‘Ah, I shall make a note of it,’ said the god. ‘And what sort of thing do they do?’
They’re, um, the same species as, er, us,’ said Ponder, miserably. ‘Um . . . the . . . um . . .’
‘Weaker sex,’ Ridcully supplied.
‘Sorry, you’ve lost me there,’ said the god.
‘Er . . . she’s, um, er, a . . . of the female persuasion,’ said Ponder.
The god smiled happily. ‘Oh, how very convenient,’ he said.
‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs Whitlow, in as sharp a tone as she cared to use around the wizards, ‘but will someone introduce this gentleman to me?’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Ridcully. ‘Do excuse me. God, this is Mrs Whitlow. Mrs Whitlow, this is God. A god. God of this island, in fact. Uh . . .’
‘Charmed, Ai’m sure,’ said Mrs Whitlow. In Mrs Whitlow’s book, gods were socially very acceptable, at least if they had proper human heads and wore clothes; they rated above High Priests and occupied the same level as Dukes.
‘Should Ai kneel?’ she said.
‘Mwaaa,’ whimpered the Senior Wrangler.
‘Genuflection of any sort is not required,’ said the god.
‘He means no,’ said Ponder.
‘Oh, as you wish,’ said Mrs Whitlow. She extended a hand.
The god grasped it and waggled her thumb backwards and forwards.
‘Very practical,’ he said. ‘Opposable, I see. I think I should make a note of this. Do you brachi-ate? Are you bipedal by habit? Oh, I notice your eyebrows go up, too. Is this a signal of some sort? I also note that you are a different shape from the others and don’t have a beard. I assume that means you are less wise?’
Ponder saw Mrs Whitlow’s eyes narrow and her nostrils flare.
‘Is there some sort of problem, sirs?’ she said. ‘Ai followed your footprints to that funny boat, and this was the only other path, so—’
‘We were discussing sex,’ said the god enthusiastically. ‘It sounds very exciting, don’t you think?’
The wizards held their breath. This was going to make the Dean’s sheets look very minor.
‘It’s not a subject on which Ai would venture an opinion,’ said Mrs Whitlow carefully.
‘Mwaa,’ squeaked the Senior Wrangler.
‘No one seems to want to tell me,’ said the god irritably. A spark leapt from his fingers and blew a very small crater in the floor, and that seemed to shock him as much as it did the wizards.
‘Oh dear, what can you think of me? I’m so sorry!’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it’s a sort of natural reaction if I get a bit, you know . . . testy.’
Everyone looked at the crater. The rock bubbled gently by Fender’s feet. He didn’t dare move his sandal, just in case he fainted.
‘That was just . . . testy, was it?’ said Ridcully.
‘Well, it may have been more . . . vexed, I suppose,’ said the god. ‘I can’t really help it, it’s a god-given reflex. I’m afraid as a . . . well, species, we’re not good with, you know, defiance. I’m so sorry. So sorry.’ He blew his nose, and sat down on a half-finished panda. ‘Oh, dear. There I go again . . .’ A tiny bolt of lightning flashed off his thumb and exploded. ‘I hope it’s not going to be the city of Quint all over again. Of course, you know what happened there . . .’
‘I’ve never heard of the city of Quint,’ said Ponder.
‘Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t have,’ said the god. ‘That’s the whole point, really. It wasn’t much of a city. It was mostly made of mud. Well, I say mud. Afterwards, of course, it was mainly ceramics.’ He turned a wretched face to them. ‘You know those days you get when you just snap at everyone?’
Out of the corner of his eye Ponder had noticed that the wizards, in a rare show of unanimity, were shuffling sideways, very slowly, towards the door.
A much bigger thunderbolt blew a hole in the floor near the cave entrance.
‘Oh dear, where can I put my face?’ said the god. ‘It’s all subconscious, I’m afraid.’
‘Could you get treatment for premature incineration?’
‘Dean! This is not the time!’
‘Sorry, Archchancellor.’
‘If only they hadn’t turned up their noses at my inflammable cows,’ said the god, sparks fizzing off his beard. ‘All right, I would agree that on hot days, in certain rare circumstances, they would spontaneously combust and burn down the village, but is that any excuse for ingratitude?’
