‘It’s not my fault,’ Rincewind muttered. ‘I don’t care what any kangaroo says. I just arrived here. I’m not responsible for the weather, for heaven’s sake.’
They went on looking. He cracked. Practically anyone will crack before a sheep cracks. A sheep hasn’t got much that’s crackable.
‘Oh, hell, maybe I can rig up some kind of bucket and pulley arrangement,’ he said. ‘It’s not as though I’ve got any appointments today.’
He was digging a bit further, in the hope of getting deep enough before the water ran away completely, when he heard someone whistling.
He looked up, through the legs of the sheep. A man was creeping down across the dried-up waterhole, whistling tunelessly between his teeth. He’d failed to notice Rincewind because his gaze was fixed so intently on the milling sheep. He dropped the pack he’d been carrying, pulled out a sack, sidled towards a sheep all by itself, and leapt. It barely had time to bleat.
As he was stuffing it into the sack a voice said: That probably belongs to someone, you know.’
The man looked around hurriedly. The voice was coming from a group of sheep.
‘I reckon you could get into serious trouble, stealing sheep. You’ll regret it later on, I’m sure. Probably someone really cares about that sheep. Come on, let it go.’
The man stared around wildly.
‘I mean, think about it,’ the voice went on. ‘You’ve got this nice country here, parrots and everything, and you’re going to spoil it all by stealing someone’s sheep that they’ve worked so hard to grow. I bet you wouldn’t like to be remembered as a sheep-stealer— Oh.’
The man had dropped the sack and was running away very fast.
‘Well, you didn’t have to waltz off like that, I was only trying to appeal to your better nature!’ said Rincewind, pulling himself up out of the hole.
He cupped his hands. ‘And you’ve forgotten your camping stuff!’ he shouted, after the disappearing dust.
The sack baa-ed.
Rincewind picked it up, and a noise behind him made him look round. There was another man watching him from the back of a horse. He was glaring.
Behind him were three men wearing identical helmets and jerkins and humourless expressions that had ‘watchman’ written all over them in slow handwriting. And all three were pointing crossbows at him.
That bottomless feeling that he had once again wandered into something that didn’t concern him and was going to find it hard to wander out again grew within Rincewind.
He tried to smile.
‘G’day!’ he said. ‘No worries, eh? I must say I’m really glad to see you drongos and no two ways about it!’
Ponder Stibbons cleared his throat.
‘Where would you like me to start?’ he said. ‘I could probably finish off the elephant . . .’
‘How are you at slime?’
Ponder hadn’t considered a future as a slime designer, but everyone had to start somewhere.
‘Fine,’ he said. Tine.’
‘Of course, slime just splits down the middle,’ said the god, as they walked along rows of glowing, life-filled cubes while beetles sizzled overhead. ‘Not a lot of future in that, really. It works all right for lower lifeforms but, frankly, it’s a bit embarrassing for the more complicated creatures and positively lethal for horses. No, sex is going to be very, very useful, Ponder. It’ll keep everything on its toes. And that will give us time to work on the big project.’
Ponder sighed. Ah . . . he knew there had to be a big project. The big project. A god wasn’t going to do all this sort of thing just to make life better for inflammable cows.
‘Could I help with that?’ he said. ‘I’m sure I could make a contribution.’
‘Really? I thought perhaps animals and birds would be more up your . . . up your . . .’ The god waved his hands vaguely. ‘Up whatever you walk on. Where you live.’
‘Well, yes, but they’re a bit limited, aren’t they?’ said Ponder.
The god beamed. There’s nothing like being near a happy god. It’s like giving your brain a hot bath.
‘Exactly!’ he said. ‘Limited! The very word! Each one stuck in some desert or jungle or mountain, relying on one or two foods, at the mercy of every vagary of the universe and wiped out by the merest change of climate. What a terrible waste!’
‘That’s right!’ said Ponder. ‘What you need is a creature that is resourceful and adaptable, am I right?’
‘Oh, very well put, Ponder! I can see you’ve turned up at just the right time!’ A pair of huge doors swung open in front of them, revealing a circular room with a shallow pyramid of steps in the centre. At the summit was another cloud of blue mist, in which occasional lights flared and died.
The future unrolled in front of Ponder Stibbons. His eyes were so bright that his glasses steamed, that he could probably scorch holes in thin paper. Oh, right . . . what more could any natural philosopher dream of? He’d got the theories, now he could do the practice.
And this time it’d be done properly. To hell with messing up the future! That’s what the future was for. Oh, he’d been against it, that was true, but it’d been . . . well, when someone else was thinking of doing it. But now he’d got the ear of a god, and maybe some intelligence could be applied to the task of creating intelligence.
For a start, it ought to be possible to put together the human brain so that long beards weren’t associated with wisdom, which would instead be seen to reside in those who were young and skinny and required glasses for close work.
‘And . . . you’ve finished this?’ he said, as they climbed the steps.
‘Broadly, yes,’ said the god. ‘My greatest achievement. Frankly, it makes the elephants look very flimsy by comparison. But there’s plenty of fine detail left to do, if you think you’re up to it.’
‘It’d be an honour,’ said Ponder.
The blue mist was right in front of him. By the look of the sparks, something very important was happening in there.
‘Do you give them any instructions before you let them out?’ he said, his breathing shallow.
‘A few simple ones,’ said the god. He waved a wrinkled hand, and the glowing ball began to contract. ‘Mostly they work things out themselves.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Ponder. ‘And I suppose if they go wrong we could always put them right with a few commandments.’
‘Not really necessary,’ said the god, as the blue ball vanished and revealed the pinnacle of creation. ‘I find very simple instructions are quite sufficient. You know . . . “Head for dark places,” that sort of thing. There! Isn’t it perfect? What a piece of work! The sun will burn out, the seas will dry up, but this chap will be there, you mark my— Hello? Ponder?’
The Dean wet a finger and held it up. ‘We have the wind on our starboard beam,’ he said.
‘That’s good, is it?’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘Could be, could be. Let’s hope it can take us to this continent he mentioned. I’m getting nervous of islands.’
Ridcully finished hacking through the stem of the boat and threw it overboard.
At the top of the green mast the trumpet-like blooms appeared to tremble in the wind. The leaf sail creaked slowly into a different position.
‘I’d say this was a miracle of nature’, said the Dean, ‘if we hadn’t just met the person who did it. Rather spoils it, that.’
While wizards were not generally adventurous, they did understand that a vital part of any great undertaking is the securing of adequate provisions, which is why the boat was noticeably heavier in the water.
The Dean selected a natural cigar, lit it, and made a face. ‘Not the best,’ he said. ‘Rather green.’
‘We’ll just have to rough it,’ said Ridcully. ‘What are you doing, Senior Wrangler?’
‘Just preparing a little tray for Mrs Whitlow. A few choice things.’
The wizards glanced towards the crude awning they’d erected towards the prow. It wasn’t that she’d actually asked for it. It was simply that she’d made some remark about how hot the sun was, as anyone might, and suddenly wizards were getting in each other’s way as they vied with one another to cut poles and weave palm leaves. Perhaps never has so much intellectual effort gone into building a sunshade, which might have accounted for the wobble.
‘I thought it was my turn to do that,’ said the Dean, coldly.
‘No, Dean, you took her the fruit drink, if you remember,’ said the Senior Wrangler, cutting a cheese nut into dainty segments.
‘That was just one small drink!’ the Dean snapped. ‘You’re doing a whole tray. Look, you’ve even done a flower arrangement in a coconut shell!’