The beggars stood and listened, mouths open. Some-one looking from face to face, if anyone did look at the invisible beggars, would have had to turn away . . .
Except from Mr Scrub. You couldn’t turn away there.
When the band were playing Music With Rocks In again, the beggars got back down to earth.
Except for Mr Scrub. He just stood and stared.
The last note rang out.
Then, as the tsunami of applause began to roll, The Band ran off into the darkness.
Dibbler watched happily from the wings at the other side of the stage. He’d been a bit worried for a while there, but it all seemed back on course now.
Someone tugged at his sleeve.
‘What’re they doing, Mr Dibbler?’
Dibbler turned.
‘Scum, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘It’s Crash, Mr Dibbler.’
‘What they’re doing, Scum, is not giving the audience what they want,’ said Dibbler. ‘Superb business practice. Wait till they’re screaming for it, and then take it away. You wait. By the time the crowd is stamping its feet they’ll come prancing back on again. Superb timing. When you learn that sort of trick, Scum-‘
‘It’s Crash, Mr Dibbler.’
‘-then maybe you’ll know how to play Music With Rocks In. Music With Rocks In, Scum-‘
‘-Crash-
‘. . . isn’t just music,’ said Dibbler, pulling some cotton wool out of his ears. ‘It’s lots of things. Don’t ask me how.’
Dibbler lit a cigar. The din made the match flame flicker.
‘Any minute now,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’
There was a fire that had been made of old boots and mud. A grey shape circled it, snuffling excitedly.
‘Get on, get on, get on!’
‘Mr Dibbler’s not going to like this,’ moaned Asphalt.
‘Tough one for Mr Dibbler,’ said Glod, as they hauled Buddy into the cart. ‘Now I want to see those hoofs spark, know what I mean?’
‘Head for Quirm,’ said Buddy, as the cart jerked into motion. He didn’t know why. It just seemed the right destination.
‘Not a good idea,’ said Glod. ‘People’ll probably want to ask questions about that cart I pulled out of the swimming pool.’
‘Head towards Quirm!’
‘Mr Dibbler’s really not going to like this,’ said Asphalt, as the cart swung out on to the road.
‘Any . . . moment . . . now,’ said Dibbler.
‘I expect so,’ said Crash, ‘because they’re stamping their feet, I think.’
There was indeed a certain thumping under the cheers.
‘You wait,’ said Dibbler. ‘They’ll judge it just right. No problem. Akk!’
‘You’re supposed to put your cigar in your mouth the other way round, Mr Dibbler,’ said Crash meekly.
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Glod. ‘I don’t know what he’s got not to like.’
‘Well, for a start,’ said Asphalt, ‘the main thing, the thing he won’t like most, is . . . um . . . we’ve got the money . . .’
Cliff reached down under the seat. There was a dull, clinking noise, of the sort made by a lot of gold keeping nice and quiet.
The waxing moon lit the landscape as the cart bounced out of the gates and along the Quirm road.
‘How did you know I’d got the cart made ready?’ said Glod, as they landed after a brief flight.
‘I didn’t,’ said Buddy.
‘But you ran out!’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘It was . . . just . . . time.’
‘Why’d you want to go to Quirm?’ said Cliff.
‘I . . . I can get a boat home, can’t I?’ said Buddy. ‘That’s right. A boat home.’
Glod glanced at the guitar. This felt wrong. It couldn’t just end . . . and then they’d just walk away . . .
He shook his head. What could go wrong now?
‘Mr Dibbler’s really not going to like this,’ moaned Asphalt.
The stage was trembling with the vibration of the stamping. There was some shouting now.
Dibbler turned to Crash and grinned horribly.
‘Hey, I’ve just had a great idea,’ he said.
A tiny shape swarmed up the road from the river. Ahead of it, the lights of the stage glowed in the dusk.
The Archchancellor nudged Ponder, and flourished his staff.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘if there’s a sudden rip in reality and horrible screaming Things come through, our job is to-‘ He scratched his head. ‘What is it the Dean says? Kick a righteous donkey?’
‘Some righteous ass, sir,’ said Ponder. ‘He says kick some righteous ass.’
Ridcully peered at the empty stage.
‘I don’t see one,’ he said.
The four members of The Band sat up and stared straight ahead, over the moonlit plain.
Finally Cliff broke the silence.
‘How much?’
‘Best part of five thousand dollars-‘
‘FIVE THOUSAND DOL-?’
Cliff clamped his huge hand over Glod’s mouth.
‘Why?’ said Cliff, as the dwarf squirmed.
