Российское респираторное общество 8 страница

“Yessir. All right, sir. He’s weird. He just sits there all the time. We call him Beau Nidle, sir.”

The sergeant peered bemusedly at the mirror.

“It’s your face, sir,” said the corporal.

Susan stared at herself critically.

Susan... it wasn’t a good name, was it? It wasn’t a truly bad name, it wasn’t like poor Iodine in the fourth form, or Nigella, a name which means “oops, we wanted a boy”. But it was dull. Susan. Sue. Good old Sue. It was a name that made sandwiches, kept its head in difficult circumstances and could reliably look after other people’s children.

It was a name used by no queens or goddesses anywhere.

And you couldn’t do much even with the spelling. You could turn it into Suzi, and it sounded as though you danced on tables for a living. You could put in a Z and a couple of Ns and an E, but it still looked like a name with extensions built on. It was as bad as Sara, a name that cried out for a prosthetic H.

Well, at least she could do something about the way she looked.

It was the robe. It might be traditional but... she wasn’t. The alternative was her school uniform or one of her mother’s pink creations. The baggy dress of the Quirm College for Young Ladies was a proud one and, in the mind of Miss Butts at least, proof against all the temptations of the flesh... but it lacked a certain panache as costume for the Ultimate Reality. And pink was not even to be thought of.

For the first time in the history of the universe, a Death wondered about what to wear.

“Hold on,” she said, to her reflection. “ Here... I can create things, can’t I?”

She held out her hand and thought: cup. A cup appeared. It had a skull-and-bones pattern around the rim.

“Ah,” said Susan. “I suppose a pattern of roses is out of the question? Probably not right for the ambience, I expect.”

She put the cup on the dressing table and tapped it. It went plink in a solid sort of way.

“Well, then,” she said, “I don’t want something soppy and posey. No silly black lace or anything worn by idiots who write poetry in their rooms and dress like vampires and are vegetarians really.”

The images of clothes floated across her reflection. It was clear that black was the only option, but she settled on something practical and without frills. She put her head on one side critically.

“Well, maybe a bit of lace,” she said. “And perhaps a bit more... bodice.”

She nodded at her reflection in the mirror. Certainly it was a dress that no Susan would ever wear, although she suspected that there was a basic Susanness about her which would permeate it after a while.

“It’s a good job you’re here,” she said, “or I’d go totally mad. Haha.”

Then she went to see her grandf... Death.

There was one place he had to be.

Glod wandered quietly into the University Library. Dwarfs respected learning, provided they didn’t have to experience it.

He tugged at the robe of a passing young wizard.

“There’s a monkey runs this place, right?” he said. “Big fat hairy monkey, hands a couple of octaves wide?”

The wizard, a pasty-faced post-graduate student, looked down at Glod with the disdainful air a certain type of person always reserves for dwarfs.

It wasn’t much fun being a student in Unseen University. You had to find your pleasures where you could. He grinned a big, wide, innocent grin.

“Why, yes,” he said. “I do believe right at this moment he’s in his workroom in the basement. But you have to be very careful how you address him.”

“Is that so?” said Glod.

“Yes, you have to be sure to say, “Do you want a peanut, Mr Monkey?"' said the student wizard. He signalled a couple of his colleagues. “That’s so, isn’t it? He has to say Mister Monkey.”

“Oh, yes indeedy,” said a student. “Actually, if you don’t want him to get annoyed it’s best to be on the safe side and scratch under your arms. That puts him at his ease.”

“And go ugh-ugh-ugh,” said a third student. “He likes that.”

“Well, thank you very much,” said Glod. “Which way do I go?”

“We’ll show you,” said the first student.

“That’s so very kind.”

“Don’t mention it. Only too glad to help.”

The three wizards led Glod down a flight of steps and into a tunnel. Light filtered down through the occasional pane of green glass set in the floor above. Every so often Glod heard a snigger behind him.

The Librarian was squatting down on the floor in a long, high cellar. Miscellaneous items had been scattered on the floor in front of him; there was a cartwheel, odd bits of wood and bone, and various pipes, rods and lengths of wire that somehow suggested that, around the city, people were puzzling over broken pumps and fences with holes in. The Librarian was chewing the end of a piece of pipe and looking intently at the heap.

