There was a clack as the deckchair folded itself up. Then it sneezed.
‘Ah, back with us again, Librarian,’ Ridcully went on, as the orang-utan sprawled in the sand. ‘Help him up, please, Mister Stibbons. A word to the rest of you, please. If you’ll excuse us a moment, Mrs Whitlow? Faculty meeting …’
The wizards went into a huddle.
‘It was tomato sauce, all right?’ said the Dean hurriedly. ‘I just happened to be having a snack in bed and you know how that stuff stains!’
‘I’m sure we’re not at all interested in the state of your sheets, Dean,’ said Ridcully.
‘No, indeed,’ said the Senior Wrangler brightly.
‘Not us,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, slapping the Dean on the back.
‘We have to get back,’ said Ridcully. ‘We can’t spend the night alone with Mrs Whitlow. It wouldn’t be decent.’
‘I don’t see why anyone should make a fuss about a bit of tomato sauce. I at least cleaned all the beans off—’
‘Well, we’re not actually alone, are we? Not as such,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘I mean, there’s seven of us, not including the Librarian.’
‘Yes, but we’re all alone together,’ said Ridcully urgently. ‘There could be Talk.’
‘What about?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who sometimes lagged behind.
‘You know,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘Seven men and one woman … It doesn’t bear thinking about …’
‘Well, I for one will certainly veto any suggestion about ordering another six women,’ said the Chair firmly.
‘Perhaps the hole will open again?’ said the Senior Wrangler.
‘I doubt it,’ said Ridcully. ‘Ponder says that our coming through probably altered the thaumostatic balance. What do you think, Dean?’
‘Just tomato sauce,’ said the Dean. ‘It could have happened to anyone.’
‘I meant about our being marooned on this island,’ said Ridcully. ‘Any ideas, anyone? We must tackle this as a team.’
‘What shall we tell Mrs Whitlow?’ whispered the Senior Wrangler. ‘She thinks this is a prank.’
‘Senior Wrangler, we are elderly, wise and experienced wizards,’ said Ridcully. ‘Students are prankers.’
‘Pranksters, possibly,’ mumbled Ponder Stibbons.
‘Whatever. We do not indulge in pranks.’
‘With us it’s a fully fledged gold-embossed cock-up or nothing,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘I don’t see why people are making such a fuss about a bit of tomato sauce that hardly even shows up,’ muttered the Dean.
‘No one brought any suitable spells?’ said Ridcully.
‘At four in the morning? For the beach?’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘Of course not.’
‘Then we shall have to fall back on our own resources. There’s bound to be a ship along sooner or later. The point is, gentlemen,’ he added, ‘that we are the product of a university education. I’m quite sure primitive people have no difficulties surviving in a place like this, and think of all the things we have that our rude forefathers lacked.’
‘Mrs Whitlow, for a start,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘She wouldn’t put up with rudeness of any sort,’ the Senior Wrangler agreed.
‘Do you know anything about boats, Dean? I believe you got a Brown for rowing when you were slimmer,’ said Ridcully. ‘Please note that this question did not raise the matter of sheets in any way.’
‘Well, indeed, boat-building is not a difficult task,’ said the Dean, surfacing. ‘Even primitive people can build boats, and we are civilized men, after all.’
‘Then you’re head of the Boat-Building Committee,’ said Ridcully. ‘Senior Wrangler can help you. The rest of you fellows had better see if there’s any fresh water. And food. Knock down a few coconuts. That sort of thing.’
‘And what will you do, Archchancellor?’ said the Senior Wrangler nastily.
‘I shall be the Protein Acquisition Committee,’ said Ridcully, waving his fishing rod.
‘You going to stand here and fish again? What good’s that going to do?’
‘It might result in a fish dinner, Senior Wrangler.’
‘Has anyone got any tobacco?’ said the Dean. ‘I’m dying for a smoke.’
The wizards went off about their tasks, complaining and blaming one another.
And just inside the forest, in the leafy debris, roots unfolded and a number of very small plants began to grow like hell …
‘This is the last continent,’ said Scrappy. ‘It was … put together last, and … differently.’
‘Looks pretty old to me,’ said Rincewind. ‘Ancient. Those hills look as old as the hills.’
‘They were made thirty thousand years old,’ said the kangaroo.
‘Come on! They look millions of years old!’
‘Yep. Thirty thousand years ago they were made a million years ago. Time here is,’ the kangaroo shrugged, ‘not the same. It was … glued together differently, right?’
‘Search me,’ said Rincewind. ‘I’m a man sitting here listening to a kangaroo. I’m not arguing.’
‘I’m trying to find words you might understand,’ said the kangaroo reproachfully.
‘Good, keep going, you’ll get there. Want a jam sandwich? It’s gooseberry.’
‘No. Strictly herbivore, mate. Listen—’
‘Unusual, gooseberry jam. I mean, you don’t often see it. Raspberry and strawberry, yes, even blackcurrant. I shouldn’t think more than one jar of jam in a hundred is gooseberry. Sorry, do go on.’
‘You’re taking this seriously, are you?’
‘Am I smiling?’
‘Have you ever noticed how time goes slower in big spaces?’
The sandwich stopped halfway to Rincewind’s mouth. ‘Actually, that is true. But it only seems slower.’
‘So? When this place was made there wasn’t much space and time left over to work with, see? He had to bodge them together to make them work harder. Time happens to space and space happens to time—’
‘You know, I think there could be plum in it, too?’ said Rincewind, with his mouth full. ‘And maybe some rhubarb. You’d be amazed how often they do that sort of thing. You know, stuff cheaper fruit in. I met this man in an inn once, he worked for a jam-maker in Ankh-Morpork, and he said they put in any old rubbish and some red dye, and I said what about the raspberry pips, and he said they make them out of wood. Wood! He said they’d got a machine for stamping ’em out. Can you believe that?’
‘Will you stop talking about jam and be sensible for a moment!’
Rincewind lowered the sandwich. ‘Good grief, I hope not,’ he said. ‘I’m sitting in a cave in a country where everything bites you and it never rains and I’m talking, no offence, to a herbivore that smells of a carpet in a house where there are a lot of excitable puppies, and I’ve suddenly got this talent for finding jam sandwiches and inexplicable fairy cakes in unexpected places, and I’ve been shown something very odd in a picture on some old cave wall, and suddenly said kangaroo tells me time and space are all wrong and wants me to be sensible? What, when you get right down to it, is in it for me?’
‘Look, this place wasn’t finished, right? It wasn’t fitted in … turned around …’ The kangaroo looked at Rincewind as if reading his mind, which was the case. ‘You know like with a jigsaw puzzle? The last piece is the right shape but you have to turn it round to fit? Right? Now think of the piece as a bloody big continent that’s got to be turned around through about nine dimensions and you’re home and …’