‘No, they say you’ll never find out if you don’t give them a poke,’ said Ponder darkly.
‘Then why do they ask?’
‘They just do. And they bite things and then say, “I wonder if this is poisonous,” with their mouths full. And you know the really annoying thing? It never is.’
‘How odd. Laughing in the face of danger is not a survival strategy,’ said the god.
‘Oh, they don’t laugh,’ said Ponder gloomily. They say things like, “You call that dangerous? It’s not a patch on the kind of danger you used to get when we were lads, eh, Senior Wrangler, what what? Remember when old ‘Windows’ McPlunder . . .” ‘ He shrugged.
‘When old “Windows” McPlunder what?’ said the god.
‘I don’t know! Sometimes I think they make up the names! Dean, I really don’t think you should do that!’
The Dean turned away from the shark, whose teeth he’d been examining.
‘Why not, Stibbons?’ he said. Behind him, the jaw snapped shut.
Only the Archchancellor’s legs were visible in the exploded elephant. There were muffled noises from inside the whale; they sounded very much ike the Lecturer in Recent Runes saying, ‘Look at what happens when I twist this bit . . . See, that purple bit wobbles.’
‘Amazin’ piece of work,’ said Ridcully, emerging from the elephant. ‘Very good wheels. You paint these bits before assembly, do you?’
‘It’s not a kit, sir,’ said Ponder, taking a kidney out of his hands and wedging it back in. It’s a real dephant under construction!’
‘Oh.’
‘Being made, sir,’ said Ponder, since Ridcully didn’t seem to have got the message. ‘Which is not usual.’
‘Ah. How are they normally made, then?’
‘By other elephants, sir.’
‘Oh, yes . . .’
‘Really? Are they?’ said the god. ‘How? Those minks are pretty nimble, even if I say so myself, but not really very good for delicate work.’
‘Oh, not made like that, sir, obviously. By . . . you know . . . sex . . .’ said Ponder, feeling a blush start.
‘Sex?’
Then Ponder thought: Mono Island. Oh dear . . .
‘Er . . . males and females . . .’ he ventured.
‘What are they, then?’ said the god. The wizards paused.
‘Do go on, Mister Stibbons,’ said the Arch-chancellor. ‘We’re all ears. Especially the elephant.’
‘Well . . .’ Ponder knew he was going red. ‘Er . . . well, how do you get flowers and things at the moment?’
‘I make them,’ said the god. ‘And then I keep an eye on them and see how they function and then when they wear out I make an improved version based on experimental results.’ He frowned. ‘Although the plants seem to be acting very oddly these days. What’s the point of these seeds they keep making? I try to discourage it but they don’t seem to listen.’
‘I think . . . er . . . they’re trying to invent sex, sir,’ said Ponder. ‘Er . . . sex is how you can . . . they can . . . creatures can . . . they can make the next . . . creatures.’
‘You mean . . . elephants can make more elephants?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘My word! Really?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘How do they go about that? Calibrating the ear-waggling is particularly time-consuming. Do they use special tools?’
Ponder saw that the Dean was staring straight up at the ceiling, while the other wizards were also finding something apparently fascinating to look at that meant they could avoid one another’s gaze.
‘Um, in a way,’ said Ponder. He knew that a sticky patch lay ahead and decided to give up. ‘But really I don’t know much about—’
‘And workshops, presumably,’ said the god. He took a book from his pocket and a pencil from behind his ear. ‘Do you mind if I make notes?’
‘They . . . er . . . the female . . .’ Ponder tried.
‘Female,’ said the god obediently, writing this down.
‘Well, she . . . one popular way . . . she . . . sort of makes the next one . . . inside her.’
The god stopped writing. ‘Now I know that’s not right,’ he said. ‘You can’t make an elephant inside an elephant—’
‘Er . . . a smaller version . . .’
‘Ah, once again I have to point out the flaw. After a few such constructions you’d end up with an elephant the size of a rabbit.’