“That’s him,” said one of the wizards, giving Glod a push.

The dwarf shuffled forward. There was another outburst of muffled giggling behind him.

He tapped the Librarian on the shoulder.

“Excuse me—”

“Ook?”

“Those guys just called you a monkey,” said Glod, jerking a thumb in the direction of the door. “I’d make them say sorry, if I was you.”

There was a creaking, metallic noise, followed very closely by a scuffling outside as the wizards trampled one another in their effort to get away.

The Librarian had bent the pipe into a U-shape, apparently without effort.

Glod went to the door and looked out. There was a pointy hat on the flagstones, trampled flat.

“That was fun,” he said. “If I’d just asked them where the Librarian was, they’d have said bugger off, you dwarf. You have to know how to deal with people in this game.”

He came back and sat down beside the Librarian. The ape put a smaller bend in the pipe.

“What’re you making?” said Glod.

“Gook-oook-OOK!”

“My cousin Modo is the gardener here,” said Glod. “He says you’re a mean keyboard player.” He stared at the hands, busy in the pipebending. They were big. And of course there were four of them. “He was certainly partly right,” he added.

The ape picked up a length of driftwood and tasted it.

“We thought you might like to play pianoforte with us at the Drum tonight,” said Glod. “Me and Cliff and Buddy, that is.”

The Librarian rolled a brown eye towards him, then picked up a piece of wood, gripped one end and began to strum.

“Ook?”

“That’s right,” said Glod. “The boy with the guitar.”

“Eeek.”

The Librarian did a back somersault.

“Oookoook-ooka-ooka-OOOka-OOK!”

“I can see you’re in the swing of it already,” said Glod.

Susan saddled the horse and mounted up.

Beyond Death’s garden were fields of corn, their golden sheen the only colour in the landscape. Death might not have been any good at grass (black) and apple trees (gloss black on black), but all the depth of colour he hadn’t put elsewhere he’d put in the fields. They rippled as if in the wind, except that there wasn’t any wind.

Susan couldn’t imagine why he’d done it.

There was a path, though. It led across the fields for half a mile or so, then disappeared abruptly. It looked as though somebody walked out here occasionally and just stood, looking around.

Binky followed the path and stopped at the end.

Then he turned, managing not to disturb a single ear.

“I don’t know how you do this,” Susan whispered, “but you must be able to do it, and you know where I want to go.”

The horse appeared to nod. Albert had said that Binky was a genuine flesh-and-blood horse, but maybe you couldn’t be ridden by Death for hundreds of years without learning something. He looked as though he’d been pretty bright to start with.

Binky began to trot, and then canter, and then gallop. And then the sky flickered, just once.

Susan had expected more than that. Flashing stars, some sort of explosion of rainbow colours... not just a flicker. It seemed a rather dismissive way of travelling nearly seventeen years.

The cornfields had gone, but the garden was pretty much the same. There was the strange topiary and the pond with the skeletal fish. There were, pushing jolly wheelbarrows and carrying tiny scythes, what might have been garden gnomes in a mortal garden but here were cheery little skeletons in black robes. Things tended not to change.

The stables were a little different, though. Binky was in them, for a start.

He whinnied quietly as Susan led him into an empty stall next to himself.

“I’m sure you two know each other,” she said. She’d never expected it to work, but it had to, didn’t it? Time was something that happened to other people, wasn’t it?

She slipped into the house.

NO. I CANNOT BE BIDDEN. I CANNOT BE FORCED. I WILL ONLY DO THAT WHICH I KNOW TO BE RIGHT...

Susan crept along behind the shelves of lifetimers.

No-one noticed her. When you are watching Death fight, you don’t notice shadows in the background.

They’d never told her about this. Parents never do. Your father could be Death’s apprentice and your mother Death’s adopted daughter, but that’s just fine detail when they become Parents. Parents were never young. They were merely waiting to become Parents.

Susan reached the end of the shelves.

Death was standing over her father... she corrected herself, the boy who would be her father.

