Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [137]
“Good name,” said Ridcully, lining up another shot.
“As in phase space?” said Ponder hopefully. “When a ball is just about to encounter an obstacle that is not another ball, you see, Hex moves it into a theoretical parallel dimension where there is unoccupied flat surface, and maintains speed and drag until it can be brought back to this one. It really is a most difficult and intricate piece of unreal-time spell-casting—”
“Yes, yes, very good,” said Ridcully. “Was there something else, Mr. Stibbons?”
Ponder looked at his clipboard. “There’s a polite letter from Lord Vetinari asking on behalf of the city whether the university might consider including in its intake, oh, twenty-five percent of less able students, sir?”
Ridcully potted the black through a heap of university directives.
“Can’t have a bunch of grocers and butchers telling a university how to run itself, Stibbons!” he said firmly, lining up on a red. “Thank them for their interest and tell them we’ll continue to take one hundred percent of complete and utter dullards, as usual. Take ’em in dull, turn ’em out sparklin’, that’s always been the UU way! Anythin’ else?”
“Just this message for the big race tonight, Archchancellor.”
“Oh, yes, that thing. What should I do, Mr. Stibbons? I hear there’s heavy betting on the Post Office.”
“Yes, Archchancellor. People say the gods are on the side of Mr. Lipwig.”
“Are they betting?” said Ridcully, watching with satisfaction as the ball rematerialized on the other side of a neglected ham sandwich.
“I don’t think so, sir. He can’t possibly win.”
“Was he the fella who rescued the cat?”
“That was him, sir, yes,” said Ponder.
“Good chap. What do we think of the Grand Trunk? Bunch of bean-crushers, I heard. Been killin’ people on those towers of theirs. Man in the pub told me he heard the ghosts of dead signalers haunt the Trunk. I’ll try for the pink.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, sir. I think it’s an urban myth,” said Ponder.
“They travel from one end of the Trunk to the other, he said. Not a bad way to spend eternity, mark you. There’s some splendid scenery up in the mountains.”
The Archchancellor paused, and his big face screwed up in thought.
“Haruspex’s Directory of Varying Dimensions,” he said at last.
“Pardon, Archchancellor?”
“That’s the message,” said Ridcully. “No one said it had to be a letter, eh?” He waved a hand over the tip of the cue, which grew a powdering of fresh chalk. “Give them each a copy of the new edition. Send ’em to our man in Genua…what’s his name, thingummy, got a funny name…show him the old Alma Pater is thinkin’ of him.”
“That’s Devious H. Collabone, sir. He’s studying Oyster Communications in a Low Intensity Magical Field for his B. Thau.”
“Good gods, can they communicate?” said Ridcully.
“Apparently, Archchancellor, although thus far they’re refusing to talk to him.”
“Why’d we send him all the way out there?”
“Devious Collabone, Archchancellor?” Ponder prompted. “Remember? With the terrible halitosis?”
“Oh, you mean Dragonbreath Collabone?” said Ridcully, as realization dawned. “The one who could blow a hole in a silver plate?”
“Yes, Archchancellor,” said Ponder patiently. Mustrum Ridcully always liked to triangulate in on new information from several positions. “You said that out in the swamps no one would notice? If you remember, we allowed him to take a small omniscope.”
“Did we? Far-thinking of us. Call him up right now and tell him what’s going on, will you?”
“Yes, Archchancellor. In fact, I’ll leave it a few hours, because it’s still nighttime in Genua.”
“That’s only their opinion,” said Ridcully, sighting again. “Do it now, man.”
FIRE FROM THE SKY…
Everyone knew that the top half of the towers rocked as the messages flew along the Trunk. One day, someone was going to do something about it. And all old signalers knew that