Last Continent (26 page)

By the time he raised his head he was surrounded by sheep, eyeing him cautiously in between longing glances into the damp depths.

‘It's no good you lot looking at me like that,' he said. They paid no attention. They carried on looking at him.

‘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. ‘Fine.'

‘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!'

‘Mrs Whitlow likes that sort of thing,' said the Senior Wrangler calmly. ‘But she did say it was
still a bit warm, so possibly you can fan her with a palm leaf while I peel these grapes for her.'

‘Once again it is left to me to point out the elementary unfairness,' said the Dean. ‘Merely waving a leaf is a very menial activity compared to removing grape skins, and I happen to outrank you, Senior Wrangler.'

‘Indeed, Dean? And exactly how do you work that out?'

‘It's not my
opinion
, man, it's written into the Faculty structure!'

‘Of where, precisely?'

‘Have you gone totally Bursar? Unseen University, of course!'

‘And where is that, exactly?' said the Senior Wrangler, carefully arranging some lilies in a pleasing design.

‘Ye gods, man, it's . . . it's . . .' The Dean flapped a hand in the direction of the horizon, and his voice trailed off as certain facts of time and space bore in on him.

‘I'll leave you to work it out, shall I?' said the Senior Wrangler, getting off his knees and raising the tray reverentially.

‘I'll help!' shouted the Dean, lumbering to his feet.

‘It's very light, I assure you—'

‘No, no, I can't let you do it all by yourself!'

Each holding the tray with one hand, and trying to push the other man away with the spare hand, they lurched forward, leaving a trail of spilt coconut milk and petals.

Ridcully rolled his eyes. It must be the heat, he
thought. He turned to the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who was trying to tie a short log to a long stick with a piece of creeper.

‘I was just thinking', he said, ‘that everyone's gone a little bit mad except me and you . . . Er, what are you doing there?'

‘I was just wondering whether Mrs Whitlow might like a game of croquet,' said the Chair. He waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially.

The Archchancellor sighed and wandered off along the deck. The Librarian had gone back to being a deckchair as a suitable mode for shipboard life, and the Bursar had gone to sleep on him.

The big leaf moved slightly. Ridcully got the feeling that the green trumpets on the mast were
sniffing
.

The wizards were already a little way from shore, but he saw the column of dust come down the track. It stopped at the beach and became a dot, which plunged into the sea.

The sail creaked again, and flapped as the wind grew.

‘Ahoy there!' shouted Ridcully.

The distant figure waved for a moment and then continued swimming.

Ridcully filled his pipe and watched with interest as Ponder Stibbons caught up with the boat.

‘Very well swum, if I may say so,' he said.

‘Permission to come aboard, sir?' said Ponder, treading water. ‘Could you throw down a creeper?'

‘Why, certainly.'

The Archchancellor puffed his pipe as the
wizard climbed aboard. ‘Possibly a record time over that distance, Mister Stibbons.'

‘Thank you, sir,' said Ponder, dripping water on the deck.

‘And may I congratulate you on being properly dressed. You are wearing your pointy hat, which is the
sine qua non
of a wizard in public.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘It is a good hat.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘They say a wizard without his hat is undressed, Mister Stibbons.'

‘So I have heard, sir.'

‘But in your case, I must point out, you are
with
your hat but you are still, in a very real sense, undressed.'

‘I thought the robe would slow me down, sir.'

‘And, while it is good to see you, Stibbons, albeit rather more of you than I would usually care to contemplate, I am moved to ask why you are, in fact, here.'

‘I suddenly felt it would be unfair to deprive the University of my services, sir.'

‘Really? A sudden rush of nostalgia for the old alma mater, eh?'

‘You could say that, sir.'

Ridcully's eyes twinkled behind the smoke and, not for the first time, Ponder suspected that the man was sometimes rather cleverer than he appeared. It would not be hard.

The Archchancellor shrugged, removed his pipe, and poked around inside it to remove a particularly obstructive clinker.

‘The Senior Wrangler's bathing costume is around somewhere,' he said. ‘I should put it on, if I were you. I suspect that offending Mrs Whitlow at the moment will get you hanged. All right? And if there is anything you want to talk about, my door is always open.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Right now, of course, I don't have a door.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Imagine it as being open, nevertheless.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

After all, Ponder thought as he slipped gratefully away, the wizards of UU were merely crazy. Not even the Bursar was
insane
.