Mrs Whitlow had been giving the god a long, cool stare. ‘What exactly is it you wish to know?’ she said.
‘Huh?’ said Ridcully.
‘Well, Ai mean no offence, but Ai for one would like to get out of here without mai hair on fire,’ said the housekeeper.
The god looked up. This male and female concept seems really rather promising,’ he said, sniffing. ‘But no one seems to want to go into detail . . .’
‘Oh, that,’ said Mrs Whitlow. She glanced at the wizards, and then gently pulled the god to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me for one moment, gentlemen . . .’
The wizards watched them in even more shock than had attended the lightning display, and then the Chair of Indefinite Studies pulled his hat over his eyes.
‘I daren’t look,’ he said, and added, ‘What are they doing?’
‘Er . . . just talking . . .’ said Ponder.
‘Talking?’
‘And she’s . . . sort of . . . waving her hands about.’
‘Mwaa!’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Quick, someone, give him some air,’ said Ridcully. ‘Now she’s laughing, isn’t she?’
Both the housekeeper and the god looked around at the wizards. Mrs Whitlow nodded her head as if to reassure him that what she’d just told him was true, and they both laughed.
‘That looked more like a snigger,’ said the Dean severely.
‘I’m not sure I actually approve of this,’ said Ridcully, haughtily. ‘Gods and mortal women, you know. You hear stories.’
‘Gods turning themselves into bulls,’ said the Dean.
‘Swans, too,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘Showers of gold,’ said the Dean.
‘Yes,’ said the Chair. He paused for a second. ‘You know, I’ve often wondered about that one—’
‘What’s she describing now?’
‘I think I’d rather not know, quite frankly.’
‘Oh, look, someone please do something for the Senior Wrangler, will you?’ said Ridcully. ‘Loosen his clothing or something!’
They heard the god shout, ‘It what?’ Mrs Whitlow glanced around at the wizards and appeared to lower her voice.
‘Did anyone ever meet Mr Whitlow?’ said the Archchancellor.
‘Well . . . no,’ said the Dean. ‘Not that I remember. I suppose we’ve all assumed that he’s dead.’
‘Anyone know what he died of?’ Ridcully went on. ‘Ah, quieten down . . . they’re coming back . . .’
The god nodded cheerfully at them as he approached.
‘Well, that’s all sorted out,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I can’t wait to see how it works in practice. You know, if I’d sat here for a hundred years I’d never have . . . well, really, no one could serious believe . . . I mean . . .’ He started to chuckle at their frozen faces. ‘That bit where he . . . and then she . . . Really, I’m amazed that anyone stops laughing long enough to . . . Still, I can see how it could work, and it certainly opens the door to some very interesting possibilities indeed . . .’
Mrs Whitlow was looking intently at the ceiling. There was perhaps just a hint in her stance and the way her rather expressive bosom moved that she was trying not to laugh. It was disconcerting. Mrs Whitlow never usually laughed at anything.
‘Ah? Oh?’ said Ridcully, edging towards the door. ‘Really? Well done, then. So, I expect you don’t need us any more, eh? Only we’ve got a boat to catch . . .’
‘Yes, certainly, don’t let me hold you up,’ said the god, waving a hand vaguely. ‘You know, the more I think about it, the more I can see that “sex” will solve practically all my problems.’
‘Not everyone can say that,’ said Ridcully gravely. ‘Are you, er . . . joining us, Mrs, er, Whitlow?’
‘Certainly, Archchancellor.’
‘Er . . . jolly good. Well done. Ahem. And you, of course, Mister Stibbons . . .’
The god had wandered over to a workbench and was rummaging in boxes. The air glittered. Ponder looked up at the whale. It was clearly alive but . . . not at the moment. His gaze swept across the elephant-under-construction and past mysteriously organic-looking gantries, where shimmering blue light surrounded shapes as yet unrecognized, although one did appear to contain half a cow.
He carefully removed an exploring beetle from his ear. The point was, if he left now he’d always wonder . . .