Three red marks burned on his cheek where Death had struck him. Susan raised a hand to the pale marks on her own face.

But that’s not how heredity works.

At least... the normal kind...

Her mother... the girl who would become her mother... was pressed against a pillar. She had actually improved with age, Susan thought. Her dress sense certainly had. And she mentally shook herself. Fashion comments? Now?

Death stood over Mort, sword in one hand and Mort’s own lifetimer in the other.

YOU DON’T KNOW HOW SORRY THIS MAKES ME, he said.

“ I might,” said Mort.

Death looked up, and looked straight at Susan. His eye sockets flared blue for a moment. Susan tried to press herself into the shadows.

He looked back down at Mort for a moment, and then at Ysabell, and then back at Susan, and then back down at Mort. And laughed.

And turned the hourglass over.

And snapped his fingers.

Mort vanished, with a small “pop' of imploding air. So did Ysabell and the others.

It was, suddenly, very quiet.

Death put the hourglass down, very carefully, on the table and looked at the ceiling for a while. Then he said:

ALBERT?

Albert appeared from behind a pillar.

WOULD YOU BE SO GOOD AS TO MAKE ME A CUP OF TEA, PLEASE.

“Yes, Master. Hehe, you sorted him out right enough—”

THANK YOU.

Albert scurried off in the direction of the kitchen.

Once again there was the closest thing there could ever be to silence in the room of lifetimers.

YOU’d BETTER COME OUT.

Susan did so, and stood before the Ultimate Reality.

Death was seven feet tall. He looked taller. Susan had vague memories of a figure carrying her on its shoulders through the huge dark rooms, but in memory it had been a human figure—bony, but human in a way she was certain of but couldn’t quite define.

This wasn’t human. It was tall, and haughty, and terrible. He might unbend enough to bend the Rules, Susan thought, but that doesn’t make him human. This is the keeper of the gate of the world. Immortal, by definition. The end of everything.

He is my grandfather.

Will be, anyway. Is. Was.

But... there was the thing in the apple tree. Her mind kept swinging back to that. You looked up at the figure, and thought about the tree. It was almost impossible to keep both images in one mind.

WELL, WELL, WELL. YOU HAVE A LOT OF YOUR MOTHER ABOUT YOU, said Death. AND YOUR FATHER.

“How did you know who I am?” said Susan.

I HAVE A UNIQUE MEMORY.

“How can you remember me? I haven’t even been conceived yet!”

I DID SAY UNIQUE. YOUR NAME IS-

“Susan, but...”

SUSAN? said Death bitterly. THEY REALLY WANTED TO MAKE SURE, DIDN’T THEY?

He sat down in his chair, steepled his fingers and looked at Susan over the top of them.

She looked back, matching stare for stare.

TELL ME, said Death, after a while, WAS I... WILL I BE... AM I A GOOD GRANDFATHER?

Susan bit her lip thoughtfully.

“If I tell you, won’t that be a paradox?”

NOT FOR US.

“Well... you’ve got bony knees.”

Death stared at her.

BONY KNEES?

“Sorry.”

YOU CAME HERE TO TELL ME THAT?

“You’ve gone missing back... there. I’m having to do the Duty. Albert is very worried. I came here to... find things out. I didn’t know my father worked for you.”

HE WAS VERY BAD AT IT.

“What have you done with him?”

THEY’re SAFE FOR NOW. I’M GLAD IT'S OVER. HAVING PEOPLE AROUND WAS BEGINNING TO AFFECT MY JUDGEMENT. AH, ALBERT...

Albert had appeared on the edge of the carpet, bearing a tea-tray.

ANOTHER CUP, IF YOU WOULD BE SO GOOD.

Albert looked around, and totally failed to see Susan. If you could be invisible to Miss Butts, everyone else was easy.

“If you say so, Master.”

SO, said Death, when Albert had shuffled away, I HAVE GONE MISSING. AND YOU BELIEVE YOU HAVE INHERITED THE FAMILY BUSINESS. YOU?

“I didn’t want to! The horse and the rat just turned up!”

RAT?

