‘I think I’d like to stay,’ he said.
‘Good . . . er . . .’ said the god, without looking around.
‘Man,’ said Ponder.
‘Good man,’ said the god.
‘Are you sure?’ said Ridcully.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever had a holiday,’ said Ponder. ‘I’d like to apply for time off to do research, sir.’
‘But we’re lost in the past, man!’
‘Basic research, then,’ said Ponder firmly. ‘There’s just so much to learn here, sir!’
‘Really?’
‘You’ve only got to look around, sir!’
‘Well, I suppose I can’t stop you if your mind’s made up,’ said the Archchancellor. ‘We’ll have to dock your pay, of course.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been paid, sir,’ said Ponder.
The Dean nudged Ridcully and whispered in his car.
‘And we need to know how the boat works,’ Ridcully went on.
‘What? Oh, it shouldn’t be a problem,’ said the god, looking up from his bench. ‘It’ll find somewhere with a different biogeographical signature, you see. It’s all automatic. No sense in coming back to where you started from!’ He waved a beetle leg in the air. There’s a new continent going up turn wise of here. The boat’ll probably head straight for a landmass that size.’
‘New?’ said Ridcully.
‘Oh, yes. I’ve never been interested in that sort of thing myself, but you can hear the construction noises all night. It’s certainly causing a mess.’
‘Stibbons, are you sure you want to stay?’ the Dean demanded.
‘Er, yes . . .’
‘I”m sure Mister Stibbons will uphold the fine traditions of the University!’ said Ridcully heartily.
Ponder, who knew all about the traditions of the University, nodded very slightly. His heart was pounding. He hadn’t even felt like this when he’d first worked out how to program Hex.
At last he’d found his proper place in the world. The future beckoned.
Dawn was breaking when the wizards ambled back down the mountain.
‘Not a bad god, I thought,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘As gods go.’
‘That was good coffee he made us,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘And didn’t he grow the bush fast, once we explained what coffee was,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
They strolled on. Mrs Whitlow was walking some way ahead, humming to herself. The wizards took care to remain at a respectful distance. They were aware that in some kind of obscure way she’d won, although they hadn’t a clue what the game was.
‘Funny of young Ponder to want to stay,’ said the Senior Wrangler, desperately trying to think of anything except a vision in pink.
‘The god seemed happy about it,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘He did say that designing sex was going to involve redesigning practically everything else.’
‘I used to make snakes out of clay when I was a little boy,’ said the Bursar happily.
‘Well done, Bursar.’
‘Doing the feet was the hard part.’
‘I can’t help thinking, though, that we may have . . . tinkered with the past, Archchancellor,’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘I don’t see how,’ said Ridcully. ‘After all, the past happened before we got here.’
‘Yes, but now we’re here, we’ve changed it.’
‘Then we changed it before.’
And that, they felt, pretty well summed it up. It is very easy to get ridiculously confused about the tenses of time travel, but most things can be resolved by a sufficiently large ego.
‘It’s jolly impressive to think that a University man will be helping to create a whole new approach to designing lifeforms,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘Indeed, yes,’ said the Dean. ‘Who says education is a bad thing, eh?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Ridcully. ‘Who?’
‘Well, if they did, we could point to Ponder Stibbons and say, look at him, worked hard at his studies, paid attention to his tutors, and now he’s sitting on the right hand of a god.’
‘Won’t that make it rather difficult for—’ the Lecturer in Recent Runes began, but the Dean got there first.
‘That means on the right-hand side of the god, Runes,’ he said. ‘Which, I suspect, makes him an angel. Technically.’
‘Surely not. He’s scared of heights. Anyway, he’s made of flesh and blood, and I’m sure angels have to be made of . . . light or something. He could be a saint, though, I suppose.’
‘Can he do miracles, then?’
‘I’m not sure. When we left they were talking about redesigning male baboons’ behinds to make them more attractive.’
The wizards thought about this for a while.
