Hogfather - Terry Pratchett [59]
“Course four: mollusks and crustaceans. A medley of lobster, crab, king crab, prawn, shrimp, oyster, clam, giant mussel, green-lipped mussel, thin-lipped mussel and Fighting Tiger Limpet. With a herb and butter dipping sauce. Wine: ‘Three Wizards’ Chardonnay, Year of the Talking Frog. Beer: Winkles’ Old Peculiar.” He put it down. “That’s one course?” he said.
“They’re big men in the food department,” said Susan.
He turned the menu over. On the cover was the University’s coat of arms and, over it, three large letters in ancient script:
? ß ?
“Is this some sort of magic word?”
“No.” Susan sighed. “They put it on all their menus. You might call it the unofficial motto of the University.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Eta Beta Pi.”
Bilious gave her an expectant look.
“Yes…?”
“Er…like, Eat a Better Pie?” said Susan.
“That’s what you just said, yes,” said the oh god.
“Um. No. You see, the letters are Ephebian characters which just sound a bit like ‘eat a better pie.’”
“Ah.” Bilious nodded wisely. “I can see that might cause confusion.”
Susan felt a bit helpless in the face of the look of helpful puzzlement. “No,” she said, “in fact they are supposed to cause a little bit of confusion, and then you laugh. It’s called a pune or play on words. Eta Beta Pi.” She eyed him carefully. “You laugh,” she said. “With your mouth. Only, in fact, you don’t laugh, because you’re not supposed to laugh at things like this.”
“Perhaps I could find that glass of milk,” said the oh god helplessly, peering at the huge array of jugs and bottles. He’d clearly given up on sense of humor.
“I gather the Archchancellor won’t have milk in the University,” said Susan. “He says he knows where it comes from and it’s unhygienic. And that’s a man who eats three eggs for breakfast every day, mark you. How do you know about milk, by the way?”
“I’ve got…memories,” said the oh god. “Not exactly of anything, er, specific. Just, you know, memories. Like, I know trees usually grow green-end up…that sort of thing. I suppose gods just know things.”
“Any special god-like powers?”
“I might be able to turn water into an enervescent drink.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is that any help? And it’s just possible I can give people a blinding headache.”
“I need to find out why my grandfather is…acting strange.”
“Can’t you ask him?”
“He won’t tell me!”
“Does he throw up a lot?”
“I shouldn’t think so. He doesn’t often eat. The occasional curry, once or twice a month.”
“He must be pretty thin.”
“You’ve no idea.”
“Well, then…Does he often stare at himself in the mirror and say ‘Arrgh’? Or stick out his tongue and wonder why it’s gone yellow? You see, it’s possible I might have some measure of influence over people who are hung over. If he’s been drinking a lot, I might be able to find him.”
“I can’t see him doing any of those things. I think I’d better tell you…My grandfather is Death.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I said Death.”
“Sorry?”
“Death. You know…Death?”
“You mean the robes, the—”
“—scythe, white horse, bones…yes. Death.”
“I just want to make sure I’ve got this clear,” said the oh god in a reasonable tone of voice. “You think your grandfather is Death and you think he’s acting strange?”
The Eater of Socks looked up at the wizards, cautiously. Then its jaws started to work again.
…grnf, grnf…
“Here, that’s one of mine!” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, making a grab. The Eater of Socks backed away hurriedly.
It looked like a very small elephant with a very wide, flared trunk, up which one of the Chair’s socks was disappearing.
“Funny lookin’ little thing, ain’t it?” said Ridcully, leaning his staff against the wall.
“Let go, you wretched creature!” said the Chair, making a grab for the sock. “Shoo!”
The sock eater tried to get away while remaining where it was. This should be impossible, but it is in fact a move attempted by many small animals when they are caught eating something forbidden. The legs scrabble hurriedly but the neck and feverishly working jaws merely stretch and pivot around