“Er... I think that’s something that’s going to happen.”

OH, YES. I REMEMBER. HMM. A HUMAN DOING MY JOB? TECHNICALLY POSSIBLE, OF COURSE, BUT WHY?

“I think Albert knows something, but he changes the subject.”

Albert reappeared, carrying another cup and saucer. He plonked it down pointedly on Death’s desk, with the air of one who is being put upon.

“That’ll be all, will it, Master?” he said.

THANK YOU, ALBERT. YES.

Albert left again, more slowly than normal. He kept looking over his shoulder.

“He doesn’t change, does he?” said Susan. “Of course, that’s the point about this place—”

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT CATS?

“Sorry?”

CATS. DO YOU LIKE “EM?

“They’re...” Susan hesitated, “all right. But a cat’s just a cat.”

CHOCOLATE, said Death. DO YOU LIKE CHOCOLATE?

“I think it’s possible to have too much,” said Susan.

YOU CERTAINLY DON’T TAKE AFTER YSABELL.

Susan nodded. Her mother’s favourite dish had been Genocide by Chocolate.

AND YOUR MEMORY? YOU HAVE A GOOD MEMORY?

“Oh, yes. I... remember things. About how to be Death. About how it’s all supposed to work. Look, just then you said you remembered about the rat, and it hasn’t even happ—”

Death stood up and strode across to the model of the Discworld.

MORPHIC RESONANCE, he said, not looking at Susan. DAMN. PEOPLE DON’T BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND IT. SOUL HARMONICS. IT'S RESPONSIBLE FOR SO MANY THINGS.

Susan pulled out Imp’s lifetimer. Blue smoke was still pouring through the pinch.

“Can you help me with this?” she said.

Death spun around.

I SHOULD NEVER HAVE ADOPTED YOUR MOTHER.

“Why did you?”

Death shrugged.

WHAT'S THAT YOU’ve GOT THERE?

He took Buddy’s lifetimer from her and held it up.

AH. INTERESTING.

“Do you know what it means, Grandad?”

I’ve NOT COME ACROSS IT BEFORE, BUT I SUPPOSE IT'S POSSIBLE. IN CERTAIN CIRCUMSTANCES. IT MEANS... SOMEHOW... THAT HE HAS RHYTHM IN HIS SOUL... GRANDAD?

“Oh, no. That can’t be right. That’s just a figure of speech. And what’s wrong with grandad?”

GRANDFATHER I CAN LIVE WITH. GRANDAD? ONE STEP AWAY FROM GRAMPS, IN MY OPINION. ANYWAY, I THOUGHT YOU BELIEVED IN LOGIC. CALLING SOMETHING A FIGURE OF SPEECH DOESN’T MEAN IT'S NOT TRUE.

Death waved the hourglass vaguely.

FOR EXAMPLE, he said, MANY THINGS ARE BETTER THAN A POKE IN THE EYE WITH A BLUNT STICK. I’ve NEVER UNDERSTOOD THE PHRASE. SURELY A SHARP STICK WOULD BE EVEN WORSE-

Death stopped.

I’M DOING IT AGAIN! WHY SHOULD I CARE WHAT THE WRETCHED PHRASE MEANS? OR WHAT YOU CALL ME? UNIMPORTANT! GETTING ENTANGLED WITH HUMANS CLOUDS THE THINKING. TAKE IT FROM ME. DON’T GET INVOLVED.

“But I am a human.”

I DIDN’T SAY IT WAS GOING TO BE EASY, DID I? DON’T THINK ABOUT IT. DON’T FEEL.

“You’re an expert, are you?” said Susan hotly.

I MAY HAVE ALLOWED MYSELF SOME FLICKER OF EMOTION IN THE RECENT PAST, said Death, BUT I CAN GIVE IT UP ANY TIME I LIKE.

He held up the hourglass again.