‘That’d be a miracle in my book, certainly,’ said Ridcully.
‘Can’t say that’s how I’d choose to spend an afternoon, though,’ said the Senior Wrangler, in a thoughtful voice.
‘According to the god it’s all to do with making creatures want to have . . . to engage in . . . to get to grips with making a new generation, when they could otherwise be spending their time in more . . . profitable activity. Apparently, a lot of animals will need a complete rebuild.’
‘From the bottom up. Ahaha.’
‘Thank you for your contribution, Dean.’
‘So exactly how does it work, then?’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘A female baboon sees a male baboon and says, “My word, that’s a very colourful bottom and no mistake, let us engage in . . . nuptial activity”?’
‘I must say I’ve often wondered about that sort of thing myself,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Take frogs. Now, if I was a lady frog looking for a husband, I’d want to know about, well, size of legs, competence at catching flies—’
‘Length of tongue,’ said Ridcully. ‘Dean, will you please take something for that cough?’
‘Quite so,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘Has he got a good pond, and so on. I can’t say I’d base my choice on his ability to inflate his throat to the same size as his stomach and go rabbit, rabbit.’
‘I believe it’s ribbit, ribbit, Runes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘Which ones go rabbit, rabbit, then?’
‘Rabbits, I believe.’
‘Oh. Yes. Constantly, as I recall.’
‘I’ve always thought sex was really a rather tasteless way of ensuring the continuity of the species,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, as they reached the beach. ‘I’m sure there could be something better. It’s all very . . . old-fashioned, to my mind. And far too energetic.’
‘Well, I’m generally in agreement, but what would you suggest instead?’ said Ridcully.
‘Bridge,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies firmly.
‘Really? Bridge?’
‘You mean the game with cards?’ said the Dean.
‘I don’t see why not. It can be extremely exciting, very sociable, and requires no special equipment.’
‘But you do need four people,’ Ridcully pointed out.
‘Ah, yes. I had not considered that. Yes, I can see that there could be problems. All right, then. How about . . . croquet? You can do that with two. Indeed, I’ve often enjoyed a quiet knockabout all by myself.’
Ridcully let a little more space come between him and the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘I fail to see how it could be utilized for the purpose of procreation,’ he said carefully. ‘Recreation, yes, I’ll grant you that. But not procreation. I mean, how would it work?’
‘He’s the god,’ sniffed the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘He’s supposed to sort out the details, isn’t he?’
‘But you think women would really decide to spend their life with a man just because he can swing a big mallet?’ said the Dean.
‘I suppose, when you come to think about it, that’s no more ridic—’ Ridcully began, and then stopped. ‘I think we should leave this subject,’ he said.
‘I played croquet with him only last week,’ hissed the Dean to Ridcully, as the Chair wandered off. ‘I shan’t be happy now until I’ve had a good bath!’
‘We’ll lock up his mallets when we get back, depend upon it,’ Ridcully whispered.
‘He’s got books and books about croquet in his room, did you know that? Some of them have got coloured illustrations!’
‘What of?’
‘Famous croquet strokes,’ said the Dean. ‘I think we ought to take his mallet away.’
‘Close to what I was thinking, Dean. Close,’ said Ridcully.
Once a moderately jolly wizard camped by a dried-up waterhole under the shade of a tree that he was completely unable to identify. And he swore as he hacked and hacked at a can of beer, saying, ‘What kind of idiots put beer in tins?’
By the time he managed to make a hole with a sharp stone the beer came out as high-speed froth, but he fielded as much as he could.
Apart from the beer, though, things were looking up. He’d checked the trees for drop-bears and, best of all, there was no sign of Scrappy.
He managed to pierce another tin, more carefully this time, and sucked thoughtfully at the contents.
What a country! Nothing was exactly what it turned out to be, even the sparrows talked, or at least tried to say, ‘Who’s a pretty boy, then?’ and it never ever rained. And all the water hid underground, so they had to pump it out with windmills.