Dibbler.’
‘It’ll be a good idea to get away from the city for a bit.’
‘Yes, Mr Dibbler.’
‘Did I already say I wanted receipts for everything?’
‘Yes, Mr Dibbler,’ sighed Asphalt.
‘Off you go, then.’ Dibbler ignored the troll and beckoned to a group of dwarfs who’d been hanging around patiently. ‘OK, you lot, come over here. So you want to be Music With Rocks In stars, do you?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Then listen here to what I say . . .’
Asphalt looked at the money. It wasn’t much to feed four people for several days. Behind him, the interview continued.
‘So what do you call yourselves?’
‘Er – dwarfs, Mr Dibbler,’ said the lead dwarf.
I “Dwarfs”?’
‘Yes, sir.’
,Why?,
‘Because we are, Mr Dibbler,’ said the lead dwarf patiently.
‘No, no, no. That won’t do. That won’t do at all. You gotta have a name with a bit of-‘ Dibbler waved his hands in the air, ‘-with a bit of Music With Rocks In . . . uh . . . in. Not just “Dwarfs”. You gotta be . . . oh, I don’t know . . . something more interesting.’