‘MMF MMFMMF MMFMMFS?’
‘I got a bit confused,’ said Asphalt. ‘Sorry.’
‘We’ll never get far enough,’ said Cliff. ‘You know dat? Not even if we die.’
‘I tried to tell you all!’ Asphalt moaned. ‘Maybe . . . maybe we could take it back?’
‘MMF MMF MMF?’
‘How can we do dat?’
‘MMF MMF MMF?’
‘Glod,’ said Cliff, in a reasonable tone of voice, ‘I’m going to take my hand away. And you’re not to shout. Right?’
‘Mmf.’
‘OK.’
‘TAKE IT BACK? FIVE THOUSAND DOL-mmfmmfmmf-‘
‘I suppose some of dat is ours,’ said Cliff, tightening his grip.
‘Mmf!’
‘I know I haven’t had any wages,’ said Asphalt.
‘Let’s get to Quirm,’ said Buddy urgently. ‘We can take out what’s . . . ours and send the rest back to him.’
Cliff scratched his chin with his free hand.
‘Some of it belongs to Chrysoprase,’ said Asphalt. ‘Mr Dibbler borrowed some money off’f him to set up the Festival.’
‘We won’t get away from him,’ said Cliff, ‘except if we drive all the way to the Rim and chuck ourselves over. And even den, only maybe.’
‘We could explain . . . couldn’t . . . we?’ said Asphalt.
A vision of Chrysoprase’s gleaming marble head formed in their vision.
`Mmf.’
No.
‘Quirm, then,’ said Buddy.
Cliff’s diamond teeth glittered in the moonlight.
‘I thought . . .’ he said, ‘I thought . . . I heard something on the road back there. Sounded like harness-‘
The invisible beggars began to wander away from the park. Foul Ole Ron’s Smell had stayed on for a while, because it was enjoying the music. And Mr Scrub still hadn’t moved.
‘We got nearly twenty sausages,’ said Arnold Sideways.
Coffin Henry coughed a cough with bones in it.
‘Buggrem?’ said Foul Ole Ron. ‘ I told ’em, spyin’ on me with rays!’
Something bounded across the trodden turf towards Mr Scrub, ran up his robe and grabbed either side of his hood with both paws.
There was the hollow sound of two skulls meeting.
Mr Scrub staggered backwards.
SQUEAK!
Mr Scrub blinked and sat down suddenly.
The beggars stared down at the little figure jumping up and down on the cobbles. Being of an invisible nature themselves, they were naturally good at seeing things unseen by other men or, in the case of Foul Ole Ron, by any known eyeball.
‘That’s a rat,’ said the Duck Man.
‘Buggrit,’ said Foul Ole Ron.
The rat pranced in circles on its hind legs, squeaking loudly. Mr Scrub blinked again . . . And Death stood up.
I HAVE TO GO, he said.
SQUEAK!
Death strode away, stopped, and came back. He pointed a skeletal finger at the Duck Man.
WHY, he said, ARE YOU WALKING AROUND WITH THAT DUCK?
‘What duck?’
AH. SORRY.
‘Listen, how can it go wrong?’ said Crash, waving his hands frantically. ‘It’s got to work. Everyone knows that when you get your big chance because the star is ill or something, then the audience’ll go mad for you. It happens every time, right?’
Jimbo, Noddy and Scum peered around the curtain at the pandemonium. They nodded uncertainly.
Of course things always went well when you had your big chance . . .
‘We could do “Anarchy in Ankh-Morpork”,’ said Jimbo doubtfully.
‘We haven’t got that right,’ said Noddy.
‘Yeah, but there’s nothing new about that.’
‘I suppose we could give it a try . . .
‘Excellent!’ said Crash. He raised his guitar defiantly. ‘ We can do it! For the sake of sex and drugs and Music With Rocks In!’
He was aware of their disbelieving stares.
‘You never said you’d had any drugs,’ said Jimbo accusingly.
‘If it comes to that,’ said Noddy, ‘I don’t reckon you’ve ever had-‘
‘One out of three ain’t bad!’ shouted Crash.
‘Yes it is, it’s only thirty-three per-‘
‘Shut up!’
People were stamping their feet and clapping their hands derisively.
Ridcully squinted along his staff.
‘There was the Holy St Bobby,’ he said. ‘I suppose he was a righteous ass, come to think about it.’
‘Sorry?’ said Ponder.
‘He was a donkey,’ said Ridcully. ‘Hundreds of years ago. Got made a bishop in the Omnian church for carrying some holy man, I believe. Can’t get more righteous than that.’