‘Er, it gets bigger later . . .’
‘Really? How?’
‘It sort of . . . builds itself . . . er . . . from the inside . . .’
‘And the other one, the one that is not the, uh, female? What is its part in all this? Is your colleague ill?’
The Senior Wrangler hammered the Dean hard on the back.
‘It’s all right,’ squeaked the Dean, ‘. . . often have . . . these . . . coughing fits . . .’
The god scribbled industriously for a few seconds, and then stopped and chewed the end of his pencil thoughtfully.
‘And all this, er, this sex is done by unskilled labour?’ he said.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘No quality control of any description?’
‘Er, no.’
‘How does your species go about it?’ said the god. He looked questioningly at Ponder.
‘It . . . er . . . we . . . er . . .’ Ponder stuttered.
‘We avoid it,’ said Ridcully. ‘Nasty cough you’ve got there, Dean.’
‘Really?’ said the god. ‘That’s very interesting. What do you do instead? Split down the middle? That works beautifully for amoebas, but giraffes find it extremely difficult, I do know that.’
‘What? No, we concentrate on higher things,’ said Ridcully. ‘And take cold baths, healthy morning runs, that sort of thing.’
‘My goodness, I’d better make a note of that,’ said the god, patting his robe. ‘How does the process work, exactly? Do the females accompany you? These higher things . . . How high, precisely? This is a very interesting concept. Presumably extra orifices are required?’
‘What? Pardon?’ said Ponder.
‘Getting creatures to make themselves, eh? I thought this whole seed business was just high spirits but, yes, I can see that it would save a lot of work, a lot of work. Of course, there’d have to be some extra effort at the design stage, certainly, but afterwards I suppose it’d practically run itself The god’s hand blurred as he wrote, and he went on, ‘Hmm, drives and imperatives, they’re going to be vital . . . er . . . How does it work with, say, trees?’
‘You just need Ponder’s uncle and a paintbrush,’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Sir!’ said Ponder hotly.
The god gave them both a look of intelligent bewilderment, like a man who had just heard a joke told in a completely foreign language and isn’t sure if the speaker has got to the punchline yet. Then he shrugged.
The only thing I think I don’t quite understand’, he said, ‘is why any creature would want to spend time on all this . . .’ he peered at his notes, ‘this sex, when they could be enjoying themselves . . . Oh dear, your associate seems to be choking this time, I’m afraid . . .’
‘Dean!’ shouted Ridcully.
‘I can’t help noticing’, said the god, ‘that when sex is being discussed your faces redden and you tend to shift uneasily from one foot to the other. Is this some sort of signal?’
‘Erm . . .’
‘If you could just tell me how it all works . . .’
Embarrassment filled the air, huge and pink. If it were rock, you could have carved great hidden rose-red cities in it.
Ridcully smiled a petrified smile. ‘Excuse us,’ he said. ‘Faculty meeting, gentlemen?’
Ponder watched the wizards go into a huddle. He could hear a few phrases above the susurration.
‘. . . my father said, but of course I didn’t believe . . . never raised its ugly head . . . Dean, will you shut up? We can’t very well . . . cold showers, really
Ridcully turned back and flashed the stony smile again. ‘Sex is, er, not something we talk about,’ he said.
‘Much,’ said the Dean.
‘Oh, I see,’ said the god. ‘Well, a practical demonstration would be so much more compre-hendable.’
‘Er, we weren’t, er . . . planning a . . .’
‘Coo-eee! There you are, gentlemen!’
Mrs Whitlow entered the cave. The wizards went suddenly quiet, sensing in their wizardry minds that the introduction of Mrs Whitlow at this point was an electric fire in the swimming pool of life.
‘Oh, another one of you,’ said the god brightly. He focused. ‘Or a different species, perhaps?’
Ponder felt that he had to say something. Mrs Whitlow was giving him a Look.
‘Mrs, er, Whitlow is, er, a lady,’ he said.