IT'S AN INTERESTING FACT THAT MUSIC, BEING OF ITS NATURE IMMORTAL, CAN SOMETIMES PROLONG THE LIFE OF THOSE INTIMATELY ASSOCIATED WITH IT, he said. I’ve NOTICED THAT FAMOUS COMPOSERS IN PARTICULAR HANG ON FOR A LONG TIME. DEAF AS POSTS, MOST OF THEM, WHEN I COME CALLING. I EXPECT SOME GOD SOMEWHERE FINDS THAT VERY AMUSING. Death contrived to look disdainful.

IT'S THEIR KIND OF JOKE.[16]

He set the glass down and twanged it with a bony digit.

It went whauuummmmeeee-chida-chida-chida.

HE HAS NO LIFE. HE HAS MUSIC.

“Music’s taken him over?”

YOU COULD PUT IT LIKE THAT.

“Making his life longer?”

LIFE IS EXTENSIBLE. IT HAPPENS OCCASIONALLY AMONG HUMANS. NOT OFTEN. USUALLY TRAGICALLY, IN A THEATRICAL KIND OF WAY. BUT THIS ISN’T ANOTHER HUMAN. THIS IS MUSIC.

“He played something, on some sort of stringed instrument like a guitar—”

Death turned.

INDEED? WELL, WELL, WELL...

“Is that important?”

IT IS... INTERESTING.

“Is it something I should know?”

IT IS NOTHING IMPORTANT. A PIECE OF MYTHOLOGICAL DEBRIS. MATTERS WILL RESOLVE THEMSELVES, YOU MAY DEPEND UPON IT.

“What do you mean, resolve themselves?”

HE WILL PROBABLY BE DEAD IN A MATTER OF DAYS.

Susan stared at the lifetimer.

“But that’s dreadful!”

ARE YOU ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED WITH THE YOUNG MAN?

“What? No! I’ve only ever seen him once!”

YOUR EYES DIDN’T MEET ACROSS A CROWDED ROOM OR ANYTHING OF THAT NATURE?

“No! Of course not.”

WHY SHOULD YOU CARE, THEN?

“Because he matt- because he’s a human being, that’s why,” said Susan, surprised at herself. “I don’t see why people should be messed around like that,” she added lamely. “That’s all. Oh, I don’t know.”

He leaned down again until his skull was on a level with her face.

BUT MOST PEOPLE ARE RATHER STUPID AND WASTE THEIR LIVES. HAVE YOU NOT SEEN THAT? HAVE YOU NOT LOOKED DOWN FROM THE HORSE AT A CITY AND THOUGHT HOW MUCH IT RESEMBLED AN ANT HEAP, FULL OF BLIND CREATURES WHO THINK THEIR MUNDANE LITTLE WORLD IS REAL? YOU SEE THE LIGHTED WINDOWS AND WHAT YOU WANT TO THINK IS THAT THERE MAY BE MANY INTERESTING STORIES BEHIND THEM, BUT WHAT YOU KNOW IS THAT REALLY THERE ARE JUST DULL, DULL SOULS,

MERE CONSUMERS OF FOOD, WHO THINK THEIR INSTINCTS ARE EMOTIONS AND THEIR TINY LIVES OF MORE ACCOUNT THAN A WHISPER OF WIND.

The blue glow was bottomless. It seemed to be sucking her own thoughts out of her mind.

“No,” whispered Susan, “no, I’ve never thought like that.”

Death stood up abruptly and turned away. YOU MAY FIND THAT IT HELPS, he said.

“But it’s all just chaos,” said Susan. “There’s no sense to the way people die. There’s no justice!”

HAH.

“You take a hand,” she persisted. “You just saved my father.”

I WAS FOOLISH. TO CHANGE THE FATE OF ONE INDIVIDUAL IS TO CHANGE THE WORLD. I REMEMBER THAT. SO SHOULD YOU.

Death still hadn’t turned to face her.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t change things if it makes the world better,” said Susan.

HAH.

“Are you too scared to change the world?”

Death turned. The very sight of his expression made Susan back away.

He advanced slowly towards her. His voice, when it came, was a hiss.

YOU SAY THAT TO ME? YOU STAND THERE IN YOUR PRETTY DRESS AND SAY THAT TO ME? YOU? YOU PRATTLE ON ABOUT CHANGING THE WORLD? COULD YOU FIND THE COURAGE TO ACCEPT IT? TO KNOW WHAT MUST BE DONE AND DO IT, WHATEVER THE COST? IS THERE ONE HUMAN ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD WHO KNOWS WHAT DUTY MEANS?

His hands opened and shut convulsively.

I SAID YOU MUST REMEMBER... FOR US, TIME IS ONLY A PLACE. IT'S ALL SPREAD OUT. THERE IS WHAT IS, AND WHAT WILL BE. IF YOU CHANGE THAT, YOU CARRY THE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE CHANGE. AND THAT IS TOO HEAVY TO BEAR.

“That’s just an excuse!”

Susan glared at the tall figure. Then she turned and marched out of the room.

SUSAN?

She stopped halfway across the floor, but didn’t turn around.

“Yes?”

REALLY... BONY KNEES?

“Yes!”

It was probably the first piano case that’d ever been made, and made out of a carpet at that. Cliff swung it easily on to his shoulder and picked up his sack of rocks in the other hand.

“Is it heavy?” said Buddy.

Cliff held the piano up on one hand and weighed it reflectively.

“A bit,” he said. The floorboards creaked underneath him. “Do you think we should’ve took all dem bits out?”

“It’s bound to work,” said Glod. “It’s like... a coach. The more bits you take off, the faster it goes. Come on.”

They set out. Buddy tried to look as inconspicuous as a human can look if he is accompanying a dwarf with a big horn, an ape, and a troll carrying a piano in a bag.

“I’d like a coach,” said Cliff, as they headed for the Drum. “Big black coach with all dat liver on it.”

“Liver?” said Buddy. He was beginning to get accustomed to the name.

“Shields and dat.”

“Oh. Livery.”

“And dat.”

“What’d you get if you had a pile of gold, Glod?” said Buddy. In its bag the guitar twanged gently to the sound of his voice.

Glod hesitated. He wanted to say that for a dwarf the whole point of having a pile of gold was, well, to have a pile of gold. It didn’t have to do anything other than be just as oraceous as gold could be.

“Dunno,” he said. “Never thought I’d have a pile of gold. What about you?”

“I swore I’d be the most famous musician in the world.”

“Days dangerous, dat kinda swear,” said Cliff.

“Cook.”

“Isn’t it what every artist wants?” said Buddy.

“In my experience,” said Glod, “what every true artist wants, really wants, is to be paid.”

“And famous,” said Buddy.

“Famous I don’t know about,” said Glod. “It’s hard to be famous and alive. I just want to play music every day and hear someone say, “Thanks, that was great, here is some money, same time tomorrow OK?"”

“Is that all?”

“It’s a lot. I’d like people to say, “We need a good horn man, get Glod Glodsson!"”

“Sounds a bit dull,” said Buddy.

“I like dull. It lasts.”

They reached the side door of the Drum and entered a gloomy room that smelled of rats and second-hand beer. There was a distant murmur of voices from the bar.

“Sounds like there’s a lot of people in,” said Glod.

Hibiscus bustled up. “You boys ready, then?” he said.

“Hold on a minute,” said Cliff. “We ain’t discussed our pay.”

“I said six dollars,” said Hibiscus. “What d'you expect? You aren’t Guild, and the Guild rate is eight dollars.”

“We wouldn’t ask you for eight dollars,” said Glod.

“Right!”

“We’ll take sixteen.”

“Sixteen? You can’t do that! That’s almost twice Guild rate!”

“But there’s a lot of people out there,” said Glod. “I bet you’re renting a lot of beer. We don’t mind going home.”

“Let’s talk about this,” said Hibiscus. He put his arm around Glod’s head and led him to a corner of the room.

Buddy watched the Librarian examine the piano. He’d never seen a musician begin by trying to eat his instrument. Then the ape lifted the lid and regarded the keyboard. He tried a few notes, apparently for taste.

Glod returned, rubbing his hands.

“That’s sorted him out,” he said. “Hah!”

“How much?” said Cliff.

“Six dollars!” said Glod.

There was some silence.

“Sorry,” said Buddy. “We were waiting for the “-teen".”

“I had to be firm,” said Glod. “He got down to two dollars at one point.”

Some religions say that the universe was started with a word, a song, a dance, a piece of music. The Listening Monks of the Ramtops have trained their hearing until they can tell the value of a playing card by listening to

it, and have made it their task to listen intently to the subtle sounds of the universe to piece together, from the fossil echoes, the very first sounds.

There was certainly, they say, a very strange noise at the beginning of everything.

But the keenest ears (the ones who win most at poker), who listen to the frozen echoes in ammonites and amber, swear they can detect some tiny sounds before that.

It sounded, they say, like someone counting: One, Two, Three, Four.

The very best one, who listened to basalt, said he thought he could make out, very faintly, some numbers that came even earlier.

When they asked him what it was, he said: “It sounds like One, Two.”

No-one ever asked what, if there was a sound that called the universe into being, happened to it afterwards. It’s mythology. You’re not supposed to ask that kind of question.

On the other hand, Ridcully believed that everything had come into being by chance or, in the particular case of the Dean, out of spite.

Senior wizards didn’t usually drink in the Mended Drum except when they were off duty. They were aware that they were here tonight in some sort of ill-defined official capacity, and were seated rather primly in front of their drinks.

There was a ring of empty seats around them, but it was not very big because the Drum was unusually crowded.

“Lot of ambience in here,” said Ridcully, looking around. “Ah, I see they do Real Ale again. I’ll have a pint of Turbot’s Really Odd, please.”

The wizards watched him as he drained the mug. Ankh-Morpork beer has a flavour all its own; it’s something to do with the water. Some people say it’s like consommй, but they are wrong. Consommй is cooler.

Ridcully smacked his lips happily.

“Ah, we certainly know what goes into good beer in AnkhMorpork,” he said.

The wizards nodded. They certainly did. That’s why they were drinking gin and tonic.

Ridcully looked around. Normally at this time of night there was a fight going on somewhere, or at least a mild stabbing. But there was just a buzz of conversation and everyone was watching the small stage at the far end of the room, where nothing was happening in large amounts. There was theoretically a curtain across it; it was only an old sheet, and there was a succession of thuds and thumps from behind it.

The wizards were quite close to the stage. Wizards tend to get good seats. Ridcully thought he could make out some whispering, and see shadows moving behind the sheet.

“He said, what do we call ourselves?”

“Cliff, Buddy, Glod and the Librarian. I thought he knew that.”

“No, we’ve got to have one name for all of us.”

“Dey rationed, den?”

“Something like The Merry Troubadours, maybe.”

“Oook!”

“Glod and the Glodettes?”

“Oh, yes? How about Cliff and the Cliffettes?”

“Gook ook Oook-ook?”

“No. We need a different type of name. Like the music.”

“How about Gold? Good dwarf name.”

“No. Something different from that.”

“ Silver, then.”

“Ook!”

“I don’t think we should name ourselves after any kind of heavy metal, Glod.”

“What’s so special? We’re a band of people who play music.”

“Names are important.”

“The guitar is special. How about The Band With Buddy’s Guitar In It?”

“Oook.”

“Something shorter.”

“Er...”

The universe held its breath.

“The Band With Rocks In?”

“ I like it. Short and slightly dirty, just like me.”

“Oook.”

“We ought to think up a name for the music, too.”

“It’s bound to occur to us sooner or later.”.

Ridcully looked around the bar.

On the opposite side of the room was Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, Ankh-Morpork’s most spectacularly unsuccessful businessman. He was trying to sell someone a felonious hot dog, a sign that some recent sure-fire business venture had collapsed. Dibbler sold his hot sausages only when all else failed.[17]

He gave Ridcully a wave at no charge.

The next table was occupied by Satchelmouth Lemon, one of the Musicians’ Guild’s recruiting officers, with a couple of associates whose apparent knowledge of music extended only to the amount of percussion available on the human skull. His determined expression suggested that he was not there for his health, although the fact that the Guild officers had a mean look about them rather hinted he was there for other people’s health, mostly in order to take it away.

Ridcully brightened up. The evening might just possibly be more interesting than he had expected.